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+{"text":"\n\nE-text prepared by Emmy, MFR, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n(http:\/\/www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by\nInternet Archive (https:\/\/archive.org)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the lovely original illustrations.\n      See 53240-h.htm or 53240-h.zip:\n      (http:\/\/www.gutenberg.org\/files\/53240\/53240-h\/53240-h.htm)\n      or\n      (http:\/\/www.gutenberg.org\/files\/53240\/53240-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive. See\n      https:\/\/archive.org\/details\/mothergoosestedd00cava\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMOTHER GOOSE'S TEDDY BEARS\n\nIllustrated and Adapted to Mother Goose by\n\nFREDERICK L. CAVALLY.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Bobbs-Merrill Company\nPublishers Indianapolis U.S.A.\nMCMVII\n\nCopyright 1907\nThe Bobbs-Merrill Company\n\n\n    Dear Boys and Girls.\u2014\n\n    In the short time I have been among you, I have made\n    friends of some of the best little boys and girls\n    throughout the land.\n\n    I have been writing to my brothers and sisters at home\n    telling them all about you, and they are very anxious\n    to become acquainted also; so I sent for our family\n    photograph album, which contains most of their pictures.\n\n    Now Old Mother Goose is a neighbor of ours, and she\n    earns her living by writing little rhymes, tales and\n    jingles, and as she is a very good friend of our\n    family, she has written many verses and rhymes about\n    us, which I know you will enjoy reading.\n\n    So you see I take great pride in presenting you this\n    copy of our Family Photograph Album.\n\n                             Your sincere friend,\n                                             Teddy.\n\n[Illustration: Hello!]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    What are little Ted boys made of, made of?\n    What are little Ted boys made of?\n    Snaps and snails, and puppy-dogs' tails;\n    And that's what Little Ted Boys are made of, made of.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    What are little Ted girls made of, made of?\n    What are little Ted girls made of?\n    Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;\n    And that's what Little Ted girls are made of, made of.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Ding dong bell!\n      Teddy's in the well!\n      Who put him in?\n      Little Teddy Flinn.\n      Who pulled him out?\n      Little Teddy Stout.\n    What a naughty boy was there\n    Thus to drown poor Teddy Bear.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n      Little Ted Horner\n      Sat in a corner,\n    Eating a Christmas Pie.\n      He put in his thumb,\n    And took out a plum,\n      And said, \"What a big bear am I!\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: To Bonner]\n\n    As I went to Bonner,\n        I met a bear\n      With coal-black hair,\n    Upon my word and honor.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: Old Mother Hubbard]\n\n    Old Mother Hubbard\n      Went to the cupboard\n        To get Little Teddy a bun;\n    But when she got there,\n    The cupboard was bare,\n        So poor Little Ted had none.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She went to the baker's\n      To buy him some bread;\n    But when she came back,\n      Poor Teddy was dead.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She went to the joiner's\n      To buy him a coffin;\n    But when she came back,\n      Little Teddy was laughing\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She took a clean dish\n      To get him some tripe;\n    But when she came back,\n      He was smoking his pipe\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She went to the tavern\n      For white wine and red;\n    But when she came back,\n      Ted stood on his head.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She went to the ale-house\n      To get him some beer;\n    But when she came back,\n      Ted sat in a chair.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She went to the barber's\n      To buy him a wig;\n    But when she came back,\n      He was dancing a Jig\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She went to the fruiterer's\n      To buy him some fruit;\n    But when she came back,\n      Ted was playing the flute.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She went to the cobbler's\n      To buy him some shoes;\n    But when she came back,\n      Ted was reading the news.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Dame Bear made a curtsey,\n      Little Ted made a bow;\n    Dame Bear said, \"Your servant,\"\n      Little Ted said, \"How now.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Rain, rain, go away;\n    Come again another day;\n    Little Teddy wants to play.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Solomon Grundy\n    Born on a Monday,\n    Christened on Tuesday,\n    Married on Wednesday,\n    Very ill on Thursday,\n    Worse on Friday,\n    Died on Saturday,\n    Buried on Sunday,\n    This is the end,\n    Of Solomon Grundy.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n      Ted and Jill\n    Went up the hill,\n    To fetch a pail\n        of water;\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n      Ted Fell down,\n    And broke his crown,\n    And Jill came\n      Tumbling after.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    To make your candles last for aye,\n    You wives and maids give ear-o!\n    To put them out's the only way,\n    Says Honest Ted Boldero.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Little Teddy Tittlemouse\n    Lived in a little house;\n    He caught fishes\n    In other men's ditches.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Multiplication is vexation;\n    2 x 2 = ?\n    Division is as bad;\n    6 \u00f7 2  = ?\n    The rule of three perplexes me,\n    3 x 3 = ?\n    And practice drives me mad.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Teddy Trot, a man of law\n    Sold his bed and lay upon straw\n    Sold the straw and slept on grass\n    To buy his wife a looking-glass\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Wash me and comb me,\n    And lay me down softly,\n    And set me on a bank to dry;\n    That I may look pretty\n    When Teddy comes by.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Tell-Tale Tit!\n    Your tongue shall be slit,\n    And all the Teddy Bears in town\n    Shall have a little bit!\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Nose, nose, jolly red nose,\n      And what gave you that jolly red nose?\n      Nutmegs and cinnamon spices and cloves,\n      And they gave me this jolly red nose.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Three wise bears of Gotham\n    Went to sea in a bowl;\n    If the bowl had been stronger\n    My story had been longer.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n            Teddy be nimble,\n            Teddy be quick,\n    And Teddy jump over the candlestick.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    See-saw, Margery Daw,\n      Teddy shall have a new master;\n    He shall have but a penny a day,\n      Because he can't work any faster\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Little Ted Snooks was Fond of his books,\n      And loved by his usher and master;\n    But naughty Ted Spry, he got a black eye,\n      And carries his nose in a plaster.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Cock crows in the morn,\n      To tell us to rise,\n    And he who lies late\n      Will never be wise;\n\n    For early to bed,\n      And early to rise,\n    Makes teddy bears healthy\n      And wealthy and wise.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    _The rose is red,\n     The grass is green;\n     And in this book\n     My name is seen._\n                 _Teddy._\n\n\n\n***","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n#\n\n#\n\n#\n\n#\n\n#\n\n# The Sword of Cartimandua\n\n## by\n\n## Griff Hosker\n\n##\n\nPublished by Sword Books Ltd. 2013\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Griff Hosker Fifth Edition\n\nThe author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.\n\nAll Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.\n\nA CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.\n\nDedicated to mum who kept on buying me typewriters; thanks for believing in me. Thanks to Eileen, Vicky and David; without you, there would be no book.\n\n# Prologue\n\n#\n\nAD 50 Stanwyck\n\nClaudius might have been Emperor of the largest Empire the world had ever seen but he still hated the rain. This outpost of the Empire was a foul, wet, disease ridden cesspit. In addition, he had a wicked and persistent cold; he never had a cold in Rome. He sneezed noisily and glowered angrily at the slave by his side. \"Well? Why are we still waiting?\" His famous stammer disappeared when he addressed servants or was angry and on this wet and dismal morning, he was not at his best.\n\n\"I was assured, divine one, that she would be here presently.\"\n\nHe shuddered at the title; like his Uncle Tiberius and his father Germanicus he despised the very notion that a mortal could become a living god. He had hoped that both the horrendous journey across the interminable land of Gaul, the ferocious ocean leading to this end of the world and the barbaric people he had so far met would make the journey worthwhile. The kings and queens who had been presented to him were all barbarians and the not so divine Claudius was glad that his Praetorians were on hand for he did not trust one of them.\n\nClaudius was about to make some barbed comment about divinity when he heard the three blasts on the buccina which heralded the arrival of Queen Cartimandua, leader of the Brigantes. Even Claudius was impressed by the striking young woman who confidently manoeuvred her chariot between the waiting lines of legionaries. He had heard stories of her beauty but he was not prepared for both her presence and power; she seemed to dwarf her surroundings. Her jet-black hair framed an incredibly white face. Her deep-set violet eyes seemed to leap out from her face and her lips, obviously coloured by the crushed body of a scarab beetle, surrounded by remarkably white teeth looked like luscious plums. The Queen was, Claudius realised, everything he had heard and more. He found it hard to countenance that a young woman who looked as though she had only seen a handful of summers as a woman should rule the most powerful tribe in Northern Britannia and had done so, successfully, for over seven years. The way she handled a chariot showed that she was a warrior as did the skulls adorning the outside of the chariot. He could make out, just behind the chariot, the wretch who was being dragged in chains. Although he had never seen him, the Emperor knew it was Caractacus the leader of the Britons in their fight against Rome. Caractacus was the charismatic leader who had sought refuge with the most powerful ruler in the North of these islands, Cartimandua. Caractactus he was also the ex-lover of the rapacious young Queen and had been used and then discarded. If there was one thing that Claudius admired it was someone who could scheme, plot and survive as well as he had. She certainly had been a confident young queen who took over the rule of her land, Brigantia when her father was murdered. She ruled the largest tribal lands in Britannia; spanning the country from coast to coast. Claudius realised that she was wise beyond her years; she had seen the power of the Roman war machine and come to an accommodation rather than conflict. Perhaps that was why she ruled this enormous land of wild men and even wilder places. The Emperor of Rome himself would need to be careful about the promises he made.\n\n\"Welcome Queen.\"\n\n\"All Hail Claudius.\" Claudius was impressed that her Latin was flawless, this was an educated woman. \"I bring you a gift.\" She gestured with her arm and her bodyguards brought out Caractacus, the putative King of the Britons, and his face displayed just how much he hated the woman who had betrayed him. The queen to whom he had turned in the hope that, united, they could defeat the monster that was Rome. Instead, she had ensured the safety of Brigantia and her high place in the Emperor's favour. \"It is Caractacus. He was your enemy and now he is mine.\"\n\nHer guards dragged the bound warrior to be symbolically thrown at the feet of the Emperor. Before Claudius could speak, he always gathered his thoughts before uttering anything important, Cartimandua drew from a scabbard in her chariot, the most magnificent sword Claudius had ever seen. Although a cerebral rather than military man Claudius admired beauty and functionality and this magnificent weapon fulfilled both as well as anything he had seen before. Its steel blade was so highly polished it was almost silver, with a line of gold trickling sinuously along its length. It was half as long as the tall Queen's body and looked as though it needed two hands to hold it, although the warrior queen held it in one. The handle was adorned with a red jewel, the size of a grape and Claudius surmised that it must be a ruby, an incredibly rare ruby as well as blue and green precious stones. The black ebony hilt was engraved with what appeared to be pure gold.\n\n\"Would it please the Emperor for me to despatch this rebel and part his sorry head from his body?\"\n\n\"N-n-no Queen Cartimandua. I wish to take him back to Rome so that the whole Empire can see the power of the Emperor and the Brigante.\" Her cold callous attitude to execution impressed the Emperor. She had no problem with carrying out the act herself, something the Emperor knew he could not do. He could order a murder or an execution as easily as he ordered supper but he could not soil his hands. Claudius turned to a grizzled centurion who stood at his side. \"Gerantium, untie the prisoner and have your men take him away then join the Queen and myself inside my tent for we have much business to discuss.\"\n\nAs they entered the pavilion especially erected for the occasion Claudius began to wonder if this island was as wild as he had thought. Although the buildings were primitive and some of the actions of its people somewhat barbaric he could see a sophisticated level of politics which made him think it might become civilised one day. In this young queen he had seen someone who could have held her own with the senate. She was confident, she was cruel, she was calculating and she was charming. The old Emperor shook his head to free himself from the spell he was falling under. He felt happier now with this island for the northern part would be secure with an ally. He had no doubt that Queen Cartimandua would remain in power and the Emperor determined to support her in that. He was glad that she did not live in Rome for if she did he would fear for his throne.\n\nAracillium in Cantabria\n\nHimli son of Barcus was concerned about the mare about to foal. The birthing was not going well and he knew that his family needed the new horse for times were hard in Cantabria. Although he had only seen eight summers the boy had the responsibility of the mare as he was the only one of his mother's children to have survived, a fact which sat heavily on his prematurely aged mother who blamed herself for her lost children. It had made his father into a hard bitter man, a fierce warrior chieftain who had wanted sons to take over the small clan when he passed over to the Otherworld. Himli had much responsibility, not least the fact that he had been named after a famous Carthaginian who had fought hard against the Roman invaders. Those same Romans were now his father's enemies and Himli was desperate to be old enough to fight against them and earn praise from his father, a rare event.\n\nThe mare whinnied in pain and her brown eyes looked pleadingly at the boy who knew not how to relieve the pain. His father would know but he was gone, with most of the other men in another raid in the Roman lands to the north. Himli sighed, it was up to him.\n\n\"Well, Moon-child, it is up to you and me.\" He stroked the mare's mane and then looked to see the foal beginning to emerge. \"Not long now and you will have your first young. And I hope that the others are easier than this one.\" His face creased into a frown as he saw that the foal's legs were caught up in the umbilical cord. If he did not do the correct thing then the foal would die. \"Easy girl I see what is wrong.\" He slipped his hands inside the mare, their small size an advantage. More by feel than anything else the young boy eased the umbilical cord over the legs and out of the way. \"Come on girl,\" he shouted encouragingly to the mare that seemed to know that the boy was helping her. With a sudden gush and slip of afterbirth the foal erupted onto the grassy valley side. \"There's a good girl.\" Grabbing a handful of straw Himli began to clean up the foal. His father might be pleased for they now had another horse and the family would be richer. More importantly, Himli had done it by himself. His pleasure and delight were short lived as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Roman horn. It was a sound which every Cantabrian feared for the horn meant that the Romans were coming and when the Romans left they left only death.\n\nMarcus Aurelius Maximunius, centurion of the second Augusta, held up his hand to halt the century. He could smell the village his scouts had told him was over the rise. He wanted his men fresh for their assault although, in truth, since they had ambushed the Cantabri war party he was almost certain that they would only find the old, the young and the women but they had to rid the land of this nest of vipers who had preyed on Roman villages and patrols for too long. He also paused to enable the Thracian auxiliaries to get in position on the other side of the village. There would be no quarter given.\n\nThe centurion signalled to his men and they took position in an extended line; this formation was not normally used but he had to ensure that the century surrounded the village and prevent any flight. Nodding to his optio, who signalled the advance, the line moved forward as the buccina sounded. The solid line of soldiers marched relentlessly forward as the villages fled. A few older warriors saw the futility in flight and armed themselves with their short swords, prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Those who fled were suddenly stopped by a wall of mounted men hacking and slashing indiscriminately at young, old and women alike.\n\nMarcus smiled to himself; it had been a good action for there were no casualties and, as far as he could see, no survivors. \"Check the huts for anything of value collect the horses and then burn the village.\" Suddenly there was a whinny from a hidden dell and Marcus ran swiftly followed by a handful of legionaries. As they reached the top of the rise they saw a Cantabrian child with a short dagger guarding a newly born foal. He had such a fierce look on his face that Marcus smiled to himself. \"Steady lads, he's just a boy.\" He held his hand up to stop the javelin that was being aimed by his chosen man. \"No Julius, this one did not flee. He deserves to live.\"\n\n\"But the standing orders...\"\n\n\"I know about the standing orders but the boy has a skill. He might be useful. I'll sell him to the Thracians.\"\n\nJust then the auxiliary cavalry hove into view, their horses adorned with the skulls of their victims. Himli looked from one set of enemies to the other. He did not understand any of the words he had heard spoken but he had seen the Roman leader stop the javelin which he knew would have ended his short life. His eyes suddenly opened wide as he saw the lifeless, bloody skull that had been his father hanging from the saddle of the Thracian.\n\n\"Julius, disarm him and tie him up. You, decurion, how much for the boy? He appears to be good with horses\"\n\nThe Thracian looked down at the scrawny boy. He would have preferred to have his head but the big centurion was not a man to be crossed. \"We have no need of a stable boy.\"\n\n\"I didn't ask that, I asked how much you would pay for him.\"\n\nThe Thracian began to work out how to make money from this. He had taken gold and copper from the dead tribesmen and he could afford the tiny amount the boy would cost him. He would gain the favour of the centurion which was no bad thing. The Pannonians were about to ship out and he had lied for they had no stable boy. He would buy the boy and sell him at double the price to auxiliaries that he would never see again.\n\nThe Thracian took out five bronze coins and showed them to the centurion who scowled as he countered. \"Five pieces, that wouldn't even pay for an amphora of wine. Twenty.\"\n\n\"Ten.\"\n\n\"Fifteen,\" The difference having been split they exchanged coins and shook hands, honour even. \"Here take him and one more thing. I have no idea what his barbarian name is and I don't want him named after a barbarian so his new name is Marcus Aurelius Maximunius. Right?\"\n\nAs his men smiled at the conceit of their leader, the Thracian shrugged his shoulders. It mattered not to him what the brat was called for he knew he could sell the slave for a whole denarius. He had watched the boy who, despite his position, had continued to care for the mare and the foal. He was a horseman. \"I'll have to take the horse and foal as well.\"\n\n\"That's a denarius.\" Hiding the smile the Thracian handed over the coin. The foot soldier did not understand the value of horses. He would sell both beasts on to the quartermaster and make two denari profit. Of course the quartermaster would make more but that was the way of the world.\n\nAll that Himli knew, as he was led off, was that he was still with Moon-child and her foal and that was now his family. His hand instinctively went to the halter of the mare and he gripped it as though his life depended upon it. Passing the Roman leader he saw a strangely happy look on the man's face as he ruffled his tangled hair. The Romans were like beasts from another world but as he was taken to the new world of the Roman army Himli knew that his past was gone, set on fire and slaughtered by his father's enemies. As they were led from the village he saw his mother and grandfather's bloodied corpses lying amidst the rest of the slaughtered village. On the way to the camp, he would see his father's crucified body along with the rest of the warband.\n\n# Chapter 1\n\nAD 69 Stanwyck Stronghold\n\nThe Queen looked at her face reflected in the water of the silvered bowl in front of her. She could see the hints of grey permeating her jet-black tresses; she could see the crow's feet daily growing from her eyes which, although still bright, drooped a little more each day. She looked down at her body and saw that there was a little more substance around her waist than there had been. Hearing a snuffling behind her she turned to see Vellocatus her lover and she smiled. The young shield bearer did not seem to mind the ripples of growing flesh or the ribbons of grey, he was satisfied with her. The problem was, the queen thought as she pulled her robe around her, she was not happy with herself. Her body had always been a temple and she had worked out with her warriors using her sword daily and this had kept her muscles toned. It was, indeed, how she had come to take Vellocatus to her bed and divorce her husband Venutius for she had grown attracted to the young man when using him to practice her sword play. The thought of Venutius caused her to frown and she left the comfort of her bedroom.\n\nThe Romans had brought some unpleasant things with them, such as their rule, taxes and authority but Cartimandua could not fault their engineering and building. The hall in which she sat was the only one of its type in Britannia; although built of wood, it had been built in the Roman style and was comfortable, clean and, in this damp northern climate, dry. She sat at her table and poured herself a beaker of weak beer and nibbled at the bread left by her slaves. What to do about Venutius? As she ate, she pondered her problem. Since her divorce, which was inevitable even without her affair with the convenient Vellocatus, he had grown increasingly belligerent. If she had not held his close family hostage she was under no illusions; she would now be dead. Her tribe was split and, daily, warriors left the stronghold to join Venutius with the hope of combat and glory against the Romans.\n\nShe wondered now about her decision to ally so closely with the Romans. She had seen their might and knew she could not stand against them but in the past year she had seen them fall amongst themselves with four Emperors in one year. Hotheads like Venutius had become emboldened by the disarray and lack of focus on Britannia. Now that Vespasian was Emperor, Cartimandua hoped for a reversal of policy. Perhaps now he would send the men and resources needed to tame this wild land. She resolved to stand by her original strategy. She would gamble that the Romans would triumph and she and her people would survive.\n\nHer slave entered to clear away her table. \"Ask Gerantium to come.\"\n\nThe tough old centurion must have been hovering close to the door as he entered immediately. His dress was marked by the fact that he alone was permitted to her rooms armed with a sword. It was a sign not only of his status but the relationship he had with the queen. He had been protecting her for almost twenty years and now regarded her more as a daughter than a monarch. He had come to see her capricious actions and sometimes ruthless gestures with the forgiving eye of a doting father. He had also seen the affection which was heaped upon her by the majority of the Brigante. Her people, warriors apart, had seen the tribe prosper under Roman protection. There were now roads, where there had been tracks and there was safety where there had been danger. Gerantium was rightly proud of what his people had done for the queen and the Brigante but equally, he was proud of what the foresighted young queen had achieved and built.\n\n\"Yes, my queen?\"\n\n\"Send a trusted rider to the governor at Eboracum,\" she smiled wryly, \"as with the Emperors I know not who it will be. I will give a spoken message for I do not want it to fall into the hands of Venutius. I fear that my husband intends to take this home by force and as you know, old friend, we do not have enough warriors to defend it. I need the governor to come to our aid.\"\n\nThere was a silence as both centurion and queen took in the import of what had been said. It would change the relationship between Brigantia and Rome for never before had the queen asked for aid.\n\n\"Are you sure, my queen?\"\n\n\"No I am not, and I would not if I thought we could defend the walls. What are my alternatives? Flee to Eboracum? If I did so I would be abandoning my capital and my people would see that as weakness. No, I will only do that if disaster strikes and there is no other option.\"\n\n\"I will see to it.\"\n\nAs he turned to leave Cartimandua restrained him and spoke in a quieter voice. \"I would also have you do something else for me. Send my sisters and their families to safety, either Derventio or Eboracum. I think your lady should also accompany them.\"\n\nThe old centurion smiled, \"Thank you majesty but I know she would not go. She promised to stay with me as long as I lived and I still live.\" The queen nodded understanding the obvious love and bond between this soldier and his gentle lady. \"What of your treasure, should that be sent as well?\"\n\n\"No, it would only place my sisters in more danger. Bury that in a secret place here and draw a map. I will only need the treasure if all else fails.\n\nBowing, the centurion withdrew, leaving the queen to ponder her next action. The outer walls of the stronghold were too big to defend and had been strengthened by Venutius. He would know its weak points. In the next few days, she would begin to strengthen the inner ditch and ramparts which were defensible by her smaller forces. She also needed to practice her swordplay for she knew it would be needed sooner rather than later. Drawing her sword from its scabbard she began to swing the beautiful blade back and forth. As soon as she gripped the hilt she smiled as the power entered her body and already she felt not only safer but more at peace. As long as she held the sword there was hope.\n\nWoodland north of Eboracum\n\nNorthern Britannia was a wild place at the best of times but in the last year it had become even more dangerous. The Roman war machine had faltered in the west. Back in Rome, there was intrigue and infighting as the year saw three emperors come and go. Would the fourth last any longer? The Romans in Lindum and those in the newly established base at Eboracum did not know. The vast land belonging to the Brigante was filled with forests, high hills and bogs. It was not a good place to campaign. The Brigante had been a client and ally of Rome but in the past year they had shown the restless signs of rebellion and every Roman soldier felt uneasy. Patrols were now made up of larger groups of men as the handfuls they had used had been found hacked and chopped to pieces. It had become increasingly worse over the past five years but this last year, the year of the four Emperors was a crucial one. Every Roman was on edge realising that they were clinging on to the edge of the Empire by their fingertips.\n\nDecurion Ulpius Felix rubbed his unshaven face as he peered through the spindly branches of the elder copse. He idly pulled a bunch of elderberries to strip them from the stalk, letting the rich black juice run down his chin. It reminded him of the hill country around his vici in Ad Mures; it was a place he barely remembered having been taken there as a captive when he was still almost a child. Still, he remembered it and he remembered the first taste of elderberries strong and heavy in his young mouth. He remembered the woodland, he remembered the woods and he remembered berries but he could not remember his name before the Roman times. It seemed to him that he had been Ulpius Felix for all of his thirty five summers. He mentally cursed Aulus Plautius the governor of Pannonia who had decided to bring the Pannonians with him to the edge of the world, Britannia. As the alternative posting was the warmth of Judea he would have preferred that to the capricious climate of this little northern outpost. He would have preferred the evenly monotonous days with warm nights and hot days to the uncertainty of snow in early summer and bright sunshine in midwinter. He would have preferred the rich wines of the middle sea to the weak beer and honey laced drinks of this northern ice land.\n\nHe idly rubbed the angry scar that ran across his white blind eye, the result of an early battle when he was less careful than he was now. It had happened when he had seen but fourteen summers. The stone which had ripped into it could have been deflected by his shield but in those days, he believed himself to be immortal, a warrior hero. He had learned his lesson in the long service to Rome. He could see just as well as any of his men, in fact, some said that he could see behind him but occasionally it burned and tingled, this was one such time. The pain in the eye was always there; sometimes dull and sometimes so sharp it felt as though his face was splitting in two. At those times his good eye would stream with tears as though he was weeping; those were the dark times, those were the depths of agony far worse than the original wounding. Without reason the pain could be gone as soon as it came or it could last a whole day. His men had learned to look for the signs for the redder and angrier the good eye appeared the worse was the tough cavalryman's temper. When that pain left it was replaced by the pain of training and working as a Roman auxiliary.\n\nThe life of an auxiliary toiling for the mighty Roman Empire was no worse than being a tribesman. The difference was he was fed on a regular basis. The food might be dull but it was plentiful. He also received pay. The caligae in the legions resented the fact that auxiliary cavalrymen were paid at a higher rate and got to ride to battle but Ulpius and his men cared not. He was also worked hard which resulted in a lean, muscular body. His natural ability with horses had soon marked him out as a cavalryman and he was conscripted into the auxiliary cavalry. Fighting mainly Celts, he had spent over twenty years in the service of Rome; another ten and he would qualify for citizenship and a plot of land. Would he live to see it? It was a thought which occasionally flitted across his mind but he had had too many friends who had dreamed of such release only to find the release of death in some corner of the Empire instead. He was the last of that band of warriors who had left their home twenty years earlier. There were others who had survived such as the prefect who had managed to reach the highest rank of any not born in Rome but the majority died early. Roman generals were more careless with their cavalry than with the precious, solid legionaries.\n\nHe was brought out of his reminisces when he felt the horse behind him push against the hindquarters of Raven, his own horse. He did not deign to look around; he merely held his hand up in silent rebuke knowing that whichever trooper it was would control his mount. As Decurion of the Second Turma, First Sabinian Wing of Pannonians, his ire would result in a severe and painful punishment. It would probably be young Gaius who had no patience at all. Keen as a young greyhound he was always the first to reach the enemy lines; fortunately for him, he was also handy with the gladius which was why he had survived so many skirmishes with the Parisi and Brigantes. He was the youngest trooper and as such indulged a little by the other men in the turma. Today he would need all his patience.\n\nOsgar, their Brigante tracker, had discovered the tracks of the war band early that morning. They were a small band mounted on a few of the mountain ponies so favoured by the tribesmen of these hills. Not knowing where they were raiding Ulpius had decided to catch them on their return. Whilst it meant that people would die at least he could recapture slaves, acquire whatever loot they had taken and catch the raiders when they were tired. His men and his horses were too valuable to waste on a few raiders stealing from farmers barely richer than they were. He hoped that some of the Brigante warriors would have gold about them; some of the chiefs lauded their golden torcs as a sign of their bravery as well as the amulets, each one a symbol of a success in battle. Ulpius smiled grimly to himself; chain mail would be more effective but he would gladly relieve the corpses of their treasure. He glanced around to look at the auxiliaries following him. Their mounts were far larger than the local horses and fed on grain. They could run all day and carry an armoured warrior. The chain mail of his men, he was pleased to see was oiled and flexible; although it was heavy it was more than effective at deflecting the local arrows. The shields were all slung over their left legs and ready to be used at a moment's notice. The javelins in their sheath behind the leg were less accessible but not so the mighty spatha, the Roman cavalry sword which was far longer than the gladius and gave Ulpius and his men the edge over any foe. He returned his gaze to the horizon, happier that his men were alert and prepared. They would not be caught unawares.\n\nTowards the rear, the troopers rode in single file with the easy, comfortable banter of men who have worked and fought together for a long time. Drusus and Metellus had to have Lentius and his horse between them because for some reason their horses, Pirate and Chestnut did not like each and would bite and kick whenever they were in close proximity. This meant that not only did Drusus and Metellus have to carry on conversations with a horse between them they had to suffer Lentius' mount, a black gelding with a small star called Blackie. It seemed to Drusus, who was behind him that the animal suffered from terminal wind added to which he seemed to stop with amazing regularity to relieve himself.\n\n\"Lentius if your horse shits one more time I will feed it to you.\"\n\n\"That would be preferable to that slop you passed off as food last night!\"\n\n\"You can tell that you came from the valleys otherwise you would have truly appreciated the find taste of roast squirrel.\"\n\n\"That's what it was! I had been trying to work out the taste all day.\"\n\n\"Ladies if you don't shut up and keep your eyes peeled you will all be shovelling shit when we get back to the fort!\" Marcus' voice effectively silenced the three who knew he would carry out his threat. Drusus reined his horse so that it was not quite so close to Blackie and Metellus spurred his on a little. Marcus smiled to himself; the easy banter was no bad thing it showed that they were confident. He too had found the food unusual but that was because he was the only Cantabrian amongst these Pannonians. It seemed he had been with them for so long that he had almost forgotten his Cantabrian roots. Yet he still remembered the taste of the salted fish his mother had given him as a treat and now he was eating tough roasted squirrel.\n\nRaven told him that they were coming before Osgar's nose sniffed them out. The nodding head appeared to some like an equine message; Ulpius knew that the gelding was just as eager for action and could smell the enemy. Osgar touched Ulpius' foot and pointed north; in truth, the scout was a tiny little runt, far too small to be a warrior but he could run all day and find tracks in the most unlikely places. He had the same animal senses of Raven and Ulpius knew where the Brigante would be, north. Ulpius relied on him more than he liked for the man was of the Brigante and some of those people were now in a state of rebellion; so far he had never let the Roman down but the decurion was always aware that he could change sides at any moment.\n\n\"Right boys, today you earn your pay!\"\n\nUlpius could just make out some movement in the leaves. He turned in his saddle and pointed his vine rod to the south. Almost half the turma eased their way deeper into the copse following Marcus, his chosen man. As second in command, he had the responsibility of backing up Ulpius even when he didn't fully know the plan. He had been with him for five years and most of the time understood his superior's intentions. Today it was easy; he was the shield and Ulpius the sword. Marcus would defend whilst Ulpius attacked. The other half of the turma loosened their swords in their scabbards to ensure they would not stick when they were needed and then adjusted their grip on their javelins.\n\nThe raiders were trotting along at an easy lope. The troopers could make out the captives in the middle. They were bound and roped together by the neck. It was obvious that they were not warriors; they looked to be farmers and merchants and by their dress less Brigante and more Roman. Ulpius looked towards the rear of the column. That would be where the fiercest fighters would be, in the place of honour; they would be the target for his twenty men. He lifted his body a little to count them. There were nearly sixty; a large number but on foot and he would have the element of surprise. He looked along the line and saw that his men were ready. He hefted the heavy infantry pilum he carried, an unusual weapon for a cavalryman but Ulpius was incredibly strong and the weapon had given him the edge in many an unequal combat for it was far sturdier than the light javelins they used as missiles.\n\nThe end of the enemy column was almost level with him; he could see an older warrior, probably a chieftain at the rear. His face and body had been painted blue but it had worn in parts giving him the mottled look of an adder. His long hair was spiked up with lime and he bore the scars of other combats. Ulpius' greedy eyes lit up when they saw the torc about his neck. It decided him. As he raised his pilum the rest of the turma steadied themselves. As soon as the spear left his hand his men would be upon the raiders like wolves. The spear flew from his hand in a steep arc; even as it was descending he had taken a javelin from his sheath and was kicking forward Raven. His spear took the chieftain in the neck and Ulpius could see from the dark spurting blood that it was a kill. He selected his next opponent. This time he did not throw the javelin until he was almost upon the man. The warrior deflected the javelin as it hurtled towards him but in doing so he revealed his naked torso and the decurion's gladius slashed down opening the man from his neck to his gut. Seeing no more warriors in front of him he reined Raven to a stop and surveyed the ambush. His men were despatching the enemy so quickly that many were surrendering, for they had not expected any Romans to be operating so far from their fort. He held his sword in the air and his men formed a circle around the few warriors left standing. They all held their javelins at the enemy throats in case of treachery.\n\nUlpius slid his leg over Raven's shoulder, he did not even bother to look for the trooper who would hold his reins they were a well practiced turma well drilled by the most experienced decurion in the ala. His good eye took in the warriors who remained and he identified the leader. He did not have a torc but from the bracelets about his arms he had won many fights. His practiced eye saw that the man had been wounded in his arm and could not carry on the fight which was why he had surrendered. He walked over to him and, using his sword, knocked the warrior's weapon to the ground.\n\n\"So Roman, you cannot kill a one-armed man you must disarm him first!\" He spat the words at Ulpius, defiance in his voice and eyes.\n\n\"If I wanted you dead your worthless corpse would be spilling its life force on the ground in front of me. I want some information. Where is Venutius?\"\n\n\"You think I would betray my King? I am Brigante we do not betray our leaders.\"\n\nUlpius nodded as though he understood the motive behind the statement. \"And what of Cartimandua? Where is she? Is she with the king?\" The queen was known to favour Rome and Ulpius had been given instructions to find out where she was. It was rumoured that she had divorced her husband and taken up with a shield bearer.\n\n\"That Roman whore is no concern of mine but she will soon be joining her ancestors.\"\n\nUlpius mind took in the threat but his voice feigned ignorance. \"I did not know she was sick.\"\n\n\"Sick! You Roman fool. When Venutius takes her, he will burn her body and the Roman house she has built. Had you not taken us I would be watching as the flames licked her diseased body.\" He spat at Ulpius in a last defiant gesture.\n\nRealising that he would get no more information from him and that the warrior had told him more than he intended Ulpius gave a nod. His men despatched all the Brigante where they stood. In minutes their heads were taken and strung along the saddles, their bloodied, mangled and mutilated bodies left where they fell; despoiled and deserted. The Brigante prisoners watched as their rescuers took everything of value and mounted their horses. As Ulpius was tucking the torc into his saddlebags a portly trader came up to him. \"Thank you lord you have saved us from slavery.\"\n\nUlpius looked at him briefly and signalled for his men to mount. The ex-prisoners stared around in disbelief as the column trotted after Ulpius. \"Lord, are you leaving us here?\"\n\n\"Why? Would you have me escort you back to your farm? For what purpose? We do not escort overweight, whining thieves, we hunt Brigante. Now out of my way before you suffer the same fate.\" He paused and looked east. \"Go that way as fast as your fat little legs will carry you. There is a camp at Derventio. You may make it merchant before the Brigante eat your eyes for their supper and piss in your empty skull.\" He urged Raven into a trot and they headed westwards.\n\nMarcus fell in beside him. \"We could have taken them back to Derventio.\" Ulpius stared at him in silence. Marcus was one of the few men who could question Ulpius and live. In his mind, Marcus knew there was a sound reason and, equally, knew that Ulpius would only tell him when he wanted to.\n\nThe decurion reached under his saddlecloth and removed a piece of dried meat he had been tenderising. As he tore a morsel of the sweat dampened meat and chewed it he gestured with his head. \"Did you not hear what that warrior said? Cartimandua was to be taken; Venutius was on his way to her stronghold to kill her. Think on it Marcus, she was the one who gave us Caractacus. She is the reason we do not need the Second Augusta here. If she is captured by that hothead of a husband we will have the whole of the north of this godforsaken place rebelling against us and remember Eboracum is a half-finished wooden fort. Remember what that bitch Boudicca did eight years ago? I know not how but the tribes know of the trouble in Rome and the many Emperors of this year. They see the chance to evict us. Besides we were ordered to protect her by no less a personage than Marcus Bolanus the Governor himself; it was a standing order that she was a priority. The only reason Venutius has not despatched her yet is that she holds his family hostage. She is a clever woman.\" He spat out an inedible portion of meat and glared at Marcus. \"Now having spent more spit than I wished on a useless turd with nothing better to do than question his leader's orders I will get back to the task assigned to me. You detail a trooper and tell him to go back to Eboracum and tell the tribune that I am going to Stanwyck to see if I can find out what has happened to the only ally we have in this part of the world! We will need help. I hope the gods favour me and it is Flavius who rides to our aid for if it is that thief Cresens we are dead men.\"\n\nMarcus smiled ironically to himself as he went to the rear of the column to give one of the younger troopers the task of riding the fifteen miles back to Eboracum. He should have known the old wolf had something on his mind. Knowing his superior as he did, he also realised that the decurion would have worked out how to profit from the rescue of the famous Cartimandua. Since he had first been captured he had seen the power of Roman coins and the way the soldiers of the Empire looked to make a profit out of anything. He had learned much in the few years he had served with Ulpius. He had recognised a wise older warrior and took every opportunity to watch and learn; in many ways, he was the father Marcus had lost all those years before. The chosen man was a superb swordsman, especially with the short sword so loved by his tribe, and could ride a horse better than anyone but he knew his limitations. He wanted to be a leader and he could see in Ulpius Felix the sharpest military mind a warrior could wish for. A man who never took chances but always achieved his objective. He was never careless with his men or his mount which was why he had been selected to lead this patrol for the tribune knew that he would succeed.\n\nTaking his place at the rear of the fast moving column Marcus constantly scanned the wooded hillsides. He had a keen eye and an even sharper brain. One day he hoped to be a decurion too and be a leader of men. He would have blushed had he heard himself being discussed by Ulpius and the leader of the Ala Flavius Bellatoris. Both warriors viewed Marcus as a future leader, not just of the turma of ala but perhaps a general. The respect shown by Marcus for his leader was returned and both his superiors regarded him as prot\u00e9g\u00e9, in Ulpius' case like the younger brother he had left in Batavia, his back broken by a Gaulish axe. All he needed were the right breaks and a little luck. Fortunately, Marcus was unaware of their thoughts and he could focus on scanning the horizon for enemies who might wish to ambush them. He was a tall man and as his mount was one of the bigger horses he could see further. This was another reason why Ulpius had stationed him in the vanguard. Although the Brigante only had ponies they were light enough to race from the cover of the woods and hack at the auxiliary horses. This was not the perfect place for horses; there were too many streams, gullies and hollows. Happily for the Romans, they were armoured from their skull cap helmets to the greaves on their legs; even their horses had protection on their heads. He checked the fastenings on Argentium's head and rubbed his ears at the same time. The bond between rider and horse was close and Marcus had seen a steed save his rider on more than one occasion. The care and attention they paid to their horses was often more than the care and attention they gave to themselves. In this part of the world you needed to know you could get away faster than you arrived.\n\nYoung Gaius reined in his horse a little to ride next to Ulpius. Ulpius looked at the young man. He had only joined the ala a few weeks ago but he had shown himself to be bright and brave to the point of being foolhardy. It was not permitted to leave your place in the column and the decurion would have to tell him so but he could see that there was something on the young trooper's mind.\n\n\"So young Gaius what is so important that you risk a week of shovelling horse shit just to ride next to an old flatulent one-eyed man who has no patience at all?\"\n\n\"Why did the decurion leave those prisoners back there? They were helpless.\"\n\n\"They were and so are we. We have destroyed a large war band. It is unlikely that we will meet such a large one in this area. Remember Cartimandua supports Rome. It is her ex-husband Venutius who ferments rebellion. And that is why we are hastening to Stanwyck. We need to warn her that Venutius intends her harm.\"\n\n\"Will the Brigante army not protect her?\"\n\n\"Since she took up with her shield bearer she has been shunned by the Brigante nobility. She has few warriors to protect her. Her fortress is not as strong as one of our camps. If they chose they could easily destroy both her and her men. It is only her status as Queen which protects her and the fact that she threatens her husband's family. It seems Venutius has decided to change that.\" He held his hand up to silence the next question.\" And now young Gaius, as you have so much energy for your tongue ride back along the trail and make sure we are not being followed.\"\n\nMarcus shook his head a grin across his face. He knew why Ulpius had indulged the boy just as he knew why he had indulged him earlier. The turma trusted Ulpius because he always let them know what he was about. This was a dangerous patrol in the heartland of Brigantia. Marcus clucked in annoyance as the young man turned his horse around and galloped hard along the track. Marcus loved horses and hated to see them badly used. The young trooper would soon realise that you saved your horse whenever possible for it was your final escape from the enemy; Roman horses could outrun anything in this desolate northern land. He once again scanned the skyline. They had more than ten miles to go but if Venutius had scouts out they would be seen quickly. Ulpius must have been reading his mind for he stopped the column and Marcus could see him gesture for the first two troopers to scout north and south of their line of march; Osgar was some way ahead weaving from side to side as he sought sign. The old wolf would not fall into an ambush himself.\n\nAn hour later and the whole column looked around as they head hoof beats pounding up the trail. Marcus realised that it was Gaius who reined in next to Marcus. \"Smoke,\" he gasped, \"to the west. I went up a short rise and saw it. About five miles away.\" Just then the first two riders sent by Ulpius returned and Osgar jogged wearily back to the stationary soldiers. The decurion held up his hand to halt the column and signalled for Marcus to join him. The two Roman leaders dismounted and walked off a few paces where they would not be overheard.\n\n\"The scouts report that Cartimandua's refuge appears to be safe still but that there is a host approaching from the south. They are mainly on foot but it looks to be a large number. We will get to Cartimandua before they do but, unless they have horses, we will not escape Venutius.\"\n\n\"Do you think the tribune will have acted?\"\n\nUlpius' one eye narrowed. \"I hope our leader,\" the sarcasm was not lost on his men, \"has sent the rest of the ala. A thousand horsemen will be more than enough but I know not. Still, this thirty will have to suffice. If we can be of help then we will do so but I will not risk us for the sake of a glorious death. Come we ride.\"\n\nMarcus wondered if he would be able to be so calm when leading in such a desperate situation. If he left the Queen to be sacrificed like a helpless goat then the consequences for the auxiliary decurion would be catastrophic. Yet the alternative was to let his men be slaughtered for a heroic gesture.\n\nThe town of Cataractonium was unusually crowded; the war band was gathering. Armed and painted warriors milled around eager to see and hear what their war chief had planned. Chieftains proudly displayed their battle scars as younger warriors bragged about deeds as yet unperformed. There was a noise and a hubbub amongst the thousands of warriors which sounded like the roar of surf on the sea shore. Suddenly there was silence as the door of the hall opened and the crowd breathed in as one.\n\nVenutius was a magnificent looking warrior; his jet black hair hung down his back and his wide torso filled the doorway as he emerged. His arms were covered in amulets, the symbols of successful battles; his body covered by a captured cuirass and ornamented with gold and bronze circlets. His face was devoid of any facial hair and made him stand out from his warriors; it also accentuated his eyes and his nose making him look like a hunting hawk. He was every warrior's idea of a warrior chief and they had all left Cartimandua to join a real warrior before a Queen of dubious morals. None of them approved of her decision to abandon her husband and take up with a young shield bearer.\n\nHe climbed on to a chariot so that the thousands at the rear of the warband could see him. \"Warriors! The time has come to show these Romans that they are no longer welcome in our land. The time has come to hurl them back into the sea. The time has come to bathe our weapons in blood.\" There was a huge cheer at this and Venutius allowed it to continue, revelling in the acclaim. \"Our brothers, the Silures, are even now attacking the legions down there.\" He waved his sword in the direction of the South. \"Our Carvetii brothers have joined with our Brigante brothers to make an army which is unstoppable.\" Again a cheer went up which he stopped with his raised arm. \"They think we are cowed because Cartimandua lay on her back like the whore she is. She gave up Caractacus for her own ends and she is a traitor who must now die. We ride to her stronghold and we will show the world who rules when we publicly end her reign in blood. All those who join with us will be spared; all those who oppose us will suffer the same fate.\" The cheers this time were at fever pitch and it took some time for Venutius to quieten them. \"We ride north to destroy the Queen and then the Romans at Eboracum will die. Ride!\"\n\nThe war host was many thousands strong. There were many horse and many chariots but the majority of the warriors were on foot. Venutius was not worried; he had more than enough mounted men to surround the stronghold and stop anyone escaping. That he would take the stronghold was certain. He smiled to himself. Did she not realise that it was he who had improved the defences and he knew every tiny part of that huge stronghold? He also knew that she did not have enough men to man the walls. Its strength was as a refuge for the Brigante people not a few who might hide up behind its mighty ditches. Were it not for his family held hostage he would have taken it in the spring but he was now committed. Hopefully, the queen would surrender without harming his family; if not...The murder of hostages would make his warriors even more passionate in their wars against the enemy.\n\nHe looked at his eager warriors, his war bands which gave him a ready reserve that would be eager to emulate the deeds of the mounted Carvetii. His mounted men would easily get by the few guards and take the fortress. There would be little Cartimandua and her bodyguard would be able to do. He had given orders for her to be captured alive for in his mind he was already punishing the false bitch who had betrayed him and taken a lowly shield bearer as a lover; they would both pay dearly for that mistake. Once she was dead he would rule as rightful king of the Brigante and with that title came the whole of the north of Britannia. The destruction of the Queen was a symbolic gesture which the whole of Britannia would see for what it was; the end of Roman occupation and collaboration. It would be the beginning of the revolt.\n\n# Chapter 2\n\n#\n\nStanwyck\n\nThe hill fort of Stanwyck took the young Roman's breath away; it was the largest single structure Marcus had ever seen. Approaching from the south they would see the walls of the Brigante capital stretching away east and west. He estimated it at four or five thousand paces. There was a ditch and a barrier made of palisades, another ditch and then a stone and wooden wall. The gate had two towers with a number of guards and a handful in the open gateway. He could see on a small rise behind an internal ditch the unmistakeable orange roof of a Roman villa. It was the first he had seen on this island. Looking at the tops of the palisades he could now see that there appeared to be few guards walking the walls and only two warriors chatting by the open gate. As Ulpius peered through the trees in the fading light he dismissed the defences as a barrier against the legions but conceded that it might halt tribesmen. It was certainly big. He turned to the men in the turma who surrounded him. \"Aulus you and Osgar take the road to the south. When you see the Brigante and Carvetii army, any of them, you get back here as soon as possible. Drusus you take three men and keep watch here. If we have to come out in a hurry I don't want to walk into an ambush. The rest of you go carefully. We don't yet know how the land lies. \"He turned to Marcus. \"Anything happens to me you get the bitch out and to Eboracum, it doesn't matter how or how many die. Clear?\" He glared at Marcus and the rest of the men all of whom nodded. \"Let's go.\"\n\nThey trotted forward. They were only yards from the tree line when they heard the challenge from the walls. A dozen warriors, arms filled with bracelets and necks adorned with torcs raced out to the gateway weapons at the ready.\n\nUlpius' face showed no emotion as he stopped Raven at the barrier of spears. \"I am Ulpius Felix, Decurion of the Second Turma, and First Sabinian Wing of Pannonians. I am here with urgent news for your Queen Cartimandua.\"\n\nThere was a silence as the warriors struggled to understand the Roman. The turma were already loosing their weapons in anticipation of a fight when Ulpius held up his hand. \"It is vital that I speak with someone in authority for.\" He lowered his voice and addressed the oldest of the guards. \"Venutius comes.\"\n\nThe words had the desired effect and the most scarred warrior spoke. \"Leave your men in the outer ward and come with me.\"\n\nUlpius turned to Marcus. \"Have the men take the saddles off their horses, feed and water them and find some food. \" He turned to the nearest guard. \"Have food and drink brought for my men.\" He marched off with the expectation that his orders, even to a stranger would be obeyed.\n\nMarcus watched him stride off once again in awe of the command of his leader, totally fearless, prepared for anything. \"Come on you lot. If Venutius gets here before dark we will have to fight our way out. Make sure the animals can carry us; treat them as you would your lover.\"\n\nAs they dismounted one wag called out, \"Atticus already does.\" The men laughed as the most unpopular man in the turma reddened. Marcus took it as a good sign; if they could joke they would fight and if they fought... Marcus would back this turma against any barbarians.\n\nUlpius was tall and had to duck beneath the narrow gateway. Behind him he heard his men leading their mounts through the gateway. The pathway took a sharp right, obviously a defensive strategy to assault an invading enemy from the flank. Behind the outer wall the land was flat and covered in huts and roundhouses laid out in no particular order or discernible pattern. His military mind took over as he followed the guard weaving between the huts. The fortress had an inner fortress and another steep ditch. To his right a forceful stream bubbled its way across the whole fort. At least defenders would be well supplied with water. Ulpius noticed how few guards there were and, apart from those he had met at the gate, what was disconcerting was that none of them looked up for a fight. He realised that any defence of the Queen would come from his handful of men. They passed through another gate, ignored by the warriors who lounged there and Ulpius could see the hall before them. Although not on the scale of a Roman building it was, none the less the most substantial structure he had seen so far in this land of round wooden huts. Ulpius was about to walk directly for it when his guard tugged at his arm. \"This way Roman unless you want to meet the queen with wet feet.\"\n\nLooking ahead Ulpius could now see that the land was boggy and marshy; they were forced to walk a narrow path between the stream and the marsh. He began to understand the workings of the Brigante mind. This would certainly slow up an assault. If an enemy attempted to get across the marsh he would be an easy target. If he took the route past the stream he would be an easy target. The hall was set on a knob of rock which rose higher than all but the earthworks. It looked almost Roman in its design and construction. Away on the right, he could see further concentric circles of ditches marking out the western boundary. As he walked up to the hall he could see, in the distance, the outer defences; by his reckoning, it was three thousand paces from north to south. He could see much evidence of recent building and construction work. A mighty structure but to defend it properly one would need a horde far bigger than the handful he had seen. He turned to his guards, \"A fine hall. It looks new.\"\n\n\"Aye Roman your Emperor had it built for the Queen.\"\n\n\"Did he also put the new defensive walls up?\"\n\nOne of the surlier guards sneered, \"No Roman, that was our King Venutius.\"\n\nIgnoring the implied insult Ulpius stored the key information. If Venutius had constructed the extra defences and if there were still men who remained loyal to the king then it was even more imperative that he escape with the Queen as soon as possible. The defensive qualities were even less if you were assaulted by the man who built the defences.\n\nHis guards stopped him at the entrance of the hall. \"Wait here Roman.\"\n\nAs he waited Ulpius turned around to survey the land around the refuge for the hall afforded a fine view across the country. The trees had been cut back for some distance but the only other natural defence was a small stream, easily fordable. He gazed eastwards. That was the direction he would have to take. There was a small outpost at Cataractonium to the south but Eboracum was even closer, fifteen or sixteen miles. If his trooper had got there and raised the alarm and, if the tribune had reacted, the ala could be a mere three or four miles away. It all depended on Venutius and his army approaching from the west.\n\n\"Enter decurion.\" The voice came from a holy man, an old holy man. His hair was not limed as the warriors, it was shorter, cropped but he was a whitebeard and lacked any jewellery. Ulpius detected something about him; he was not a Brigante for he had recognised his rank. \"The Queen awaits.\" His Latin was flawless and as Ulpius followed he noticed the tattoo. The man had been a legionary.\n\nQueen Cartimandua had been a strikingly beautiful warrior queen in her time. She had fought in many battles and held off rival armies very successfully. When she first met the Romans, she realised that they were here to stay and that diplomacy was the best course of action. She dismayed not only other Celts but also her own Brigante people when she treacherously handed over Caractacus to the invaders. She was pragmatic and politic, a rare thing in a Celtic leader. She had further alienated her people when, following her husband divorcing her, she took up with Vellocatus her shield bearer. This had outraged and shocked her most supportive followers. It was a measure of her character and charisma that she had ruled for a further fourteen years without the support of many of her people. Two things had been in her favour; firstly, the support of the Romans through a series of indifferent governors and, perhaps more importantly, the fact that she held most of her ex-husband's family hostage. The threat of their death kept Venutius and his horde at bay.\n\nSo it was that Ulpius first met the mighty Cartimandua. Both her beauty and sexual appetites were legendary. It was said that Caractacus had been a lover before he was despatched. Some of the ninth legion from Spain had compared her to the spider called the Black Widow which mated and then consumed her consort. She certainly had a dark look about her but age was creeping up on her. Her raven black hair was now riven with grey. Her eyes, still beautiful were sinking into a sea of lines. Her once taut cheekbones were now puffy and sagged a little. Even though she was a shadow of her former self Ulpius found himself dropping to one knee in awe of this woman who exuded both sex and power, an irresistible combination. As he knelt his good eye took in the powerful warrior behind her. He was obviously Vellocatus the shield bearer. Although no longer young he still looked to be a formidable ally and a foe to be avoided.\n\nUlpius rose and bowed and waited. \"So Roman you are here for what purpose?\"\n\n\"To warn you mighty Queen that Venutius approaches with an army. He intends to destroy you and this citadel.\"\n\nWhilst the rest of the court displayed various degrees of shock Cartimandua appeared calm. Inside she was deciding what to do. Here in the citadel she might be safe for a while but she knew that her support was waning. She glanced around her nobles and wondered just how many would stay loyal. Her bluff had been called. All this time Venutius had not attacked for fear of his family. He must have realised that she could never carry out her threat for it would result in her own demise. It was obvious she would have to leave. She looked again at the tall Roman auxiliary before her. Even though her life was in danger she could not help being attracted to this warrior; her sexual drive was still as potent as ever. Perhaps she would see what he was like in bed, but not yet.\n\n\"Where are they?\"\n\n\"My scouts reported them to the south.\" There was a pause. \"They will be here very soon; we barely made it here before them.\"\n\n\"How many men do you have with you?\"\n\n\"Thirty. Not enough to defend these walls, my lady.\" He added to avoid the follow up question. He was anxious to leave. \"To be blunt your highness I have not seen enough men within these walls to be able to defend them. If I had a legion I might succeed but with my handful. \"He paused to let the facts sink in.\"We should leave quickly before they are upon us. \"\n\nShe stood and Ulpius realised she was as tall as he was and, despite being middle aged moved with an easy athletic grace. She nodded, the decision quickly made. \"Go to your men we will be there shortly.\" She looked at Vellocatus. \"Prepare my chariot and take my valuables with you. Have my bodyguards mounted. You, Alerix, despatch the prisoners.\" Finally, she took the old man by the hand. \"Gerantium I leave the defence of Stanwyck to you. I believe they will follow me rather than attack this place but I know you will defend it as you defended me all of my life and for the Emperor before that. I know that you will protect everything that is precious to me old friend.\" She paused and her lowered voice told of a tenderness and affection beyond that of mistress and servant, it was more of a family member talking to a favourite uncle. \"Had I time I would take you and them with me.\"\n\n\"My Queen, ride and I will protect you and your family as long as there is life in this tired old body. I will serve you in death as I did in life.\"\n\n\"If you take refuge in the inner fort you should have enough men to hold them off.\"\n\nThe ex-legionary bowed to the Queen and gave a nod of thanks to Ulpius.\n\nMarcus, even though he was eager to escape before the vengeful Venutius arrived, had been surprised by both the speed of the Queen's decision and her ruthlessness in having unarmed prisoners murdered. She would bear watching. He glanced towards his men who had snatched some food and drink; more importantly, the horses had been fed a little and watered. They had been rubbed down. If they were surprised now they should be able to pull away from the inferior native horses; even so, it was not certain that they could evade the enemy. He turned as he saw first one rider and then another emerge from the woods. From their mounts he knew they were Roman and from their speed he knew that Venutius was not far behind. \"Saddle up and be quick you idle buggers. They're coming.\"\n\nEven as he spoke Ulpius erupted from the hall. He nodded in acknowledgement to Marcus letting his chosen man know he had acted well. \"I take it you have seen our men.\" Marcus pointed South to where the riders were racing. \"Mount.\"\n\nThe Romans were astride their beasts in a heartbeat. Ulpius led them out of the gateway so that the Queen and her entourage could make a quicker exit. Lentius reined his horse in. \"Brigante scouts are just the other side of that wood. They will be with us soon.\" The unspoken wish was for his commander to lead them to safety.\n\n\"How many?\"\n\n\"About a hundred, on those ponies of theirs but we could make out the main army five miles behind.\"\n\nUlpius grunted in answer. \"Get your mounts watered. I don't want to lose any more mounts than I have to.\" He heard a commotion behind and screams from the bowels of the fortress. The prisoners had obviously died. The Queen emerged in her chariot with Vellocatus at the reins. Two warriors ran from a roundhouse wielding long swords they were obviously intent upon murder.\n\n\"Murderer. You Roman lover!\"\n\n\"Traitorous bitch! Whore!\"\n\nBefore either Ulpius or Vellocatus could react, the Queen pulled a magnificent sword from a scabbard inside the chariot. She swept the weapon effortlessly, slashing one of the warriors across the neck almost severing the head. She then held the sword in both hands and brought it down onto the skull of the other. It split like a ripe fruit showering those around him with blood and brains. Wiping the blood from the weapon she turned to Ulpius. \"What are you waiting for Roman? Have you never seen blood before?\"\n\n\"Marcus, take the lead. Head towards Drusus. Gaius, you come with me we'll take the rear. \"The column moved eastwards at a steady trot. The land sloped away and helped the chariot to gain momentum. Ulpius and Gaius waited as the chariot passed by and the twenty bodyguards all riding, Ulpius noted with some disappointment, the little ponies. Already his mind was working out how to sacrifice both bodyguards and ponies to save both himself and the warrior queen. The pace they travelled at was crucial; too fast and their horses would be winded, too slow and they would be caught and the ponies would slow them down. As he looked up at the sky he cursed the northern light. It was high summer and would be lighter for longer. Their only advantage would be they would be riding towards the setting sun which might bring on darkness and the chance to hide. \n\n# Chapter 3\n\n#\n\nNorth West of Eboracum\n\nAs they approached the wood Drusus and his men emerged to greet Ulpius. He signalled them to his side. \"I want you to go back into the woods. Wait for the enemy to arrive. When they are within bowshot, kill as many horses and men as you can and then escape through the woods. If they follow you, well, if not you will catch up with us. Clear?\"\n\nDrusus looked grimly at his leader. \"Do you think we can kill enough to deter them?\"\n\n\"No. Do not take me for a fool! They will have to slow down. It will appear as though we have tried to ambush them and cause panic. They will reform and attack you. That will slow them down and give you time to escape. Is that clear?\" The tone in his voice told Drusus that he had questioned too much.\n\n\"Clear decurion.\"\n\nUlpius spoke as the four men trotted back into the woods, \"And Drusus, be careful. I need you alive, all of you.\" Turning he rode forward to join Cartimandua looking at the bodyguards as he passed them. Their ponies were coping with the pace but Ulpius knew that in a race they would slow them down. Riding next to the queen he began to speak in Latin, hoping that the guards would not be able to understand them.\n\n\"They will catch us your majesty and before we reach Eboracum.\" She looked at the Roman waiting for him to explain. \"The enemy are coming from the south. We are trying to reach safety which lies south east. We must travel further east to avoid them. They know where we are going and can just cut us off.\"\n\n\"How do they know?\"\n\n\"Even if they didn't see us when they get near to your citadel they will see our trail and I am sure there are enough of your people who wish you ill to inform on you.\" He paused as he phrased his next statement. \"I fear that the two killers who tried to attack your majesty were not alone and may have been planted by your enemy. I think that your fortress will not last long as there are enemies within.\"\n\nVellocatus bridled. \"Be careful Roman. The Queen has loyal subjects.\"\n\nUlpius laughed sardonically. \"Yes I saw her reward two of them for their loyalty.\"\n\n\"Silence! He is right. They will inform on us. So Decurion what is your plan?\"\n\n\"I have laid a small ambush which should delay them what I need is a second ambush.\" Again her look made him carry on. \"If half of your guards waited until the first of the scouts had passed and then attacked them in the rear it would make them more cautious and they might waste time chasing your guards.\"\n\n\"And they might spend time killing them.\"\n\nThere was a silence then Ulpius said, \"That was in my mind majesty. I need to get you safely to Eboracum and the legion. My men and your men are, \"he paused, \"expendable.\"\n\nThe Queen appraised the one eyed warrior before her. She was a good judge of men if not of lovers and she liked his honesty. \"You are right. When do you want them to make their attack?\"\n\n\"A little way ahead we drop down a shallow valley to cross a small stream. There is a wood there. If they wait until the last of scouts cross the stream then can attack them and then escape away from us.\"\n\nThe Queen said nothing then called, \"Alerix.\" A huge tattooed man with many trophy amulets on his arms came forward. \"When we come to the stream take half my guards and wait in the woods. When the enemy follows wait until the last few are in the water when they will be slower. Attack them and kill as many as you can. Then ride north to Cataractonium.\"\n\n\"We will kill them all majesty.\"\n\nThe anger in her voice was matched by the anger in her eyes. \"Why am I surrounded by heroes who cannot wait to die for me? When will I find warriors who want to live for me! If I wanted you dead I would tell you. I want you alive. When you have rested at Cataractonium join me at Eboracum.\" Her voice softened and she touched his arm. \"I still need you and your men this is just a battle it is not the war. We will regain my kingdom from these rebels.\" He nodded his honour assuaged.\n\nIn the woods, Drusus prepared his ambush. He was lucky that he and Metellus were accomplished archers whilst the other two were accurate with javelins. If he fired from the cover of the woods he might be able to get three flights of arrows and one of javelins away before they were attacked. He was under no illusions, the ponies of the enemy would be more surefooted in the woods, and the Romans would only have a few heartbeats to get a lead and escape the woods onto the grassland where they could gallop.\n\nOne of the new men asked the unspoken question. \"Will we escape?\"\n\n\"That depends, my friend on two things. One, how well we fight and, probably, more importantly, how does the Allfather view us. I am hopeful that, as I made a sacrifice the day we left on the patrol that we will survive.\"\n\n\"If not,\" interrupted the blunt Metellus, \"our heads and dicks will be paraded by these barbarians on their saddles which in my case means his pony will need longer legs.\"\n\nThe bluff humour made them all smile but they all knew he was speaking the truth. \"I hear them.\"\n\nThe four men waited, hidden in the trees at the edge of the wood. As they had correctly assumed the Brigante and Carvetii came on at a pace not expecting a rear guard action when there were so few Romans involved. Drusus and Metellus needed no signal to launch their arrows and they were notching their second flight even when the first was still in the air. Their third left their bows as the first two arrows struck home. The warband veered towards the danger and the last two flights and the javelins flew simultaneously. The effect was immediate for the mounted warriors wore neither armour nor clothing on their upper bodies. A handful of warriors and ponies crashed to the ground disrupting the ones following. Not waiting to see the full effect the four Romans raced off in a line, Drusus leading and the dour Metellus at the rear. As Drusus had feared the enemy ponies were more agile. It was time they made for the open ground where their superior horseflesh would count. Without signalling their intent Drusus took them at right angles to the lighter part of the woods. He could see the edge of the wood four horse lengths away. It looked as though his tactics had worked and they might escape when disaster struck. The mount in front of Metellus suddenly stumbled and the rider was thrown. Metellus was a superb horseman and he lifted his steed over the recumbent body of the unfortunate trooper. His companion then made the cardinal mistake of stopping to see what had happened to his friend. The Brigante axe embedded itself in his back. Drusus and Metellus had no time to help their comrades and they erupted from the woods like stags. The accident had slowed up the enemy who began to hack at the two unfortunates. Even as they galloped back towards Ulpius, now a long way in the distance, they could hear the harrowing screams from the two Romans who were being eviscerated alive. They lay low over their horses' manes and rode close together to make a low profile and to enable them to talk.\n\n\"First rule of cavalry, be a fucking good rider. Second rule don't fucking fall off.\"\n\n\"Well Metellus it looks like they paid for that mistake with their lives.\"\n\n\"And the third rule is, don't go back unless you know you can make a difference.\"\n\n\"A few more weeks and Ulpius would have drilled that into them.\" Drusus looked under his arm as the cries stopped. \"Well here they come. They didn't hold them up for long.\"\n\nMetellus risked a glance. \"I don't know how many there were before but I can only see thirty or forty riders now. Perhaps we can have a bigger ambush next time.\"\n\n\"I think our decurion wants to get the Queen to safety. There is always a risk in an ambush. This is why there are now only two of us!\"\n\nThe land was full of dips, hollows and mounds with thick copses and it was becoming difficult for Ulpius to see the enemy. \"Gaius, ride to the rise. Keep yourself low to the horse and watch for the enemy. When you see them, follow us.\" Gaius nodded his face eager for adventure. \"And Gaius, take no chances. I can ill afford to lose another man. Even someone as useless as you.\" Gaius grinned as he trotted up the hill. Ulpius urged his horse forward and he joined Marcus at the front of the column.\n\n\"Send Lentius forward I want no surprises.\" Marcus did so and then rejoined Ulpius who had taken some of the dried meat from under his saddlecloth. He looked questioningly at the decurion but realised he had asked enough foolish questions for one day. Ulpius was just finishing chewing when they heard the distant screams of both men and horses. Everyone in the column looked urgently behind them except Ulpius who took a swig from his water sack. As he wiped his mouth he said, \"Drusus!\" There was a pause as he put the stopper back in. \"I hope the useless weed avoids having his head taken. He still owes me for his scutum.\" Despite the words Marcus could hear the affection in his voice for Drusus had been with them both since Batavia.\n\nA few minutes later they heard the sound of hoof beats thundering after them. It was Gaius. He reined in next to Ulpius who had not slowed down. \"Half of them followed Drusus and Metellus into the woods the rest are hard on my heels.\" It was unspoken but they both knew the other two auxilia were dead.\n\n\"Right your majesty now we ride and we ride hard! Gallop\"\n\nThe cavalry horses leapt forward and immediately a gap opened between the Romans and the Celts. Ulpius pulled his vine branch from his saddle and began whipping Cartimandua's ponies who suddenly found extra energy and the bodyguards were the ones left behind.\n\n\"We are coming to the stream.\" Ulpius turned and shouted to the bodyguards. \"Here is your ambush!\" Alerix nodded and slowed down. The ten guards raised their arms in salute trotting off to take their place in the woods.\n\nAs they came up the low rise the chariot's ponies began to struggle and Marcus and Lentius had to help pull them up. By now they could hear the Carvetii following them and as Gaius turned he saw the first of them reach the rise. They would not be able to escape. As they reached the flatter area the remaining bodyguards slowed down. They too saluted their Queen and then formed themselves in a thin line at the top of the rise. Ulpius knew they were sacrificing themselves and he raised his arm to acknowledge their action. Without the ponies to slow them the Roman horses soon put the diminishing daylight between them. He couldn't see the enemy but he saw the back of the bodyguards disappear down towards the stream and hear the class of metal on metal and the whinny of horses. When he heard another cheer he knew that those in the ambush had attacked. Twenty against fifty. They could not succeed but they might slow them down and cause enough casualties to enable them to escape.\n\nHad he been an eagle he would have been able to look down and see that the Queen's bodyguards were doing better than could have been hoped. The last thing the Carvetii and Brigante scouts were expecting was to be attacked. The shock cost the first warriors their lives. The momentum of the riders and horses threw the rest into confusion and once they were amongst them they began to inflict casualties. They would have been soon despatched for the Carvetii had reformed but their comrades charged into their rear causing not only confusion and mayhem but death to many. Inevitably the twenty died but they took far more of the enemy than Ulpius could have hoped. He knew nothing about this miniature battle for he was racing as fast as he could towards the legionaries at Eboracum. Alerix and his brother were the last to die. Back to back, they slaughtered all who came within reach of their long swords singing their death song. Some of those they killed had been fellow warriors in battles past but they cared not. They were fulfilling their oath to fight and die for their Queen. Their heaven would be to join their brothers.\n\nThe war chief of the Carvetii knew that his warriors would sacrifice themselves for the honour of killing the mighty Alerix but he had the Queen to catch. He signalled to his archers; within less than a minute the two warriors were mortally wounded and covered in arrows, even so, they had the strength to raise their swords and shout \"Cartimandua\" before dying.\n\nAfter a mile or so of hard riding, Ulpius slowed to a walk. He turned to Lentius. \"Wait here. When they come, ride and let me know. Wait until your horse is ready to ride. That will be time enough.\"\n\nHe rode next to the Queen. \"There has been no pursuit. Your warriors died well.\"\n\n\"They were oathsworn. It was their duty to die. They will be reunited and live forever.\" Ulpius nodded. His own people had a similar belief. There was no finer end for a warrior than to die honourably with a blade in his hand.\n\nUlpius nodded towards the Queen's sword which he could see in her chariot. \"I have never seen so fine a blade. It is a noble weapon.\"\n\nIt has been handed down for five generations and came with us from over the water. They say it is an ancient blade with magic and protects its bearer.\"\n\n\"Do you believe that?\"\n\n\"None of my ancestors died with it in their hand. It was old age or treachery which killed them all. It is always close to my hand.\"\n\n\"Does it have a name as most powerful weapons do?\"\n\n\"It is called Sax Lacus in our tongue. Sword of the lake.\"\n\n\"I am happy that you have such a weapon.\" He smiled sardonically. \"It will make my job much easier.\"\n\nShe caught his eye as she murmured. \"I am happy too Roman.\" The Queen felt feelings well up in her for this warrior, this man. She glanced at Vellocatus who was a fine and strong youth but she knew that if she ever bedded the Roman it would be a more satisfying experience.\n\nDespite its fine sounding name, the reality of the sword was somewhat different from the legend. It had been made by the Celts in the land called Gaul before it was conquered by the Romans. It was made by the finest swordsmith who used his own blood in its casting. When the Romans had conquered Gaul one of the last warrior chieftains to leave took the sword with him and went to the land of the Iceni in Britannia. Being a belligerent warrior, he fought and argued with his hosts and decided to travel north with a few retainers to seek a new kingdom. It was in the land of the Brigante in the valley of two lakes when the legend really began. The uncle of Cartimandua's ancestor was hunting with a few warriors when he came across the sword and the unpleasant Celt. They fought hand to hand and the Brigante won. However, his victory was short lived for the retainers shot arrows in to the Celts until they were all dead. The only one to see where the sword fell was the great, great grandfather of Cartimandua's father. He waited until the following day, waded out and retrieved it from below the surface. It was fortunate for him that other warriors of the Brigante were passing the lake as he emerged with the sword in his hand. Although he had been the outsider to inherit the kingdom the superstitious Brigante felt this was an omen and he was pronounced king. The legend of a sword from the lake calling to him came from his own mind. His great, great, great granddaughter inherited all of his guile, cunning and adaptability.\n\nDrusus and Metellus had seen the movement of the Queen's bodyguards and, unsure if that was an enemy they had ridden away to the south. Fortunately for them, they were hidden from their pursuers by a line of trees and the curve of the hill so it was that they unwittingly led the Carvetii into the ambush and caused more casualties than if they had not been followed. Hearing the scream of battle they were able to surmise that it had been a Brigante ambush.\n\n\"We can rest the horses a little now Metellus. I am not sure we are still following the line of march of Ulpius.\" His leader had told him to rejoin him but their detour had taken them away from the trail taken by the auxiliaries. Drusus knew that they had to make a choice or die.\n\nMetellus shaded his eyes against the sky. \"I think Eboracum is in that direction. He pointed southwest. If we continue in this line we will either see the rest of the turma over there or reach Eboracum. And I don't fancy going back in that direction.\" He gestured over his shoulder.\n\n\"No, you are right there. It is as good a plan as any.\" Having made a decision the two cavalrymen felt more contented. As troopers they were normally detached from the main army and both had learned years before that, unlike the legions with their massed ranks and security in numbers, they had to think in the saddle and use their wits. They walked their horses over the flat plain between two low hills giving the winded mounts some time to recover for who knew when they would need to gallop again. They were beginning to believe they would reach Eboracum, as they crested the low hill to the south. The sight which met them made them both clutch at their sacred amulets murmuring for the Allfather to protect his sons. Before them was a whole warband of Carvetii. Drusus estimated that they were about the same number as an ala, five hundred. Metellus who had the sharpest eyes shouted, \"That is Venutius!\"\n\nThey had no choice and they galloped as hard as they could to the north for that was away from their enemy and towards their few friends.\n\nMeanwhile the light was beginning to dip behind the hills in the distant West when Ulpius heard the hoof beats of Lentius' horse. \"No pursuit decurion. They have either gone a different way or given up.\"\n\n\"Excellent.\" For the first time Ulpius believed they might make it. The horses could smell the river and were eagerly riding towards it. That meant that they were so close to Eboracum and the safety of the legion that they could have walked there in the time it takes for the sun to set on a spring evening. The last barrier was the river, not as mighty this far north of Eboracum but difficult to cross with a chariot. They were almost at the river when Marcus shouted the alarm; he was riding five hundred paces to the south of the much diminished band when he saw the movement of mounted men galloping over the rise.\n\n\"It is Drusus and Metellus.\" As soon as they heard the alarm every man took his javelin out and checked the strapping on his oval shield.\n\nUlpius could see his men riding for all they were worth. The fronts of their horses were covered in sweat and they were almost out on their hooves. Drusus was shouting long before he was close. \"It is a trap.\" He pointed behind him. \"The Carvetii.\"\n\nVenutius roared his pleasure when he saw how pitifully few the Romans were. They would not be able to escape him and he would have the bitch Cartimandua to parade before her subjects a visible sign that he, Venutius, was the rightful king of the Brigante and the Carvetii. The Vellocatus boy would be castrated alive and then left for the crows, ravens and magpies. He drew his sword. \"Kill the Romans but I want the Queen and her boy alive!\"\n\nUlpius could now see how clever and devious Venutius had been. The scouts hadn't been chasing; they were the stopper in the bottle, the hound driving the stag on to the spears. The Carvetii leader had known where they would take the Queen and had ridden north east not north west. His men and horses would be fresher; not that that would be an issue for he outnumbered the Romans by at least ten to one. Behind Drusus he could see the Carvetii army. There were chariots, horses and foot soldiers. Their enemy intended to cut them off and prevent them from reaching the safety of Eboracum. He made up his mind quickly. The river twisted and turned southward to Eboracum. \"Right lads we are heading down there towards the river. The queen can use the chariot as a boat and float down to Eboracum. We'll buy her time. Let's go.\" He secretly hoped that the current would take them to the other shore and they would be safe from the arrows and slings of their attackers but at least the river was a safer option.\n\nThey rode hard. They were riding towards the enemy but also getting closer to the river. When they reached the banks they dismounted and the auxilia began to strip the chariot of all that was heavy. Ulpius looked over to the approaching barbarians. It would be a close run thing and he feared that he and his men would have to sacrifice themselves in order to secure the Queen's escape. Decius shouted, \"Ready sir.\"\n\n\"Lower it into the river, gently we don't want it breaking up or floating away. \"They began to lower the wooden chariot into the water.\n\n\"I am not going.\" The queen's words told the Romans that they would not be able to persuade her. Their ride, the sacrifice of the bodyguards, the deaths of the auxiliaries had all been in vain. They would be slaughtered and without any command the troopers turned to face the enemy now less than two thousand paces away.\n\n\"But your majesty.\"\n\n\"I cannot swim.\" She smiled an engaging smile that helped to harden their resolve. \"Besides decurion as long as I hold the sword I cannot die.\"\n\nHe nodded, he had already assumed he was going to die but he had been prepared to die so that the queen might live. If this tough old queen wanted to join him, sword in hand, then he could understand it. At least they would take a good number of the enemy with them. \"Shields!\" The men locked their shields into a wall. They were not as solid as legionary shields but they were better than nought. Ulpius gazed at the approaching horde and then his men, their advantage was their shields, their armour and, most importantly, their discipline; typically, they were bare chested and only a few had any kind of helmet, there were also few shields. That would give the Romans the edge for when they threw their javelins each one would take out an enemy and that would slow up those behind. They would still die but they would take many of the Carvetii with them. It was not in his nature to give up hope; as long as he had a weapon and his men around him Ulpius Felix would always believe he could not only survive but win. \"Remember who we are. Remember we fight for each other and remember these bastards only want one prisoner and she has tits!\" The men laughed at the irreverence as did the queen who admired the way her rescuer was undaunted by his imminent death. The only one who looked upset was Vellocatus who glared at Ulpius' back.\n\nThe enemy were less than five hundred paces away when the Romans heard the unmistakeable sound of buccinas. It was the ala! Had they arrived too late? They were unable to see their friends in the gloom but they could see by the way the enemy horse swerved to their right where they were coming from. \"Right you useless buggers. Die hard and some of us might live. Those are our brothers coming to help us. Don't let me down! If I die first I'll kick your arses when you get to Elysium.\"\n\nThey laughed at the gallows' humour. \"Caltrops. The men in the front row suddenly hurled the many pointed pieces of metal towards the enemy chariots. The ponies were unshod and the caltrops would cause serious damage. The Romans knew their efficacy having encountered them in Batavia- they knew what would happen to this solid line of horses. Their narrow frontage helped and, as the first ponies reared, bucked and tried to turn, the whole of the enemy vanguard was thrown into confusion. Ponies tried to veer away only to hit other chariots or more caltrops. They reared, tossed and threw their riders and chariots into each other. The entire vanguard was stopped and hurled into complete confusion. Taking advantage of the hiatus Ulpius roared, \"Javelins!\" The first volley flew over the heads of the first rank and totally disrupted the whole attack. As they prepared to launch their second volley some of those who had fallen from the chariots began to hurl axes and spears. \"Javelins.\" The second volley took out some of those who had survived. As they unsheathed their swords Ulpius had a quick look to see their casualties. One of his men had taken a hit to the throat from an axe thrown from a charging tribesman and was bleeding to death. One or two had had cuts but it was Vellocatus and Cartimandua who had taken the most damage. Vellocatus was lying with a spear embedded deep in his stomach-a death wound. Cartimandua was holding her right arm, a javelin pinning it to the ground. He had no chance to help her for a huge warrior leapt over the chariots screaming and waving a two-handed broad-axe. He only had time to react. He threw his shield to the left and dived to the right. They faced each other both recognising that they fought an experienced warrior. Ulpius kept his eyes on his opponent's face looking for the movement of his eyes which would tell him how he would fight. He saw his enemies' eyes flick towards his sword and even as the axe sliced down Ulpius thrust the boss of his shield at the weapon. The blade slid off the metal and Ulpius thrust towards the warrior's face. He was too wily to be taken so early and he merely stepped back almost laughing. Ulpius was unconcerned; he had seen how the man reacted. Next time it would end. He swung his sword at the Brigante knowing that he was opening up his left side. His opponent saw the opening and smashed down at the shield. He hit with incredible force and Ulpius turned slightly so that the warrior carried on forward and when his momentum opened up his left side Ulpius stabbed upwards finding a vital organ almost immediately. He had no time for satisfaction as he sensed someone coming from his right. He instinctively struck backhanded and felt the blade sink into soft flesh. He turned and saw that the man fought bare chested and his blade had cut both the tops of his arms and the top of his chest; not death wounds. He finished the man off by cutting his throat. He looked up and saw Marcus without a shield trying to fight two men with his sword and the broken end of a javelin. Ulpius charged one of the men and almost decapitated him with his sword. Marcus ended the life of his companion with a javelin he picked from a dead body and slid into the unprotected throat of the assailant.\n\nDrusus and Metellus were fighting as a pair each one watching out for the other. Close by the Brigante scout Osgar was using his sling to mighty effect; to their front was a wedge of Carvetii. The leader fought without any upper body armour save for a golden torc, a blue painted face and a winged helmet. Even as he came towards him Drusus couldn't help musing on this belief from the Brigante that painting your face gave you magical protection. Osgar took aim with his sling only to be stabbed by a spear from his side. Drusus knew immediately that he was in danger and he turned his shield to his left. As he did so the war chief charged forward, his warriors alongside. Drusus took the thrust of the axe on his sword; he was struck on the head by an axe thrown by one of the warriors. His helmet saved his life but he was knocked down. He would have died there and then but Metellus hacked down on the neck of the warrior striking a vital vein. Before Drusus could thank his companion two warriors sliced and hacked into Metellus unprotected side and his lifeless body fell onto Drusus whose world drifted into blackness.\n\nMarcus and Lentius saw Metellus and Drusus go down and charged into the side of the Carvetii formation. They were enraged and the enemy group was slaughtered as they continued to hack at the lifeless body of the huge auxiliary. With no enemies to their front, Lentius and Marcus dragged Drusus away from his dead comrade. They did not know if he was dead or alive but they could see that Metellus had joined the Allfather.\n\nVenutius was becoming angry that this tiny handful of Roman warriors was thwarting his attempt at ending the Queen's life. The crashed and ruined chariots were a barrier around the beleaguered Romans; his warriors were being picked off before they could get to the enemy. The auxiliaries were using their bows with great accuracy to pick off the warriors as they tried to climb over the barrier. With little or no armour each arrow took out a warrior who in turn became part of an even bigger barrier. He turned to his bodyguards; he would take his elite and kill these upstarts. \"Form on me! Wedge!\" Before he could advance he heard the strident sound of a buccina. Romans! He looked in the direction of the river, towards the south and saw a mass of men. It was the garrison of Eboracum.\n\nOne of his scouts, bleeding from an arrow wound rode up. \"It is the Roman cavalry; they have destroyed Calga and his men. They will be here in a heartbeat we must flee or die.\"\n\nCursing his luck Venutius realised he would have to withdraw; he clutched at his sacred charm, given to him by a witch in the hope that its power would help him to survive. Unwittingly the Romans had copied his plan; the Queen and her rescuers were pinning the warband and they were being attacked in the flank. If it was just the cavalry then he might be able to defeat them but if it was the legion...There was still time. He might have lost the battle but this was but the opening of a campaign which would see the end of Cartimandua and the eviction of the Roman infestation from his lands. \"Withdraw!\" His standard bearer waved it in a circular fashion, the signal to retreat. Those warriors who could see it began to withdraw but those facing the two Roman forces kept fighting the bloodlust filling their heads.\n\nThere were barely a handful of his auxiliaries left and Ulpius looked up expecting the end. He could see the bodies of his men, some seeping their life into the ground others barely alive but all hope of life leaving their eyes. His horizon was filled with enemies; as the arrows diminished in numbers so more of them made it over the barrier where Ulpius stood like a bronze statue, he hacked and chopped those who stumbled and fell across the sea of bodies and they sank to the ground. He heard a call which brought his fading hopes alive it was the buccina! The enemies before him unexpectedly thinned behind the warrior he despatched with his spatha and he saw, with grim delight, that the enemy to his front were dead or dying and he suddenly saw troopers from his ala were charging and pursuing the rest as they fled the field. The rout was complete as the Romans outnumbered the fleeing tribesmen who would be slaughtered if they faced the fresh Roman troops. He turned quickly to Cartimandua who was lying ashen faced in a pool of blood. \"You fight well decurion. My poor Vellocatus will fight no more.\" She gently touched the still, silent face of her lover.\n\nSpeaking quietly, almost to himself Ulpius said, \"Nor will you majesty for I fear for your sword arm. This may hurt my lady but I must stop the blood or you will die.\" She nodded and, closing her eyes turned her head to the side. Using both arms he pulled the crude javelin from her arm. He tightly wrapped his neckerchief around the arm to stem the bleeding. \"You are brave my queen. I have known warriors who would have been screaming like pigs.\"\n\n\"You have saved my life Roman and I will repay the debt. Take my sword until I can hold it again. Guard it as well as you guarded me for I have never seen a warrior like you. You defeated the best of the Carvetii this day. Brigantia owes you a great debt for you have prevented Venutius from killing the rightful queen.\" With that, her eyes closed and drifted off into unconsciousness. As Ulpius gripped the hilt of the magnificent weapon he felt as though it was alive; it felt like an extension of his arm. As soon as he touched it he knew he would find it very hard to return it. The balance and feel seemed to make it sing and, as he ran his hands over the Celtic inscription, he felt himself back in the world of warriors from which he had come. It truly was a blade from the old time and the barbarian in Ulpius thrilled at the thought of using it.\n\n# Chapter 4\n\n#\n\nEboracum\n\nVellocatus hung on for a few days. He occasionally recovered consciousness but the legionary surgeon held out no hope for him. The Queen fared better although she too drifted into unconsciousness on more than one occasion. The Greek doctor in the fort was a clever man who knew he had to save the life of the Queen or suffer the consequences of his Roman masters being unhappy. As Ulpius remarked to the tribune and surgeon the enemy were prone to smearing faeces and poison on to their weapons. As soon as he knew that the doctor was able to find the right remedy to cure the angry wound on the Queen's arm.\n\nA day after she arrived in the fort she sent for the tribune Saenius Augustinius. \"The soldier who rescued me, what is his rank?\"\n\n\"He is a decurion, majesty. Why did he do anything to offend you? If so I will have him spread across a wheel.\"\n\n\"Silence! He served both Rome and me well. I would have him promoted.\" She paused as a look of incredulity crept across the tribune's face. \"You can do this can't you? Or should I send for the governor?\"\n\n\"No majesty I can do as you wish.\" The tribune was a politician and he ignored the implied command and changed it to a wish. He didn't see why the ugly barbarian should be promoted but he would make political capital out of it. It would endear the Queen and the barbarian to him. They would be in his debt. \"I will see to it immediately.\"\n\nMaking her tone gentler she mollified the tribune a little. \"As my ex-husband has stirred up my loyal subjects against me and brought in his Carvetii dogs I would like to invite Rome to make my lands safer.\"\n\nThe Queen's statement suddenly made Saenius see that he had the chance to make political capital out of the situation. The Queen was inviting Rome to take over Brigantia. It would cease to be an allied kingdom and become a vassal kingdom. She had to be protected and Venutius had to be destroyed. He calmed himself to meet with the prefect. He needed to pander to the queen and any sensibilities the prefect might have would be ignored. Leaving the Queen's quarters he summoned a guard over. \"Tell the prefect I wish to speak with him.\"\n\nBy the time Flavius Bellatoris arrived the prefect had maps and reports spread across his table and he had regained his composure. \"What do you think of the decurion, Felix, the one who rescued the Queen?\"\n\n\"He is a good warrior and leader. The men love him.\"\n\n\"Promote him.\"\n\nFlavius looked nonplussed. \"Promote him but to which post? He is already senior decurion the next promotion would be decurio princeps in command of the ala.\"\n\nThe tribune looked flustered; he did not understand the workings of the auxiliary. He preferred the organisation and order of the legion. \"Well then just do that.\"\n\n\"With respect sir there are two decurio princeps already in command of the alae.\"\n\nThis was a problem. One could not just dismiss a decurio princeps. \"Are they both good?\" The pause told Saenius all he needed. \"One of them is not. Can we dismiss him? Give him land? A pension?\"\n\n\"Gaius Cresens has not the required years to qualify for land or a pension, on the other hand, he is not,\" the rough tribune struggled to find the right words; \"perhaps the best man to lead the ala.\" Flavius himself wished the corpulent cavalryman removed but it galled him that he was being ordered to do so by an outsider; someone recently arrived from Rome without the first idea of what it meant to live, fight and die on the wild frontier.\n\n\"Well,\" said the prefect impatiently, \"what can we do with him?\"\n\n\"As yet we have no quartermaster at the fort. We will need someone who is senior and understands the army to be in command. It would be a better pay grade so I assume he will do it.\"\n\n\"Then do it. Dismiss.\"\n\nAs the prefect left his headquarters, the tribune began to write the report to the Governor; the report that might just make his political career. He was giving the largest tribal area in Britannia to Rome. Perhaps this would be his escape back to Rome!\n\nThe turma had suffered. There were ten auxiliaries, including Ulpius who were fit for duty and all of those had scars and minor wounds. Osgar and Metellus had gone to the gods but Marcus, Lentius, Drusus and Gaius had survived. The prefect, Flavius Bellatoris summoned Ulpius to his office the day after the enemy were vanquished. \"So you old goat. You decided for the first time in your miserable life to be a hero.\" Flavius was an even older grizzled veteran. He made Ulpius at thirty-five look like a young man. He had seen service in Batavia and on the Rhine under Caligula and Claudius. He was known as the toughest cavalryman to fight for Rome but he protected his ala like a father. Ulpius was silent although a slight smile played about his lips. \"A good thing that you did. The queen might act like a Pompeian tart and about as popular amongst her people as the Egyptian clap but she is still the queen and had that bastard killed her he would have been king and Mars himself would have struggled to contain the North. He might still be king to many of the Brigante but at least, with the queen behind these walls, we have a figurehead. It was fortunate for you that I was the one who received your message. The tribune likes the protection of these wooden walls. He does not want to venture anywhere where the locals might whip off his balls. \" He spread his hand out expansively to the vague south.\" Bolanus is struggling with the Second Augusta to put down the Silures and the Ninth is still not up to strength. All that trouble in Rome has stretched us a little. We could do with a couple more legions and then the job would be finished. Good job Ulpius.\" He reached over and gripped Ulpius' forearm in the soldier's grip. \"As a reward the tribune,\" he managed to turn the word into a sneer, \"Saenius Augustinius, has asked that I promote you.\" Ulpius was still silent. \"Speak you sneaky bastard.\"\n\n\"I am grateful to the prefect knowing, as I do that it means more pay to be promoted. I am silent because I do not know, as yet, what the promotion is.\"\n\nFlavius laughed; his laugh came from deep in his belly as though released, like a volcano erupting. \"Excellent. Your heroics have not changed your mercenary nature.\" His eyes narrowed. \"I should have known when I heard that you had acquired a torc. I am sure I too will be profiting from the acquisition. Shall we call it a contribution to the ala funds?\"\n\nUlpius wondered which of his men had let that slip, he would find out and they would suffer. \"I have not had time to dispose of it yet.\"\n\n\"Leave that to me. I know a few dealers and I will ensure you get the best price. So you are to command the ala quingenaria. Can you handle five hundred men?\"\n\n\"I can command them better than the overweight Gaius Cresens. And what is he to do now that I have his command?\"\n\n\"He is to become quartermaster here. Our Governor has decided to make the fortress more solid and permanent. Our friend will help provision it.\"\n\n\"And my turma?\"\n\n\"Who do you suggest Marcus? Drusus? Lentius?\"\n\nUlpius thought about it briefly. \"Marcus, Marcus Aurelius Maximunius. He's solid as a rock.\"\n\n\"Good. There are some new men coming in over the next week. Fill up your turma and prepare the men for the field. We gave Venutius a bloody nose but he has merely retreated behind his mountains and he waits in the West. We will be campaigning in the spring. Now piss off and have a drink. Thanks to you I have work to do with the lists of dead and wounded.\" Ulpius turned to leave. \"And Ulpius... bring back the torc.\"\n\nUlpius went back to his tent happy that he was promoted but seething with anger that he would have to share the golden torc with the prefect. It was not the fact that he would be handing over a share it was the fact that one of his men had betrayed him; one of his men had violated their code. He saw Marcus and called him over. \"Find out which of the lads blabbed about the torc.\"\n\n\"What torc?\"\n\n\"Don't play the innocent with me boy. You know which torc. I know as it wasn't you; if it was you'd be chewing fist. Just find out.\"\n\n\"Atticus.\"\n\nUlpius stared at Marcus. Atticus had been with them both for four years and they felt he was a trusted comrade. \"That little prick. I'll think up something special for him.\" He led Marcus away from the tents towards the horses. \"How did the lads do in that last little action? I was a bit busy defending her majesty.\"\n\n\"They did well. Young Gaius saved your life.\"\n\n\"He what?\"\n\n\"When you were coming to help me out-oh thanks for that I owe you one- there was a big bugger with an axe about to take your head off. The lad had him and then took out two more who were keen on having a decurion's head in their hut.\"\n\n\"Good he might turn out to be alright. And young Marcus some good has come your way, you might make an offering to the Allfather.\" Marcus looked puzzled. \"Pick yourself out a chosen man. You have the turma. I am decurio princeps and I have the ala quingenaria.\" Marcus beamed his joy and blushed his pleasure. \"The bad news is that I will still ride with the first so you don't get rid of me that easily!\"\n\nWhen Vellocatus died, the whole of the camp turned out for the funeral. Although he had only been a shield bearer he had been the consort of the Queen and the tribune was keen to ingratiate himself with the artful Cartimandua. It was a mark of respect for the Queen rather than the lowly shield bearer. The Queen herself looked magnificent. Her injured arm was hidden and she wore not only a magnificent jewel encrusted torc but a small silver crown which accentuated her hair. There were many legionaries and auxilia harbouring lascivious thoughts as they burned her husband's corpse.\n\nAfter the funeral, the prefect called Ulpius and Marcus to his office. When they arrived, they were surprised to see the Queen reclining on a couch.\n\n\"Her majesty has asked us to recover a few of her possessions from her capital,\" Flavius began, his face expressionless. \"There are not only her clothes but her slaves and servants.\" I thought that as you had been there,\" he gestured towards Marcus. \"You might be the best person to ask. As new commander,\" he looked directly at Ulpius, \"I wondered if you had any suggestions.\"\n\nUlpius looked from the Queen to Flavius but could detect no hidden meaning in his words. \"The turma is not up to strength I would suggest he takes the third turma their commander Julius Augustina is still in sick bay with the wound from the battle. We do not know if Venutius went over the mountains or stayed at Stanwyck.\"\n\nFlavius nodded his judgement in Ulpius' ability having been confirmed. \"It goes without saying Decurion that, if the refuge is held, you return here. That would need a legionary intervention.\" Marcus nodded. The Queen coughed and looked pointedly at Flavius. \"There is a box containing,\" he paused,\" important items which the Queen requires. They are buried in a secret location. If the old centurion, Gerantium is there he will show them to you. If he is dead then you will have to find them yourself. Here is a map.\" As Marcus went to take it the prefect went on. \"It is important that you share this with no-one other than your second in command. Do not open the box which will be locked and return it here. Is that clear?\"\n\n\"Yes prefect.\" He took the map and left.\n\n\"Ulpius make sure they have a cart. You will have to see the new quartermaster,\" he smiled, \"that should be an interesting encounter. You took over his command before he had chance to totally fleece his men.\"\n\n\"I look forward to it.\" He turned to go.\n\n\"I have told the prefect that I am indebted to you. I would like to reward you but we must wait until your men return.\" A playful, flirtatious smile played upon her lips. \"Can you wait that long?\"\n\nUlpius could feel his face colouring. \"I er, that is...\"\n\nFlavius saved his embarrassment. \"He will have to wait, your majesty, he has troopers to train. Dismiss!\"\n\nPartly flustered and partly angry Ulpius gestured to the waiting Marcus to follow. Marcus knew his commander well enough to keep his thoughts to himself. The journey to the quartermaster's stores was not a long one but Ulpius had got his temper under control by the time he got there. Gaius Cresens was a huge barrel of a man. It was said that there were no horses strong enough to carry him. He avoided any duty which appeared remotely dangerous but he was a cunning man who had spies and informants everywhere. He gathered information and used it. He was a bullying brute who had risen not through ability or skill but corruption. He had not ridden at the head of his ala for many months. If truth were told Flavius had been looking for an excuse to move him. Cresens did not view it that way. He was a corrupt, greasy man and he had been cheating his men out of money for years. He had planned to become quartermaster but the decurion's promotion had meant that he had not had the time to extract the last view coins from his ala. He would have to use his new post to do so. Now as he saw Ulpius come in his anger began to boil up.\n\n\"Watch your stuff lads, old one eye, the thieving horse shagger is here.\"\n\n\"Cresens your dick isn't big enough to fuck a flea so shut it and show a bit of civility or I will personally show you the business end of my sword!\"\n\nAs well as being corrupt and a bully the fat quartermaster was also a coward who preferred a knife in the back to a face to face encounter. \"No sense of humour that's your trouble.\"\n\n\"Right I need two carts and drivers. We need forty javelins and, \"he turned to Marcus, \"what about shields?\"\n\n\"About five shields should do us. Oh and two of the lads need some mail.\"\n\n\"You heard him. While you are back there see if you have some scale armour in my decurion's size.\"\n\nGaius Cresens' face became red with rage; his bloated features made him look like an angry toad puffing out his cheeks. \"Scale armour but...\"\n\n\"I know you have some; the prefect told me and this warrior needs it so be quick about it.\"\n\nThe armour was almost thrown at Marcus; had Ulpius known the thoughts racing through the quartermaster's evil mind he might have saved himself and others a great of pain by gutting him there and then. As it was he dismissed him as a blowhard. He was a blowhard but he was also a plotting, calculating vicious thug who would have revenge on the man who had stolen his position and humiliated him. The murderous look which burned into his back as he left would have warned him that not only his life but those he held dear was in grave danger.\n\nThe following day Marcus and his men left as dawn broke. The land around the putative fortress had been cleared of shrubs and trees and they were able to make good time as they trotted across the hardened paths which would eventually become roads. They headed into the still dark west. Ulpius watched from the main gate; it was the first time that anyone other than he had led out the turma and he felt a little sad. Marcus would make a good leader but they were his men. They fought and died as a unit and now they belonged to someone else. He doubted that he would have the same control and bond with the five hundred men he now commanded but that was what happened when you were promoted. It had taken him some time to achieve this position but now that he had he longed a little for the freedom of his turma.\n\nBefore he began his reign, some of the lazier men would call it a reign of terror, he had one last piece of turma business to deal with, Atticus. He wandered over to the tents of his men. All the rest were out on patrol but Atticus had claimed he was still injured. Every unit has its weak link and his was Atticus. Drusus and the others fought as though two men with one warrior protecting another whilst Atticus just looked after himself, he was a loner who fought well but for himself. He had forgotten the cardinal rule of the unit; never betray another member of the unit. He had done so. He had told someone else about the golden torc. No matter that Ulpius would have given him, as he would with all the other survivors, some recompense, no matter that he would still make a profit and did not mind sharing it with his superior, he had been betrayed and he was going to have his revenge.\n\nHe stood in the tent, towering over the sallow faced trooper. Atticus knew why Ulpius had come and he began begging, pleading, drool and spittle erupting from his mouth like a volcano. \"I am sorry sir. I didn't mean it. I was forced to. Give me another chance.\"\n\nAs he saw how pathetic the creature was he could not bring himself to inflict the physical punishment he had intended. Instead, he bodily picked the runt of the litter up with one hand. \"Atticus you are a pathetic little shit. Your mother obviously tried to get rid of you before you were born with wormwood and failed. Just as I failed to make you a soldier. You have let me down. You have let the turma down. You have let the ala down. I don't want you in my ala. I am going to transfer you to the second ala. Let's see if Aurelius Suetonius can do a better job.\" Seeing the pitiable look of relief on the face of the man he had just dismissed he added, \"And I will be telling your new commander what a slimy, untrustworthy little bastard he is getting.\"\n\nHe went back to his tent where a servant brought him some watered wine, bread cheese and fruit. He munched and drank as he read the reports on his men. There were too many new recruits as some of the time served auxilia had either returned home or settled in Britannia. It was good that they had settled here in the north for it meant that there was a force to supplement the legions and the ala in times of danger. He rubbed his unshaven cheeks as he pondered Venutius and what he might do. Whilst the legions were what you wanted in a big battle they were less than useless at controlling vast areas of desolate countryside and an enemy who attacked and ran. You needed mounted men. As he ran the edge of his knife over his face he began to plan his request to Flavius and the tribune.\n\nThe problem with the ala had been Cresens who had used bullying and terror as the means of managing the warriors. They were unfit and resented authority. Their new leader did what he had always done. He led from the front. They drilled and manoeuvred every day allowing Ulpius to see the weakness and post the strengths. At first the men were resentful to the new regime. The ones who complained soon found that the new leader would brook no mutiny of any sort and his punishments were effective. They also discovered, in the mock battles with wooden swords, that he was the best swordsman in Eboracum. After the more vocal objectors had suffered a few bruises and cracked bones they grudgingly accepted that he knew what he was doing.\n\nGaius Cresens became even more infuriated as he watched the ala changed from sullen, sulky soldiers to Roman auxiliaries who began to be proud to be a unit. He had hoped that they would have responded to Felix as they had to him and it galled him that they began to look up to him and even admire him.\n\nThe ala responded well to the new hand wielding the whip, and whip them he did. They had grown lazy and soft with a commander who just wanted to make money and avoid action. The warriors knew that Ulpius Felix was a warrior through and through; they knew he fought harder than any trooper and they also knew that he had an eye for loot. They suffered the abuse and the blows for they knew that they were softer than they should have been. Marcus and his comrades had told the tales around the campfires of the enemy they faced and they were under no illusions they had not been Venutius, they had given him a bloody nose. They had fought enough fights to know that an opponent with a bloody nose comes back harder. Next time the enemy would be ready. They would need to practice moving from column to line and back. They need to learn how to skirmish; throw their javelins and perform the circle manoeuvre which kept a constant barrage of missiles striking an enemy. They would need to learn how to fight in the arrow or wedge formation. This was an effective tactic which Ulpius had drilled into him as a child in Pannonia. One warrior was the point of the spear and then two and so on. It was a formation which relied on discipline for the warriors on the right had no one to protect them. In the right circumstances, it would cut through almost any formation. The exception, of course, was the Roman legions themselves as Ulpius' grandfather had discovered when he was defeated by the old Republican legions with Pompey. It took time but soon the ala responded to the signals without thinking.\n\nEvery day was filled with training and exercise. Ulpius needed his men drilling so that each unit fought well as a unit but knew how to fight as a whole. The advantage the Romans had over the barbarians was that they could follow orders. The barbarian side of the auxiliary did not last long with Roman training for they had to respond instantly to signals both from their standards and their buccinas. When they were not drilling in their formation Ulpius had them fighting hand to hand with wooden swords for he had seen enough of the Celts of this land to realise that they were formidable fighters. No matter how strategically a battle was planned eventually it came down to a warrior fighting another warrior and Ulpius wanted his men to win.\n\nThe queen was tiring of her tented quarters and wished for something more substantial. She had pestered the tribune until he had eventually offered her a stone-built dwelling. There was a smaller river joining the mighty one and it was here, on a small mound that Queen Cartimandua decided she would have her home built. It was not far from the legionary camp and yet private enough for the comings and goings of her confidantes to be assured. The slaves who were building the dwelling were captured Carvetii and rebel Brigante. The Queen made sure that they were worked as hard as was possible. Her arm was still injured and her inactivity made her short tempered. Her life was made worse by the fact that she had fled without any of her relatives or servants. She was alone. The servants provided by the Romans were not as trustworthy as those she had had at Stanwyck. Her half-sisters Lenta and Macha had been her handmaidens and she missed their lively banter and infectious laughter. The result of a liaison of their father with a slave girl they were young enough to be the queen's daughters but they were totally loyal and trustworthy. Hated by Venutius who had tried to have them sold as slaves they had been the main support when the queen had decided to divorce the unpredictable warrior.\n\nAs she walked along the river, discreetly watched by two legionary guards, she wondered about her future. She had ruled a long time and she had taken many decisions she now regretted. She had taken many lovers but her marriage had been political. She did not regret the affairs only the marriage. She had hoped for a child but the seed of Venutius was not strong enough. She knew it was not her problem as she had had to take the wormwood to rid herself of unwanted babies from lovers before. Poor Vellocatus had fallen into the category of lover rather than husband; he had been young, energetic but lacked any ideas and thoughts other than those of war.\n\nWhat would she do now? It would be hard to rebuild her standing in the tribe as long as Venutius ruled for many of the hotheads liked the idea of fighting the Romans. She had no doubt that they would proclaim him king but as long as she held the sword there would be many who would question his right. She was also acutely aware that she had left without her box of treasure and whilst not without access to what she wanted, the Romans were generous, she did not want to rely on their charity. She made her decisions. The Romans could fetch her family and her treasure and then she would persuade them to rid her of Venutius. She had dragged herself from the brink of doom before and she would do so again.\n\nThat left the urging of her loins; she had always needed a man, since before Caractacus. She was a woman who was not complete without a man and she did enjoy sex. No that was an understatement, she loved sex; she loved all of it from the play which led up to sex, the act, in whatever shape or form it took, and the comfortable time after sex. She especially loved waking up to a man in the morning when he was so big she thought he would split her in two. Even thinking about the act made her wet with excitement. Her thoughts did not drift as much as raced back to Ulpius. Although he was not in the first flush of youth, indeed he could be said to edging towards the older side of middle aged he exuded raw power. He was a warrior in the same sense that Venutius, for all his faults had been a warrior. Perhaps the Roman decurion might fulfil a need at least until it was politically expedient to find a new husband.\n\nThe new leader was trudging back from the training grateful for the fact that his new rank gave him a servant to look after raven. He had handpicked the boy who had immediately formed a bond with the old warhorse; Ulpius knew that his mount would be cared for. He was not a man who liked luxuries but right at that moment he would have killed for a bath and to have his oiled body scraped; the temporary camp by the river did not cater for such luxuries. The new stone fortress to be started in the spring would, until then he would have to make do with a sluice down in the river.\n\nHe found a quiet spot away from anyone else and stripped off. His arms were tanned as were his legs but his body was a bone white. He ran his hands over some of the knotted scars remembering each one and the battle in which had they had occurred. The bank was steep and he just jumped in, the icy waters shocking the breath out of him. His feet touched muddy bottom and he pushed upwards, the slime oozing between his toes. The water was only up to his neck and he ducked his head back under and began to rub the tufts of hair on his head. If there were any wildlife it would soon be gone. He rubbed his body all over. He was confident that he had neither louse nor flea but he had seen enough troopers who did not look after their bodies, covered in the little bloody bites of those insidious parasites. It was the sign of a weak soldier.\n\nHe was about to climb out when he became aware that he was being observed. As he looked up towards his clothes he saw Cartimandua watching him. Unperturbed he waded towards the bank and hauled himself out. He did not attempt to cover his nakedness. He had sought privacy for his bathing and he resented the intrusion. If she wanted to spy on him so be it he would not pander to her by hiding his body. The Queen appraised him and then slowly passed him his cloak, their fingers touching for a brief second. The vicarious thrill made Ulpius react in a way which was obvious to the Queen who also looked excited by the tiny moment of contact. He was unused to the ways of women and had had little contact with women of any sort. Cartimandua was a powerful woman and a sensual woman both were totally out of the reach of a decurion of cavalry. The first touch he had with such a woman made him forget his annoyance with her presence and made him forget his position and status. He quickly rubbed himself dry and then began to dress, composing himself as he did so. There had been a total silence. Neither felt the need for words. It was as though they were thinking the same thought and feeling the same emotion. Her eyes were bright with excitement and anticipation; she could feel the desire for this man burning within her. The bizarre nature of the encounter did not appear to enter into either person's thoughts. The Queen of the Brigante and the barbarian from Pannonia were, for that brief moment just a man and woman who were mutually attracted who both knew that within the next hour would be making love as though it was for the first time. .\n\nEven as he had dressed she turned and walked away; the warrior followed, like a puppy dog. It was as though they had spoken and arranged it yet in truth, not a word had been spoken. Had Ulpius thought he would have wondered what was going to happen and where they were going but it was pure lust which drove him to follow. That part of his mind which was sensible told him that this could not end well for he was a lowly barbarian and she was a queen but that thought was driven out by the desire and need to have this woman's body. Her quarters were discreetly hidden behind the tribune's quarters. The legionaries on guard did not move a muscle as the Queen held open the tent flap for him to enter. For just the merest moment he wondered if he ought to have waited for her but in the time it took to think the thought he was inside. As the flap closed behind him he wondered what he was doing here. A barbarian from the wilds of Pannonia was entering the bedchamber of one of the most powerful women in the world. Even as he thought he should not be doing this he found himself willed on by the power of the woman with the most alluring eyes he had ever seen. The woman who oozed both sex and power, a mesmerizing combination, was seducing him and he was helpless.\n\nHe saw that the bed had been prepared with silks and fine linens. The atmosphere was heady with powerful perfumes and scented oils. Had the queen prepared this for him? He felt intoxicated and yet he had not had a drink. Still not a word had been spoken. It was almost as though they were two animals in rutting season. She took his hand, gently kissing his fingers and running her tongue over the back of his fingers; once again he felt the thrill he had felt earlier and he felt himself growing larger; his reaction was noted by the queen and her mouth opened in the smile of a tiger about to devour its prey. She had to have this man and she cared not that the legionary guards may have seen him come in. All she cared for was this man, this man who would complete her when he entered her damp, moist body.\n\nShe slowly began to strip his clothes from him, all the while stroking him gently with long tapered nails which made him even more aroused. As she leaned in to remove the clasp on his armour her lips brushed his cheek and, once again, he became aroused and he became fully erect. As his armour slipped to the ground and he stood both naked and erect he felt her sink slowly down until her lips gently kissed his engorged member. Her mouth opened and he felt her tongue play around the end of his penis. His hands gripped her hair as her mouth moved in and out her teeth exerting the slightest pressure and increasing his thrill. He was not confident that he could hold it in and so he took her head and pulled it up so that he kissed her long and full on the lips. In one motion he lowered to the bed, lifted her dress and entered her.\n\nLater, as she looked at his scarred warrior body she realised that she had never felt such pleasure before with any man. He was totally spent. They lay on the bed, their bodies sweating, their breathing laboured, their thoughts racing and their hearts pulsing. He looked at her, raised himself on one elbow and gently kissed her on both eyes, slowly, one at a time. He felt her pulse quicken and then he kissed her again on the mouth; their tongues twisting, darting and turning as they explored each other. Finally, they lay side by side, his arm curled behind her head, stroking her hair, their eyes locked on each other. She stroked one finger down the scar that was his eye, leaned over and kissed it.\n\n\"Well decurion I see you perform as well in the bed as you do on the battlefield.\"\n\n\"And Queen Cartimandua, if that is how a queen makes love then I have been making love to the wrong women; I should have found a queen long ago.\"\n\n\"Oh no Roman there are not many queens with appetites such as mine but Roman we are well matched. You have awoken parts of my body I had never known existed. When you were inside me it felt as though we were one creature, a wonderful, mystical beast with two hearts, two heads but one desire. When your seed spilled it felt like a dam had burst inside me.\"\n\nThey looked at each other with a passion the queen had not felt in a long time and Ulpius never in his life. Suddenly as if by mutual, unspoken agreement, made love again and continued long into the night. At dawn when he finally left to slip back to his barracks they parted with a kiss and the promise that this would happen again for they both felt it was ordained by the Allfather that they should have met and been so well match.\n\n\"Would that I had met you twenty years ago Roman.\"\n\n\"I wish that also but we cannot undo the past we can only live the present and pray for the future.\"\n\n# Chapter 5\n\n#\n\nStanwyck\n\nAlthough the return journey was not as fraught with danger, Marcus was taking no chances. This was the first time he had led men alone. Hitherto he had followed the orders of Ulpius. He was doing himself a disservice when he doubted his own ability for the decurio princeps valued and trusted his judgement despite his youth. He had only seen twenty-three summers but he had much experience. He had watched others lead and learned from them. He trained hard for war and was both well-muscled and toned. He was a young man with a bright mind. He did not want to fall into another Carvetii trap. He remembered the last time he had been at the stronghold it had cost him the lives of two of his close friends and he did not have many of those. He sent scouts to the west, south and north. He too believed that Venutius had returned to the safer Carvetii homelands to the north and west but the ruse which had so nearly undone Ulpius was a warning that he was a cunning foe who was able to out think his opponents. They knew they were nearing Stanwyck when they saw the thin tendrils of smoke rising into the afternoon sky. The western scout returned.\n\n\"I could see no sign of life decurion. The buildings are still on fire.\"\n\n\"Did you see any sign of the enemy?\"\n\n\"There were a couple of horsemen on the low ridge to the west. They did not see me for I approached whilst crawling like a snake. I made sure I checked the places they might hide for I remember when we fled from this place. There were only two and we could despatch them if we needed.\"\n\nMarcus nodded \"Good you have done well,\" and dismissed the man. Venutius had left men to keep an eye on the stronghold. When they saw the Romans, they would wait to see if this were a scouting expedition or a punitive expedition. The fact that it was only a handful of Romans might make them think it was a patrol; certainly, they would backtrack the trail to see if there were a larger force. It was getting late in the year for a sustained campaign but the tribes of Britannia had realised that Romans did not always follow rules, as the Druids in Mona had discovered. The other two scouts returned and reported the same as the first one. Their enemies were ahead of them.\n\nThe woodland was sparse and spindly and Marcus left the turma in the woods as he scouted the approach to the fortress. It lay on a low mound partly natural and partly man made. The ditches and ramparts ran away east and west. There was an open plain of four hundred paces all around the walls which meant it could be a killing ground if the walls were manned. He could see no sign of life but then again it could be a trap. He smiled ruefully to himself, he could vacillate all day but there was no Ulpius to make the decisions for him, it was up to him.\n\nHe drew his men up close to the walls but out of bowshot. They could just see the impaled heads of some the inhabitants on the walls including the old centurion Gerantium whose shaven head and greybeard made him stand out, even at this distance. \"Drusus, take ten men and circle the settlement to the south. Lentius do the same to the north. When you meet up, enter the refuge from the western gate.\"\n\nHe watched almost half his force disappear. This was his first action in command, were he to get this wrong it could be his last. He turned to the men left under his command. Drusus and Lentius had taken the men they knew from his old turma. Marcus had the rest of the third turma. Not the best way to get to know new men but Marcus was seasoned enough to know that they would follow him and obey orders or risk the wrath of Ulpius.\n\nAs he addressed them he looked into their eyes to gauge the mettle of these new comrades. \"I've been here before. The entrance is a tricky little place. It twists and turns. If there are any of those bastards left they will be above you. I don't think there will be anybody left but I don't fancy facing your decurion when I return if any of you dozy buggers get a spear up the arse so watch out. Anybody makes a move assume they are an enemy. Let's go.\"\n\nMarcus took the lead and entered the gate at a gallop. It helped that he had been there before but he was taken aback by the slaughter which had taken place. A quick glance to his left and right revealed severed limbs and headless corpses littered amongst bloody entrails. Women lay spread-eagled where they had been despoiled. The main hall was burned and the whole turma could smell the cooking flesh of those that had taken refuge in the building. The last battle had taken place just in front of it and the bodies lay two and three deep. No-one had been spared. They had seen few children which, in one way, was a relief but on the other meant they had probably been enslaved. He assumed that other adult slaves had been taken but, looking around at the number of bodies, Marcus didn't believe that there were many. This was obviously a warning to the Brigante, support me or this will be the result and a warning to the Romans, all your allies will suffer the same fate. He had a task to complete. He wasn't certain the Queen would have many clothes left but he would have to search and then he and Drusus could seek the hidden box. Having seen the old centurion's head Marcus knew he would have to rely on the map. For some of the younger troopers it was more than a little upsetting. It was their first view of what the enemy could do. For the older hands it was significantly worse because of the civilian victims who were slaughtered to make a point. They were well used to what warriors could do to warriors but the Roman army rarely inflicted such cruelty on civilians. It hardened many hearts and Venutius would rue the day he unleashed a Boudiccan savagery upon his own people.\n\nMarcus knew that they would not be able to get back to Eboracum before nightfall and he ordered those troopers near him to make camp. He asked Lucius, the chosen man of the third turma, to secure the gate. As the man turned he looked at the bodies and then at Marcus a look which needed no words for Marcus to understand.\n\n\"Yes Lucius Demetrius, we will bury them but for the moment let us make ourselves secure.\" The man nodded and led off half a dozen men.\n\nBy the time Drusus and Lentius arrived there was a little more order. The smoke was dying away from the main hall, the gate was secured and the horses were on a picket line having been fed and watered. Although Marcus was anxious to find the box he knew that his men would not rest until the dead had been laid to rest. He turned to Lucius Demetrius. \"Take six men and guard the gate. The rest of you get some shovels we have a grave to dig.\" They looked at him, an unspoken question on their faces. \"Yes I know we should burn them, make a funeral pyre and in normal circumstances then we would but if we do we'll have the tribesmen here faster than you can say shit!\"\n\nThey marched outside the walls and found a sheltered spot far enough from the road to be undisturbed. They dug in silence. The ground was hard and Marcus knew that the grave would be shallow; the covering would be light but would at least keep the scavengers away. He wondered if the Queen would come and re-inter the bodies of her followers. \"Right lads we aren't going to get it any deeper.\" The rest of the sentence was unspoken. They all knew they would have to ferry the corpses. One of the troopers found a couple of wagons and they piled on the corpses and limbs. There were trails of blood where the bodies had lain and tendrils of intestines and guts left on the ground. The smell was beginning to become unbearable as they lifted bodies as carefully as they could. In some cases, it was hard to make out the sex of the person such had been the mutilation. The warriors they laid out with whatever weapons they could find nearby. The children they laid with a woman wherever possible. Although they left most of the belongings with the corpses they were soldiers and the odd valuable was surreptitiously pocketed.\n\nThey treated the old centurion Gerantium, differently. He had been one of them. They washed his body and put his legionary armour back on his body and returned his head from the walls and secured his helmet. They reverently placed his gladius at his side and coins on his eyes. He was given a solemn soldier's farewell from fellow Romans who hoped that someone would do the same for their bones when they fell, as they knew they would in the service of Rome on some distant shore far from their homeland. Their salute was as much for their other fallen comrades as the grizzled old warrior. The last act was to disguise the burial site but each one of them could have easily found the place.\n\nIt was close to dusk as they laid the last sod down. Marcus asked each trooper to get a stone and they made a cairn in the middle of the mound. It was little that they had done but it had at least let the dead lie together. The Romans stood in silence each one with their own thoughts and their own gods in their mind.\n\nThe camp was a little easier once the dead had been cleared and the chosen man of the third turma had begun to prepare a cooked and evening meal. One of the guards had discovered some beer which had not been despoiled and the food and drink made many of them feel better.\n\nWhen the guards were set Marcus nodded to Drusus who rose and went with him. \"Julius Augustus, you are in command until I return. We will check the defences, be vigilant.\"\n\nThe map showed the location of the box with a crude cross. It looked to be in an old hut in the North West corner of the refuge. The buildings were a mixture of typical Brigante, conical huts and the new Roman influences long buildings. The stables, main hall and palace were all oblong whilst many of the older buildings were round. The settlement had been here a long time and showed all the changes of that time. The map showed a hut close to a well and a tower; the layout of the fortress and the different types of dwelling helped the two men to find their way to the right hut. . They headed with torches lit through the darkening evening. They had to proceed slowly for they were unsure of layout and even though it had been searched Marcus was not certain if the entire enemy had left. The map took them past the boggy, marshy area and perilously close to the fast-flowing stream. There was a crude bridge which kept their feet dry and then they climbed the first of the ditches. The scurrying and furtive movements they could hear would be the rats feasting on those burned and cooked body parts not buried for the entire fort was covered in body parts and human entrails. The rats and foxes would have a good winter and there would be many more carrion crows when the year turned. Marcus shuddered, on the morrow it would be worse when the aerial harbingers of death descended.\n\nThe two auxiliaries gripped their swords tighter as they cast a wary eye around them. The tower on the north west corner was burned and torn down. The hut they were looking for appeared to be intact. The door was thrown down and they both drew their swords. Inside it was a scene of destruction and devastation. Tables and crude chairs were smashed and cast aside; there were broken shards of pot littering the floor. The hut also appeared to be of a higher status than the others for none of the others had had any furniture. This was definitely the right location. The light from the torches revealed the floor where the map indicated the box would be buried. Both Romans were dismayed when they saw that there had been something there but it had been removed. They could see footmarks on the floor and signs of human scrabbling close to the hole. Someone had dug it up, someone who knew what they were looking for. From the size of the hole Marcus estimated it would have been as long as his arm and about half as deep. It would have been heavy. From the drag marks it had been dragged and then lifted. They had failed in their mission. They searched the outside as thoroughly as the inside but it was obvious from the map that someone had been there before them.\n\nDrusus looked at his friend as they went back to the rest of their fellows. He admired Marcus and looked up to him probably more than he did to Ulpius. Drusus wanted to be just like Marcus and it dismayed him to see the decurion so obviously crestfallen. What angered Drusus was the fact that it was not their fault; they had been sent too late but it could follow Marcus and stop him becoming the leader Drusus knew he could be. A failure was a failure; Ulpius had succeeded because he had had the luck. Marcus had not had the luck. The fates could be cruel.\n\nNight had fallen by the time they arrived back at the charred and blackened remains of the Roman built hall. There were a few guards who stood warily as they approached. \"How goes the watch trooper?\"\n\n\"All quiet decurion.\"\n\n\"I will take the first watch, you sleep Drusus. I will wake you.\" His second in command needed no urging to grab whatever sleep he could. You learned to rest when you could, eat when you could and steal when you could for who knew when death would strike in this wild land so far from home. Marcus needed to think about the report he would have to make to Ulpius. His first task as decurion and he had failed. It did not matter that he couldn't have prevented the box being taken nor could he prevent the queen's belongings being desecrated; his task was to succeed. He supped a beaker of weak beer and chewed on a piece of hard stale bread, the joys of a soldier's life. He would have to work even harder on his next mission, if there were to be a next mission. The prefect could take away his promotion just as easily as he had given it to him. The thought burned in Marcus' mind for he felt worse about letting Ulpius Felix down. Just then the trooper who had challenged him approached.\n\n\"Decurion.\"\n\n\"Yes what is it?\"\n\n\"I saw a movement out there,\" he gestured towards the east. I thought it was my eyes but I saw it again.\n\n\"An animal?\"\n\n\"I don't think so, it looked too big and the movements were wrong. I think it was someone not something.\"\n\nMarcus did not know the man who was from the third turma but he had given an honest report. Marcus shook the shoulders of the four men asleep around the fire. \"Get your weapons.\" He went over to Drusus who was already waking and strapping on his sword. \"Wake the men and have them stand to. Tell Lucius Demetrius he is in command until I return.\" Taking the four men and the guard he trotted towards the eastern gate. He looked at the two troopers guarding the gate. They were not from his turma and he did not know them. \"Have you seen anything?\" From their guilty looks, he suspected they had been gambling rather than watching. He would deal with them later. \"Right well keep your eyes peeled now while we investigate the movements you should have spotted.\" The guards let them out and then slotted home the bar on the gate. He gestured the observant guard and whispered, \"Where?\"\n\nThe man pointed at the grave they had just made. It was halfway between the woods and the walls. He could detect some movement but he could not tell if it were an animal for the moon had not come out and the shadows blended into the woods. Marcus pointed to two of the guards and gestured that they should go south and to the other two he gestured to the north. They were a small half circle with swords drawn and they approached the grave gingerly. The movements stopped and the shadows looked like the shadow of the grave. Had it been an animal and gone? This could be a trap or they could have spotted the scouts seen earlier by Lentius. Either way he was taking no chances. They paused when they were all about twenty paces from the grave. He was about to raise his arm to signal to charge when suddenly three small bodies stood up.\n\n\"Do not harm us Roman. We are unarmed.\"\n\nThe three had swords at their throats in seconds. Marcus peered down and saw that they were women. He would take no chances until he knew who they were. He remembered the stories of the savagery of Boudicca and the Iceni; women in these lands were warriors just as the men were. He had seen the queen fighting and knew that they had skill. He scanned the edge of the woods and could discern no movement. If this had been a trap to lure them from the safety of the fort then there would have been a sudden rush of warriors to attack them.\n\n\"Move!\" The auxiliaries hurried the three women towards the walls and Marcus watched their backs. Every Roman was awake when they arrived at the walls. Julius Augustus had lit torches at the gates to guide them in. Marcus nodded his approval at the chosen man as he led the women into a hut close to the gateway. Dismissing all the troopers except for Drusus and Lentius left as guards the decurion held a light to the women. They were Brigante; two were younger women, they looked as though they had seen twenty summers or so whilst the third was as old a woman as he could remember seeing. What attracted his attention and caused a gasp of surprise was the box carried by the taller of the women.\n\n\"Who are you?\"\n\nThe taller one looked directly, without fear into the eyes of Marcus. \"I am Macha handmaiden to the Queen. This is my sister Lenta and this is Aurelia Gerantia, widow of the Roman Flavinius Gerantium.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for your loss lady. We buried your husband with honours.\"\n\nThe old woman merely nodded and Macha added. \"We saw. It was good that you treated our dead with respect.\"\n\n\"Why did you not come out sooner? Why wait until dark?\"\n\n\"The woods are filled with scouts. We thought they may have attacked you and then we would have been in a worse position. The speaker gestured at the older woman. Aurelia Gerantia wanted to pay respects to her husband. If it were possible we would have remained hidden but they would have searched the wood once you began to leave. I assume you will be leaving on the morrow?\"\n\nMarcus could see that she had wisdom beyond her years as well as a cunning and supple mind. \"Are they still there?\"\n\n\"Yes. It took us many hours to work our way close to the grave. We were resting, intending to make the last few yards in daylight.\"\n\n\"You need not fear. The scouts will pose no threat to us. You will be safe for you are correct we will be leaving in the morning.\"\n\nLenta spoke for the first time. There was anger in her voice. \"It is a shame that you did not protect our people when you could. Many would have lived. Perhaps you feared to face them then!\"\n\nMarcus looked closely at the angry young woman who coloured up with eyes wide and fierce. He could see that there was more to her than met the eye; she was more than a handmaiden. She was not afraid to speak up to a Roman officer who towered over her.\n\n\"Peace sister. My sister is overwrought. Her husband and child died in the attack.\" She looked at her sister. \"Remember sister the warriors were too few to defend us and their duty was to protect our Queen.\" She turned to Marcus. \"The Queen lives?\"\n\n\"Aye, she asked us to return here to save what we could and,\" he looked pointedly at the box, \"to return a precious item which was buried.\"\n\n\"Aurelia's husband led us here even as you were leaving. He dug it up and gave it into our safekeeping. We were on our way out by a secret passage when some of Venutius' supporters attacked the guards. That is when Lenta's husband died and her child taken. We too would have died had not Aurelia's husband fought off our attackers.\" She put her arm around the shoulders of the old woman who was now crying silently. \"He bought us the time to flee with his life. Even though mortally wounded he killed the last of the traitors. Perhaps had he lived they might not have taken Stanwyck. Who knows?\"\n\n\"You have done well, you have all done well. Keep the Queen's box and guard it.\" He turned to Drusus. \"You and Gaius are to guard these ladies and the box at all times. It is important that they are returned safely to Eboracum. Now get some food and drink and then rest. We leave at dawn.\"\n\nMacha looked at this seeming boy but one who had such command of his men. She could see that he was a leader but more than that he was a man and she felt herself curiously attracted to a man for the first time in her short life. She touched his arm. \"Thank you. I can tell that you are a good man. Forgive my sister's outburst. She will look kindly on you when she is over her grief.\"\n\nMarcus turned at the softness in her voice and her touch. Her eyes seemed to suggest an even more personal message but perhaps he was imagining it.\n\n\"Lady you need not explain. We are doing our duty and tell your sister that if we could have prevented the death of her family we would gladly have given our lives to do so.\" He paused, the delicate question almost catching in his throat, \"The child?\"\n\n\"That is why she is so angry. She blames herself and feels that she should have protected the girl but there was nothing she could have done. Had she attempted she would have been captured raped and then killed. It would not have saved her daughter.\"\n\nMarcus noticed that Macha had not referred to the child by name. He understood that for by not naming the child it gave a detachment that it was someone else. Soldiers often did that. \"Will she be sold do you think?\"\n\n\"That is the small hope and consolation that we both share. What we fear is that Venutius and his animals will use and then kill her. If she is a slave then when Venutius is gone and the Queen has control again we may find her. Until then Lenta will be not the happy, laughing Lenta I know. She will mourn and yet not mourn for the child who is neither alive nor dead.\"\n\n# Chapter 6\n\n#\n\nEboracum\n\nGaius Cresens was looking over his books. He had already lost money and it was down to one man, Ulpius Felix. He had planned to sell the scale armour to a local chieftain who had managed to acquire some gold. The quartermaster suspected it had been illicitly acquired but he didn't care. He would have made a small fortune. As it was he was out of pocket and for the shields and javelins as well. He would not only have to pay back the one-eyed horseman he would need to remove him permanently for he would thwart all his schemes which relied on his cunning backed up by his thugs. His associates were all ex-legionaries none of whom had covered themselves in glory. They all had one thing in common; greed and Gaius Cresens used that. He would have to arrange for an accident. The accident would have to wait until his armour returned and then the decurion could join his leader in Elysium. He then applied himself to working out how to make money from his new post. It would not be quite as easy as there were Imperial clerks whose sole task was to scrutinise the dealings of people like Cresens in the far-flung corners of the Empire. It would be more difficult but, potentially, more profitable.\n\nThe cavalryman was blissfully unaware of his fate as he slipped from between the Queen's sheets. She half murmured a kitten like noise which almost drew him back into the bed and more lovemaking. Her sleep-controlled hand wandered over to the warm space his body had occupied. Much as the tough old warrior wanted that he knew his duty came first and he had to drill his men. As he dressed his thoughts wandered from the bedroom to the battlefield and he wondered how Marcus had fared. The task had seemed simple enough but he had been in these islands long enough to know that simple did not always work out.\n\nEven as Ulpius was thinking about him Marcus was in action. They had found some items of clothing for the Queen and a few items such as brushes and brooches forgotten in the aftermath of the massacre. The problem would be how to get them and the ladies safely back. There were no horses to be had. He ruefully took the decision to harness four of his horses to the wagons and use them to transport the women back to Eboracum. It would not only slow them down but also make them more vulnerable to attack. They were safe from Venutius as long as they were mounted; now they would be yoked. His one advantage was that he knew where he could be ambushed and he would avoid those places. He wondered, not for the first time, why they had not sent the whole of the ala quinquigeria. It would have made more sense and would have allowed them to find out just where Venutius was. As it was they were blind and Macha's comments about the woods being filled with the enemy filled him with disquiet. He could only do one job at a time and his job now was to get the women and the box back safely.\n\nAs his men trotted away from the refuge Marcus gave the signal and his men began firing the fort. It was little enough but it would, at least, prevent Venutius from re-occupying once he had left. He was certain that the tribune would return and there would be a proper Roman fortress soon, one which would not be so easily taken.\n\nMarcus allowed the third turma the honour of leading the small column back. The more experienced second turma provide the rear guard and flank guards. They remembered well enough the places to look out for. Marcus himself rode next to Macha and Lenta. He was more than a little curious about the box they guarded but he could not bring himself to ask. Instead, he asked about them and their relationship to Cartimandua.\n\n\"It is an honour that we serve her majesty. She is not only the Queen she is also the high priestess and the mother of our people. This is why Venutius cannot kill her for she would be reborn or else the land would die and he could not risk that.\"\n\n\"What does Venutius know of our people?\" interjected Lenta, her face still filled with anger and hatred. \"He is of the wild Carvetii. They live amongst rocks and know nothing of growing and rearing just hunting and killing.\"\n\n\"They are a wild people, \"agreed Macha. \"I sometimes think this is the reason our Queen married the wild man to protect the lands to the west as the sea guards our lands to the east.\"\n\n\"And what of the south and the north?\"\n\n\"We never feared the south, until you Romans came and our Queen was wise enough to live with you. As for the north no-one can tame the Pictii but they only hunt cattle and slaves. Stanwyck always withstood their pathetic attempts to capture it. It has been many years since they tried. But they make life difficult for our people who live near the big rivers to the north. Even Venutius feared them and he has made Stanwyck the fortress you saw. Perhaps you Romans can, at last, tame them.\"\n\nMarcus had not had such pleasant conversation in a long time and he was disappointed when Gaius came racing up with news that a patrol from the ala was coming to meet them. They were home far too quickly for Marcus for soon he would not be able to speak so freely with the Brigante beauty who had ensnared him. He smiled ruefully when he saw that the patrol was being led by Ulpius. The big warrior obviously wanted to get all the information before they arrived at Eboracum. Marcus shook his head, he had much to learn about being a leader but at least he had a good teacher.\n\nThe quartermaster looked nervously about him as he left the safety of the temporary fort. He was treading in a dangerous area. The civilian encampment was made up of some legitimate merchants and providers of services but there were a far greater number of villains, thieves and chancers. As soon as the Romans arrived in numbers then there would be many people some honest, some dishonest who would want a share of the money they brought. From bread makers to whores, from beer sellers to bodyguards they were all drawn to the honey pot that was a Roman fort. He had some contacts but he also knew that this throat could be slit for the price of a pair of sandals. He had taken no-one with him. He was vulnerable, as he made his secretive way past crude dwellings and groups of locals who, to the quartermaster, looked like murderers and thieves. This assignation had to be secret otherwise he would have made the journey in daylight. . The message he had received was a verbal one from a local who sometimes acquired women for the corpulent Cresens. He would have ignored the request were it not for the silver piece which had been passed over and the frightened look on the man's face. Whoever wanted to speak with him was powerful enough to scare a whoremaster. He was not making as much from his new position as quartermaster and he was a greedy man. Even though it was a risk Gaius Cresens had found that sometimes great risk brought great reward.\n\nThe path he took left the main inhabited area and dropped through a small copse to a stream. By the stream were two wicker huts. He approached them gingerly, cautiously for he was known to be a man who had riches. He would see no apparent sign of life, suppose this was a trap? Just when he was about to turn and leave he felt a sharp blade prick him behind the ear and the rancid smell of grease and unwashed body; it was a warrior.\n\n\"Where are you going fat one? I thought you had a meeting.\"\n\nWithout warning he was propelled unceremoniously into the darkened interior of the hut. The entrance was so low that he found himself on the dirt floor. A dying fire gave the outline of shapes but he could not make out the faces of any of the men who squatted around its embers. He did see, however, the mail they wore and the blades that lay at their feet. There were warriors and he was alone, a Roman amongst rebellious tribesmen. The wrong word could end his lucrative career here and now.\n\nHe tried to raise his head but was sharply forced to the ground by a blade in the back of his neck. The figure in front of him, hooded and dark raised his sword in the direction of the Roman. \"I hear you are a man with the love of gold?\" Gaius nodded, unable to speak. A small leather bag was thrown from behind him and landed at his feet. \"Here is gold. Examine it.\" His greedy, podgy fingers opened the pouch and poured the contents into his hand. \"Is that the sort of thing you had in mind?\"\n\n\"Yes... lord. It is just the sort of thing. How would I er, earn this?\"\n\n\"Call this a down payment for loyalty. It is yours to keep. What it buys is your services for me and, \"he added threateningly, \"your silence. I will request information. I will do so frequently. When you provide it I will supply more. Is that acceptable?\"\n\nAware that the wrong response would see his throat cut the ex-cavalryman was cautious in his reply. The blade was not pushed so hard into his neck and glancing up at the hooded figure he became aware that the man was enormous. His shoulders seemed to fill the hut and, worse still, he could see many amulets on his arms; a sign amongst these Britons that he had killed many. He swallowed hard; he was getting into dangerous territory. It could result in great fortune or crucifixion but if he betrayed these animals it would be much worse. \"What sort of information?\"\n\n\"Nothing difficult. Nothing that you cannot handle. Numbers.\"\n\n\"Numbers?\" There was surprise in his voice.\n\n\"Numbers of troops here, Lindum. Military information.\"\n\n\"That is dangerous, I could...\"\n\n\"You could die here and now fat man. You could die when we drive the Romans into the sea. You could die if we informed the Romans of your treachery. You could die if we told your comrades how you mixed lead with their flour. You could die if we told of your pleasure in young children. There are many ways for such as you to die. The question is when and where? This way you live, no matter what happens and you make gold. For when we win we will spare you. It is a clear choice Roman, obey us now or die! Which is it to be?\"\n\nPut that way there was little choice. \"I will live and become rich.\"\n\n\"Good. I thought you would see sense. When you leave here, go into the next hut you will meet my contact there. She is the only one who you will ever see and she is the one who will pay you. You will come here once a week and she will ask you a question.\"\n\n\"Will it not look suspicious if I come here regularly?\"\n\n\"She is known to be a witch and a soldier's woman. I am sure your comrades will believe that you still have desires.\" Gaius nodded. Knowing his luck she would be a toothless old harridan. \"Now go.\"\n\nGaius was ejected from the hut and thrust into the next one. From the noises he heard as he left he knew that the men were leaving. His desire was to see who they were, the jewels on the man's arms and his bracelets suggested an important man but his desire for life outweighed it. He did not want to die and he was under no illusions for even though he was close to the fort his throat could be cut and his body disposed of in the time it took to sigh.\n\nThe new hut had a brighter fire and he was able to see the face of the woman. He was surprised. She was younger than he had thought probably in her twenties; his loins began to react immediately as his mind began to relish a weekly meeting with such a woman. He unconsciously licked his lips with a spittle covered tongue.\n\nThe woman had noticed his arousal and ended his thoughts in an instant. Drawing a lethally sharp dagger she put its point at his genitals. \"You are here for information. The story about me as your lover will be just that, a story. If you try to touch me I will geld you.\" The look in her eyes and her tone of voice left him under no illusions she would do as she said. He sat back all thoughts of lust dissipated by the appearance of the knife. \"Come when the other soldiers find women, which will look natural. The first information we require is the full strength of the ala and the legion here. Is that clear?\" He nodded. \"Now go.\"\n\nHe was about to leave and then a thought struck him. \"Are you a witch?\"\n\n\"Why do you want to know?\"\n\n\"If you are a witch then you have potions do you not? You can make spells. Tell the future.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"If you want a potion to keep your cock hard then you will be wasting your money.\"\n\n\"No I want,\" he paused and leaned closer, \"a poison. To kill a man.\"\n\n\"Ah, then I can help you but it will cost and, \"she looked pointedly at his pouch, \"I know you have money, much money.\"\n\n\"I do and for this?\" He tossed a heavy silver coin at her.\n\n\"For this I can give you a poison. I will give it to you when I have the information.\"\n\nAs he walked carefully back to camp he realised that this could work out well for him. This had turned out better than he had hoped for he now had a regular income, protection if the legions left and someone who could provide him with poison. It had been a good day.\n\nFainch watched his back with some disgust as he left. She and her sisters worshipped Mother Earth. She had spent many years, as a child, in the lands of Mona where she studied with the Druids. She had been there when the Romans had first desecrated the holy places and slaughtered the Druids. As she had hidden she had seen the ruthless Romans slaughtering the priests, killing those that she thought of as family. She swore an oath then on the holy shrines that she would have revenge and drive these Romans from her land. It had taken all her will power not to slit the throat of the Roman she had just spoken with. Since she had arrived back from Mona she had become more patient. She had seen that these Romans built solidly whether a building, or an army or a country and she would need to bide her time and choose the most opportune moment. She would use Cresens and then he too would die. As she chanted a spell she began to grind up the mushrooms, herbs and roots she would need for her next potion. This potion was for herself; it was a potion which allowed her to leave her body and communicate with her sisters and Mother Earth. It allowed her to fly, without leaving her dwelling. She would create an alliance which would defeat these Romans who had disembowelled and crucified the only man she had ever loved; Vosius son of Lugotrix a king killed himself by the Romans. They had killed the only chance she would have of happiness; she would ensure that they had none. Her revenge was begun.\n\nUlpius walked to headquarters blissfully unaware that murder, his murder was being plotted. He was blissfully happy because his lovemaking with Cartimandua was getting better and better. He did not know if it was their ages, it certainly wasn't his experience, or lack of it, whatever it was they had a sexual chemistry which left both of the satisfied, replete and totally at ease with each other. He worked hard with his men each day but he so looked forward to the long nights of lovemaking; rather than sapping his energy it seemed to give him energy.\n\nHaving met Marcus and the Queen's handmaidens he was heading to make his report. He had gleaned all the necessary information on the last few miles of the journey. Marcus had filled him in completely. Both were curious about the contents of the box but Ulpius had hidden a secret smile for he knew the Queen would tell him all. Marcus could now have a bath and some food, he had deserved it. The guards outside headquarters snapped to attention as he strode passed them.\n\nFlavius looked up from the reports he was reading and gestured for Ulpius to sit. \"They made it then?\"\n\n\"As I said he would.\"\n\n\"And the er...box?\"\n\n\"Safely delivered to the queen with two handmaidens.\" He paused. \"Gerantium, the centurion didn't make it but the lad brought his widow back with them.\"\n\n\"We'll find something for her. You never met him did you?\"\n\n\"Just the once when we rescued the Queen.\"\n\n\"He was an absolute hero; fought in Germany, Batavia and here in Britannia. The divine Claudius took a real shine to him. Thought he was some sort of lucky omen. There was him and that elephant he brought with him. Good job he didn't leave the elephant. It was him as arranged for him to look after the Queen. Sort of bodyguard. Obviously did his job well as most of the rulers in this land have short lives and violent ends. How did he die?\"\n\n\"According to the lad, in battle, took a dozen or so with him. They gave him a decent burial.\"\n\nFlavius nodded. As a Roman soldier, especially an auxiliary, decent burial was something you hoped for but didn't expect. \"And Venutius?\"\n\n\"Still hanging around. We ran into a few of them and Marcus said there were more in the woods and hills. They trailed him all the way back. Not enough for us to waste our time chasing them but just enough to let us know that he hasn't gone. The handmaidens told Marcus that there were hundreds spread all over the place. I think they are getting rid of the Queen's supporters so we have a little time but not much.\"\n\nFlavius rubbed his chin and poured them both a goblet of wine. He gestured for his friend to drink. \"What do you think he is up to?\"\n\n\"The lads burned the wooden parts of the stronghold so he can't refortify that, at least not without us noticing. Besides, it was only built to hold back barbarians. Apart from the northern side where there is a double rampart and double ditch there is nothing to stop legionaries. Even that wouldn't hold them up for long. It is mainly earth and wood. Greek fire, bolt throwers, even stones would easily crack that nut. There is nowhere south of the big river that is fortified which leaves over the hills in Carvetii, his stronghold of Brocavum which, the Brigante tell me, is smaller but much harder to attack than Stanwyck. He must know we'll come after him but he will hope that it is in the spring when his men have had time to rearm themselves and gather more men.\"\n\nFlavius pulled a map over. \"You are right about his stronghold Look. Here is his capital, Brocavum. Nasty little place. It's on a steep hill with a moat and ditch going around most of it. And the little bugger has made it of stone. I visited there a couple of years ago with Paulinus, a courtesy. It was when Venutius was only a lad and his dad was still king. It would take at least a legion to capture that. And the road to get there is no picnic. Right over the tops of the mountains. A cold, desolate and windswept place. He thinks he is safe until spring. If I had my way we would be after him now before he gets too comfortable before he can get his army together but we will have to wait for the Governor to come and light a fire up the tribune's arse. I am worried that he will get other tribes to join him. Somehow, they got wind of the trouble in Rome. I suppose no new legions gave him an idea about the situation.\"\n\n\"It's shame that Caesius Alasica isn't here. He knew how to fight in this land. \"\n\n\"Aye, he was handy in a fight, it is a shame we only have a couple of legions over here. They should have finished the job the first time. Trouble was the Iceni. Everything was going well, they pulled the legions out and then some dozy prick decides to have his way with the Iceni women. Fucking stupid. Just shows you are safer with your dick inside your armour.\" Having revisited the past, the cavalryman got back to business. \"Right you keep on at your men, keep them sharp, keep them ready to move at a moment's notice and I'll see if I can get you a long patrol to round up these Carvetii and rebel Brigante.\" A broad smile filled his face, \"That is if you aren't totally shagged out you old goat!\"\n\nSaenius Augustinius did not use his clerk for this most important letter. He could trust no-one with this information. The intrigue in Rome which had seen a succession of Emperors meant that every province in the far-flung Empire was at risk. Those on the extremes were in an even more parlous state. Added to that Britannia was an island and could only be supplied by sea and the sea they had to cross was capricious at best. The tribune needed to secure his position. He was gambling that it would be Vespasian who would still be Emperor and there would be a steady hand at the helm. He was also counting on the fact that Vespasian had served in Britannia during the invasion and knew what the problems were likely to be. He would inform the Emperor that it was he, Saenius Augustinius, who had ordered the Queen's rescue. The promotion of Ulpius Felix should have ensured his cooperation. He added that the fortress of Eboracum would serve as a sound base from which to invade the far north. Once the Emperor realised that Saenius had done so much it would not take much for him to recall Bolanus and, perhaps, give the governorship to him. Perhaps Britannia might prove to be a route to even greater power he just had to make sure he held on to Cartimandua and stopped Venutius from rising in the spring.\n\n# Chapter 7\n\n#\n\nEboracum\n\nThe pleasure at the return of his acolyte was diminished for Ulpius by the fact that the Queen now had an entourage and he could not be as close to her as hitherto. He would have to forego the pleasure of waking up in her arms and making love before the dawn broke. He smiled to himself; there was no doubt that the queen would be missing it too. The few times they were in contact there was an audience. He had enjoyed the nights spent in her arms and the joy of awakening to her each morning. That was now ended and he had to get his pleasure where he could in small ways. He took a young boy's pleasure in accidentally brushing her fingers and she reciprocated every action. He was sure that people must see their looks and almost smell the animal attraction they had for each other but everyone appeared to be oblivious or, perhaps, too tactful to comment.\n\nIt was on one such occasion that the love-struck cavalryman had a body blow to his nightly visits. He was summoned to headquarters. Not only was Flavius there but also Queen Cartimandua and, most unusually, the tribune, Saenius Augustinius. The tribune was a small unimportant looking individual. He had the frightened look of a child found with his fingers in the sweetmeats. He had been given the post by his uncle in Rome, an uncle who wanted an incompetent out of the way in the wilds of Britannia. If the truth were to be known he had hoped that he would have been killed before now and from that he would have made much political capital. Tribunes had paper power but most were only in post for a year or two and then they would return to Rome and feast out on stories of the frontier. Although he was cowardly he had cunning and a guile which matched his uncle. He knew that he could gain much credit for the rescue of Cartimandua. He had visions of returning to Rome with her on his arm, not as a bride but evidence of his courage. He would emulate Claudius who returned with Caractacus in chains.\n\nHe shifted uncomfortably upon his couch when Ulpius entered with the leader of the other ala quinquigeria, Aurelius Suetonius; he found these auxiliary cavalrymen too uncouth and wild. They were not Romans and he could smell them before he saw them. He thought they all had the air of barbarians and they were, after all, only one generation removed from barbarians. They might wear Roman armour but their hair was still long in the style of their peoples, they wore amulets and still insisted on carrying the decapitated heads of their enemies; barbarians still. He was quite happy to waste their useless lives; it was the legionaries who would protect him behind their solid phalanx of shields. It was the legions who would defeat these tribes not barbarians from some eastern backwater.\n\nHe looked at the tall decurion princeps and found much to dislike about him even excusing the disgusting mess that had been one of his eyes which he, apparently, had lost it in the service of Rome; could the man not wear a patch? He also disliked the insolent look he normally gave to the tribune on the rare occasions when he actually had to speak to him and now he noticed looks exchanged between the Queen and this cavalryman. He had heard rumours, not only about Cartimandua's sexual appetite, but also her liaison with a Roman. Heaven forefend that it should be this barbarian. All in all, he decided that he needed to be rid of this ugly barbarian who might have too much influence over the Brigante queen. Even though the days were shortening and the harvests were being gathered he would have him away from the fortress. He was a constant reminder that the Queen had not been rescued by him, the tribune, but a wild barbarian. Once he was rid of him the story could change and move him into a more prominent light.\n\n\"You have done well decurion princeps and you have been rewarded. I have another task for you. Take your men and sweep away the last of these rebels.\"\n\nUlpius looked incredulously at the tribune. \"With five hundred men? Venutius will have at least ten times more!\"\n\n\"Not afraid are we?\" He sneered. \"Is this the mighty warrior who snatched the beautiful Queen Cartimandua from under the nose of her husband?\"\n\nThe Queen's face coloured a vivid red. \"Enough! I know of the courage of this man and I dislike your implication tribune. Be careful you are still a guest in my land. Think before you speak little man.\" The threat was a powerful one for the Queen held the affection of many of the Brigante. Venutius just had the hotheads. If she chose to make the north rise then all the gains made in the last few years would be wasted. Augustinius visibly quailed before her onslaught. She was as wild a woman as any barbarian.\n\nShe turned to Ulpius her voice softened, almost gentle. \"The tribune did not explain himself well. There are reported to be a number of bands still wandering on this side of the mountains. We wish you to destroy them before the onset of winter so that we...\"\n\n\"That is all you need to know,\" interrupted the tribune.\n\nFlavius decided that the meeting had gone on long enough. \"Take enough supplies for fourteen days. You need not go further than Calcaria in the south, Cataractonium in the north and Virosidum to the west. That should scour the land around Stanwyck and anything further away is too far to harm us with winter approaching.\" He paused as he wondered about giving Ulpius a task which ought to have been carried out in the summer. \"If you deem it safe and the patrol is successful investigate the great river to the north for we may need to cross that in the spring if we take the war to the Carvetii.\" All of them avoided mentioning the fact that many Brigante were still rebelling not only against Rome but the queen. All of them were diplomatic enough to realise it would only antagonise the queen. Even Ulpius had learned not to be the plain-speaking warrior he had always been. The enemy was always Venutius and his Carvetii, not the Brigante.\n\n\"If you find any of my loyal people please bring them back to me. I am feeling lonely. You may come across some of my bodyguard.\"\n\n\"I am afraid not my Queen. When my men returned with your handmaidens they reported finding the slain bodies of all your guard at the river crossing where they laid their ambush. None of them made it to Cataractonium. He said they died well.\"\n\n\"Good for I do not want the oathsworn to have died in vain. Be careful warrior I have still to reward you for saving my life.\" The look was subtle but Ulpius saw it and felt a warm glow. Flavius also noticed it; he would need to have a word with his friend when he returned from this patrol for he knew the antipathy felt by the tribune for his friend. It would not do to have him risk the enmity of such a powerful and well-connected patrician. Flavius had only survived as long as he had by holding his tongue and flattering the younger Roman popinjays. He did not intend to end his days on a cross in this empty land far from his homeland. His friend would need to curb his tongue.\n\nAs Ulpius left he spoke to the ala clerk. \"Get all my decurions at my tent now.\" His mind was already formulating a plan even as he walked. He would play the Carvetii at their own game; he too would use cunning and guile. His advantage was he had Roman discipline and weaponry.\n\nHe counted only fifteen men. \"Ask Lucius Demetrius to join us as his decurion is still in the hospital.\" He decided he would have to get a better clerk one who was able to think for himself. \"This will be the first time you have fought under my banner.\" Even though he was Roman he knew that the men in front of him still remembered their barbarian, tribal past. \"My rules are quite simple. Obey me instantly. I do not like unnecessary questions. If you are still confused ask the new decurion of the second turma I am sure he can enlighten you.\" They all smiled at Marcus' obvious embarrassment. \"Look after your horses and your men. That is it, those are my rules.\" He nodded at Lucius who had just entered. \"We are going out for a patrol. We will be heading southeast towards the Parisi just to make sure they haven't got any ideas from Venutius. We will need enough supplies for twenty nights. We ride in an hour.\" As they left he noticed Flavius standing by the tent entrance.\n\n\"Are you making up your own orders now decurion princeps?\"\n\n\"No prefect. I will be obeying your orders and, once we are a good way from the fort I will issue new orders.\"\n\n\"I am curious. Do you not trust your men?\"\n\n\"I trust my men, not their tongues. There are too many people around here we do not know yet. I don't believe in taking any chances.\"\n\nFlavius nodded. He had chosen well. His friend was a good leader and would go far and, more importantly, would not risk Rome's soldiers unnecessarily.\n\nThe five hundred warriors made a magnificent sight as they left the security of the fort. Their horsehair pennants danced in the autumn breeze and the early morning light reflected from the gleaming mail. At their head sat Ulpius now with his own red horsehair standard carried by the beaming Gaius delighted that he had been chosen. Ulpius allowed himself a rare smile. He had been touched by the youth's devotion and having had his life saved he felt honour bound to reward him. It was little enough he had done for the life of a standard bearer was considerably shorter than that of an ordinary auxiliary.\n\nThey were five miles from the camp heading towards Petuaria when the decurion princeps called a halt. He summoned his decurions whilst the troopers ensured that their saddles were tight and their equipment secure.\n\n\"Now that we are safe from prying ears and mouths too full of their own importance I can reveal where we are actually going.\" He drew in the soil a crude map and pointed as he did so. \"Lucius Emprenius will take turmae nine, ten eleven and twelve towards Calcaria, then to Verbeia and meet with me at Virosidum. Fulvius Agrippa, you have the harder ride. You will head for Stanwyck with turma thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen and thence Cataractonium and you too will meet me at Virosidum. You have seven days. Be careful near to the fort and approach cautiously for Venutius may have fortified it again. I will take the rest of the ala directly to Virosidum.\" His officers looked at him and Ulpius realised he could not be as close mouthed as when he had been a mere decurion. He needed his officers to know his mind, he needed to trust them. If he fell in battle they would need to carry out his orders. He was learning the lessons of command. Marcus noticed the change in his leader and saw too that he would also need to change with his new responsibility. \"I am stealing a trick from Venutius. You are to drive any groups of Brigante towards me. I will be going slower than you. It is important that no one escapes south or north. You need to keep in touch with me. The senior decurion will assign a rider to give me a daily report; where you are and what you have encountered.\"\n\n\"What if we meet with a larger group? Larger than we can handle?\"\n\n\"We are cavalry. We can move faster than anything they have. The only danger is when we are in their woods. Avoid them if you can. Any more questions?\"\n\n\"If we do meet a larger force what then?\"\n\n\"Shadow and send for me. We will be never more than a hard gallop apart. The land we will be travelling is supposed to be peaceful and any warriors you meet will be the enemy. I will be the anvil to your hammers. Conserve your men and horses. Seven days is ample time to get to our meeting place. We will not be able to replenish any supplies and, more importantly, we have the best horses. If you lose your horses you become a foot soldier and you will lose your head. Speaking of which, we are trying to leave a message. When your troopers take heads make them into a pile, a marker to show all rebels the folly of rebelling against Rome.\"\n\n\"I thought they were rebelling against the Queen?\"\n\nUlpius fixed the young decurion of the tenth turma. \"That is one and the same thing. The Queen is an ally of Rome what is hers is Rome's. Now get back to your men and ride.\"\n\nCresens couldn't wait to get to his contact. He had information which would rid him of Ulpius and would further cement his position with the barbarians. He ran his tongue over his fat lips as he anticipated meeting with the witch. She excited him; the women he could afford were skeletons by comparison with the alluring and seductive witch. Her power and sexuality excited him and he felt himself becoming larger as he thought on her. Her threats did not worry him. He had taken many women against their will in the past and when the time was right he would have her and she would be in no position to fight back, but for now he would be compliant; the lure of gold was strong.\n\nThere was a faint plume of smoke coming from the hut and he tentatively tapped on the wood. \"Come in Roman.\"\n\nHis first thoughts were, 'how did she know it was him' and the second was 'was she alone'?\n\n\"You smell like a girl Roman. I knew it was you when you were a hundred paces from my home.\"\n\nHe was so taken aback that he could barely speak; had she read his thoughts? She truly was a witch! \"I have news. Five hundred of the auxiliary are heading south to the big river. They will be gone for twenty nights.\" He paused, expecting a reaction. \"Are you not pleased?\"\n\n\"I merely pass on the messages it is our master who will show pleasure,\" her mouth opened in an evil smile which did not bode well, \"or displeasure.\" She passed over a piece of gold. It was not a Roman coin but he had not expected it to be. It was gold and he quickly pocketed it. \"Now go.\"\n\nAs he left he wondered how she would deliver the message. Hearing a flutter of wings over his head he realised that she would be using pigeons. He was beginning to understand that these barbarians were not quite as primitive as he had first thought and he would need to watch his step he would need to be wary and choose the best time to betray them and preserve his corpulent neck. These were not the poor he regularly swindled or abused; these were cunning and crafty.\n\nVenutius was close to the Brigante fortress of Stanwyck when he received the message from his rider. The Romans were securing their base before tackling him they were heading south and east to pacify that area. Good that suited him for he had not had time to order his people to gather food for the winter. He had been so confident of defeating Cartimandua that he had thought he would have been able to take what he wanted from her. If the cavalry had been in the north they could have prevented his men from foraging. He turned to Brennus, his leading war chief. \"Send out your men in small parties; I want every morsel of food, every weapon, every animal collected and taken to Brocavum. The Romans must find nothing that will help them. When the earth warms we will take the war to them. We will be rested with full bellies while they will be tired and hungry. I want every Roman killed and every sympathiser slaughtered.\"\n\n\"How will I know they are sympathetic to the queen?\"\n\n\"Give them the chance to join us. If they do not, they die. Do not be gentle Brennus.\" As Brennus rode away to give his orders Venutius smiled to himself. The first part of his plan, the death of Cartimandua, had not gone well but he was well placed now to destroy these Romans. The messages from the south were good. The Romans were not having an easy time in Mona and the wild mountains. The invaders were like fleas, annoying but few enough in numbers so that they could be picked off before they became an infestation. This was the time to strike before they could bring more legions in the summer, before they could reinforce their garrisons. Now was the time, his time!\n\nThe warband headed north west through the darkening skies and threatening clouds. Wrapping his cloak even closer around him the king felt, not for the first time that Mother Earth was on their side. Fainch and her sisters could summon the power of Mother Earth to their aid. Winter would soon be upon them when the food would disappear and the cold of these islands would become a weapon against the enemies who came from a much warmer climate. Venutius smiled to himself; this land belonged to him and his people and the land itself would fight to rid them of this relentless enemy.\n\nLess than a half a day's ride away the very Romans who Venutius was cursing were huddled in their cloaks as their mounts plodded through the sharp shower which had emerged with incredible ferocity from the thick black clouds massing on the skyline. Marcus nudged his mount closer to his leader. \"Just like being at home eh?\"\n\nUlpius smiled a grim smile. \"Aye, we all thought that joining the Romans meant warm Mediterranean postings, wine, women and song. It seems we have traded one cold and damp corner of the outer world for another one.\"\n\nMarcus turned in his saddle to look back down the line of troopers and to make sure none were lagging behind. Satisfied he scanned the horizon. \"Do you think we will catch any?\"\n\nUlpius rubbed his chin thoughtfully and nodded. \"I would expect to. They will think that we are tucked behind our palisade licking our wounds. They think because we bathe we are soft; much as we thought when they came to Ad Mure. They do not like fighting at this time of year and they will think we are of the same mind. Remember they do not have an Empire to supply them. They have to gather in the food and make their clothes and weapons. They cannot do that whilst they are fighting. This is why we will win Marcus. We have a behemoth at our back. You travelled as I did across the Empire and across the seas to get here. Think of the cities and peoples we saw. Think of the fields filled with crops and animals. Britannia may have treasures under the ground but they cannot be eaten.\"\n\n\"That means they may all have retreated back to their homelands.\"\n\nUlpius shook his head. \"There will not be many but they will be out here. There are outlaws and bandits who will take advantage of the chaos that we have made. There will be survivors who are mounted and there will be others, scavengers, looking for easy pickings. Remember Marcus there are ordinary people of this land who go about their lives and they will now be gathering in as much food as they can to survive the winter. They do not have the luxury of galleys from Rome bringing grain and wine as we do.\" He paused as his good eye picked out movement in the distance. His hand came up instinctively to halt the column and they, in turn, loosened their weapons and became more alert. Everyone relaxed slightly when they realised it was their two scouts who had been more than five miles ahead.\n\nThe two men reined in and saluted. \"Just ahead decurion princeps, there are raiders. They are driving animals north to the river. They are twenty in number.\"\n\nUlpius nodded. Twenty was manageable and the animals would augment their rations. He turned to his troop. \"We are going to capture some of the brigands who killed our comrades. If we can I would like at least one prisoner but take no chances. These are like snakes.\" He addressed Marcus. \"Take twenty men and the scouts sweep round the north. If any escape us you will take them.\" Marcus marked off his men and they rode at a fast gallop. Ulpius signalled for his men to spread into line formation; dangerous against formed infantry but perfect against a handful of bandits.\n\nThey saw the smoke from the fire over the hill and Ulpius knew that they were close. He drew his sword and his men mirrored his actions. They came over the rise silently, like wraiths. The grey overcast sky helped to mask their outlines and the Carvetii were too busy killing the last of the villagers. They had been so confident that they had posted no sentries; it would cost them dear. The smoke helped to hide the Romans until they were within javelin range. The Romans charged silently to appear suddenly from the smoke. The raiders were despatching their last few victims and the first they knew was when swords sliced through the air taking heads and limbs in a frenzy of destruction. The action was over in a few heartbeats; the surprise had been so complete that the fallen had barely had time to realise their plight. They were too busy slaughtering unarmed villagers and had made the cardinal sin of not leaving a sentry to watch. The action was so sudden and swift that unfortunately none had survived and the decurion princeps had no prisoners to question. While that disappointed Ulpius he was also pleased that his men had survived intact and in his heart he knew that it was difficult to get information from these tribesmen. He was not even sure that these were part of a grander plan. He suspected that it was a few men trying to profit from the chaos of the war.\n\nThey had just finished stripping the bodies when Marcus arrived. \"We saw the smoke. Looks like we are too late for the fun.\"\n\n\"Aye but we eat well tonight. We will camp here and move off in the morning. \"\n\nMarcus took in the bodies and the lack of wounds on the Romans. \"If this continues we will end the war before it has begun.\"\n\n\"This is not the war. This is Venutius preparing for the war. I fear that the tribune's plan will not work. The fox has fled and we will just have a few scraps of men to pick at.\" While some men began slaughtering one of the animals others began making a smile pile of Carvetii skulls. The Pannonian intentions were being made clear.\n\nLeaving a handful of men to drive the remaining animals back to Eboracum, Ulpius took the rest of his men towards the meeting point. He hoped that the rest of the ala had been as successful as he with no casualties and many Carvetii heads. They rode warily until they recognised the other Roman riders who appeared on their left and right flanks. Within a day he had the whole of his ala. As they reported to him he realised that the majority of the Carvetii had to have fled west for they had only encountered pockets of resistance and they, as with his raiders, had been scavengers rather than warriors. He was about to order their return to the comfort of the fort when their Brigante scout reported signs of a large body of men heading west. Ulpius quickly made up his mind. \"Fulvius Agrippa, take all but the first. Second and third turmae back to Eboracum I will see where this trail leads.\"\n\nThe moors seemed much emptier to Marcus as the rest of the ala took the path south. Gaius turned to him. \"Would it not be better to take the whole of the ala with us?\"\n\n\"I think the decurion is thinking of his whole command. Some of the mounts were looking a little weary as were the men. We have little opportunity to replace either. I am beginning to see that command is never as easy as it looks,\" he grinned and punched the younger man on the arm, \"when you are a tadpole.\"\n\nGaius laughed, \"Aye but one day I will be a frog and then you will hear me bellow.\"\n\nIt was later that day when they arrived at the first great river they had seen since Eboracum. It was a dangerous place for beyond the river there were no Romans. Ulpius went forward with the Brigante scout and they dismounted in a small wood just on a bluff above the river. Bellying up they could see the river below with a bridge. It appeared to be unguarded. The bridge itself was a crude wooden affair and Ulpius doubted that it would take much punishment. If the legions ever came they would need to build a new one. He sent the scout down to make sure there were no enemy in hiding and he watched as the man scurried down the bank peering from the tree line as he checked for signs. It was with some relief that Ulpius saw him sprint across the bridge for that meant there were no Carvetii. After a few minutes on the other side he made the all clear signal and Ulpius stood to summon the rest of his men.\n\nOnce they were safely across the bridge Ulpius summoned his decurions. \"Marcus I want you to guard this crossing with your turma. The rest of us will continue to follow. I need to be sure that when we return we can cross. Protect this crossing.\"\n\nAlthough Marcus was disappointed he knew that he had a greater responsibility as he was to make sure all of them would return. \"I shall do so decurion princeps.\"\n\nUlpius smiled, \"I know you will. We should return within two days. My scout tells me that Brocavum is but two days march hence. I suspect that is where they will be going.\"\n\nThe scout was right and, on the evening of the following day Ulpius could see, some distance away, the stronghold of Brocavum. Leaving the turma under the command of Lucius Demetrius he took Gaius and the scout with him to see close up what the problems of assaulting Brocavum might be. It was almost nightfall when they arrived. They had the advantage that they rode from the east and the stronghold was silhouetted against the setting sun. They tethered their mounts in a copse and ran from bush to bush until they were within arrow shot of the walls. They were so close they could smell the cooking, feel the heat from the fires and hear the noise of feasting. There were guards on the palisades but they appeared unconcerned with events outside the fortress. The gate of the fortress was barred and there was a ditch around it. They were safe. The three of them slid like snakes to the edge of the mound which surrounded it. As they peered over Ulpius could see that there was not only water in the ditch but also sharpened spikes. It would be a death trap. They made their way back to their horses.\n\nLater, as they walked back to the safety of a small clearing where they would camp Gaius finally asked the questions which had been racing around his head. \"Is that kind of place easy to attack?\"\n\nUlpius looked down at his eager young face. \"Attacking any kind of fort is never easy but our legionary brothers are adept at it. That one, my young friend is particularly difficult for the ground nearby is rocky and uneven that makes it hard to get the siege engines into place. The legionaries work better if they have a flatter area in which to manoeuvre.\"\n\n\"That ditch looked nasty.\"\n\n\"Nasty? I can think of stronger words to describe it. There may be traps hidden below the water, the banks are so steep and deadly that you could lose a cohort just crossing the ditch. I think that if we are to defeat Venutius we will either have to starve him out or defeat him in open battle.\"\n\n# Chapter 8\n\n#\n\nEboracum\n\nCresens was incandescent with rage when the turma returned to camp. He had hoped that Venutius would have finished him off but he returned without a wound and, it appeared, without having lost a man. What was even worse he was bringing in supplies and arms taken from those Carvetii who had perished during the patrol. He hastened off to see the witch; he would have to put his more direct murderous plan into action.\n\nEboracum was now a little more civilised. The marching camp had been fortified into something more permanent and dwellings were erupting all around the periphery. The Queen, of course, had a house which whilst not a palace was more fitting. The foundations and lower part were made of stone found in a quarry not far away. The upper part was wattle and daub. Inside there was a fire and separate rooms for the queen and her handmaidens. The door was guarded by two legionaries. The tribune was anxious that the only ally they had should not be murdered. Although her food was prepared in the legionaries' kitchen it was prepared by the tribunes cook, a man with epicurean tastes much as his master.\n\nDespite all this Cartimandua was not happy. She was surrounded by Romans. Her people were kept outside the fortress and her conversations were limited to her handmaidens. She had always enjoyed power and this vacuum did not suit her. She was not making the decisions; she relied on others to do that. If the Romans chose to discard her she would be nothing, at the mercy of her own people and the evil Venutius. She was under no illusions, she would not last long. In her heart she knew that the real reason for the disquiet, the sadness, the ache was there was no man to share her bed. Ulpius had been on patrol for a moon and she longed for his touch. She had important news to impart and she needed him. Lenta and Macha had learned to walk quietly around her for any minor inconvenience could result in a tirade. Just as the queen they were overjoyed when they heard the signal of the returning patrol.\n\nCartimandua began to prepare herself for her warrior. She ordered Lenta to bring to her the most expensive and alluring perfume she possessed. Macha began to apply the eye paint she had seen on the Egyptian slave girls. When she was as ready as she could be she waited. When would he come? As queen she could not go to him she had to wait, her loins aching for the moment her man would appear. She chewed her lip nervously. She wondered how he would take the news. When she had discovered it she felt a riot of emotions shock, happiness, incredulity, fear. She had thought when she missed her bleeding that her time was changing and she could no longer bear children. When she began to vomit in the mornings and when she felt the strange sensation in her belly she knew that she was to have a child. She also knew that this one she would keep for in Ulpius Felix she had a man who could be a father. She had a man she would love to grow old with. She just didn't know how he would take to becoming a father. Neither of them had discussed it; it had not even been a fleeting thought for they both had assumed she was too old and they had enjoyed the act far too much to think of the consequences.\n\nThe other problem would be with her people. How would they take to her cohabitation with a Roman, an enemy? Although she cared little for their thoughts their opinion might make them shift to support Venutius and then all her work would have been for nothing. She had six months before the child would be born. It would be simplest if she kept out of the public view. That would also give her more time to plan a strategy to include Ulpius in her life. She smiled to herself; at least motherhood was not softening her political and strategic mind.\n\nUlpius was too busy with his report. He knew Marcus and Drusus would ensure the animals and the men were looked after but the reality was he would have to account to the tribune for the delay in returning. Flavinius and Augustinius kept him cooling his heels for what seemed an age. Ulpius ached from the hard riding and the hard fighting. All he wanted was a bath, food and some wine. Eventually, he was summoned. It was the tribune who addressed him. \"You seem to have taken rather longer than we planned for this foray.\" He paused and glared aggressively at Ulpius. \"And I see neither prisoners nor slaves.\"\n\n\"I would have brought both had the enemy not been so careless with their lives. They fought like demons. Those that were not killed in the fighting died of their wounds.\"\n\n\"Well, get on with your report.\"\n\n\"As ordered we swept towards the hills to the west and Carvetii stronghold. We found groups of warriors collecting animals and food, laying the land bare. There were many groups. We followed them as far as the great river in the north. The other turmae had joined in the sweep and there were many hundreds. Most died in the battle, some were swept away down the river and a few escaped north.\"\n\n\"And why did you not follow them?\"\n\nThe horses were tired and the river fast flowing. Most of the enemy who tried it died. I did not think the tribune would want me to waste his cavalry in such a reckless adventure.\"\n\nThe tribune's voice took on an even more threatening tone. \"Have a care decurion princeps. Do not be impertinent with me! Do not presume to read my thoughts! Do you think I care how many of you savages die!\n\nThe prefect coughed. \"Where are the nearest Carvetii?\"\n\n\"We followed them to the highest passes and they went west. I tracked a large band of warriors who went back to their stronghold at Brocavum. It is many days travel on a horse. I believe he has gone there to winter and prepare for a war in the next year.\"\n\nThere was silence as the tribune peered at the rudimentary map. \"You believe! And who are you? The mighty Germanicus?\"\n\nThe prefect spoke again. \"Did you see many of the Queen's people, the Brigante?\"\n\n\"We saw signs but only of women and the old. We saw no warriors. The ones we spoke to said they feared Venutius would return and punish them for their queen.\"\n\nThe prefect and the tribune pondered this. Ulpius continued, \"I have seen his stronghold it is better built than Stanwyck. \"\n\nThe prefect sighed,\" You are right taking a hill fort is not the work for cavalry.\"\n\nThe tribune snorted. \"It seems that there is little work which is suitable for these auxiliaries. \"He managed to imbue the word 'auxiliary' with an invective normally reserved for a curse. \"But maybe you are right that is work for a legion. Perhaps when the new military governor arrives.\"\n\n\"He is due then?\"\n\n\"I believe he is travelling even as we speak.\"\n\nUlpius stood, feeling foolish as the two men spoke as though he was not even there. I want your cavalry out all winter on patrols. I do not want to be surprised by a winter attack.\"\n\n\"But tribune the horses will suffer. There is little enough feed for them as it is. Would it not be better to rest them for the campaigns next year?\"\n\n\"Prefect I have made my decision. Carry out your orders!\" With that, the tribune left.\n\nThe two cavalrymen looked at each other. \"He is a fool\"\n\n\"Yes Ulpius but he is the commander and he makes the decisions. Perhaps when the military governor comes we may be better off but I do not know the man.\" He looked closely at the decurion princeps. \"How hard do they fight?\"\n\n\"They are wild. They appear to have no regard for their own safety. They hurl themselves at man and horse. One wound will not slow them down. My men learned early that you go for the killing blow for they will not stop until either you or they are dead. If Venutius has an army of them it may be harder than we think.\"\n\n\"Wine?\"\n\n\"Aye, I need that.\" He took a long draught. \"There is something else. My Brigante scouts speak of people from the north, allies of Venutius who are even more ferocious. They fight naked and paint their bodies blue.\" The prefect laughed. \"I do not jest and I believe my scouts.\"\n\n\"I do not laugh at you for I have heard the same. The queen told me of these people. Until her marriage to Venutius, the Brigante were plagued by raids. No, I smile at the thought of a man fighting naked. Why is it that the fools think that a bit of blue paint will stop an arrow? I prefer mail and good discipline.\"\n\n\"That is one good thing. They wear little armour but their weapons are good. At least they have few archers otherwise we would suffer.\"\n\n\"Is there any other news I can pass on to Governor Bolanus when he arrives?\"\n\n\"There are no roads. There is little food and no shelter. It will be a hard campaign. There is little grass for the horses. The hill forts are only made of wood and earth but they will need legions to take them.\"\n\n\"Rest. I will send the other troopers out on patrol. Ready your men and watch yourself. I fear the tribune does not like you.\"\n\n\"I have shat bigger turds than him.\"\n\n\"Maybe but those turds couldn't have you crucified; he can, without even blinking. I have met his type before. He was born into power and he thinks that we are little more than slaves. Remember how Romans treat slaves. Think on that.\"\n\nThe sun was setting when Ulpius finally got around to thinking about the queen. He had been away some time. Perhaps she had someone else to pleasure her. Perhaps he had dreamed the whole experience. Perhaps he had imagined it to have greater import than she. He did not know what to do. He decided to walk past her dwelling it was on the way to the kitchen area.\n\nAs he strode through the camp acknowledging the shouts, waves and salutations from comrades he did not notice the fat quartermaster studying him through half lidded eyes. The ex-soldier was on his way to see the spy with the information he had gleaned from the tribune's clerk a man whose indiscretions were known by Cresens and who was the fount of most of his information. He would get money for his information and then he would get the poison that would rid him of Ulpius and regain him his power.\n\nUlpius for all his confidence with his men was less confident with women- the camp followers and whores were not a problem but the queen was a different proposition. The two guards saluted as he went by the door to her domus. He was about to head for the canteen when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned quickly and saw that it was Macha. She spoke quietly and softly so that the grizzled warrior had to bend down to listen.\n\n\"My lady would speak with you. Follow me.\"\n\nUlpius was perplexed as he turned towards the doorway. What was the queen thinking? The guards would surely see him enter and then the whole camp would know. Just as he arrived at the door Lenta came to see them. \"The Queen would have words with your leader about the state of her kingdom. She is not pleased that you did not report to her immediately upon your return!\" The girl played her part remarkably well and her scolding tone made the hint of a smile appear on the faces of the two guards who took great pleasure in the apparent discomfort of a decurion princeps.\n\n\"I am sorry lady but I had to speak with the tribune. My time is now hers for as long as she needs me.\"\n\nWith that, he entered. Cartimandua did not speak a word she just threw her arms around him and kissed him oblivious to the startled looks from Lenta and Macha who quickly scurried into their own room. After an embrace which seemed to last forever, she murmured into his ear, \"You are so cruel; you knew I was waiting for you.\"\n\n\"I was trying to be, what is the word? Discreet.\"\n\nCartimandua threw her head back and gave such a hearty and loud laugh that the guards turned in surprise at the noise emanating from the domus. \"I was never known for my discretion my love but come,\" she led him by the hand to her bed and lay him on it. All the time she was speaking to him she was undressing and kissing him. \"I have news, Great news. Well it is to me. We are to have a child.\"\n\nUlpius looked up in shock. \"A child but how?\"\n\n\"The how is easy. When we lay together a child was created but in truth, I thought my child bearing days behind me. The gods had other plans.\"\n\n\"When will it...\"\n\n\"In five moons or perhaps six.\"\n\nThey kissed and he began undressing her. He was already engorged and the queen hungrily took his whole length in her mouth. Using his great strength he rolled her on her back and was about to enter her when he stopped.\n\n\"The child?\"\n\nThe queen thrust herself onto him. \"The child will be fine it is the mother who needs this.\"\n\nTheir lovemaking went on well into the early hours of the morning. The guards were changed. Lenta and Macha went to collect some food and still they coupled, seemingly insatiable. When Ulpius could no longer raise himself they lay in each other's arms.\n\n\"What will your people think?\"\n\n\"My people do not think much at all and they certainly don't think of me. If they did think they would believe that it was Venutius' or Vellocatus'.\"\n\n\"And are you happy about that?\" His one eye searched her face for deception or lies but could see only truth and love.\n\n\"I am happy that we will have a child and more I believe it will be a son and one day he will rule this whole land. He will be the union of Brigante and Rome.\"\n\nUlpius smiled at her. \"I am Roman as a soldier but I am Pannonian by birth. I think our son will be the better for that for he will have my warrior skill and your mind and,\" he bent down to kiss her eyelids, \"your beauty.\" The rest of the night saw them continue their lovemaking until they felt asleep, exhausted in each other's arms.\n\nLenta and Macha had been asleep long before the two lovers but they had heard all the lovemaking.\n\n\"When will you take a man sister?\"\n\nMacha looked at her younger sister. \"When the right man comes along. It does not always happen quickly, look at our sister. She has seen almost forty summers and now she has found the right man.\"\n\n\"The right man? How can you be sure?\"\n\n\"Look at her eyes, listen to the words when she talks of him, look how they are together and look at the man. He may be scarred but it is on the outside. Venutius was scarred on the inside. Ulpius Felix is a good man. He is like the noblest of we Brigante. He will protect her.\"\n\n\"You have not answered me. When will you take a man? Has not the right one come along?\" There was a mischievous lilt to her voice and she suppressed a grin when Macha coloured bright red.\n\n\"You are foolish. I do not know what you mean.\"\n\nRealising that she had made her point she turned over to sleep leaving her sister aching for Marcus between her legs making her feel like a woman.\n\n# Chapter 9\n\n#\n\nWhen Venutius heard the reports from Brennus he seethed with anger. The warriors he had lost were a grave blow but the lack of supplies from the lands to the east of the hills was an even more disastrous loss. He had hoped to weaken his enemies but they had weakened him. None of his roving bands had returned with any provender and those who had arrived had all suffered wounds at the hands of the Roman cavalry. Venutius wondered if his subordinate had sent the right men. He knew that some of his warriors were little more than robbers; they served a purpose but he would have preferred to use warriors who had the aim of driving the Romans into the sea rather than raping women and butchering cattle. The Romans had surprised him; he had thought them soft and unwilling to campaign in the harsh land of Brigantia. He had learned a valuable lesson. The reports from his spy were even more alarming for the spirits of the Romans were high and the fortress was already a formidable structure. The jetties and docks at the river mean that supplies were coming into the heart of the fortress making his enemies stronger and stronger. Soon they might be too strong for him. He resolved to contact the Novontae, Selgovae and Votadini. With those tribes supporting him even the mighty Roman army might be beaten.\n\nLeaving his chiefs, he went into his hut where he kept those sacred objects given to him by Fainch. Perhaps he had not made enough sacrifices, enough promises to the Earth Mother. Before he met with his allies he would make another sacrifice. He had seen a small child prisoner brought from Stanwyck, it was rumoured she was related to the Queen. She would make a worthy sacrifice and the Earth Mother would drink her blood and look kindly on his endeavours.\n\nThe Roman army was represented by someone who at this moment was not happy with life in Britannia. Marcus Bolanus hated everything about this forsaken corner of the Empire. If it were not for the gold rumoured to be hidden under the wild mountains to the west there would be no reason to be here. He peered out of his carriage at the windswept uplands without a tree in sight. He cursed to himself. They would have arrived far sooner had it not been for the floods which forced him and his forces up into the higher, colder more desolate land. The early winter rains had turned the wide plains into an enormous lake. As his carriage crashed and jolted he wondered if this land would ever have real roads and civilisation. He had plotted and schemed his way through various minor posts, he had destroyed many lives and literally taken some. He came from a noble patrician family who had fallen on hard times when they chose the wrong leader. He was determined never to have hard times himself. He was now as rich as any man in Rome but he dreamed of more money. He had secured this post so that he could acquire some of the fabled gold and copper this land held but first he had to destroy these barbarians and destroy them he would. He was already plotting his next move, out towards Parthia with its fabulous lapis lazuli and the lucrative spices. Then he would be the richest man in the world.\n\nOnce again, he studied the reports he held in his hand. At least Cartimandua was safe. The revolt by Venutius and the uprising had been the reason his predecessor, Marcus Trebellius Maximus had returned to Rome in disgrace. He had been too mild mannered and had not been ruthless enough. Marcus Vettius Bolanus would put down this rebellion and return to the luxury that was Rome by the next summer. At least he had a secure base now that he had built the legionary fortress at Lindum and he could call on a legion at a moment's notice. He began to work out how he could claim the credit for the rescue of Cartimandua. Perhaps he would see a way when he reached the end of the world that was Eboracum. He shivered back into his robes and tried to sleep his way there.\n\nHis clerk coughed discreetly waking the military governor from his disturbed rest. \"We are here master.\"\n\nBolanus peered out and although he had not anticipated much he was depressed by the sight which greeted him. The Roman camp was as the others spread throughout the Empire; perhaps a little sturdier than most temporary camps with towers and solid looking gates. That reassured him. He would not be over-run by the savages of these parts. It was the rest which make him think about returning as soon as possible to Lindum. There was a straggle of huts close to the river with, what looked to him, like half-naked savages. There appeared to be no stone to be seen and little evidence of either gold or jewels. He hoped he had not been misinformed about the riches of this land if so someone would pay dearly for their error. He glared at his clerk who shivered in fear.\n\n\"Well do you expect me to walk into the camp? Move!\"\n\nThe guards at the gate recognised the retinue of the Military Governor and word was quickly sent to the tribune and prefect. As he rushed towards the tribune Saenius Augustinius was more than a little nervous. He had had the support and the ear of his predecessor; would he enjoy the same privileges and perks? He licked his lips nervously. Had his letter to Vespasian arrived? He dreaded the possibility that it had been intercepted by one of the Governor's spies for he had been less than complimentary about his superior.\n\nMarcus Bolanus looked at the two men with distaste when he climbed down from his carriage. One was a barbarian, an auxiliary whilst the other was small man nervously licking his lips, obviously the tribune. Although a Roman he looked more like a shopkeeper than a Roman officer. He did not deign to introduce himself; he assumed they would know who he was. \"Well? Your report.\"\n\nMentally the tribune sighed. From the governor's comments he did not know of the letter to Vespasian. He was still safe. \"Saenius Augustinius at your command. Perhaps we could go to my, er your quarters and be more comfortable.\"\n\nThe governor peered round. \"A ditch would be more comfortable than this. Lead on.\"\n\n\"And so I affected the rescue of the Queen's half-sisters and the treasure.\"\n\n\"I am pleased to hear that the tribune risks his life in the barbaric north for the Emperor.\" Marcus looked keenly at the tribune whose account of the rescues sounded as though he was another Horatio at the bridge, a true Roman hero. His spies had told him a different story.\n\n\"You misunderstand. I didn't actually go myself, I sent cavalry. Just as I did when the Queen herself was rescued.\"\n\nBolanus waved his hand dismissively, the information was not news it confirmed that his spies told him the truth. \"The box? What was in it? Was it an artefact, a religious object? Come on man out with it!\"\n\nThe tribune looked suitably embarrassed; despite numerous requests, the Queen had consistently refused to discuss it. \"I don't know, the Queen has it and she, well, she won't discuss it.\"\n\nRather than the anger the tribune expected the governor showed quizzical interest. He was secretly pleased for he suspected it was treasure and he wanted no-one else to know of it. He felt sure he would be able to persuade the barbarian to hand it over. After all, the other wild queen, Boudicca had been a savage who was slaughtered as an animal; her only tactic had been a full frontal attack and her people had all died as a result. No, this queen would be like wax in his hand, he would mould her to his own ends.\n\n\"Have your cooks prepare some decent food and invite the queen to dinner. I will apprise her of the Emperor's plans.\n\nThe feast was richer than the tribune had enjoyed for some time but to Marcus Bolanus it was like eating hard rations. The cooks had received a delivery of spices and rich ingredients with the Governor's caravan. They had been proud of the repast they had presented. The Governor and tribune looked at the dishes with differing views as they awaited the arrival of the queen. She was late but Bolanus put that down to the woman in her. He nibbled on some olives which had been in the jar too long as he waited for her. The wine was drinkable but only because he had brought it with him. His hand stopped half-way to his mouth when she entered. Even the tribune was surprised. All hint of grey was gone from her and her face had a pink healthy glow. The dress she wore was a vibrant red colour which matched her lips painted with cochineal. The Governor could not believe that this was the same queen who had met with Claudius. He had expected a toothless hag instead he found it hard to estimate her age. Her arms were laden with golden bracelets and on her fingers, she wore rings with precious stones. But it was the torc around her neck which excited them both. It was the largest single piece of gold either man had ever seen and it gleamed in the light like the sun. The gold made his mind race with the thought of owning that gold and the treasure, perhaps it was even more fabulous than that with which she adorned herself.\n\n\"Governor welcome to my land; my people and I welcome the representative of our ally Emperor... Just who is the Emperor these days? Is it still Vitellus?\"\n\nInwardly Bolanus fumed. The cunning bitch had taken the initiative away from him. She welcomed him to her land as though they were allies rather than the clients they were. He was also angry about the Emperor jibe as the whole Roman world knew they were on their fourth emperor in one year.\n\n\"It is the divine Vespasian who is now the ruler of this Roman Empire.\" Feeling that he had scored points now by calling the Brigante land the Roman Empire he magnanimously waved his arm for the queen and her sisters to sit. \"Please ladies sit.\"\n\nThe Queen had dealt with people like Bolanus all her life. She knew the men who used power as a weapon and who resented women. He was crushable but first she had to ascertain her position. She was politically astute enough to realise that she had no power base any longer; her people would only support her if she returned at the head of an army and that army had to be the Roman army. She would be pleasant to this weasel until she had what she wanted. \"I am pleased that Rome is in such safe hands. Does the Emperor plan on visiting us at any time soon? If so I will need time to plan a celebration and, of course, make sure that the rebels who have driven me here are destroyed.\"\n\n\"I fear that his divinity is busy in the Eastern lands but be assured your highness that he will visit just as soon as possible. Now please, eat, drink and enjoy the food, poor though it is.\"\n\nThey nibbled at the food and the Queen's sisters watched, carefully, the reactions of Bolanus to the Queen's questions; they would have to report to Cartimandua later.\n\n\"It is a shame, governor, that it is so poor. Perhaps if there were a port here at Eboracum we could acquire the food that would please the Emperor.\"\n\nThe governor stopped eating and wiped a hand across his greasy mouth. The woman had a good idea for a port here would secure the Roman presence and enable a rapid supply chain. \"I am sure we could come to some arrangement.\"\n\n\"Of course, we would need to have a fortress here to ensure that the rebels do not ravage this place,\" she paused meaningfully, \"again.\"\n\n\"Again, I am sure we could come to some arrangement.\" He looked carefully at this woman who was showing all the guile of an Eastern potentate.\n\n\"That, of course, means that there would have to be a legion here. Are they not all accounted for?\"\n\nMarcus Bolanus stopped mid chew. For someone so far away from civilisation she was remarkably well informed. He thought quickly. The only legion he had available was the Ninth Hispana that was busy building Lindum fortress; the others were busy in the west putting down the last of their rebellions. If he was to use another legion it would need to come from Rome. Perhaps he could turn the Queen's request to his advantage and gain another legion; with another legion he could conquer all of this forsaken land and then his return to Rome would be truly a triumph. \"That is true but we can begin the building with the troops already here.\" He looked shrewdly at her. \"Have you any more requests?\"\n\nCartimandua paused, delicately wiped her mouth and then looked directly at the governor. \"Well once you have made Eboracum secure with adequate accommodation for a queen I am sure you will give thought to defeating the rebels and returned my lands to me.\"\n\n\"Your lands your majesty? Are they not part of the Roman Empire?\"\n\nThere was a silence and Bolanus wondered if he had gone too far. Suddenly the Queen stood and in one movement pulled her sword from its scabbard. The blade was pointed at the centre of the table but her eyes bored into the Roman's.\" I am Queen Cartimandua of the Brigante and this is Sax Lacus the sword of my ancestors. As long as a member of my family wields this mighty weapon then we rule the land of the Brigante and all the people know this.\" She slowly returned the blade to its jewelled scabbard. \"If the Emperor wishes to help us to conquer my rebellious enemies then the sword of the Brigante will serve the Roman Empire as a, I believe they are called, client kingdom. Certainly, that was the arrangement I came to with the Emperor Claudius.\"\n\nThe governor was white for the sword had been so close to his face that he was under no illusions that, had she wished, she could have taken his head. Next time he would have guards in the room, and the bitch searched. The comment about Claudius caused him some worry. He had been sent to Britannia without speaking to the new Emperor, perhaps there were arrangements in place he knew naught about. Even now the Emperor was in Judea making sure that the new d place there would do as he was bid. Perhaps this was true in Britannia; He chewed to help him regain his composure although, in truth, he could taste nothing. He wondered how she knew about client kings. If she truly knew about them she would know that, as in Judea and Egypt, they soon became Roman. \"Of course, your majesty that is what I meant.\"\n\n\"Excellent and now I fear we have imposed too much upon you and you have had a long journey. We thank you and bid you goodnight.\"\n\nThe three walked silently to their quarters and when Macha looked as though she were going to speak the queen held her hand to silence her. Once in the room, Lenta closed and barred the door and they retreated into Cartimandua's chamber.\n\n\"Well?\" said the Queen.\n\n\"He went along with you,\" began Macha.\n\n\"But he went along for his own reasons,\" added Lenta. \"I would not trust him. He will betray you.\"\n\n\"Once he has defeated Venutius he will try to rid himself of you.\"\n\n\"I know.\" The Queen looked hard at the two young women. \"And it is you he would replace me with.\"\n\n\"But we would not do that.\"\n\nCartimandua's face softened. \"I know for you have had the chance before but you have to know that he would try and you must be careful and I must ensure that you have some protection. Perhaps marriage to a noble or powerful Roman.\"\n\nMacha looked aghast. \"I will choose my own man!\"\n\n\"Of course, but I will choose your husband.\"\n\n\"I have had one husband whom I loved I do not want another.\"\n\n\"You will have another if I say so. Remember I have always looked after you and I will continue to do so. Have as many lovers as you like.\" She smiled to herself thinking of Ulpius. \"But, as I did with Venutius, you sometimes have to marry for power.\"\n\nLenta murmured half under her breath, \"And looked what happened there.\"\n\nThere was a sharp intake of breath from Macha who wondered if her sister had gone too far. \"True sister it was a mistake. Instead of keeping the wolf from the door I brought him into the fold. Let us see if we can find a hound who can be trained and controlled instead of a wolf eh\"\n\nAlthough Bolanus resented the Queen and her attitude he realised that it made sense for him to improve the defences of Eboracum. He set the legionaries to work building stone towers at the corners of the wooden camp. He used slave labour to begin construction of the port which was adjacent to the camp. Meanwhile, he sent a messenger to Lindum to request another legion. In his report to Vespasian he exaggerated the treasures Britannia had to offer. He enthused about the potential treasures to the north, treasures which would become Imperial with another legion. He also made quite clear that Queen Cartimandua would accede to all his demands. The governor had no doubt that the Emperor would look favourably on his demands. Finally, he sent for two more cohorts of the Ninth Hispana just to ensure his own safety.\n\nThe winter hardened from the gentler time of early winter; there appeared, to the Romans, to be little difference between the two. The main difference was the lack of leaves on the trees a phenomenon unknown to many of the legionaries. The weather could change from a glorious sunny day to one where the skies turned black and then emptied themselves upon the land and all in an hour. The mighty river running through Eboracum could rise higher than a house overnight and just as quickly disappear. The more superstitious Romans attributed this to the evil and witchcraft which abounded, they believed. Any land that would follow a woman, and a wild woman such as Cartimandua, was a land which would be as capricious as a woman.\n\nUlpius had little time to enjoy with the mother of his unborn child as the tribune kept the decurion princeps and his troopers on patrol as much as possible. The times they had together were precious. As she was trying to hide her pregnancy she kept indoors as much as possible which made life much easier for Ulpius. There were now more Brigante warriors drifting into Eboracum. Once Cartimandua had vetted them for loyalty she executed those not to be trusted and enrolled the rest into a bodyguard. She was still as ruthless as ever and seemed to have the ability to almost sniff out those who were not loyal subjects who wished to serve her. So it was that Ulpius found it easier to access the queen getting past guards whose loyalty was to the queen and not Rome.\n\nWhen not on patrol they lay in each other's arms, talking like young lovers long into the night. The queen was fascinated by his scars and questioned him at length about the origin of each one. The Roman, for his part, was curious about the life of a warrior queen. His own tribe had held women in esteem but had not made one their leader. Cartimandua explained about the sword and its symbolism. When Ulpius held the sword, he could understand the power of the weapon. His own people viewed all swords as magical but the sword of the lake appeared to him to be the ultimate magic weapon.\n\n\"Promise me that, when I die,\" she held her hand over his protesting mouth, \"when I die for I am old to be a mother and child birth is hard even for younger women; you will make sure that my son has this sword. Guard it with your life for as long as this sword is wielded by one of my family then Brigantia will live. Swear!\"\n\n\"I so swear but you will outlive me. One of these patrols will see me gutted. I cannot avoid every arrow and sword for I have outlived all of my people who joined the Romans. The gods alone know why I live.\"\n\n\"Live you must for if you died, all meaning would go from my life. We will soon have a child and he will need us both.\"\n\nThey embraced and silent tears coursed down the queen's face. The unborn child was changing her and making her less of a warrior. Shaking herself she looked at Ulpius. \"Swear too that you will protect my sisters and family for there will be many who would cause them harm or use them as Venutius tried to use me.\"\n\n\"I swear but I have little power. The tribune wishes me gone.\"\n\n\"We will deal with the tribune. Perhaps if he were sent away from Eboracum for a while...\"\n\n\"I cannot see the weasel wishing to leave the safety of these walls.\"\n\n\"Nor can I but something may arise.\" The Queen's razor sharp mind was already plotting; unlike the military mind of Ulpius, she had a politic mind which had enabled her to survive for so many years with so many enemies. The governor might think he understood politics but he had not come up against a formidable opponent such as Cartimandua.\n\nGaius Cresens surreptitiously peered over his shoulder as made his way towards the woods and the dwelling of Fainch the witch. He had long ago ceased from sexual advances and had begun to fear the dark eyed vixen who appeared to know far too much for someone who appeared never to leave her hut. He had yet to acquire the poison he had requested and he suspected that she was holding it back for some reason. He had good information this time and he hoped she would give him what he desired.\n\n\"I have some news.\"\n\n\"If you are here to tell me that soldiers are coming from the south then you can leave for I know it already.\"\n\nCresens inwardly cursed. He had hoped that the information was a secret. \"No, it is greater news than that.\"\n\n\"So, you are not going to tell me that the governor intends to attack Venutius before the festival of Eostre?\"\n\nGods! The woman had other spies. \"No, it is news which cost me dear to acquire.\" He paused significantly.\n\n\"On with it Roman. Don't stand there licking your greasy chops.\"\n\n\"I know you know that there are legionaries coming from Lindum but you do not know that Bolanus has sent for another legion from Rome.\" Her silence told him that this was news indeed. \"Is not that information worth gold and, perhaps, the little favour I asked?\"\n\n\"Here is some gold but the rest and the, er favour, will have to wait until I have the information confirmed.\"\n\nSo she did have other informants. Cresens determined to keep his ears open. \"Thank you for this. I will return next week.\"\n\n\"As a small favour, I would not send for any supplies for the next week. They may not arrive.\"\n\nThe quartermaster looked in surprise. There would be an attack on the supply routes. The soldier in him wondered why and the thief in him was already plotting how to profit from that news.\n\nSaenius Augustinius gnawed nervously on a fingernail. The new governor was not making his life easier. The fool appeared to go along with the Brigante bitch in all she said and did. Even now her quarters were being improved and her guards increasing by the day. He was rarely consulted on anything remotely important. He could see his military career ending ignominiously and he would have to slink back to Rome a failure. This was, as his father had told him, his best chance for glory; the primitive warriors of Britannia were no match for the Roman legions and he had pictured himself returning with the laurel leaves of a victor. What was even worse was the lack of respect he had from the barbarian cavalry. The prefect Flavinius Bellatoris paid lip service to him and the only respect he had was to his office and not to him. He seethed and blamed that one eyed barbarian Ulpius; he had chosen to disregard him and he had the backing of the Queen. He had thought that by promoting him he would ensure his loyalty and he would do as he wanted. The decurion princeps had not done so. The Queen also seemed to regard him as something unpleasant into which she had stepped. Would that they were both dead! He had tried to engineer Ulpius' demise by constant patrols but he seemed to thrive on the action. His only pleasure came from the fact that he was keeping him from the whore's bed and that gave him pleasure.\n\nHe finished writing his weekly report and stood to peer into the camp. It was a desolate place now that the leaves had left the trees and the cold was biting into his bones. He pondered wrapping his bearskin around his shoulders but he knew it would be colder later on. Across the camp he noticed the quartermaster watching him. The tribune knew of some of the illicit deals the man made but he chose to ignore them as he benefited sometime. Perhaps he could use this obvious criminal to his own ends. He signalled him over.\n\nCresens wondered why the tribune needed him. He had been of service to the patrician on a number of occasions, normally involving women and twice with boys. Perhaps the tribune needed servicing.\n\n\"Come in quartermaster. Sit.\" He leaned forward, put his hands together and peered at the ex-soldier over the tips of his fingers. His eyes were sharp and watched for any reaction from the corpulent Cresens. \"How is your new position working out then, \"he paused trying to remember the fat old cavalryman's name, \" Gaius? How are you enjoying being a quartermaster?\"\n\n\"It is an honour sir although if truth be told I would still prefer to command the ala.\"\n\nSaenius smiled at the thought of this fat man sitting astride a horse but he hid the smile behind his hands. \"Ah yes, it is a shame that we no longer have a Roman as decurion princeps but still Ulpius Felix is a brave warrior is he not?\"\n\n\"He has brave men with him but I find it interesting that others die and others are wounded and yet the man who leads them always comes back without a scratch.\"\n\nThe tribune now knew what he had suspected, there was no love lost between the two men and he could use that to his advantage. \"Perhaps you may have something there.\"\n\nEmboldened by this apparent support Cresens continued. \"There are rumours about the decurion princeps and the Queen.\"\n\n\"Are there? Well, I think there are rumours about many things in this camp but, \"he paused significantly and lowered his hands, \"if you should hear anything of a more solid nature I am sure you would tell me first would you not?\"\n\nGaius' face lit up, he had an ally, \"Of course, of course. I will keep you informed of anything which would be of interest to yourself and Rome.\" He paused. \"Has the tribune noticed that the Queen is becoming larger?\"\n\n\"Well good food.\"\n\n\"One of her servants hinted that she is, well she is with child!\"\n\n\"Don't be absurd. She is too old.\" Even as he said it the tribune wondered if that were true. It would explain much. It would also give him more power as knowledge was power.\n\n\"Good. Well thank you for your time and he added significantly for the information. You will not lose by my friendship.\" With a wave the quartermaster was dismissed but he left not feeling rejected but accepted. His star was on the rise and he was already calculating how to profit from this new liaison.\n\nSo the longer nights and shorter days drifted into a similar pattern. The queen grew larger, the patrols increasingly fraught as fodder and food diminished and the buildings grew apace. It was in the depths of winter when the nights were the longest and the weather the coldest that the change came. Even the tribune had to accept that the patrols were no longer relevant and besides the first ships had arrived at Eboracum with fresh supplies of wine, olives and delicacies such as the Romans had not seen for months. The governor called a three-day holiday with just the guards on the camp walls and the slaves working.\n\nCresens took the opportunity to visit with Fainch. Although she would have known about the lull in activity he thought he might be able to get something for his information. According to his slaves this was the local festival of Yule; perhaps she would be more forthcoming with her favours. He had only been in her hut for moments when that hope was dashed. \"Have you brought information fat one or are you here to lose your manhood?\"\n\n\"I bring news that there is a holiday for three days and no patrols.\"\n\n\"Is that all? I too knew that.\" In truth she did not know how many days nor did she know that the patrols had ceased but she did not want to give away too much.\n\n\"And there is a boat arrived from Ostia. It brings many luxuries from home.\"\n\nSurprisingly that information seemed to interest the witch. \"There will be feasting?\n\n\"There will be much for the Romans will celebrate Saturnalia.\"\n\n\"Do you still wish for the poison to rid yourself of Ulpius?\"\n\nHis face lit up with malice and mischief. \"Yes, give me, give!\"\n\nShe tantalisingly held out a phial. You may have it provided,\" she dropped her voice; \"the Queen and the Governor also die!\"\n\nThe quartermaster's face went ashen. To kill the decurion princeps was one thing but to risk the governor was quite another. \"You are mad! I would be discovered!\"\n\n\"Think you cowardly lump! Have they not brought rich delicacies from Rome? Have they not brought spices and sweetmeats which will mask flavours? It will be easy. The queen and the governor will have the choicest of foods all you need is someone to put the potion in their food. \"The one eyed barbarian you hate, he could also die, \"she shrugged, \"I am sure it could be hidden in his wine.\"\n\nHe chewed his lip nervously. The witch was right, this was the perfect opportunity. If he timed it right he could be safe from blame; as quartermaster, he had access to all the foods as they arrived. He knew which ones would be chosen by the governor. His only problem was ensuring that his ally, the tribune did not eat the same food. \"Give. I will do as you bid.\" He would not use the wine for he was not sure that they would all drink it. He needed to find another means.\n\n\"When they are dead there will be more gold for you.\"\n\nThis was proving to be an excellent meeting. Ulpius would be gone and he would be richer, perhaps rich enough to return to Rome.\n\n# Chapter 10\n\n#\n\nThe Queen's quarters Eboracum\n\nLenta smiled when Macha volunteered to pass a message from the Queen to Ulpius; it was not the first time that she had done so. Lenta was pleased for her sister, she knew that she and the soldier Marcus had an understanding and as a woman who had known a man Lenta wanted her sister to enjoy the same joy. Macha, for her part, felt Lenta's eyes on her back but she felt not shame but secret delight that she would pass by the Roman she believed she loved. She would never know until he held her, until he caressed her, until he kissed her and yes, until he took her. She also felt the eyes of all the soldiers in the camp appraising her and imagining themselves with her. Her position as the queen's sister ensured that no one would dare make a comment or a gesture but she knew they were watching her. She hoped that Marcus would be near to Ulpius so that she could snatch a few moments with him.\n\nHer heart lifted when she saw him in conversation with Drusus outside the decurion princeps' quarters. She coloured a little when she saw the grin on Drusus' face and the reddening face of the man she loved.\n\n\"Lady,\" Marcus and Drusus both bowed their heads.\n\n\"I have a message for the decurion princeps.\" It was as though he had been awaiting the message for Ulpius strode out.\n\n\"Yes my lady? What is the message?\"\n\n\"The Queen wishes to discuss the training of her bodyguards.\"\n\nUlpius wiped the grins off the faces of his subordinates with a glare of his eye. \"Marcus check sick roll.\" Hearing the laugh from Drusus he added, \"Drusus, make sure the horses have had their quarters cleaned.\" As he strode off to his lover's chambers Ulpius couldn't help grinning at the discomfort of all three young people. It was good that Macha and Marcus had found each other. He could not believe that he had found love so late in life. He did not care if people knew but he preferred to keep it a secret for the dignity of the queen.\n\nLeft alone Marcus and Macha were at a momentary loss until Macha said, \"Could I help you with the roll?\"\n\n\"That would be, yes thank you kindly lady.\"\n\nIn truth checking the sick roll was a quick job, as Ulpius had known and it was finished far too quickly for the two would be lovers. Macha felt obliged to fill the silence as Marcus had shown in previous meetings that he was tongue tied in the presence of women. \"Are you looking forward to Yule?\"\n\n\"Yule? I am sorry we do not celebrate at this season. We just hunker down until the days lengthen.\"\n\n\"As we do but we make sure that we feast. We light a fire that burns until the days lengthen and we eat all the foods we have saved from the harvest. That is why we were so happy when your ships began to arrive for now we have the spices we need to make the food taste so good. We cut green leaves and put them in our homes and we guard our homes from evil with the magic white berries. Then we drink the brews from the harvest, sing songs and tell stories.\"\n\nMarcus laughed. \"We have a similar festival, we call it Saturnalia but we drink more than we eat. Yule sounds a better way to celebrate. I look forward to my first Yule. Does everyone celebrate together?\"\n\nMacha's face darkened a little. \"When we had our own home and hall yes, all our people came together but here our quarters are so small that we could only host ten or twelve people.\" Her eyes twinkled when she added, \"Perhaps my sister will invite Ulpius and some of his senior officers.\" When Marcus coloured and grinned like a child Macha laughed out loud. \"Your face my love can be read like the stars.\"\n\n\"Your love, you mean ...\"\n\nMacha was torn; half of her was upset that she had told him first that she loved him and the other was joyous that it was in the open. Before she could say anything, Marcus had thrown his arms around her and kissed her passionately on the lips. Any outrage at the impertinence was soon replaced by a magical thrill which coursed through her body. When they came apart they stood staring deep into each other's eyes. \"I think you have your answer and I have mine but,\" she cautioned, \"as with my sister we must keep it secret. At least for now.\" She leaned forward and gave him a quick peck. \"And now my love I should go. I do not want to but I must.\"\n\nIn the Queen's quarters, the warrior who would soon be a father was gently stroking the queen's hair as she lay with her head in his lap. \"How is the child?\"\n\n\"As restless as a young colt. He will be a warrior. It will not be long now my love.\"\n\n\"What will your people say when he is born?\"\n\n\"What they will say is long live the prince what they think will be a little different but I am queen. Whatever I do is right by my people. You can see from the warriors joining us now that they tire of Venutius and the Carvetii. Soon we will be able to join with your Roman army and defeat him.\"\n\n\"That will be easier said than done my love. I saw his stronghold at Brocavum. It will take at least a legion to storm that and the land before it is inhospitable and barren of food and shelter. With only two alae we would struggle to protect our lines.\"\n\n\"Did you visit the land further west?\" Ulpius shook his head. \"It is very fertile it is a land of water, hills and woods. The grass there would provide rich fodder for your horses. There are many lakes and it is close to the western sea. If you had a fort there you could supply it from the sea which is but a day's ride from there. We do not have ships amongst the Brigante but I know that you Romans can use the sea as a road.\"\n\nUlpius laughed a deep laugh. \"You truly are a warrior and a general. Other women talk of children and clothes but you my love can talk of war and talk wisely of war. I will mention this to the prefect. When the days become longer I will take my ala.\n\nMarcus Bolanus was holding a meeting with the tribune. Much as he disliked the tribune he knew that he would have to work with him until he had appointed tribunes of his own. The last thing he wanted was a debacle like the Scapula campaign against the Silures which had resulted in the only defeat of a legion in these lands. He would have to tread carefully until the Emperor despatched another legion to help the ninth subdue the north.\n\n\"Well tribune, are your troops ready for the invasion of the north?\"\n\n\"The horses of the Pannonians are not as strong as I would like and our replacements have not arrived but, other than that yes we are ready. But as we both know we cannot subdue the strongholds without the legions.\"\n\n\"True and that is why I have summoned another legion. We must use your cavalry to pin down the barbarians and prevent them gathering strength.\"\n\nThe tribune had already discussed this with the prefect of cavalry and they both knew that the major problem was a secure base. They needed a fortress close to where they would be operating to enable them to strike quickly and control a large area. The Carvetii had no cavalry of their own and their horses were pathetic ponies. As the legionaries said 'pathetic ponies for the pathetic Britons'. \"Perhaps we need to establish a base from which they can strike? Somewhere to the west? The legions subduing the Silures would protect their rear and they are close to the coast.\"\n\nThe governor looked at the tribune in a different light. He was not the fool he took him to be. \"Perhaps we could begin in the next few weeks. The barbarians will still be asleep and we could steal a march on them. Have you troops ready?\"\n\nThe tribune grinned a wolfish grin; at last a chance to rid himself of the troublesome Ulpius. Ulpius Felix and his ala have already had great success, rescuing the queen and ridding the lands of the Brigante and the Carvetii.\" It stuck in his craw to admit this but he wanted rid of the troublesome barbarian who could not have a charmed life for long.\n\n\"It would be dangerous.\"\n\n\"Yes but we would be risking just five hundred men and, I assume, there is another ala coming with the legion?\"\n\n\"Yes I heard today that the Samians are coming which will give us two thousand auxiliaries. We can let him have a couple of centuries of legionaries and with the dismounted troops he should have enough men to defend a fort and still harry the enemy. Make it so.\"\n\nFlavinius stared at the tribune. The fool had just signed the death warrant of seven hundred men. To send a Roman force in the depths of winter was folly indeed. To send them through enemy territory bordered on the suicidal. Of course his objections had been overruled for the popinjay had the backing of the military governor. He had not had time to get to know the new man but what he had seen he had disliked. He yearned for a decent governor like Caesius Alasica but commanders such as he were viewed with suspicion for who knew when they might decide to become Emperor. Successful generals who were loved by their men were watched, monitored and investigated. Vespasian had done well to rise to become Emperor and Flavius hoped that his old commander would survive into a second year for he gave hope to the soldiers. He sighed as he wondered how he would convince his old friend, Ulpius, that he had a chance, which, of course, he had not.\n\nHe watched Ulpius striding through the camp. The man had a presence; had he still been in Pannonia he would have been a chief for he had the warrior's instinct for survival and a keen strategic mind. If anyone had a chance on this foolish foray it was Ulpius.\n\n\"Come in decurion princeps. The Governor has a task for you. You are to take your ala and a vexillation of the Valeria Victrix and build a fort in Carvetii land to the west.\" The prefect expected a reaction but Ulpius merely nodded. The decurion had long since given up expecting all orders to make sense and in truth he had been expecting some sort of mission. Too many Romans came to the army to make political careers, their ladders were not the scaling ladders of sieges but the bodies of the dead soldiers they trampled upon. The poor caligae were the ones whose bones littered Parthian deserts and German forests. He also saw in the tribune and military governor two men who appeared to want him to disappear. Since their arrival he had spent more time out of the fortress rather than in it. The second ala enjoyed mocking Ulpius and the men from the first ala as they enjoyed the benefits and comforts of barrack's life.\n\n\"The twentieth are good soldiers. They did well against the Iceni. How many in the vexillation?\"\n\n\"Just two centuries. They are to help build the fort and then provide the guards.\" Again, there was no reaction from the auxiliary which again surprised the prefect.\n\n\"At least they are not the Ninth. Remember they spent thirty years in our homeland and they are the laziest bastards I ever met.\"\n\n\"And the most untrustworthy. Back in forty-three they almost mutinied. I wish they had, a good decimation might have made them more reliable.\"\n\nUlpius nodded. \"Do I choose where to build the fort?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" his curiosity was aroused for Ulpius' face became more animated. \"Have you something in mind?\"\n\n\"If I am to pin down the Carvetii I need to be close to their lands do I not?\" His commander nodded. \"Yet, if I am in their lands, I would have no allies and risk raids by small bands so I was thinking of something a little further south in Brigante land. Venutius is stronger in the north. The west has few people, narrow valleys and would be perfect for a fort. The Queen has told me of a site which should be perfect. If we are to travel over the short days I would prefer to be able to travel as far to the south as I could to avoid contact with Venutius. If the Queen loaned me a few of her bodyguard we could ensure that the locals were on our side and we could still harry the enemy.\"\n\n\"That sounds like a good plan. This place the Queen told you of can you find it?\"\n\n\"She said it is easily defended, close to the coast, good water and with a day's ride of Venutius' stronghold.\"\n\n\"You old fox. Don't tell me you know how to get to such a place?\" He nodded. \"Not such a death ride as I expected. You will need to leave within the week.\"\n\n\"One thing Flavinius, \"he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level so that the clerk could not eavesdrop. \"I want no-one to know our precise destination. Just somewhere in the Carvetii lands will suffice. The raids on the supply columns convince me that there are spies in the camp. I will do as I did before and tell my men once we leave the comfort, safety and ears of this fort.\"\n\n\"Yes I agree. I too am convinced that someone is passing information. Too many couriers are being lost. I will look into it while you are away. Things will be quiet here and not only for you. He looked knowingly at his old friend. He could see that he wished to say more. \"And?\"\n\n\"We are old comrades and, I hope, old friends.\"\n\n\"Yes. I hope this is not a request to borrow money?\" He joked.\n\n\"As old friends we trust each other and we can confide in each other.\"\n\nFlavinius was intrigued. \"I am interested where this is going.\"\n\nTaking a deep breath, the decurion princeps launched into it. \"The queen is with child, my child. I know that you would protect her but her condition means that she will need even more. You will watch over her. While I am away she will need your eyes, both of them to make sure she is safe. If I have some of her more trusted warriors she will be more vulnerable.\"\n\n\"You are a fool. She is the queen! If the governor were to find out.\"\n\n\"If the governor were to find out then we would have to deal with that but you are the only one who knows. I am trusting you.\"\n\n\"I will watch over the queen my brother but I can do nothing for you if you are discovered.\"\n\n\"I know but in the unborn child I have a future. I will be leaving something in this world when I depart instead of a few belongings to be shared out by my comrades. I will leave a little of Ulpius Felix; something of me will live on.\"\n\nThe prefect nodded in agreement. To have a child was to have a future. \"Be careful then and tell no-one else.\" They grasped each other's forearms in the soldier's salute. \"When you return we will celebrate with a libation to Mithras.\"\n\n\"I will hold you to that. My next problem is to persuade the Queen that she is to stay here without me.\"\n\n\"Well old friend I cannot help you there. You are on your own.\"\n\nThe queen had mixed emotions when she heard of his departure. She was fearful that she would be alone when giving birth but the warrior in her was excited at the prospect of a battle which might return her lands to her. \"I will give you ten of my young bodyguards they will take you to a good place to build your fort. It will be hard my love. The hills through which you travel will soon be filling with snow; if you do not start soon you may not get there.\"\n\n\"I know. We have a week to prepare.\"\n\n\"And I have a week left to love.\"\n\nRome\n\nIn Rome Vespasian threw down the report in disgust. Marcus Bolanus was obviously an incompetent fool and he needed replacing. He was ineffective allowing too much disruption in that part of the Empire. Right now the Emperor needed the gold mines of Britannia producing gold to finance his war in the east. He needed the tin and copper to make even better weapons. He needed Britannia peaceful. The fact that the Queen of the Brigante had almost died was too much. Client kings were the mortar of the Empire. They held its fragile structure together and allowed its soldiers to defeat the barbarians at the gates. He called over his scribe. \"Send for Marcus Caesius Alasica and Quintus Cerialis.\"\n\nAs the man disappeared Vespasian wondered why he had not thought of his young friend Caesius Alasica. He was a superb warrior and, more importantly, had been the first to come out in support of his claim to be Emperor. Quintus was a solid man who would make a good governor. He would brook no revolt and would handle the province with efficiency. Although it would take them some time to reach the outpost of the Empire by the time the spring arrived Britannia would be in safe hands again and this time the whole of the island would be conquered. A secure northern border would allow him to set his sights on the Parthians, the nemesis of Rome. First Judea would be subdued and then Parthia. He would recapture and return the eagles of Crassus to rest in Rome.\n\nEboracum\n\nStanding at the main gate Gaius Cresens was shocked to see Fainch, the witch, walking towards the camp. She was shuffling and had a ragged cloak about her head and shoulders making it difficult for anyone to see her but he recognised her immediately. He noted with some disquiet that she appeared to be heading towards him. He looked nervously round. No-one, apart from the bored guards at the gate, appeared to be watching him and there was no-one else within earshot but even so it was a dangerous thing to do. As she approached him she looked up at him and gestured for him to follow her. She led him away from the settlement through a grove of elder and blackthorn to the bank of the river. The spot she took him to was overgrown and could not be seen either from the river or the camp. When there she squatted down and pulled him down next to her. \"For anyone watching you are taking me so while I talk make noises as though you are.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Pretend you are fucking me by making noises you useless fat man! I have a message.\" He grasped the idea and began to moan as she spoke. Whilst speaking she put in an occasional moan and moved the branches close by. \"We know that the Romans are to move a force towards Venutius in the next seven days. You must find out precisely where he is going.\"\n\n\"I have tried but no-one is speaking.\"\n\n\"Try harder. As a reward I have more gold.\" She showed him a bag containing more gold than he had seen before.\n\n\"That is a good reward.\" He looked suspiciously at her. \"Just for information.\"\n\n\"You are becoming wiser, just talking to me, we wish for the queen to die now and if the cavalry leader dies too then that will delay the Roman plans.\"\n\nThe quartermaster thought about it. He had already decided to do it. This gold would mean he could leave in the spring and return to Rome. \"I will do it.\"\n\n\"Good now squeal as though we are finished.\" He did so. As he walked through the gates he saw that the guards were leering at him. Obviously the deception had worked and now he could begin to plan the death of Ulpius and try to work out how to acquire this information.\n\nFainch also left to continue her work. It was midnight when she met her inner circle of killers. They had killed most of the messengers sent from the fort. If it were not for the ships tying up at the jetties no news would arrive. This time she told her band that they had to find out where the Romans were going. She did not trust her spy and if she could augment her information she would.\n\nDrusus and Marcus were drinking heavily in the soldier's canteen. They were talking as quietly as drunken men talk. Most of the soldiers around them were ignoring them drinking as heavily as they could, knowing that in the next few days, many of them would be heading towards privation, danger and, probably, death. There was an exception. In the corner, hooded, but close enough to hear them sat Gaius Cresens who had made it is his business to follow the men of Ulpius' ala when they were drinking. He had not risked asking questions but he knew the cavalrymen, he had been their decurion princeps and knew that the decurions would know where they were headed. So far it had been fruitless but he still had three days to go.\n\nDrusus looked around furtively. \"This place we are seeking. Morbium?\"\n\n\"That is what Ulpius told me.\"\n\n\"Where is it? I have not heard of it.\"\n\n\"It is to the north. We found it on a patrol a few weeks ago. It is a place where we can ford the North river. There is a hill overlooking the ford and it could be fortified. Ulpius and the Brigante think it would be a good place to defend. We could assault the Carvetii and yet be within a two day ride of Cataractonium.\"\n\n\"Well at least the decurion princeps is not thinking too much of glory. He has us a bolt hole.\"\n\n\"Ulpius is a wise warrior. He will not throw our lives away lightly. Come we have yet to check the picket lines.\" The two soldiers left staggering and lurching a little as they did so. Cresens did not move. He had the information he needed although he did not know where Morbium was. He hoped the witch would for to ask further questions would invite too much suspicion. Besides the new wine just arrived from Rome was going down remarkably well.\n\nLater when Marcus reported to Ulpius on his patrol of the picket lines he was walking in a less drunken manner. \"Well?\"\n\n\"I think I have missed my calling I should have been in the theatron as an actor.\"\n\n\"You said the words I told you?\"\n\n\"Word for word.\"\n\n\"Did anyone leave just after you, or follow you?\"\n\n\"No we waited but no one emerged. The wine was too good.\"\n\n\"Were there any strangers in there?\"\n\n\"No. There were a few fellows we did not recognise but all wore soldier's garments.\"\n\n\"Well hopefully one of the many spies will have been in there. You have done well.\"\n\n\"Well enough for you to tell me where we are going?\"\n\nUlpius smiled. \"The Queen tells me that at Yuletide they give a surprise to friends and family. This will be my surprise present to you,\" he paused, \"I will tell you and the men when we are on the road.\"\n\nCresens had delivered his information to Fainch who had looked more than a little pleased. His next task was to work out how to poison the Queen and Ulpius. He had decided that the festival of Yule would be the best opportunity for that was when they would eat and drink to excess. His problem was he did not yet know what they would be eating. He knew what Roman tastes were but not Brigante. As he sat in his quarters chewing on the last of the figs stolen from the Governor's supplies he had an inspirational idea he would ask his slaves. He shouted for Annowre, the woman who cleaned for him and serviced him when he could get nothing better.\n\n\"Tell me of this Yule festival. What do you savages eat?\"\n\n\"Any of the chickens or geese which will not live through the winter.\"\n\n\"What special foods?\"\n\n\"There is a pudding made of the last of the summer fruits, the old meat which we can no longer eat, some spices when we can get them, and they are soaked in the wine made from the elder tree.\"\n\n\"And does everyone eat?\"\n\n\"It is considered a dishonour not to eat,\" the Briton was shocked at the lack of etiquette from the Roman. Everyone knew that to eat the pudding brought good fortune for the following year. Why would people not wish to have good fortune?\n\nHe dismissed her with a wave. Here was his chance the alcohol and the spices would mask the taste. It was one dish they would all eat. He cared not if Lenta and Macha also died. He just wanted Ulpius to die and he was being paid to kill Cartimandua. He would have to try to keep the tribune away from the food but if he died then he died. Cresens would not risk all to save an alliance that so far had brought him little.\n\nHe strode over to the kitchen area with the newly arrived spices from Rome. The cook was pleased to see him, as he knew he would be. Cresens for his part was fulsome in his praise for the cook.\n\n\"Thank you, Gaius. If it were not for these magic ingredients I would struggle to make the swill they call food here edible.\"\n\n\"Just so Julius, just so. And what are we making here?\"\n\n\"This is the pudding the Brigante like to eat. The queen has asked me to make a special one for her and she has given me this.\" He held up a bottle of the spirit distilled from the elder wine, a rare libation reserved for special occasions. \"Here,\" he looked around guiltily, \"try some.\"\n\nCresens felt his throat burn with a warm sensation. The taste continued after he had swallowed. \"A rare drink indeed. Will you put it all in there?\"\n\nThe cook leered at the quartermaster. \"I feel sure I will have a little left for us to share.\"\n\n\"Is the pudding finished then?\"\n\n\"Almost. I have tasted it and it is now ready for the liquid.\"\n\n\"You do not taste after the wine has been added?\"\n\n\"There is no point it would only taste of the drink.\" There was an almighty crash behind him and the cook turned to beat the slave who had dropped the dishes. Cresens took his opportunity. He poured the phial of poison over the pudding. By the time the cook had turned around the liquid had soaked into the other ingredients.\n\nAs he left Cresens almost did a dance of joy; the queen and Ulpius would die in the next three days and when next boats arrived in the spring he would return to Rome a very rich man. He needed now to ingratiate himself with the tribune and governor to make his return to Rome even easier.\n\nUlpius and his lover were oblivious to their impending danger; as was their normal practice they lay in each other's arms forgetful of their responsibilities of people and troopers and only mindful of each other. They indulged in the trivialities which had been absent from their lives for so long. They talked of names for the child, their plans for his future and how they would live together. Both were aware of the impracticalities but the queen was certain they could be overcome.\n\n\"If needs be I will buy you out of Rome's service but I am sure, as with Flavius Gerantium, the Emperor will allow you to serve me.\" She gave a flirtatious giggle. \"Not necessarily as he did but serve me you shall.\"\n\nHe raised himself on one elbow. \"What of Marcus and your sister? Will they enjoy life as we have?\"\n\n\"I am sure something will be arranged. What is the point of being a queen if you can't make things happen? We might be a client ally of Rome but, until Rome has conquered all of these lands she will need all the allies she can get. I realised that long ago. I saw how Togadunum and Caractactus were destroyed, wafted aside by your legions. If they could not stand, the most powerful tribe then we had no chance. Boudicca proved that when she tried to take them on. Some people may resent what I have done but my people still prosper, my people still have their homes and customs and they still have their own ruler.\"\n\n\"And still a beautiful ruler.\"\n\nShe reached up and pulled him towards her. \"If that is your way of saying you are ready again well so am I.\"\n\n# Chapter 11\n\n#\n\nEboracum\n\nConsidering it was supposed to be the depths of winter, the feast of Yule arrived with a bright sunny day. To the Brigante it was a good day, although the Romans found it far too cold for their taste. The governor had decreed that only essential guards need be on duty whilst the rest could enjoy the feast. He was annoyed that the queen had declined his invitation to join him for the feast and rumour had it that she was to dine with some barbarian cavalrymen. His decision to send them off was a wise one. He picked at his olives and looked around at the senior officers gather around him. He yearned to be in Rome, to be surrounded by beauty and baths not this primitive, cold and unappealing hole. He wondered if he should have insisted that she attend but then thought better of it. He could have his special pleasures with his special friends in private.\n\nGaius Cresens was pleased that the tribune was not invited but distraught that the governor was also not to be invited. Fainch would not be happy and Cresens knew that she had information from inside the fort other than his own. He determined to leave sooner rather than later.\n\nThat view was not shared by the two auxiliaries for Marcus and Ulpius were being waited on by the queen's slaves and eating food far richer than they were used to. In deference to her Roman guests, the Queen had arranged for some Roman delicacies such as roast dormouse, the sauce liquamen and pickled eel. In truth, they had never eaten such food but they devoured it in honour to the queen. The wine was honeyed and less watered down. By the time they had finished the prima mensa they were almost full.\n\n\"Before we have, as you Romans would say, the secunda mensa, our Brigante pudding I have a gift.\" She signalled to a slave who disappeared into her chambers. \"It is the custom at this time of year to give gifts to those we regard as special. As you, Ulpius Felix, have served us so well.\" Lenta and Macha giggled until silenced by a stern look from their elder sister. \"And as you are shortly to help me to recover my lands I would like you to have, until our son is born,\" Ulpius noted that no-one seemed surprised at this news including Marcus, he would have to have words with his decurion,\" my sword. The sword of the Brigante, the sword of Cartimandua.\" The servant presented the sword reverently to the queen who first kissed it and then presented it, hilt first to Ulpius who stood opened mouthed.\n\n\"I cannot take this, my Queen. It is the sword of your people.\"\n\n\"It is the sword of my family first and you are now part of our family. You will guard it better than I ready to give to our son and you will use it to help me regain my lands, the lands of my people.\"\n\n\"I take it my Queen and I swear that I will not dishonour this holy weapon and I will use it for you, your people and your land.\" He grasped the hilt and slid the weapon from its scabbard. In the candlelight it appeared to glow with a life of its own. It was as though its maker had put part of his life in the weapon. Without even testing it he could see how sharp it was. Marcus came over to admire it.\n\n\"While the men admire my sword, we will do honour to our pudding.\"\n\nThe slaves brought out the steaming, gleaming bejewelled dish. The slaves put portions on the platters. Macha and Lenta topped up the warrior's drinks and so it was that the queen was the one to eat the poisoned dessert. \"My love, hurry and eat yours for it is so delicious that I will devour this and finish yours.\"\n\n\"I forgot that you are eating for two. Fear not I will match you mouthful for mouthful.\" Sliding the sword back into its scabbard he sat and picked up his bowl. He was just about to take his first mouthful when he was stopped by the sight of Cartimandua reaching up to her throat and retching. Macha and Lenta ran to their mistress whose face had taken on a most unhealthy blue colour. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she continued gagging and vomiting.\n\n\"I...\" the Queen looked at Ulpius and tried to say some last words but the rest of the sentence died along with the light in her eyes and the life in her body. Ulpius held her in his arms and looked plaintively at the two Brigante. Death on a battlefield was something he was accustomed to but he could not even begin to fathom what had just happened. He had had the most perfect night of his life and he was as happy as a warrior could be and then the Allfather had taken half his life away on a whim.\n\nMacha put her ear to the Queen's chest and shook her head. \"She is dead.\"\n\n\"But how?\" questioned Ulpius who could barely speak.\n\nLenta looked at the body and the dish lying on the floor. \"I have seen this kind of death before. It is from poison, a quick acting poison. She can only have taken it moments ago.\"\n\n\"But we all ate the same food, drank the same drink how?\" Marcus could not believe what he was witnessing. The evening had gone from celebration to disaster in a heartbeat.\n\n\"It must have been the pudding!\" Lenta looked at the dessert as though it would bite her.\n\n\"But how...\"\n\nUlpius changed from a man in shock to a warrior enraged; it was not the Allfather but someone, some person who wished the Queen dead. The idea suddenly rushed into his sharp mind, the poison had been meant for them all. \"Never mind that we must tell the governor. There is a murderer loose in the camp. This food was prepared in the camp kitchens others could be poisoned. This could be the plot of Venutius.\" The warrior in Ulpius took over. He would mourn later. He would grieve later. He would get his revenge, later. He called to her bodyguards who were stood outside the door. \"Guard the Queen, let no one touch the body and let no-one in.\" They looked at each other, at the Queen's body and finally at the Queen's sword in his hand and nodded assent.\n\nUlpius and Marcus moved swiftly through the camp to the quarters of Marcus Bolanus. He was busy feasting with the tribune and other senior officers. Bolanus saw him at the door and murmured something to the prefect who rose to speak to Ulpius.\n\n\"The governor is not happy about having his meal disturbed.\"\n\nUlpius look directly at his leader. \"The Queen has been murdered. Poisoned!\"\n\n\"Poisoned but...are you certain?\"\n\n\"We all ate the same food except for the dessert. The Queen began to eat it and she died.\" Ulpius stared at his leader who seemed unable to function. \"The food was prepared in the kitchens here. Your food may also be poisoned. There is an assassin loose.\"\n\nFinally comprehending, Flavinius raced back to speak to Bolanus. If the situation were not so tragic and serious Ulpius might have laughed for the first thing the governor did was to spit out his food. He signalled the decurion princeps. \"Come. Speak. Are you certain the queen is dead?\"\n\n\"She is dead. I have seen enough corpses in my time to know when one is dead. We must secure the camp, governor, there is an assassin in the camp.\"\n\n\"Do not presume to tell me what to do decurion princeps. I am aware of my duties.\" He turned to the prefect. \"Have the gates locked no-one in or out.\" The prefect left taking Marcus with him. \"How was she poisoned?\"\n\nOnce again Ulpius went through the events in the queen's quarters. \"The pudding was not prepared by the queen; she gave the recipe to the cook.\"\n\nBolanus nodded, enlightenment illuminating his face. \"You,\" he pointed to a centurion fetch the cook and his assistants now, here.\" The man scurried out calling to his men who were nearby. Outside they could hear men shouting orders and the noise of arms and movement. \"What of the Queen?\"\n\n\"Her sisters and her guards are watching over her.\"\n\nBolanus looked down at the sword in the decurion princeps' hand. \"Is that not the Queen's sword?\"\n\n\"Aye, she gave it to me just before she died and I will use it kill the man who ordered this.\"\n\n\"That is for me to decide.\"\n\nUlpius looked coldly at the man who seemed to take delight in petty victories. Regardless of what the governor said he would end Venutius' life. He knew who had ordered this murder. The ones with blood on their hands would die but he would have his revenge. At this moment he could not mourn. The fact that his heart had been ripped from his body, his future shattered like a glass bauble and all meaning in his life gone did not stop him from hardening his resolve and putting aside all thoughts of tears and the rending of clothes. There would be a time for mourning, for thinking of his lost love and lost, unborn child, but that time would come when her killers were dead, by his hand and by the very sword which she had bequeathed him, the sword of Cartimandua.\n\nEven before he heard that he had failed to kill his enemy Cresens was already fleeing the port of Eboracum. He was outside the camp when he heard the commotion from within. He smiled with malicious joy; his enemy would already be dead but before he celebrated too much he would make himself scarce. They would seek out the cook and whilst the cook had not seen him put the poison in the pudding he might remember his visit. He had decided that he would leave. Eboracum was too dangerous a place to be between the witch and the governor his life might soon be risked. He would take a trip to Petuaria and check up on the uniforms which should have arrived there. That would give him a good seven days away from the questions and he would also be in a good position for flight. He went to his quarters and the first thing he did was to get his saddlebags containing his ill-gotten gains. He did not intend to be parted from the wealth he had garnered. He had converted most of the gold and silver into precious gems which were smaller and easier to transport. He struggled to fasten the leather cuirass about him but he did not trust anyone. He would kill any of whom he thought might get in his way. He was ruthless and he would take no chances. He covered the leather with a tunic. He also took his bearskin; it would be a long cold ride. As much as he wanted to take guards with him he had to be invisible. He had to travel the dark roads where only thieves and robbers ventured. He could not relax until he had left the island behind and then he would become the rich man he had always wanted to be. No-one saw the portly quartermaster leave, no-one that is save Fainch who smiled to herself as she had known what he would do. She would find him when she needed to.\n\nThe trader he boarded was heading south to Regulbium. From there he could disappear into the cess pit that was Londinium. The captain of the trader suspected that Cresens was fleeing and had charged an appropriately large fee. He smiled to himself; when he returned he would earn another reward for informing on the fat quartermaster.\n\nThe guards herded the terrified cooks and kitchen assistants into the governor's quarters. Bolanus had already ordered the brazier and irons to be made ready for the torturers who were readying their implements. The terrified cook fell to his knees before the governor. He had not the first idea of why they had been summoned. Perhaps the food had not been to the new governor's liking? Whatever the reason the cook felt helpless.\n\n\"Was it you prepared the queen's pudding for her feast?\"\n\n\"It was sir. She gave me the recipe and I made it. I made two for I wanted to try it myself first and taste it.\"\n\n\"Would it surprise you to know then that the queen was poisoned by your pudding?\"\n\n\"But I ate the other one and my cooks did as well.\" He waved a vague arm towards his cooks who cursed him for including them in his guilt.\n\n\"So if you did not put the poison in the pudding then which of these did?\"\n\nThe assembled throng quailed as his gaze fell upon them. There was a cacophony of noise as they all screamed their innocence. \"Take these men away and question them all one by one. I will ask the questions here.\"\n\nThe guards led out the terrified men while the white-faced cook stared in horror at the irons. \"But I am innocent.\"\n\n\"I will be the judge of that.\" He turned to Ulpius. \"Go guard the queen's body and ask her sisters about the Brigante arrangements for death.\"\n\nUlpius was glad to leave for the face of the cook had told him he was innocent. He would be tortured and, hopefully, the name of the real killer would emerge but it mattered not to Ulpius who knew the man he would have to kill, Venutius.\n\nAlthough the cooks were tortured none of them could add any further information. The chief cook, Julius, had suffered more than his helpers and he had already lost an eye and an ear when he finally remembered something. \"The only other visitor when we were preparing the food was the quartermaster, Gaius Cresens but he was in for a short time.\"\n\n\"Why did you suddenly remember him?\"\n\n\"He asked me what I was making and he gave me some spirit to put in the dish.\"\n\n\"Did you put that spirit in your own as well?\"\n\n\"Yes I think so.\"\n\nBolanus held his hand up and the punishment ceased; this was a new name and the man clearly had no further information. \"Send for the quartermaster. Take this one away while we decide if he is telling the truth.\"\n\nAs he sat in his chair sipping some warmed wine and water he debated upon his course of action. It would not look good for him in Rome if it was discovered that the queen had been killed in his camp. The majority of the legionaries in the camp only knew that there had been an attempt on the life of the queen. He could dispose of the cooks easily, his senior officers owed their loyalty to him, and his problem lay with the bodyguards, her sisters and the auxiliaries. When he did divine his strategy he did not know if it was the wine or his natural brilliance which gave him the solution. The queen's sisters said that she had to be buried near one of the secret holy places in the hills to the west. He would kill all the birds with one stone. The auxiliaries would escort the Brigante to the holy place and then continue to create a new base in the west. Either the winter or the Carvetii would destroy them and the queen's death would appear to be an accident of war. The auxiliaries' foray would distract Venutius who would not want five hundred Romans harassing his supply lines. The remainder of the Roman army would be able to advance on his stronghold and defeat him. It was a winning plan and he smiled to himself at his own genius. The tribune did not know that the plan had been his all along. He needed every witness of the debacle away. If he could have engineered it then Flavius would have gone with them. When the dust had settled and the vexillation massacred the death of the Queen would be forgotten, the treasure would be his and Brigantia would be Roman without a native ruler. Saenius Augustinius could then be blamed for the disaster that would ensue when the vexillation and the last of the Brigante royal family died at the hands of Venutius. The plan had a beauty about it which appealed to the convoluted mind of Marcus Bolanus. The order to march away was signed by Saenius Augustinius; the governor's hands were clean.\n\nThe next day he summoned Ulpius who frowned as he looked up at the crucified bodies of the cooks and kitchen staff. He shook his head. They had been largely innocent but it was the roman way to make the punishment as severe as possible to encourage all to obey. He saluted as he entered the headquarters.\n\n\"Ah decurion. I understand that you are to escort the queen's sisters to her burial.\"\n\n\"Yes sir.\"\n\n\"Good well I am going to give you some further orders, \"he gestured to the prefect who sat, unhappily in a chair at the side of Bolanus. You are to take your ala and a cohort of legionaries to the west of Brigante land. I want you to secure a base from which you can harry the enemy. Later in the year, when we have reinforcements we will begin our invasion and we will use your new fort as our base. Understood?\"\n\n\"Yes sir but we can't go yet.\"\n\nThe face of Marcus Bolanus began to swell and redden as he detected insubordination. \"I have given you an order you will carry it out.\"\n\n\"I am not questioning the order sir but we have no supplies prepared and half the ala is still on patrol. It seems to me that if we are to spend time isolated from support we need to be as well prepared as possible. We all want this to succeed don't we sir?\"\n\nRealising that, much as he wanted rid of the embarrassment he did not want to be accused at some future date of deliberately risking failure. \"How long will you need to fully prepare decurion?\"\n\n\"Seven days.\"\n\n\"Good seven days then.\"\n\n\"There is one more thing sir.\"\n\n\"Another demand?\"\n\n\"No sir, a request. When can I meet with the centurion in charge of the vexillation so that we may make plans?\"\n\n\"Decius Brutus arrived last night. You can meet whenever you wish.\"\n\nUlpius had been silent since he reported to Flavinius and Bolanus. He had been silent because he was not only mourning the death of his love but imagining life without her. For the past thirty years he had known only war and fighting interspersed with boring garrison duty. He had only known the comradeship of men. He had been thrust into a world for which he was unprepared. A woman had come into his life and, he had just realised, taken it over. All the things which had seemed important, duty comradeship, Rome had all fallen into insignificance. He was about to spend the rest of his life with a woman who had captivated his heart, he was about to become a father and it had all been snatched away. He was under no illusions; he would not have the opportunity again to feel the comfort of a loving relationship or the intimacy he had known with Cartimandua. It was a bleak future he faced. The only glimmer of a lining to this black cloud was the fact that he could revenge himself on the Queen's killers and then die a warrior's death. That it was more than one killer was obvious to him. Whilst Venutius might want the Queen dead, others were also involved. He might have given the orders but someone had to get the poison and someone had to administer it. He was certain that the poisoner was Gaius Cresens. He needed no further proof than the fact that the man had disappeared following the death. Venutius was known; who had provided the poison? For in his mind they were as guilty as the fat quartermaster. Her death had not been glorious it had been painful and ignoble. The mighty Cartimandua deserved a better death. He would not rest until he had had his revenge and the revenge of his dead love.\n\nThere were other thoughts racing through his mind. He was a warrior and he was going to war. He could not help but think of the expedition he was about to command. Despite what he had said to the governor he was not confident. He would be more than a week away from help, even in high summer, and in winter it could take two or three weeks. He would be in a land of enemies, a land unknown to every Roman. He was relying on a man he did not trust. The main driving force in his decision to obey an order which bordered on the suicidal was that it brought him closer to Venutius. All he wanted was the chance to be within a sword's length of that murderer and the death of Cartimandua would be avenged. Almost without thinking he gripped the scabbard of her sword even tighter.\n\n\"Does this not seem a little hasty to you?\" Marcus spoke quietly to the decurion princeps as they sat astride their horses waiting for the last of the pack horses to join them.\n\n\"The queen must be buried and, cold as it is, she needs putting below the ground.\" Inside Ulpius was mourning and was as grief stricken as he had been about anything, never having witnessed a loved one die before but he was trained to be strong. Much as he thought highly of Marcus he would not let him inside his tough outer shell. Perhaps that was a hope for the future for Marcus and Macha might have the hope that he and the queen had had. He swore that he would protect the two of them with his life.\n\n\"Some of the men say it is suicidal.\"\n\n\"Some of the men may be right and I am sorry that many of our comrades will die and it will be my fault for both the Governor and tribune want us to disappear, to die. Indeed I think they secretly wish I had eaten the poisoned food. It is of no matter. We will survive if only because I promised the queen I would care for her family. I cannot do so in Eboracum but if I can build a fort then I believe I have the chance to protect the sisters, my men and keep this old body alive just a little bit longer.\" He gripped the pommel of the sword tighter. \"I am not ready to meet the Allfather and Queen Cartimandua yet. Once Venutius dies...\"\n\nMarcus looked anew at his leader. He knew just how strong his feelings were for the queen. Perhaps he didn't know that there were as strong for his unborn child. If he had known then perhaps he would have seen the still, hard glint in the decurion princeps' eye. \"I know that but what of this plan to build a fort on the other side of the country? That seems to me the job for a legion not a vexillation with a handful of legionaries and a few cavalrymen. In my years in the cavalry, I have never known of such an undertaking.\"\n\n\"Nor have I but if I tell you that before she died the queen had that idea too. She spoke to me in great detail of a site on which to build a stronghold.\" He grinned at Marcus for the first time in a long time, \"for sometimes young Marcus we did talk. Her sisters too know of the place. To me it sounds like a perfect site to defend for it has water to protect it and many natural resources. It also has the advantage that it will not occur to the enemy that we could be so bold as to do this.\"\n\n\"But to travel before the spring has melted the land and made the journey easier?\"\n\n\"Who said the Roman army ever has anything easy? At least this journey now will show us some of the land we are to travel. We will have longer days when we journey and I think that the enemy will be still wrapped around his women in his stronghold. Do not fear Marcus. I for one am glad to be away from this pestilential hole. It will be good to be away from potential murderers and intrigue. We will be with men we know and trust. I do not know what goes through the mind of the governor. Perhaps it is not good to know. I am a soldier, I have been given orders. I give the orders to you. Life is simple. It may be a short one but it is simple.\" He looked up towards the hills. \"Soon we will arrive at the sacred site and then, she will be at rest.\"Lowering his eye he tightened his grip on the hilt of her sword.\n\nMarcus turned to check on the progress of the wagon and pack horses. \"It is rumoured the quartermaster has disappeared.\"\n\nUlpius' face hardened. \"I will find him when the time is right fear not. He caused many deaths and I will make him suffer slowly for each one for each one. The fat little weasel cannot run far enough to escape me. But remember Marcus he was but the knife. That poison was directed by another hand and we know who that was.\"\n\n\"Venutius,\" Marcus shuddered at the tone in his friend's voice. He would not like to be in the sandals of either man when the decurion princeps caught up with them. Changing the subject to a more neutral one he asked. \"What do you know of legionary centurion Decius Brutus who is to accompany us?\"\n\n\"I have not served with him but Flavinius chose him because he is the most reliable centurion in Eboracum. He has served Rome for many years and risen in the ranks. His first action was against Boudicca and it is said that those who survived that war are the best of Rome. He was in command at Derventio. Fear not Marcus we can trust and rely on him and his men.\"\n\nMarcus nodded. Derventio was to the north east of Eboracum and whoever commanded there had a hard task. It was close to the sea and they had to contend not only with local brigands but pirates and robbers who came across the cold sea to raid.\n\nBrigante royal tomb south of Stanwyck\n\nThe Brigante place of death was a large barrow in a gentle valley to the north west of Eboracum. It was cunningly hidden on a low crest of land jutting out from the valley sides. Unless you knew where to look it would appear natural. The entrance looked like a small rock fall. They arrived there towards sunset. All the omens looked propitious for the burial; the sun was slowly setting and the evening was as calm as it had been for many days. Overhead the ravens and crows circled and called to each other, it seemed to be an omen from the gods. Macha and Lenta were in charge of this part of the ceremony. In the Brigante it was the women who buried the dead and said the holy words. Ulpius had left the legionaries and his auxiliaries at the camp and he stood with Marcus and the last of the queen's bodyguards as Lenta and Macha prepared her body for its final journey. The jewels and ornaments brought by Marcus from her capital were placed on her body. Her torc was fixed around her neck.\n\nMarcus wondered how they would get the body into the barrow for they had no tools and there appeared to be no entrance. At last the women were finished and the bodyguards took up the body lifting it above their heads. Lenta and Macha led the way around the outside of the grass covered barrow. When they were at the western side they bent down and began to remove loose stones which appeared, to Marcus, to be a rock fall. The auxiliary looked in amazement as he saw the entrance to the barrow. The few stones had hidden an opening large enough for the funeral procession to walk down. The guards had to bend slightly but it was still a dignified group who walked in torchlight into the bowels of the earth. Inside it was not earthen walls but stone which was dressed and, from its look, ancient. This had been here since the time of the ancients and Marcus gripped his charm even tighter. The musty, damp smell was no surprise but it was the lack of a smell of rotting flesh which surprised him. It was not a straight path and when it turned he was plunged into darkness. When it straightened and lit by the torch he caught glimpses of bones in its flickering light as they went further into the grave. Lenta and Macha stopped and Marcus could see recognisable bodies. Each had jewels and weapons with them but none as fine and rich as those worn by the dead Queen. Now Marcus knew what had been in the box carried from the fortress of Stanwyck. In the tomb there were both men and women; the queen was joining her ancestors. The bodyguards laid the body gently onto the empty bier. Marcus could see others prepared deeper in the darkness. The Brigante all bowed their heads and Marcus sensed, rather than heard the low moaning which emanated from their lips. He did not recognise any of the words but knew that they were all saying the same thing. Suddenly there was silence and the torches were extinguished leaving them in darkness with only the faint light of the sunset coming through the entrance. It was Lenta who spoke the last words. \"Allfather receive our queen and sister Cartimandua we honour her in death as we did in life.\"\n\nNo-one spoke again even after they had replaced the stones and covered them with soil. Even after they had walked in solemn silence to the camp still no-one spoke. Marcus glanced at Ulpius but he could have been the stone they had just used to cover the grave for all the emotion he showed. He was beginning to realise that he did not know the decurion princeps as well as he had thought for he knew the man was mourning but he could not see a single sign.\n\nLater Ulpius asked the question which had burning in his mind since they had laid the Queen's body into the barrow. \"When you spoke over the Queen you said sister. I thought you were her handmaidens?\"\n\n\"We were handmaidens but we had the same father. He lay with our mother, one of his slaves and we were half sisters.\"\n\n\"Doesn't that make the elder the Queen?\"\n\n\"No Roman. It is for the council to choose and Venutius is still King. He has been crowned. The Queen is dead and so he is the king. He now leads the Brigante.\"\n\n\"But,\" added Lenta, \"many of our people will not follow him as he tried to kill our Queen, our sister.\"\n\n\"Which doesn't help us for that means any Brigante could be a friend or a foe?\" He gestured at the Brigante warriors sharpening their weapons.\n\n\"These men are oathsworn to protect the Queen. As her family they are oathsworn to protect us. But you are right we will have to be careful as there are as many untrustworthy Brigante as there are Romans. For was not Gaius Cresens a Roman?\" There was a mischief in her voice which reminded Ulpius of her half sister.\n\n\"Then it is fortunate for you that I am Pannonian by birth and we are the most trustworthy of warriors.\"\n\nLaughing the two sisters left the decurion princeps to ponder his next dilemma, how to survive in a land where an enemy could be hiding behind every tree, in every gully and in every hut. He would need all his wits about him. As soon as it was convenient he needed to sit down with the Brigante warriors and Decius Brutus for they needed a plan which, at the moment was beyond his ability.\n\nThe party returned to Eboracum in silence each one wrapped in their own thoughts. For Ulpius he was reflecting on the changes the queen had wrought in him. He was gentler with women, he was less mercenary, he thought more of the future at least he had thought on the future until it was robbed from him. She had brought hope into a hopeless, loveless life. He did not know if it was love he had had with the Queen but to his unsophisticated mind if it was not love it was the nearest he would experience.\n\nThe two half sisters were also musing on their parlous future. Now that Venutius was king, although in truth he had been king for some time, they were in constant danger. He could pay many murderers to kill them and they were not safe at the fort, as their sister had discovered. The only people they could rely on were not Brigante but Roman and they were the warriors who now rode at their side. Macha determined that, when they left for their new fort, they would be with them. Despite any hardships on the road they would be as nothing compared with the dangers of Eboracum where every hand could wield a killer's blade.\n\nThe day they left Eboracum was both cold and frosty. Rising early Ulpius looked around the fort. It was now taking shape and life would be more comfortable now but even so he was glad that Marcus Bolanus was sending them away. He knew that the man had his own reasons and those reasons were not thoughtful in any way shape or form. He was an embarrassment and he wanted him away to, preferably, die on a forlorn hillside away to the west. He saw the governor emerge from the Praetorium a thin hard smile upon his face. For him the world would become safer with each step the vexillation took away from Eboracum. The days were now longer but the wind was still bitingly cold. It was as though winter had lulled them into a sense of false security and descended a savage, second time.\n\nUlpius called over Marcus to join the Brigante warriors and Lenta and Macha. He looked at each of the warriors. \"You have served the queen to the end and now you are released from the vows you took. We are taking her sisters west to build a fort in her honour. You are welcome to join us there but some of you may wish to rejoin your own people. If that is so then go with honour for you have all served the queen loyally and well.\"\n\nIt was the senior warrior, Orrick who spoke. He was a powerful warrior and his skill was shown by the bracelets and amulets he wore. The scars on his face and chest ably demonstrated that he faced and fought his enemies fearlessly and never turned his back. When he spoke the emotion rang through his words. \"Our oath to the queen means that we cannot rest until her murderer is found and killed. We would have died to protect her and we failed. We will find the man who ordered her death. We believe it to be Venutius who did not have the courage to face the Queen and end her life by his own hand. He paid someone and that is base and dishonourable. For that alone he should die.\" The men murmured their agreement and Ulpius nodded.\n\n\"Are you going after him then? For if so it would be a glorious death, futile but glorious.\"\n\n\"We hold our lives cheaply and would gladly pay with our lives to avenge the queen but you are right. We were known as the protectors of the queen and Venutius would have us slaughtered as soon as we appeared. We would not get close enough to him and we will not kill in the night. When he dies at our hands he will see who it is and know why we do it. No, we will continue to travel with you and we will protect the Princesses.\" He smiled. \"We believe that Venutius will pay a visit to this new fort of yours and so he will come to us.\"\n\nUlpius nodded. \"That is well but if you travel with us then you obey my orders. You will be as Romans with the same discipline. Is that clear?\"\n\nOne or two of the warriors looked a little unhappy at the implications of that but Orrick silenced them with a wave of his arm. \"You are a warrior; you are the warrior chosen by our queen. You ride with the sword of Cartimandua. We will follow you.\"\n\n\"Good then let us get over these hills before the snows come a second time. This land appears to be in the group of some monster who makes the weather as a weapon to punish strangers such as us. I hope that the place we seek is less unpredictable. Your queen promised much. I long to see this Elysium in Britannia which holds so much hope.\" He turned to the two Brigante princesses. \"I still cannot persuade you to stay?\"\n\nLenta smiled at the word 'persuade' for, in the week they had been back in Eboracum Ulpius had ranted, raved, bullied, pleaded and at times almost screamed to make them stay behind the safety of Eboracum wooden walls. Persuade had not been a word she would have chosen. They had both been resolute in their arguments and, in the end, Ulpius had seen that perhaps they were right and they would be safer away from intrigue. \"No decurion princeps, we will not be persuaded besides we know the land as well as the warriors and we know the place you seek. We will not be baggage for we are Brigante and we will do our share we will help to build this shrine to the memory of our queen.\"\n\nNodding Ulpius turned to Marcus. \"We leave as soon as the pack horses and wagon are ready. Remember it is only a handful of us who know where we are going. Let us keep it so.\"\n\n# Chapter 12\n\n#\n\nBrocavum\n\nVenutius was drunk and his warriors were drunk. His official coronation had been some weeks before but the celebrations seemed to go on endlessly. He was now King Venutius even though he had been king before he had not been crowned and acclaimed by his people. This made it easier for him to summon the war host for to refuse would be refusing the king. True, there were still those who were unhappy with the death of Cartimandua but, apart from the handful still with the Romans the bulk to the Brigante supported him. He had had the acknowledgement of all the neighbouring tribes and their kings. As the king with the largest tribal area in Britannia this made Venutius the king who exerted the most influence. Secretly he was pleased that Cartimandua had betrayed Caractacus for had she not that young man would have grown to be a warrior king with a legitimate claim to be king of Britannia.\n\nHe looked out of the gates towards the rising sun in the east, the steam from his piss rising like early morning fog. This was the time of the long nights and short days. It was a time to drink and tell tales of great deeds. His men were drunk because they believed they had freed themselves from the shackles of Rome and were following a leader who had rid himself of a tiresome, meddling woman. Venutius was drunk because he had failed. He had failed to capture and kill his queen; the poison which had killed her was on his orders but not by his hand and he had wanted to see her suffer and die. He had failed, despite what his men believed, because the Romans had not been weakened by him; they had absorbed the Brigante and now controlled much of their territory. It galled him to think that he was depending upon the Silures and Deceangli to defeat the Romans and draw off their strength. His pleasure at becoming the official king was soured by the knowledge that he had failed in his first attempt to rid his land of the Romans. He had hoped that the disarray in Rome when they had four Emperors in one year would have distracted them enough to defeat demoralised Romans. The Roman troops appeared to care more about the way they fought than who was Emperor. It was a salutatory lesson.\n\nHe angrily turned back, threw his goblet to smash on the wall of the fire lit hut and his men cheered believing it to be a sign that their leader was showing his anger to his enemies when in reality it was a frustration that he had failed. He was angry with himself and with his spies. The information given to him by Fainch had proved false. He had gathered his forces near to the place the Romans called Morbium for it was not far from Stanwyck. He had prepared a trap and his men had waited through the long, dark winter nights but the Roman incursion had not taken place. He was angry with himself for, despite the fact that the information was wrong, he did not know if the Romans had tricked him just to make his men wait needlessly in the cold or if it was a ruse to draw his men away from his capital. He now knew it was not the latter for he had brought all his forces into his stronghold in case the Roman invasion came in the winter, it was unlikely but these Romans did not fight in the way of the tribes. He allowed himself a smile perhaps the information had been true and the Romans had perished in this cold northern land far away from their warm homeland.\n\nHe staggered to his feet and, climbing over the recumbent bodies of his warriors, went to relieve himself outside his hall. The frost was hard and the air icy cold. The steam from his urine rose like smoke from a fire. The image made him picture Eboracum burning and Romans fleeing from his merciless warriors. They would be like sheep before his wolves. The thought excited him and he began to sober up almost immediately. In truth he rarely drank as much as his warriors for he knew that a drunk was senseless and therefore defenceless; he had murdered many a man whilst they were lying in an alcoholic haze. Venutius trusted no-one. It would be months before the sun began to warm the land again but he was determined not to wait rotting in an alcoholic haze.\n\nHe would begin to send out patrols; it would harden his men and tell the Romans that he ruled this land and not them. He needed a base nearer to the Romans in the East. There was no danger in the west as long as the Deceangli and Silures held up the Roman behemoth and it was here where he would defeat them but he needed to create a thorn in their side, an itch which they could not scratch. Cartimandua's capital had been ideal but now not only was it in Roman hands, his men had also weakened it. The Roman base at Eboracum was less than half a day's ride away; it would need much work to fortify it and they would have to fight Romans to do so. He needed somewhere new but defensible. He remembered a river and a high cliff a little further south than Stanwyck; if he built a fort there even the Roman war machine would struggle to assault it. It would not be as big as the huge fortifications at Stanwyck but it had the advantage that even the Roman siege engines would struggle to assault its high cliffs. When he had thrown back his enemies he would use that as his stronghold; there he would laugh to scorn their redoubtable war machines. He decided that, on the morrow, they would begin their war against the Romans, they had drunk enough, and they had rested enough. The Carvetii would war again and they would drive the effete Romans back into the sea taking with them their baths, their perfume and their control. Britannia would be ruled again by men; Britannia would be ruled by one man, Venutius.\n\nWest of Stanwyck\n\nEven as Venutius was looking eastwards Ulpius had risen early and was facing west. They had crossed the high treeless hills in the icy cold winds. It had taken many days as the line of pack horses with supplies slowed them down and the foot soldiers kept to their own pace but they had had to take routes which avoided the natives. The wagon with the princesses on board was even slower and Ulpius wondered if it might have to be discarded in favour of a faster, though less dignified pack horse. Slow and sure was not always the axiom of the cavalry but in this case it was his watchword. They had lost a few mounts and they were as cold as any could remember but they were now within sight of their goal. As the sun had set the previous evening Orrick had ridden with Ulpius and Marcus to show them the land spoken of by Cartimandua.\n\nIn the distance they could see the round topped hills and steep sided valleys which Orrick told them contained vast lakes as big as seas and forests so dense a horse could not get through them. The tops of the hills were high and treeless rolling away to the west to the mighty seas spoken of by Cartimandua, the western seas leading to the ends of the earth. Ulpius was gratified to see that there were few dwellings or huts in view which meant they might just make their journey's end unseen by the enemy. There were a few sheep and goats which appeared to perch on hillsides that threatened to tumble to the rock filled valleys below. He looked up at the grey, menacing sky which was beginning to threaten snow although that would be a discomfort it would not stop them as they were within a maximum of two marches to their destination. Orrick had said that, if they pushed hard, they would do it on one march. They were so close that Ulpius felt like gambling. Although the horses were tired they could rest them when they arrived and they would also have the security of wooden walls. His worry was that the snow would show their enemies where they had been; in itself another reason to make haste. He might exhaust men and horses but that could not be helped, as long as he had a marching camp he would be able to defend himself.\n\nMarcus could not help looking over his shoulder as they passed through the tight lake lined valleys. The valley twisted and turned like some mighty serpent. This was not the way Romans like to travel. They were used to straight roads with no places for ambushes. This was even worse for the high crags and rocky outcrops provided cover for ambushes all the way.\n\n\"You will get a stiff neck if you continue to look backwards.\"\n\nMarcus wondered how the one eyed decurion princeps could see that Marcus was so nervous. \"But if there were an ambush we would be helpless. There is nowhere to run.\"\n\n\"True but we have Brigante scouts out and if you look east you will see that the only danger is not from warriors but stones dislodged by the snow and as for west, well unless our enemies can walk on water we are safe.\" The lake to the west was wide and, according to Orrick deep. The hillsides on the other side looked as steep as the one to their east which reared up, towering over them like the battlements of an enormous fortress. \"I tell you, Marcus, I am more content now than for many days. We are almost at journey's end and we have seen no signs of life. Go speak with your woman and stop making the troop nervous.\" The troopers within earshot grinned; much as they liked Marcus it was always good to see an officer put in his place by a superior.\n\nMarcus had to agree that it was devoid of humans. In truth there was little sign of any life. They had passed over passes from one lake filled valley to another. The valley suddenly dropped off to nothing. The forest was so thick you could have hidden a thousand warriors but a spear's throw from the Romans and they would not have been seen. This part of the journey had the narrowest pass and the troopers, four abreast, filled it. He turned his horse and trotted back to the middle of the column to where Macha and Lenta huddled in a wagon. Even though she was miserable Macha visibly brightened when she saw the young auxiliary approaching.\n\n\"Are we warm enough ladies?\"\n\nLenta laughed a bright tinkling laugh which was infectious. \"As we have blankets and furs and we are in a warm wagon I think that we are much warmer than you. \"\n\n\"The officer is being polite sister. I suspect our leader has passed the request on. We are comfortable and we do not have far to go.\"\n\n\"How far is it?\"\n\n\"No more than the time it takes Romans to put up a camp.\"\n\n\"That quick but I can see nought that is as was described.\"\n\n\"The track twists next to a little stream and then you will see the mightiest lake you have ever seen. Then we will be there.\" She leaned over to whisper to Marcus who went closer. \"When you have fulfilled your duties tonight I would speak with you.\"\n\nMarcus' face lit with joy. They had had little opportunity to talk as the sisters and the children had been together in the wagon. Marcus rode back to Ulpius with a lighter heart.\n\n\"We are not far away.\"\n\n\"I know the scouts have returned.\" Ulpius gestured to their left where there was a large natural mound. We will put a small fort there. It will give us warning of an enemy. Orrick has ridden ahead with the Brigante to guard the site. We are very close.\" Marcus looked over and saw what Ulpius meant. A thousand paces away the hillside climbed steeply away with thick woods covering its lower slopes. The land before it was a sloping bare plain with a huge column of rock reaching up half way as high as the hillside. It had a steep northern slope and a gentler southern slope. He could imagine that a tower would enable a sentry to see almost the whole of the lower lake. A good place for an outpost and a further sign that the omens were auspicious.\n\nYears later Marcus could still remember with vivid clarity the first time he saw the site of the fort they would call Glanibanta. He was totally unprepared for the place. They rode through rocky ground and suddenly found themselves in the open at a promontory surrounded on three sides by water. It was as though an engineer had measured a fort and made the promontory to fit the fort and not the other way around. The ground was perfect and was a horse's height above the water. Two rocky streams tumbled a fort's width apart making a frontal assault the only option for an attacking force. Marcus looked at Ulpius who, for the first time in a long time, smiled and nodded. \"This will do Marcus, this will do. This is a stronghold; a cohort of legionaries could hold off the whole of the Carvetii.\"\n\nThe senior centurion of the legionaries set to work as soon as they arrived. The marching camp would be the size of the fort and work could begin to build the fort straight away. There was little snow at the site and the ground was not as frozen as they might have expected. Decius Brutus and his legionaries had much experience in building marching camps but this was the first time they had built a fort. The Roman army trained its men well and every centurion had the plans in his head and with his legionaries the men to build. Already the flags and stakes were in place as the engineers detailed to lay it out paced the area which would become the vexillation fort.\n\nWhile the legionaries began to dig the ditches Ulpius detailed Marcus to send out two turmae around the lake, east and west to scout for potential enemies and other places to build fortifications. He conferred with the legionaries to ensure that there would be stables for his horses.\n\nGaius rode next to Marcus and the irrepressible youth could not help but ask questions. \"What if enemies were to attack from the south? We would be helpless.\"\n\nMarcus smiled a rueful smile; he began to understand what Ulpius had felt when pestered by the turma mascot. \"There are few people to the south. You would have to travel for weeks before you came to any kind of numbers. Had you studied the maps you would have known that.\"\n\n\"Then why are we patrolling? Should we not be helping to build the fort?\"\n\n\"I personally would rather ride than have to bend my back and dig ditches. Besides which our task is important. While there are no peoples to the south it might be a route through which we can be attacked. We need to know how the land lies and prepare. Remember young Gaius we are isolated here. We are a vexillation, not an army and we have many enemies arraigned against us. Remember that.\"\n\nAt the camp Drusus took a turma on foot to cut down the trees. They did not have to go far for there were hundreds of trees. They also needed to clear a killing zone close to the fort. Ulpius nodded his approval as he saw that his men soon had to take off their armour as it was hot, hard work despite the cold air temperature. The work would harden their sword arms even more. As he swung the axe Drusus was less appreciative than his leader of the workout he was getting. Trees took more blows to fell than warriors and he soon found his arms aching and burning from the repetition. Around him the other auxiliaries were also gleaming with sweat but their efforts soon began to show as the pile of trees grew. When they had cleared twenty paces of trees they began to drag them back to the ditches which now clearly defined the fort. Already stakes were being thrust into the mounds and would give some protection when the Romans finally rested for the day.\n\nIt was almost sunset when the patrol returned. Marcus was not surprised by the speed with which they had erected their camp but he was impressed by the progress towards a permanent fort. There was a double ditch in front of what would become the porta praetorian. They would be defended from a frontal attack if one were forthcoming. He was pleased to see a rudimental tower and sentries already peering into the gloom of twilight. It was not a sight which brought a smile to his face it was the unmistakeable smell of, fires producing unleavened bread for the first time since leaving Eboracum. The wagon was in the centre of the camp where the Praetorium would be built and which, at the moment was a tent. He could see the Brigante sisters already making their temporary home as comfortable as they could. At least they would be sleeping above the ground whilst the common soldiers, the caligae, would once again have the hard cold ground. He was eager to speak to Macha but knew his duty. He reported to Ulpius as soon as he recognised the decurion princeps' broad and muscular back.\n\n\"I have to report that the lake is long and narrow. There are woods along both sides and a river at the southern end. We found some huts of woodcutters but they were empty. We could see smoke in the distance to the south but it was faint. \"\n\n\"What about defensible sites?\"\n\n\"This is the best one. The ground is low lying all around the lake but it is overlooked by hillsides. This area has fewer trees to cut down and we are protected by water on three sides.\" He pointed back to the pass they had crossed some distance away. \"You see it better from this direction. The ground slopes steadily up to the pass and now that some of the trees have been cleared you can see what a good site it is.\"\n\n\"Is there another site where we could build a dock or jetty?\" When Marcus looked perplexed he added impatiently, \"think boy we need an escape route. We could build a boat and use it to escape but only if there is somewhere else to land otherwise we would sail around the lake until we disappeared up our own arses!\"\n\n\"Sorry sir, I wasn't thinking you are, as usual correct and we will need to have some stables as well. They would enable us to spread out the horses. There are a couple of places halfway down the lake where there are clearings. There are many trees around the lake materials will not be a problem. \"\n\nUlpius nodded. \"Good. As soon as we have this place up and running I want you to take a couple of turmae, build stables and a jetty. This is a good spot but I don't want to get caught like rats in a trap. Good work Marcus.\" He looked towards the wagon and smiled an almost paternal smile, \"and I think there is a lady who would like some of your time. Get your men to look after the horses and then give her some of your time. I think they miss their sister.\" The 'as I do' was unspoken but Marcus saw the sadness in his face.\n\nBrocavum\n\n\"My lord he has just brought the message.\"\n\nVenutius was about to strike the messenger who had reported a large force of Romans crossing their land. He seethed with rage. All the time he had been looking east his enemies had been heading west; when he thought they were tucked away in their new fort they were taking the initiative and sneaking through his lands in the dead of winter. The scouts had found tracks in the snow and the remains of a marching camp just west of the high hills but no-one knew where they had gone. Could they be, even now, heading north to this his base? Only the barbaric Romans could war in winter.\n\n\"Summon the tribe and send messengers to my allies; we must prepare for war.\"\n\n\"But my lord it is still winter and our people have not begun to seed. We are not ready.\"\n\n\"Fool! The Romans do not wait for warm weather. If we do not stop them now there may be no-one left to eat the crops you wish to plant. They may be approaching here! Do you not understand? Would you have us fight the legions with this handful of men? We know not how many men there are within our lands. Are they to the north? Perhaps the south or even, Allfather forbid, the west. For if it is the west then they will have come by ship and we will be assaulted on two sides. Now do you realise why we must act and act swiftly.\"\n\nIt was then that his chiefs and chieftains realised their plight. They had barely a thousand warriors at Brocavum; their army was at a hundred different hamlets and settlements wintering. It would take many days to summon them. Taking their leave each leader left to gather their forces.\n\nVenutius summoned his guards. \"We ride today. I want to see where they were last observed.\" His men looked at each other. It was unheard of to ride the high hills when the snow was on the ground. Sensing their doubt Venutius turned and snarled. \"If the soft Romans can travel through our land I believe that the Carvetii can. We ride.\"\n\nEboracum\n\nMarcus Bolanus was enjoying the newly built baths in the fortress of Eboracum blissfully unaware that the letter from Saenius Augustinius had had an effect. The scraping and oiling relaxed him and made him think of his villa near Capua. He had insisted that the baths be built first when he had arrived. He was just stepping into the hot baths when he heard news of an Imperial bireme approaching. He was more annoyed than worried. One bireme meant it was someone of inferior rank and certainly no-one to worry about. The Emperor Vespasian was more concerned with the east. It had been Claudius who had staked everything on Britannia and its riches. He decided not to greet these visitors he would let them wait. In Britannia he was ruler. He was therefore surprised when he heard a commotion outside and the door was flung open. He managed to utter, \"What is the meaning...\" before he saw the Imperial seal on the letter in the hands of Quintus Cerialis.\n\n\"I am sorry that you have been disturbed but Marcus Caesius Alasica and myself are keen to fulfil the Emperor's wishes and bring this little island under Roman rule. And you will be keen; I am sure, to return to the warmer climes of Rome!\"\n\nBolanus stared silently at the letter. He was to be recalled and the manner of his recall meant that he knew he was in disgrace. As he emerged from the bath into the toga held by his servant he could not help but think that he could have made more money than he had so far if he had been more corrupt. He realised, a little late, that he had been lazy and he had neither served Rome nor himself.\n\n\"You are most welcome. As you can see we are in the business of building the fortress.\"\n\nGalba spoke for the first time, barely concealing the disdain in his voice. \"I would have thought stone gates would have taken precedence over baths.\" Bolanus was stumped for words. Alasica continued, almost dismissing the ex-governor. \"Where is the twentieth, I am to command.\"\n\n\"They are still in Lindum.\"\n\n\"And the second, and the Pannonians?\"\n\n\"The second are here but a vexillation went with the Pannonians to build a fort in the west.\"\n\n\"In winter? What fool ordered that? I will have the commander scourged.\" Quintus was as angry as Alasica.\n\nRealising the truth would come out Bolanus had to admit to the order. \"But we needed to pin down the enemy and with the Queen dead.\"\n\n\"The Queen of the Brigante is dead? How?\"\n\n\"She...err, after eating, she died.\" Bolanus realised he had yet to inform Rome of this disaster.\n\n\"After eating?\" asked the new governor, suspicion in every syllable. \"Was she poisoned?\"\n\n\"We questioned the cooks and they denied responsibility.\"\n\n\"And I take it they died during questioning.\" Cerialis turned to the young commander of the twentieth. \"This is quite a disaster. It means we cannot count on the Brigante.\"\n\n\"Oh most of the Brigante still support us. The Queen's half-sisters.\"\n\n\"The Queen's half-sisters. Where are they?\"\n\nThe silence and the horrified expression on Marcus Bolanus' face made the two visitors fear the worst. \"They are with the vexillation in the west. They wanted to go.\" He added feebly.\n\n\"Oh that makes all the difference. So let me understand clearly the situation. You have sent the majority of our cavalry with a sizeable part of a legion and the only leaders of the one tribe in the area we can rely on to build a fort on the other side of the island, in winter?\"\n\nThere was no need for an answer. Bolanus could merely nod. His future was bleak. When the Emperor found out he would have his lands confiscated and his life would be terminated. Knowing his presence was unnecessary he left. \"If you need any further intelligence my aides will supply it. I have to prepare for the journey.\"\n\nAs he left the younger man could not keep the disgust from his voice. \"Intelligence is the last thing we will get.\"\n\nThe new governor turned to his military commander. \"I realise it is too soon but you have a keen military brain which is why the Emperor sent you. What is your assessment of the situation?\"\n\n\"Unless the commander of the vexillation is a brilliant commander he will have lost men and animals travelling during winter. He will also be at the mercy of the tribes in that area. They are the Carvetii and led by the Queen's ex-husband, Venutius. He is a cunning leader and it is rumoured that he has the support of the tribes north of him. I estimate that in the spring they could put over twenty thousand men against us.\"\n\n\"And we have?\"\n\n\"If we bring up the twentieth, and the Samians then, after garrisoning Lindum and Eboracum we could field, perhaps twelve thousand. The thousand horse and four hundred legionaries in the west would have swung the odds in our favour. As it is we will need to create somewhere further north and west to warn us of an attack. I will speak with the commanders.\"\n\n\"And I will enlist the help of some of these natives to expedite the building of the fortress.\"\n\nFainch noticed the change around Eboracum within days. She had watched the old governor slipping secretly away on the bireme with the despatches which would end his career if not his life. She also saw that work on the fortress went on at a much greater pace. There were many stone towers with strongly built wooden walls and two ditches which surrounded the whole settlement. The ground for a thousand paces had been cleared. Her master had planned on an attack in the spring before the defences were finished. He needed to know that the fortress would not be an easy target by the time he had mustered his warriors and launched his assault. In fact, the fortress would be unassailable without siege engines and as everyone knew the only army with siege engines was the Roman army. Rather than trust her message to a minion she decided to visit his refuge high in the hills. She knew that Venutius' temper might result in the message being ignored from anyone but herself. She needed Venutius to be safe, she needed him to lead the rebellion. As she packed her few belongings she knew she and her sisters would need to dream a powerful dream to halt this unstoppable beast that was the Roman army.\n\nGalba and Cerialis met on the third day after their arrival. \"How goes the military preparations?\"\n\n\"The rest of the twentieth will be here by the end of the week. The auxiliary commander of the remaining ala has told me of a place near to the northern river, not far from the Brigante town of Cataractorium a settlement called Morbium. It is at a bluff near a bend in the river. If we build a fort and a bridge there then Venutius will not be as secure. He could be outflanked for at the moment he knows where our line of march must be, south of the great river.\"\n\n\"Have you tried to contact the vexillation?\"\n\n\"I think there is too much danger attached to that. First of all, we would have to send a turma and we can ill afford to lose more auxiliaries and if the message were intercepted then the enemy would know of the vexillation. I am not sure that the enemy know of our incursion. From what I have been told it is a vast empty high land and few people travel even in summer. Besides, I believe there is too much danger in bringing them back. If they have managed to build a fort then they should be able to survive until spring if not,\" he shrugged his shoulders, \"then they are dead and we would have thrown good men after bad. I am more concerned with the Brigante with them. I hope the vexillation commander treats them well.\"\n\nThe commander was indeed treating them well. Had the Romans in Eboracum known the situation they would have realised that they had no need to fear the isolation of the Brigante princesses. Bolanus had failed to mention the liaison between Ulpius and the queen. The problem the vexillation had was that the snows had come with a vengeance. They went to bed at night with the weather cold and threatening and awoke the next day to a blanket of snow which rose in places as high as a horse's haunches. All movement and work stopped. Fortunately, they had built one stone gate and the towers and as Orrick said, the snows would at least stop the Carvetii from venturing out. It was a blessing in disguise.\n\nUlpius set the men to training; there would be a fight when Venutius came and it was important that the legionaries, auxiliaries and Brigante behaved as a single unit. He spent many hours with the leaders who then passed on the ideas to the men. When they were not training they were making sure that all their equipment was fully functional. One of the first buildings which went up was the blacksmiths and they were busy making horseshoes and arrow heads as well as sharpening swords and javelins. The younger Brigante spent the shortened days hunting to augment their meagre rations. Daily they brought in rabbits and small red deer. They were surviving.\n\n# Chapter 13\n\n#\n\nGlanibanta\n\nUlpius had bridled at the lack of work but even he had to admit that the rest allowed men and beasts to recover after a gruelling journey fraught with both danger and hardship. The mid-winter travail had cost them both horses and men. The horses would continually weaken for their fodder would run out and there was no grass to eat. It was a problem he would have to deal with. As he tramped through the snow he inspected the partly constructed fort. The ditches had been completed early on and the legionaries were pleased that the lake provided one whole impenetrable ditch. The walls and towers had been built. The northern gate, the porta praetoria had been built of stone. He smiled to himself the Queen had been right about the abundance of materials. There was a huge quantity of stone and none of it had needed to be quarried; it was just lying on the ground. There was also a plentiful supply of slate so that the roofs of the buildings would be watertight. They had brought some pazzolana with them and had been able to use concrete for the foundations and between the stones. Once the snow melted it would not take long to build the other three gates. He wandered over to the towers, acknowledging the salutes of the guards. They were high enough and, with their elevation, gave them an excellent view of approaching enemies. If the bastards did come, and Ulpius had to admit that was unlikely for a while, they would neither be surprised nor overwhelmed. Ulpius was more concerned that he had not been able to build the three outposts yet, the two on the lake and the one on the mound. Even the tireless Marcus had been unable to complete that miracle. He wondered what had happened to his subordinate since they arrived for he was perpetually smiling and seemed full of life. The cynic in the one eyed warrior wondered if regular lovemaking had anything to do with it. He determined to ask the question directly next time he spoke to him. He was disturbed by a shout from the north east tower.\n\n\"Gate. Rider approaching.\"\n\nUlpius was pleased that his men were not indolent. The legionaries sprang into action and his auxiliaries stood with bows notched. Ulpius felt his fingers on the hilt of the Brigante sword and it gave him comfort. Cartimandua had told him it had mystical qualities and he had noticed that whenever Orrick or one of the Brigante warriors saw it they had reverence and awe written all over their faces.\n\n\"It is one of my people,\" shouted Orrick and the guards relaxed slightly although the gate remained closed. Orrick climbed to the rampart over the gate and spoke to his kinsman in their own tongue. The warrior was a young fierce eyed warrior who looked like a younger version of Orrick. The sword he carried was as long as that wielded by Ulpius and the young man had many combat amulets on his arms. He was, Ulpius decided, a warrior. Although Marcus and Ulpius understood many of the words the two spoke so quickly that all meaning was lost. Orrick turned to the Roman who had joined him at the gate. \"It is Esca, my cousin. He wishes to join us.\"\n\nHis one eye staring into Orrick's soul he asked, \"Do you trust him?\"\n\n\"He is not just my cousin he is blood kin.\"\n\nUlpius nodded. A Roman might not understand the ties of a blood oath but a semi-barbarian like Ulpius would. \"Let him enter.\"\n\nUlpius allowed the two warriors to speak with each other before he imposed himself upon them. Marcus stood at his side as did Quintus Brutus the senior centurion. They were all eager to learn any news of the outside world. \"The Carvetii know we have crossed the high hills and he searches for us. He does not yet have his forces gathered and my cousin tells me that we have more men in this fort than Venutius has.\"\n\n\"How does he know that?\" questioned Brutus.\n\nOrrick smiled wryly, not all the Romans were as trusting at the cavalrymen. \"He counted us. Venutius does not know where we are building the fort and he is looking further east. I think we moved too fast for him.\"\n\n\"Where did your blood kin come by this intelligence?\" There was just the hint of suspicion in the Roman's voice.\n\n\"He was sent a summons by Venutius for a gathering of the host.\"\n\n\"That is sooner than I would have hoped. When do you think he will be ready?\"\n\n\"Once the snows melt and his other men arrive then he will have enough scouts to fill the land and he will find us.\"\n\n\"How long?\"\n\n\"For the snow? I know not. For his men? At least ten days and then only for them to arrive at his stronghold. It would take another seven nights for them to set off.\"\n\n\"That gives us fifteen days. Enough time for the fort but, unless the snows melt even quicker than they are we cannot build the outposts. Are there others like your kin who wish to join us?\"\n\nOrrick nodded. \"When the snows melt there will be many for he has dishonoured us by killing our queen.\"\n\nUlpius was already working out how to house and feed the extra men whilst he was also thinking about using them as a battle force. The fort could house eight hundred men and the plan was to put almost twice that number in. It was one of the reasons the cavalryman wanted to use the outposts to spread the load; they could all defend the fort but not, perhaps, live in it. He voiced his ideas to Orrick, Brutus and Marcus. \"We need barracks outside of the fort. The lake means we cannot make it any larger we need a similar fort, \"he gestured to the southwest. \"There is another piece of land which juts out into the lake. It will protect us from the west. We could house the majority of the cavalry and any of the Brigante who wish to join us. That will leave the legionaries to garrison and defend this, the main fort. It need not be a fort more of a barracks. I want as much space between all of us as possible. Close company can lead to disagreements.\"\n\nThey all nodded their agreement for there had already been numerous fistfights and one stabbing from conflict between auxiliaries and legionaries for normally they had their own forts and areas. Brutus was beginning to see why the one-eyed barbarian had been put in command of this vexillation. His initial distrust had evaporated during the march and since they arrived. \"I will have my men being clearing the ground ready to start once the snow goes.\"\n\nMarcus nodded, \"And I will take my turma on foot to the outpost mound. As it is a hill we should be able to clear the snow easier.\" Ulpius looked doubtfully at his decurion knowing, as he did that cavalrymen preferred to ride everywhere. \"It is not far and the exercise will do them good. Our mounts are too lean and there is little feed to spare.\"\n\nUlpius nodded his agreement. \"Good. You all know what you are to do. I leave it to you Orrick to recruit and organise your people. Make sure you can trust them. Remember what happened to the queen.\"\n\n\"We remember and do not worry any traitors and spies will not return to give Venutius any help.\"\n\nAs he expected the men of his turma grumbled when they realised that they would have to walk. They grumbled, even more, when they had to carry axes and hammers as well as their weapons.\n\n\"This is foot soldier's work,\" murmured Decius the grumbler.\n\n\"If we took our horses then soon you would be a foot soldier so look upon it as training for your future.\"\n\nThe rest of the turma laughed aloud at the put down. Decius was a moaner, a good soldier, but his comrades knew he could moan even on a fine sunny day. It was his nature and, if truth be told, they were glad to be away from the mundane and boring work within the fort. It was exciting to be doing something different.\n\nThe path Marcus took them along followed the bubbling mountain stream. The biggest danger was not the snow which was beginning to turn to slush close to the water but the slippery rocks which could turn and break an ankle quickly. Once clear of the stream it became heavier going and Marcus soon began to alternate the leading trooper to help the breaking of the snow. The bright, cold day had formed a crust on the top of the knee-deep snow and the path breaker soon found his feet chilled to the bone. He could see that their work would be a little easier as the snow was quite thin in part. It would soon be completely gone; easier for his men to work but increasing the danger of a visit from their enemies.\n\nAs they approached the mound Marcus admired the skill his leader had shown in spotting the potential as an outpost. The mound had a gentle slope from the south whilst it was sheer from the north. The stand of trees on the summit and at the southern side meant that there would be both protection and disguise for the outpost and men.\n\nWhile his troopers rested and ate their rations at the foot Marcus climbed to the summit. Once at the summit the view was spectacular. Northwards he could see the steep sided valley they had followed to get to the fort. To the west was another steep sided valley and to the east there was an escarpment, a fast flowing river and a plain heading towards the fort. They would need to be investigated. Marcus looked at the sun in the sky. They had most of the day ahead of them and the path to the fort was clear. He would send patrols out quickly while he and the rest began their work. He glanced around the summit and saw that it would not take as much work as he had thought to prepare a defensible, hidden outpost.\n\nHe descended and gathered his men around him. \"Decius, take Gaius and explore that eastward facing valley. As soon as you know the lie of the land return we have much work here.\" The last comment was a ploy by the decurion as it would ensure that the moaner did a thorough job and would avoid returning too hastily for manual labour. Grumbling Decius led off his companion. \"Julius, take Marcus and follow the stream to the west. I think it must return to the lake. Return here once you know that. As for the rest of us we have to make an outpost and the sooner it is finished the sooner we can return to a warm fire.\"\n\nHe divided the men into two groups. One of them was detailed to make a stable in the copse at the foot of the mound. He made quite clear to his men that they were to disguise it as much as possible so that, from a distance it would appear natural. Taking the majority of men to the top he gave them similar instructions. \"Cut down saplings and thin trees from lower down. Join up the trees here to make a tower. We will leave the entrance at the south for a swift get away in case we are disturbed.\"\n\nThe men set too and within no time they had a rudimentary tower. The second phase was harder as they had to build a rampart and a ladder but to the Romans it took a little longer than the time it had taken to walk from the fort.\n\n\"Men approaching!\" As soon as the sentry shouted the men took up their defensive positions. \"It is the scouts Decius and Gaius.\"\n\nMarcus noticed that Decius looked pleased that all the hard work had been completed. His report pleased Marcus. \"The valley is steep sided all the way to the head. There is a stream but you could not get a large force down.\" He pointed north east, \"There is a path which descends through a forest from the northern spur but it would only take a single file of men. Their ponies might be able to cross it but I fear our cavalry mounts would struggle over the rocks which litter the path.\" Marcus nodded pleased. It meant that even if a large force used that route it would take some time to deploy and the outpost would have time to warn the fort.\n\n\"Good work. Well done. We are finished here.\"\n\n\"Men approaching!\" Once again they came quickly to arms. \"It is the other patrol.\"\n\nTheir report was of a similar nature. The stream did indeed flow to the lake and the escarpment was steep. There was a ford which his men had used and Marcus made a note of it on the rough map he had drawn. That would be a danger to the fort.\n\n\"Well done men, now back to a warm fire.\"\n\nTired as they were by their exertions the walk back was quicker than the one out and they arrived at the almost completed fort well before dark. Ulpius was satisfied by the report. Brutus also noted the comment about the ford. \"I will have my men prepare an observation post at the ford. If we are attacked we may be able to slow them down. If this snow remains I feel we are safe.\"\n\n\"Aye the gods are smiling on us and long may the snow continue. The more work we can complete the safer we will be.\" Ulpius would have felt even better had he known that Venutius was looking in the wrong place for them and Caesius Alasica was mobilising his forces for an invasion of the north. As it was he had to believe that they were the isolated bait on a trap.\n\nAfter he had seen to his men and enjoyed his evening meal Marcus wandered over to the wagon which still housed the two Brigante princesses. As the wagon had been emptied the sisters had taken it and divided it into two both for privacy and to avoid squabbles which inevitably arise when two women are in close domestic proximity. He coughed when he reached the dimly lit wagon. \"Come in. I saw you from across the fort.\"\n\nOnce inside they embraced and kissed. Marcus felt like a young boy stealing from an orchard. He was happy beyond his wildest dreams. His life could not get any better. Macha lay in his arms. There was a comfortable silence and Marcus nuzzled her hair. She looked up. \"I have news.\" He wondered what she was about to say. He had heard things from his lover about the Brigante in these private moments. Was it to be news of the enemy? \"I am with child; your child.\"\n\nThe shocked silence surprised Macha until she saw the enormous grin spread across his face. \"Are you sure? Of course you are! When will...Are you...\"\n\nShe put her hands across his lips. \"In the summer you will see your child and yes I am well and will remain so. Brigante women are strong.\" They kissed again and Marcus held her tightly to his body. \"It is strange the way the gods work. My sister was with child and was murdered and a new child comes into the world at the same time.\"\n\n\"The gods are wise. Perhaps your sister will be watching over us now.\"\n\n\"Oh she is Marcus. Lenta and I have felt her presence since we laid her in the tomb. She is here. She is the snow; she is the light, she is the warmth we feel now.\"\n\nThey lay down beneath the bear robes and slept. Marcus would awake before dawn and return to his troopers but all the fort knew of the liaison. It was the biggest open secret and yet no-one felt the need to criticise or comment.\n\nThe high hills east of Brocavum\n\nVenutius and his bodyguards were cold and despondent. Despite a week's trudging through the high hills to the east and south of Brocavum they had seen no signs of the Romans. They had come to the conclusion that if the Romans had ventured this far they had perished in the cold. There was still a nagging doubt and fear in the mind of the Carvetii king that they would have seen signs of their bodies had that been the case. They scanned the skyline for a sighting but saw a sea of white.\n\nFainch had watched them approach. After meeting her sisters they had dreamed a powerful dream. The potion they had used was a powerful one leaving them exhausted but they had dreamed a dream and Venutius would be pleased when she told him She had been as still as stone, waiting as though part of the landscape. . She used all her guile and wiles to impress men with her power and she did so again. She knew they would pass by her, she would be almost invisible and as they did so she stood up. To the warriors it was as though she had appeared from the ground. With her haggard lime painted face and hair, her ragged grey cloak she looked like a wraith. Even Venutius was startled until he realised it was his spy. The men's hands grasped their amulets and muttered incantations against the evil eye. Fainch just smiled. \"Hail mighty king. I bring news.\"\n\nVenutius ordered his men to rest while he took the witch by the elbow so that they would not be overheard. \"It must be powerful news to bring you out on to the hills in such weather and to make you forget my orders.\" There was a threat in his voice as he spoke.\n\n\"It is. I am not one of your mindless minions who cannot think for himself. I would not have made the journey were it not urgent. The Romans have a new leader and, even as we speak, he is bringing an army to attack you. He is building a fort and bridge at the great river and he brings not only horsemen but legionaries.\"\n\n\"Do we know him?\"\n\nShe nodded. \"It is Marcus Caesius Alasica and whilst he is young he is no fool.\"\n\n\"You did well to bring the news to me. I have begun the muster but this weather is slowing it down. Is there nothing you could do about the weather?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"It would take many of my sisters to make the change. \"She looked up into the sky. \"I can tell you that within seven nights the snows will be gone.\"\n\n\"That is enough. How many men will he bring?\"\n\n\"He has a whole legion and some cavalry. Have you found the Romans I warned you of?\"\n\n\"Not yet. I thought they were in this region but it seems they must have passed us by. They must be in the west. How many were there?\"\n\nShe shrugged unsure of the actual numbers, \"A warband size; some cavalry and some infantry.\"\n\n\"No matter. I will destroy them when I have taught these Romans a lesson about fighting in my lands.\" He drew her closer to him. \"I have been thinking of late. These Romans fight well because they are well supplied, they have solid bases. If we were to make their bases a little less secure it might slow them down.\" Fainch remained silent; she was not sure where the king's thoughts were leading. \"Fires at the docks in Eboracum. Damage to their ships. Poisoned wells and food. All of these would plant doubt in the minds of the people and make the Romans look over their shoulders. Do you think you have enough people to do this?\"\n\nFainch thought for a few moments calculating the number of men and women she could trust and working out how many she could buy. \"I think I could but it is dangerous work. The more people I use the more risk I am discovered.\"\n\n\"Your work at Eboracum will mean nothing if we are defeated. We must risk all if we are to beat these Romans.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"Perhaps some of your warriors could raid the settlements of the Roman families. It worked for Boudicca.\"\n\n\"That is why I love you Fainch you have a chieftain's mind in a princess's body.\"\n\n\"There is something else oh mighty king. My sisters joined with me for the dreaming. We dreamed a powerful dream.\"\n\n\"And?\" Venutius felt a range of emotions; a good dream would give his men the heart and desire to rid the land of the Romans.\n\n\"We dreamed an eagle which took a lamb. Before it could eat it a wolf came and devoured the eagle and the lamb.\"\n\n\"And I am the wolf?\" She nodded. Excellent I will tell my chieftains at the muster. With that dream we cannot lose.\" He turned to his men. \"Mount we return home.\"\n\nHis men cast furtive, curious glances as they left wondering, not for the first time, what powers the witch possessed. Some of them had heard her tell the king of the dream and it both pleased and frightened them. None of them would dream of crossing her even though she appeared to be a slight, pretty female; to them she was a monster transformed by the gods and they were glad she was on their side. Fainch, for her part, smiled the secret smile of a woman who was superior to all she knew. Venutius was merely a pawn in her grander, greater plan. The Romans were an obstacle which could be removed by Venutius, if not Venutius then another leader; as long as they believed in her supernatural power they would not oppose her. The return to Eboracum would give her time to plan her campaign of treachery and death. They would pay for the destruction of Mona and her love.\n\n# Chapter 14\n\n#\n\nMorbium\n\n\"This looks a good place for a fort.\" Alasica sat astride his horse on a steeply sided bluff overlooking the river. His engineers had already begun to build a wooden bridge which would enable him to harass the rear of the Carvetii forces.\n\nQuintus Aurelius, one of his young tribunes ventured a suggestion. The area to the north of the river looks flatter and bigger. It would make a better fort.\"\n\n\"You have a good eye Quintus and it may be that we will build a permanent fort there once we have subdued the barbarians but right now this site will protect the bridge and can be held by a small force. Archers could wreak havoc on a barbarian force trying to cross the bridge. Get the men started and keep the cavalry patrols out. I do not want to be surprised whilst we are so few in numbers.\" Almost without thinking the young general looked over his shoulder to the south almost as though he expected the twentieth to be marching towards him. At the moment his forces were too few in numbers to be anything more than an annoyance for Venutius; the legion would give him real striking power.\n\n\"Sir the scouts are back.\"\n\nGalba dismounted as the three Tungrian scouts returned. Their mission had been to follow the river as far as they could.\n\nThey saluted and the leading man spoke. \"There is nowhere closer to the sea to cross the river. There are other places to build bridges not far from here but this is the narrowest. The river goes North West to the point where it is a waterfall. From there on men could walk across the river. It would be half a day's travel for the barbarians.\"\n\nGalba dismissed the men with a wave. His intuitive military mind had chosen the best site for a bridge; the east did not worry him. The Brigantes who lived there were allies. It was in the west where he would face his stiffest opposition. His eyes drifted to the thin line of hills to the west and he wondered how his isolated forces were managing. The white edge to the hills told him that it would still be some time until he could get a messenger to them. He could only hope that they would still be alive and still be able to be an asset by the time the main force arrived.\n\nVenutius' scouts leaned forward over their ponies to keep a lower profile as they watched the Romans like busy bees scurrying around the river.\n\n\"I could take the leader out with an arrow from where we are.\"\n\n\"Ay and if you missed our heads would be hanging from the saddles of those Roman scouts. Our job is to report back to the king and I think we have seen enough.\"\n\nBrocavum\n\nBy the time they reached the King they were exhausted; a mixture of thick snow and an icy wind as they crossed the summits took its toll. Even so they were careful to report immediately to the king whose fiery temper was legendary. \"They are building a fort and a bridge north of Cataractonium. They are few in number; some legionaries building the bridge, archers and horsemen. \"We should attack now lord while they are weak.\" The speaker was a grizzled old warrior with so many scars it looked as though he had been carved from ancient oak.\n\n\"Eneit you are a brave warrior and if the snows were gone I would do as you advise but not all the warriors we summoned have arrived and we would be weak after travelling through the snow. No, be patient. They believe their fort will help them but it will not. When we have all our men mustered we can strike at their weak points. We are protected by these steep hills while they have their people in wide open plains where we can make our numbers tell. By the next moon the snows will be melting and then we will strike.\"\n\nHis men knew of the witch Fainch and felt that she could see into the future. All would be well and they would drive the Romans back into the sea and claim the Brigante land for themselves.\n\nEboracum\n\nAt Eboracum, in the wide open plains, Venutius' plan was already working. Fainch had set her web of women to cause as much trouble as possible. The plan to fire the ships would have to wait as there were none in port and so the warehouses were empty. There were, however, many Roman soldiers in the town and although Fainch's spies could not enter they could cause problems when the legionaries left the safety of the fort and ventured into the huts and hovels which were springing up. Food could be poisoned; wine and ale could be tainted. Occasionally an optio could be murdered. Fainch was careful to avoid causing so much fear that the Romans reacted by tightening security.\n\nFor the Roman's part they put the large number of men down with stomach disorders down to the poor local food and climate. The deaths were small in number but the sick list was becoming a problem.\n\nFainch realised that she had begun to affect the Romans when Alasica and his bodyguard returned to Eboracum. He immediately went to the commandant's house and spoke to Quintus Valerius Corvus. \"You have suffered some losses which were not sustained in battle. How did they occur?\"\n\n\"The men became ill and some died. I do not know where the disease came from.\"\n\n\"Were the men who became ill from the same barracks?\"\n\n\"No they were from a number of barracks.\"\n\n\"And the men who were killed where did their deaths occur?\"\n\n\"They were killed in the town.\"\n\n\"They were all officers?\"\n\nQuintus looked up surprised. He had not made the connection but now he had had the suggestion made it became obvious. \"All of them. Do you think there is a connection?\"\n\n\"I think that we need to stop the men frequenting the town first of all. I know the merchants will squeal and the men will moan but I care not. Then I want you to have the preparation of the food supervised. I am worried that, as the Queen was poisoned the men may be suffering the same fate. Let us see if this cures the problem. Increase the patrols and admit no-one to the fort. It may be a coincidence but in light of the death of the Queen I am not willing to take any chances.\"\n\nFainch realised that her original plan was not working and she began to put in place her secondary plan, not as dramatic but designed to disrupt insidiously, slowly, painfully. She knew that the soldiers might obey orders but they would also obey their lustful needs. They would find a way to seek out women, or boys, who would satisfy their desires. They might not be the officers but it would be a drip feed. She knew where the objects of the soldier's desires housed and it was simple enough to sell beer at low prices to the prostitutes around the camp. The tainted beer would not kill but would cause such wracks of pain and sicknesses that they would not be able to work or fight for days. The fact that some of them might die would be a bonus. The ships which now made their way up to the new jetties were also a means of subversion; the drinks she sold, again at much reduced prices, would cause death or illness when the ships were on their way back to Gaul. The effect would not be apparent for a while but it would eat into both the ships and the morale of the sailors. Her final plan was to find some way to rid her land of Alasica who was far too effective to be allowed to live.\n\nGlanibanta\n\nUlpius and Marcus took a stroll in the first morning light to survey the work at Glanibanta. Even at this early hour, they could see the men picking river and lake mussels to supplement their diet. Once they had built a boat they would be able to fish. \"It is going well, sir. The walls are finished and the gates and towers are now ready to be defended.\"\n\n\"It is. We were lucky that there was so much stone around here. Although I think,\" he looked up and touched the amulet he had taken from the Queen's body, \"that the Queen had all of this planned. I think she intended this to be our home. Are the outposts complete?\"\n\n\"They are and manned. It means that we are two turmae short but they can both be back here in a short time. The docks and jetties are finished but until we have ships they are not needed.\"\n\nUlpius nodded and looked towards the barrack fort that Orrick and his men were building. The houses had been the first thing to be built, unlike the Roman way which built walls first but the winter weather had made that decision for them. The plentiful timber and slates had made the job easier; had the enemy harassed them it would have been a different situation for then the men would not have been able to devote so much energy to building. \"I will be happier when their walls are finished. The gods have favoured us so far but with this snow melting so rapidly we must be vigilant for I cannot believe that the Carvetii will not pay us a visit soon.\" The snows had indeed begun to melt and there had been no serious snowfall for many days. The paths around the settlement and to the northern outpost were just a slushy mass and the first spring bulbs were beginning to erupt. Soon they would come and as he surveyed his command he realised that his men both Roman and allies would be ready. The Via Praetoria and the Via Principalis both made life moving around the camp easier and gave the men a sense of order. The Praetorium was built and, as in all forts, the hub of activity.\n\nHe glanced over at his young subordinate who was looking towards the strongly made home just inside what would be the Brigante fort. He was thinking of his princess and their child. The hurt inside of him did not diminish but it softened his pain to think that someone else would have the family that had been so cruelly wrenched from him.\n\n\"How is the princess?\"\n\n\"She is well. Her condition seems to make her even more beautiful.\"\n\nUlpius smiled at the young man's love. \"Ay, motherhood will do that. We should thank the Allfather that she has prospered in such a dark and dank climate.\"\n\n\"I have already made a sacrifice.\"\n\n\"Good. It does not do to anger the gods. Who takes out the patrol today?\" He asked the question already knowing the answer. It was Marcus' duty but he wondered if his devotion to Macha would have made him delegate that duty. He was pleased with the reply.\n\n\"It is my duty. I thought I would take the trail to the north east. We have seen little sign of life to the south and west.\"\n\n\"Be careful. Now is the time when they will have their patrols out and I would prefer us to see them first. Take no chances.\" Even though it was still dark Marcus would leave to give him, and the patrol the daylight they needed. This time of year saw the days become a little longer but not by much.\n\nDecius Flavius had not stopped being the moaner of the turma but over the winter he had become a harder working member of the troop and Marcus could see that he had potential as he was both clever and a good soldier. He was someone on whom he could rely. It was for that reason he sent Decius with young Gaius as the lead riders, scouting just over the horizon. The fact that they were the smallest men in the troop also helped as it meant they were harder to spot on the skyline.\n\nThey had already worked out that the eastern valley was a dead end and too steep to allow many men to use it; they had come down the north to south valley and so Marcus head north and west. The first part of the patrol was relatively easy and there were trees and bluffs to hide them. He could see in the distance great craggy mountains which would be impassable to his horse. There was a curving twisting trail through the woods which severely tested both riders and horses but it meant they were shielded from enemy scouts. He could only hope that he could find a pass once he reached the ridgeline.\n\nThey were resting their horses at a small lake when Gaius rode in hard and at speed. \"Sir, Carvetii.\"\n\nInstantly his men mounted their horses and took a defensive position around the leader and his scout. \"Where?\"\n\n\"To the north. There is a large lake and the land around it is flatter than here. Decius is hiding and watching them.\"\n\n\"How many are there?\"\n\n\"It looks to be about three turmae of men, about a hundred. There were others with them, boys and old men but the warriors were armed and some were mounted. Decius thought they were heading for Brocavum.\"\n\nMarcus nodded. That made sense. Realising that he could be walking into a trap he summoned one of his younger troopers. \"Ride back to the fort and report to the decurion princeps. Tell him we are heading North West to investigate a hundred warriors who look as though they are joining Venutius. We will stay with them until we know where they are heading. \" The trooper saluted, vaulted his horse and set off at a gallop. Marcus shook his head; at least the message would arrive quickly. \"Mount. Gaius you lead.\"\n\nHis men were now fully alert. They had overheard enough to realise there were three times as many enemies awaiting them as they had; who knew how many others were in their path. They all knew that musters of war bands could number in the thousands and this small patrol was already far from friends. Marcus looked up at the steep mountains which stood like giants to the west and the north. Luckily for the troop, the path taken by Gaius was neither steep nor difficult. Gaius stopped suddenly and rode next to Marcus. \"Just over this rise is a stand of trees and bushes. You can see their camp and still be hidden.\"\n\nMarcus turned to Julius. Keep the men mounted. I will go and talk to Decius.\" Dismounting he handed the reins to one of his men. The two auxiliaries dropped to all fours, an undignified manner of moving but one which meant it was unlikely they would be seen. Decius heard them and could not resist a grin as he saw them scurry like drunken men trying to get home.\n\nThe spot chosen by his scouts was a good one. The lake and valley stretched northwards and then took a slight North West curve. It was very wide at its southern end. He could have brought his men up mounted as the tree and bush line was quite thick. The barbarian force was moving eastwards. It was an untidy straggle of warriors but Marcus was not fooled they could be on him in moments if he was seen. \"Sir!\" Decius saluted. \"They broke camp just after I sent Gaius to you. I counted a hundred and ten warriors and forty old men and boys. You can see the leaders by the horses and the armour. All the warriors have swords or spears. The old men and boys have bows and slings.\"\n\n\"Good report. Now are they looking for us or are they heading for the muster?\" Decius coughed. \"Well spit it out man. If you have an idea then tell me.\"\n\n\"Well there were no scouts out and they looked to be heading east.\" He pointed down the hillside. \"You can see the trail they would have taken if they were heading for the fort and they have passed it.\"\n\n\"Good. You two stay here while I bring the men forward.\" As he ran back to his men he wondered what Ulpius would do and, not for the first time, he began to realise the weight of responsibility on his young shoulders. If the enemy knew about the fort they could easily assault it, the trick would be to follow them without the Carvetii discovering their presence. Not an easy task. If he followed them closely he risked being spotted, if he trailed them at a distance he risked losing them or worse risked them ambushing him. He peered around the skyline. Soon they would lose the trees and with them their cover; if the enemy continued east they would soon come to a hill too steep for their mounts. He made his decision they would wait until they had passed and then follow. He could only hope that there were no places for an ambush. He turned to his troopers. \"Dismount and finish your meal. We will wait until they have passed.\"\n\nTo the younger men of the turma it seemed an age that they waited but Marcus wanted to make sure there was not a rear guard watching for just such a move. If he had been with the chieftain and his bodyguard he would have realised that the enemy was blissfully unaware of their presence and believed that the Romans were still east of the mountain range.\n\nMaeve had a small settlement at the northern end of the lake. Although there were only ten warriors in his village Maeve was as proud of them as any king. As he pulled up his breeks he spat. He would have been with the rest of the tribe if it were not for Earl Woolgar his half-brother. Although Maeve owed allegiance to him they had fallen out over some cattle and Maeve had determined that, whilst he would fight for Venutius and drive the Romans from his homeland he would do so as the leader of his own band however small it was. He was annoyed with himself almost as much as he was annoyed with the king for the early muster meant his people would go hungry and he wished he had sown his small fields first.\n\nHe turned to look at his men. He was pleased that they had brought not only their spears but also their bows. He mounted his pony and drew his sword, Ban. Pointing the sword at the path skirting the lake to the south they set off, a determined band of warriors who would be the first to strike a blow at the Romans.\n\nAlthough they were on foot these hardy warriors were able to move at the pace of a pony. The hills were steep around the lake and the men had the stamina of mountain goats. Maeve had no need for scouts; this was his land and he knew every piece of grass on it and his keen eyes scanned the land for anything which was out of place. It was he who noticed the hoof prints. He instantly knew that they were not his people for they were in a line and the size was bigger than their ponies. He held up his hand. \"Romans! And they are ahead of us.\" He gestured to Garve a powerfully built warrior who could run for days. \"Head up towards Tor hill you will be able to see into the next valley.\" The man set off at a loping pace and the rest of the tribe trotted purposefully forward. Even Maeve was surprised some time later when Garve appeared, almost from nowhere, like a spirit from the ground.\n\n\"You are right. There are Romans on horses. They are following Earl Woolgar and the rest of the tribe.\"\n\n\"How many?\"\n\n\"There are three for each one of us.\"\n\nMaeve nodded. An attack was out of the question. He would have to be cunning and use the tactics he had used against the Novontae when stealing their cattle. He would use the dark and see how many of the enemy he could kill.\n\nThe first that Marcus or any of the auxiliaries knew about the attack was when the third guard gurgled a scream as the arrow caught him in the neck. The other two had died instantly one to an arrow the other to a sharp knife. It was to their credit that the Romans reacted automatically, hands going to weapons. The Carvetii had the advantage for their eyes were accustomed to the dark and so it was that two more of Marcus' men died before they could respond.\n\nMarcus raced towards the sound of blade on blade and he was gratified to see Decius guarding his left side and behind them both young Gaius, spatha in hand. The first warrior he saw had his back to him and he thrust his spear at the unguarded leg of Aquinius. Marcus' sword severed one arm and then slashed across the neck of the warrior. As the three of them went forwards Marcus began to wonder how many men they faced. It was an ambush but he could see little. It was fortunate that he had ordered his men to sleep in their corselets. Gaius suddenly darted to the side and caught one of the enemy with a glancing blow to his spear. Before he could join him, Marcus found himself facing a huge warrior with a mighty sword. Even as he advanced he sensed a movement to his left and, from the corner of his eye he saw Decius deflect the axe which would have sliced through his leg. As it was the minor distraction had allowed Maeve, for it was the Carvetii chieftain who faced him, to hack down at Marcus' arm. His training took over and he turned the thicker blade easily. He took an easy wide stance, this would not be easy; his opponent had flecks of grey in his beard and his torc told the story, he was a chief. Behind him, the Romans began to gain the upper hand as their numbers told.\n\nMaeve and Marcus were oblivious to it all; thrust was met by counter thrust but gradually Marcus' youth and his training took over. The long reach of the spatha and his superior height meant that the end was inevitable. A trip over a clump of grass covered rocks made the Carvetii warrior slip and the Roman sank his blade into the unprotected left arm. Maeve did not make a sound but he realised that he would die soon; he could see his dead and dying companions lying around. He needed to get away and warn the king. Recklessly racing forward he hacked at Marcus who retreated slightly giving the Briton the chance to discard his battered shield, run to his pony, mount and gallop away.\n\nLater on, Marcus realised he should have given chase immediately but he did not know how many enemy remained and how many of his own men still lived. By the time they had discovered that their entire enemies were dead or dying it was too late to pursue. Realising that they were safe Marcus set sentries and told Gaius to look after the wounded. \"Decius, are there any still living?\"\n\nA moment or two later Decius shouted over. \"Here.\"\n\nIt was a young warrior and the life blood was seeping from his arm. He would not last an hour. \"Where were you going?\"\n\nThe young warrior shook his head. Inside he wondered why the normally brave Maeve had fled leaving them there to die. He felt betrayed and the pain was hurting; he could not believe how much a blade could hurt.\n\nMarcus looked at Decius who nodded. He removed the young warrior's breeks and held his knife under his testicles. \"Now I know you are brave but would you go to the Allfather half a man or a whole man?\"\n\n\"Kill me you Roman bastard! Kill me!\"\n\n\"Oh we will but first my friend here will slice off your manhood. Then remove your eyes. You will wander sightless and dickless for all eternity.\" He paused to allow the thoughts to sink in. \"Or you can tell me where you were going and who your leader was and I will put your sword in your hand and we will give you a warrior's death.\" The sadistic look in Decius' eyes convinced him to tell what in truth was not secret information but it galled the young man to do something so traitorous.\n\n\"We were summoned to the muster by the king.\"\n\n\"And who is we?\"\n\n\"Earl Woolgar and his warriors.\"\n\n\"He was your leader?\"\n\n\"No that was Maeve his brother,\" Marcus nodded; that must have been the warrior he had faced. He would remember the names, both of them for it could help to understand the command structure of the enemy. \"And you were headed for?\"\n\n\"Brocavum.\"\n\nMarcus smiled. \"There, that was not so hard was it?\" As he put the sword in his hand he nodded to Decius who thrust his sword into the warrior's throat. \"He was brave.\"\n\n\"He was fucking stupid. He could have had you when you gave him the sword and he would still have had a soldier's death.\"\n\nMarcus smiled wryly. Decius was a fierce warrior in battle. \"Then thank the Allfather he was more like me and less like you. What is the butcher's bill?\"\n\n\"Eight dead and two wounded.\"\n\n\"Can they ride Gaius?\"\n\n\"Yes sir, they can ride.\"\n\n\"Then let us take our dead and return to the fort we have discovered what we need to.\" By the time they had tied their companion's bodies to their horses dawn was breaking. Marcus saw that the older troopers had taken the heads of the enemy. While Marcus did not do it himself he knew that the enemy hated this. It would have an effect.\n\nGlanibanta\n\n\"Where is he? He should have returned yesterday?\"\n\nLenta put her arms around her sobbing sister. \"Do not upset yourself so you have a child within you. Ulpius said that they might be out all night. He will return. Remember the father of your unborn child is a warrior and warriors sometimes die.\"\n\nSlumping to the floor the pregnant princess began to dab at her eyes. \"I know but I would have some time with him as a husband before that happens.\"\n\nIt was a contentious issue and Marcus and Macha had argued about this. As an auxiliary Marcus needed permission to marry. Lenta wondered why he had not asked Ulpius whom she knew would have given permission. When he returned he would suffer the sharp edge of Lenta's tongue. Her sister had been looking healthy and well but, since he had been on patrol, she was beginning to look a little drawn. Cartimandua's death had been so sudden and so unexpected that both sisters felt vulnerable. When they had hidden from Venutius and fled his forces they had known the risks; it was galling to lose a sister in the safety of a fort. Lenta did not blame the Romans but wondered if her sister's death could have been avoided. Orrick and his warriors had warned Lenta and Macha that the tribes were gathering. They were all in a difficult position; if the Carvetii won then all the Brigante who had supported them would be slaughtered. If the Romans prevailed then Lenta, Macha and Orrick would lose all their power and would be subsumed by the Roman imperial machine. Cartimandua had had a plan but neither Macha nor Lenta was privy to it.\n\nNot for the first time since the patrol had headed north did Ulpius stand in the north western tower almost willing his men to return. He had felt disquiet when the messenger told him of Marcus' plans. If the fort was in a parlous position then the patrol was even more so. They were isolated with no friends within a week's march. Every bush and rock could conceal an enemy. It was two days since the messenger had arrived and the decurion princeps had hoped that a second would have brought a progress report. He could not bring himself to chide or castigate his young prot\u00e9g\u00e9, after all, Ulpius had trained him and he could find no fault with the young warrior's actions. Even so, the waiting was something to which the man of action could not become accustomed.\n\n\"Stand to!\"\n\nThe gates were slammed shut and the fort called to arms at the sentries warning. The snows had gone from all but the higher hills which made it harder to make out the line of figures. As soon as the horses could be made out it was obvious that it was the returning patrol. The sentry looked at Ulpius to see if he ordered the watch to stand down. Ulpius shook his head. \"We'll stay alert. This may be a trick. They are Roman horses, they are dressed in our uniform but until they speak we will be wary.\"\n\nHe felt rather than saw the two princesses clamber up the ladder. It would have been churlish of him to chastise them for this breach of rules not to mention the potential health hazard of a pregnant princess falling from the ladder and he understood their anxiety.\n\n\"It is Marcus! He is alive.\" Macha's face lit up as she was the first to recognise her man.\n\nUlpius frowned when he saw the bodies draped over the backs of the horses. He shouted down. \"Get the surgeon!\"\n\nEven though every part of Marcus yearned to be with his love his duty dictated that he reported to Ulpius and, in truth, his report was vital. Ulpius took him into the now complete fort Headquarters. The brazier in the corner gave off immediate heat which to the half-frozen Marcus was a lifesaver. Ulpius waved his hand for his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 to sit and handed him a goblet of honeyed warm wine. His desire and need for the valuable information in Marcus' head was counterbalanced by the understanding that he had been through an ordeal; the dead bodies draped over the horses was testimony to that.\n\nEventually, Marcus told him of the patrol culminating in the ambush. \"So Venutius is ready to strike but towards us or towards Eboracum?\" Although he was talking to himself Ulpius was also trying to establish if Marcus had any further information.\n\n\"I do not think they were aware of our fort here. We saw no signs of armed men either on our way out or back. But I fear that the fact that the Carvetii escaped means they will track us.\"\n\n\"Aye. Well we will have to assume that is the case. I will waste no more messengers asking for help either our forces will be moving towards us as we were told or we will be on our own. We will improve the defences. But not you. Go see your woman and rest you and your men have done well.\" He paused and his one eye lit up. \"As I knew you would.\"\n\n# Chapter 15\n\n#\n\nBrocavum\n\nAs the battered and wounded Maeve urged his mount towards the muster he wondered how Venutius would take the news. He was not an easy lord to follow as many of his men had discovered. His obvious courage, strength and martial skills were countered by a cruel nature and a violent temper. He gripped his sword and looked to the skies; it was in the Allfather's hands now.\n\nAs he crested the brow of the valley before Brocavum he was amazed by the host he could see in the distance. It looked as though every warrior had already arrived. Surely with a host this size even the mighty Roman army could be destroyed. Riding down the steep slopes he pondered on the Romans he had fought. It was the first time he had been bested and he realised that he could have died at the hands of the young Roman warrior. Hitherto they had respected the Roman ability to fight in tight lines, shoulder to shoulder but every Carvetii warrior believed that in a single combat they would win. His dead comrades gave that statement the lie.\n\nThe fact that he arrived alone meant that Venutius demanded he attend him immediately. In the huge hall with all the chieftains gathered the High king sat on a raised platform on a mighty throne. He was deliberately intimidating. He had to keep his vassals in awe of him.\n\n\"You come alone Lord Maeve where are your warriors or are they with your brother?\"\n\nEvery eye stared at the warrior whose wounds were still apparent. \"We found some Romans and ambushed them but they were alert and they defeated us.\"\n\nVenutius' eyes narrowed. \"They defeated you? Did you outnumber them?\" Maeve lowered and shook his head. \"You attacked at night?\"\n\n\"Yes my King, but their guards gave warning and they had armour.\"\n\n\"Where did they come from these Romans?\"\n\n\"They were horsemen and we found their tracks coming from the land of the lakes.\"\n\nFor the first time, Venutius looked confused. He had expected Romans from the west but he had believed that the south was safe as the Deceangli were still fighting the Romans in Mona. Suppose he had two huge armies to face? He had a mighty host but he could not fight two conflicts against two armies. On the other hand, it could have been a patrol from the army to the west.\n\nHe rose, towering over his warriors. \"You have disappointed me. You have been defeated by a handful of Romans and you have failed to do as I asked which was to discover where the Romans were. What have you to say?\"\n\n\"I know that I have let you down but I believed that my information was vital. I would else have died with my sword in my hand.\" The proud warrior stared defiantly at his king.\n\n\"And that is the only reason why you still have a head on your shoulders. Summon Earl Woolgar.\"\n\nThe Earl must have been outside for he appeared within a heartbeat. He glared at Maeve when he entered. It was obvious in an instant that they were half brothers for both had inherited their father's looks. They could have been twins but for their dress. Earl Woolgar had more jewellery and finer clothes than his poorer brother. \"Your warrior here has dishonoured your tribe. To redeem you and your people I want you to take your warband to the land of the lakes. Find these Romans without them seeing you. When you find them send a message to me. If it is a patrol you can destroy it, if it is an army then I will come to defeat it. Do you think you can do this?\"\n\nThe sarcasm in his voice made the older warrior colour. \"I will my lord and if it is a patrol I will return with their heads on my lance.\"\n\nWhen he was outside he looked with disgust at his half brother. There was no love lost between them with Maeve blaming the Earl for taking his birthright. He had felt humbled and angry when he had heard his people disparaged all because of his half brother. Much as he wanted to kill him there out of hand he knew that family loyalty meant he could not. \"Take your miserable self back to your farm. When we have defeated these Romans, I will decide on your punishment.\"\n\nMorbium\n\nCaesius Alasica stared intently at the almost complete bridge. His legionaries had done well in appalling condition. This northern land was cold and inhospitable; for the Spanish soldiers it must have seemed to be Hades. The last few touches were being applied and he knew that the following day would see the invasion of the land of the Carvetii. His auxiliaries had kept the lands north and south of the river clear of enemy scouts. The Roman leader's nose wrinkled in distaste as he saw the heads of the dead scouts displayed on poles. No doubt it was an effective deterrent but it showed the Roman that his auxiliaries were but a step away from being barbarians themselves. He looked at the native bridge which had enabled them to secure the two banks. Although it had served his needs the Roman could see that the spring floods would sweep it away. He could see the remains of an earlier bridge. His bridge was of stone and would easily withstand flood damage. He looked back at the watch tower his men were building at the top of the ridge. When completed it would give his soldiers early warning of an enemy advancing on the bridge or fort.\n\nHe turned to his aid. \"Gaius Agrippa, ensure that the centurion in charge of the cohorts building the forts is an experienced man. The last thing we need is for all our work to be undone because the commander here is inexperienced.\" Gaius nodded but before he could continue Alasica continued with his instructions. \"And you, young Gaius, must ensure that the road between here and Eboracum is defended well. Keep it well patrolled. I want our supplies to be with us as soon as we require them. I wish we were closer to the coast for we could use the fleet.\" He suddenly stopped as though struck by a weapon. \"By Mithras of course! Instruct the fleet commander to sail here.\"\n\n\"But we have not secured the coast yet sir.\"\n\n\"From what I have seen they do not possess any ships, let alone fighting ships. As long as the river is deep enough and wide enough then we can save ourselves the effort of building forts and fortlets all the way from Eboracum. I want to know as soon as the first ship arrives. Once the fleet has achieved this they can escort the supplies. It will save much time. We will not need to unload as many at Eboracum. Excellent. Excellent idea.\" He slapped his young subordinate on the shoulder as though it had been his idea. Gaius smiled to himself. This was one of the reasons his men would follow him to the ends of the earth for he shared all his success with his men as well as putting himself in harm's way.\n\n\"It will be done, commander.\"\n\nThe simple decision meant that Alasica received his supplies quicker than he would had he been at Eboracum. The river journey was less than that at the fortress. It also meant he was in control of his own destiny. He was aware that some of the officials at Eboracum lined their pockets a little too much and it also diminished the effect of the sabotage taking place.\n\nGlanibanta\n\nIt was some days later when Macha brought up the subject of marriage. In truth, she would not have done so were it not for the persistence of her sister who took every opportunity to make direct statements to Macha and oblique ones to Marcus. Marcus, being a warrior just thought that Lenta was being a woman and nagging. He said so to Macha. \"Your sister seems a little testy of late is there a problem?\"\n\n\"No she is just, well she is just Lenta you know,\" she tailed off lamely.\n\n\"Perhaps she needs a man?\"\n\nMacha resisted the urge to snap at him. He was so na\u00efve when it came to women but she saw an opportunity to bring up the subject of marriage. \"No, she has no need of a man. She had a man, a husband, he is dead. She does not need a man. If she had never had a husband then she would need one for her children. All children need a father.\"\n\n\"Good then, our son will be happy for he will have a father.\"\n\n\"He will until Rome decides to send you somewhere else in the Empire and then where will he be? Will I have to find another soldier to look after us?\"\n\nMarcus looked shocked as though the idea had never occurred to him which, of course, it had not. He was happy knowing that he was loved and had a son. He had not thought it through. Now that Macha had suggested it to him it was as though Pandora's Box had been opened. It was true he could be sent anywhere. He still had fifteen years to serve what would happen if they sent him to Egypt or Parthia. \"Well, I er that is.\"\n\n\"That is you have not thought about it have you?\"\n\n\"No, but I am thinking now.\" He pulled her over to his lap and nuzzled her ear. \"I will see Ulpius. I will ask permission to marry.\"\n\nMacha threw her arms around him but before either could speak Lenta burst in. \"At last! Well done brother.\"\n\nMarcus looked ruefully at her. \"Well at least it means that we will have our own quarters and there will be no eavesdroppers.\"\n\nLenta and Macha both laughed. \"It matters not husband for we share everything. There are no secrets.\"\n\nLenta looked playfully at Marcus' crotch. \"No brother, no secrets.\"\n\n**North of** **Glanibanta**\n\nThe scouts of Woolgar's warband picked up the trail of Marcus soon after they cross the ridge near the long lake. The Romans had not bothered to hide their tracks and, although the snow had largely disappeared the weary auxiliaries had left an easy trail. Woolgar was still fuming about his treatment at the hands of his king and was reluctant to send back a premature message. With five hundred warriors under his command he was confident he could deal with any force short of a legion. He seethed at his half brother. Had he joined the muster the problem would not have arisen; no one would know about the Romans and his honour would be intact. He would have to show the king that he was capable of leading larger warbands than his own. He glanced around at the hills; this was broken, uneven country and Roman legionaries would struggle to keep their famous ordered formations. His lightly armoured warriors would be able to hide and strike from the safety of steep cliffs. Still, he would call on Venutius if it were a legion rather than risking the wrath of his unstable leader for if he suffered the indignity of defeat again he would not put it past the King of the Brigante to have him murdered by one of his witches.\n\nSpring was definitely in the air when they camped in the valley of the two lakes. Woolgar was being cautious. Soon the valley would narrow to a point where it could be held by a line of twenty men. He wanted his men fresh when they reached there. He looked up from his mutton joint and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he scanned the steep skyline. It was many years since he had been here but he was certain that he remembered a twisting path which skirted the escarpment. He turned to Aetre one of his more trusted lieutenants, the son of his sister. Although he had only seen seventeen summers he was a fine warrior and a leader. More important he was a thinker. \"Take ten men and see if you can find the path along that ridge.\" Aetre nodded and quickly left with a file of men.\n\nAlthough he had only seen seventeen summers he had proved himself to be a clever warrior and the older man, drawn from Woolgar's personal warband trusted him and his judgement. They left their mounts at the foot of the slope close to a small stream and they set off at an easy lope. The land steadily rose, climbing through rowan, elder and pine. They paused briefly at a pond to drink and to enable Aetre to climb a small knoll which overlooked the valley. He could see that there was clearly a path weaving through the forest and he quickly rejoined his men. The path became more uneven with rises and falls; there were sheer drops and it was barely wide enough for two men but it was a path. Behind him his men smiled at the young warrior's wisdom in leaving their horses. It was drawing on towards dark when the path began to descend. He wondered whether to turn back when he heard a roaring noise in the distance. They trotted on until they came to a waterfall. They descended the steep sides and found a shallow ford through which they could easily wade. The trail on the other side appeared to head up into the valley to the east and he was about to turn back when one of his scouts suddenly drew his attention to a thin tendril of smoke spiralling from the other side of the trees.\n\nAlert to danger they began to ford the stream, its icy waters chilling them to the bone. Once they were back on the path the forest masked the roaring of the waters but they began to smell not only the smoke but the smell of horses. Aetre held his hand up. He turned to one of his men. \"Go back to Earl Woolgar. Tell him of the path, the stream and the waterfall. Tell him we believe there are Romans ahead. We will find out their numbers. Tell him I will send another messenger when I know more.\" Once more his men wondered at the wisdom of the youth. He was not blundering into a situation and he was keeping their leader informed. All of the warriors knew of Earl Woolgar's meeting with Venutius and all knew how angry he had been.\n\nThey moved steadily on until Aetre stopped them again. The forest ended and he could see, in the darkening evening a man-made structure; it was the Roman tower sitting atop the steep knoll. There was a glow from the foot of the mound and a glimmer of light gleaning from the top. They had found the Romans. Rather than send another man back with half a message Aetre selected his smallest warrior. \"Find out how many are there but do not be seen.\"\n\nHe slipped away crawling through the clumps of dead summer weed and grasses. The wind was coming down the valley from the lakes and he crawled in the opposite direction to mask his smell from the horses. He could see they were Romans by their mail and their horses. He was surprised to see a tower; he had travelled this valley before and never seen a tower here. How long had they been here? He could just make out the sentry in the top of the dimly lit building. The others appeared to be reclining and eating at the foot of the tower close to the tethered horses. He was as silent and motionless as a stone as he counted them. It was completely dark by the time the warrior returned. \"There are more than ten men there. I counted at least twelve horses. There are men in the tower and they are Romans.\"\n\n\"Good. Go back and tell the lord what you have seen. We will await his instructions here.\" As his man trotted off Aetre divided his men into watches. Whilst it was dark the light from the Roman fire allowed his men to see movements in the tower leaving the sentries blind to the Carvetii hiding in the forest. Aetre spread his men in a half circle and impressed on them not only the need for silence but also for vigilance.\n\nWoolgar started his men off long before the dawn. Following the advice of the scout they went on foot and they were led by the earl himself. The scout warned him of the dangers of the path but Earl Woolgar was desperate to get to grips with the Romans. He pushed them on at a fierce pace losing two men who fell down the scree on the dark hillside; their broken limbs would rule them out of any further fight but the war chief cared not. Speed was of the essence and from the message he deduced it was not a large party; his fifty warriors would be more than enough. Aetre heard them long before they arrived and he went towards them to ensure they could not be heard by the tower. Lying in the dark he had become acutely aware of how far noise could travel and he wanted to warn his kin of the presence of the Romans. He appeared by the side of Earl Woolgar making his bodyguards grip their weapons in alarm.\n\n\"Greetings uncle. They have not moved yet. There are only twelve Romans in the tower. The sentries appear to be looking towards the two lakes rather than over here. They changed sentries in the middle of the night.\"\n\n\"You have done well cousin. Can we approach without being seen?\"\n\n\"We would have to be as the snake and crawl on our bellies but we could. But lord the sun comes soon we must be swift.\"\n\n\"Aye.\" He turned to his men. \"We will follow Aetre. When he crawls so shall you. Spread out and surround the Romans. On my signal we attack. Any man who attacks before the signal will die by my hand.\" His last statement was for the younger hotheads who were likely to risk death for the glory of first blood.\n\nThe ground was cold and damp as they slithered across the open ground close to the tower. They were helped by the fact that their dull and dark clothes blended into the dark ground. There were tufts and clumps of grass and weeds which helped camouflage the lightly armed and unencumbered warriors. In the tower, the guards were stamping their feet to get warm and peering into the lightening sky to the north and east. Lugotrix was eager to close with these Romans and prove his valour. He had yet to earn combat amulets, this would be his opportunity. His arrow was already notched on his bow. He glanced over at Earl Woolgar who raised his sword; coming to a half crouch he aimed his arrow at the two men in the tower.\n\nThe young optio, Julius Brutus, was enjoying himself as this was the first time his half turma had been given this duty. He was relishing the independence of command. His men were the least experienced which was why they had not been given the duty hitherto; they were, as he was young and the turma had only joined the command a few weeks before they left Eboracum. They had not been involved in any of the battles nor the long patrol but they were keen to prove themselves to the infamous one-eyed commander. Ulpius was forced to use them as he now had another half turma on the lake guarding the south; he recognised the rashness of youth and wanted to protect the affable young optio from himself. The casualties from Marcus' patrol were beginning to cause problems. He knew that in a short time there would be a lightening of the sky to the east that was when he would awaken the rest of his men. It was essential to be prepared for any Carvetii who ventured down the valley; he was determined not to let down the rest of the ala.\n\nThe first that Julius Brutus knew of an attack was when he heard the whistle and felt the air move as the sentry next to him fell with an arrow protruding from his neck. He barely had time to duck below the parapet before a second arrow thudded into the roof of the tower.\n\n\"To arms!\" Even as he shouted he gripped his shield and drew his sword. His men reacted quickly but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Their reaction was to look to the north but their attackers were all around them. Men who had been soundly asleep woke to find a warrior with charcoal covered face slashing down at them with short bladed seaxes.\n\nLugotrix discarded his bow and gripped his razor sharp, short bladed knife. He saw a sleepy Roman lurch towards him a spear in his hand. The young warrior waited until his opponent thrust at him and then spun round his blade glancing off the man's spine and plunging into his kidney, a mortal wound. He was a warrior at last! Eagerly looking around he pounced upon a Roman who was trying to mount his horse. The young Lugotrix grabbed his trailing leg and they fell in a heap on the ground. They were so close they could smell the sweat on each other's body but the Carvetii could smell something else, fear. \"This morning Roman you die,\" he ripped the knife across the throat of the auxiliary and felt the warm salty blood splash on his face. Feeling exulted he continued to saw through the cartilage until he felt his blade grate against bone. With a sudden rip he tore the head from the body and stood shouting his triumph. Now all his brothers could see that he was a warrior and he had kills, not just one, for he had three.\n\nAlthough they gave a good account of themselves their defence was over in minutes. The last Roman to die was the optio who used the tower from which to hurl javelins at the warriors who were busy slaughtering his men. He was brave and knowing he would die he determined to take as many barbarians as possible with him. He took great satisfaction in watching his javelin take a warrior full in the chest. He released a second and saw it hit another in the leg. When he had hurled the last of them he waited in the tower for the death he knew would come. The Carvetii kept up a steady shower of arrows whilst two men made their way up the ladder armed with long spears. Although the young auxiliary managed to hurl a sword and kill one of his attackers the second one managed to wound him as he came through the door at the top of the tower. Julius Brutus, who was now weakened through the loss of blood, fought bravely on, managing to slice through the cheek of the barbarian. The blood from his wound caused him to slip and his assailant killed him with a thrust of his spear into the unarmoured area between his legs; a turn of the lance eviscerating him.\n\nWoolgar's men were excited by their first, easy victory over the Romans and it took all of his power to stop them from firing the tower. \"Fools! We have surprise. This tower is here to warn the Romans of an attack from the valley of the two lakes. We can use this.\" He gestured to one of his men. Take a Roman horse and bring the rest of the warband.\"\n\nThe man vaulted easily on the horse and set off at a fast gallop.\n\nQuintus Carrus and his companion Gaius Sempricus were looking forward to returning to the tower their duty completed. Ulpius had insisted upon two troopers being on duty at the narrow neck of land between the lower lake and the steep hillside. It would provide early warning of an attack and the narrowness of the area meant that two men could easily spot anyone advancing towards the tower. It was not a popular duty as the only shelter was a rock overhang. They knew that their relief would be coming soon and they prepared their horses.\n\n\"I hope they have kept the fire going my feet are so cold that I can't feel them.\"\n\n\"Aye and some hot food would not go amiss. Not long to wait now. I just hope our young optio hasn't decided to redesign the tower or have us performing complicated military manoeuvres I am shattered. I just want my bedroll.\" They both laughed. They might make gentle fun of their optio but in truth all of the turma liked him. He was a caring commander, if a little keen. Quintus and Gaius were the two longest serving auxiliaries and Marcus had put them in the turma to stiffen its experience.\n\nSuddenly they heard the thud of a galloping horse from the direction of the tower. They were both experienced enough to know what it meant, danger. They both turned to face the noise and drew their javelins. The Carvetii warrior turned around the huge rock in the trail to be faced by two armoured Roman warriors. The two troopers immediately recognised their foe and their training took over; they only needed one javelin thrust to kill him instantly.\n\nAs they removed the javelin from the body Quintus realised that their enemy was riding a Roman horse. \"There is trouble at the tower. We must return to the fort and warn the commander. Let us be careful.\" Leading the Roman horse they trotted back towards the tower. The path to the tower twisted through scrub and brush but then it emerged into the killing ground cleared by the auxiliaries. There was another way; the small river ran in a shallow gully off to the side and afforded some cover.\n\nIn the tower, Woolgar and his men had long since finished mutilating the corpses and stripping them of weapons and armour. They had found the food and were enjoying the fire as dawn broke. So it was that the two Romans saw the Carvetii moving around the tower long before they were seen. They used the stream as a path which kept them hidden from the watchers. They were just unfortunate that Lugotrix climbed into the tower, the scene of his first victory, to survey the area as one of the Roman horses neighed as it lost its footing. \"Romans!\" He pointed to the west where the cavalrymen had realised they were seen and reacted quickly. The advantage that the Romans had was that they knew the path and they knew where the fort was. Realising that they could not hide the troopers whipped their horses into a gallop, leaving the water to the relative safety of the path now well worn by the Roman patrols.\n\nWoolgar shouted to the men nearest to the remaining Roman horses. \"Get those Romans now!\"\n\nBy the time they had bridled them and mounted the horses, the two troopers were in the distance. With daylight now upon them the Carvetii would soon be upon them.\n\nThe sentries at the fort had just been changed and so were as alert as they could be. They could hear the horses before they saw them and the speed told them it meant danger. The standing orders were quite clear and the senior sentry shouted, \"To arms to arms!\" By the time the troopers arrived at the gate, every wall and palisade was manned. The gates were opened and closed again before the nine Carvetii had arrived. When they did arrive a shower of arrows plucked two men from their saddles and the rest retreated to a safe distance from the fort. To say they were surprised was an understatement. They could see two forts bristling with Romans and Brigante heavily armed and secure. The leader who took them back to the tower did not look forward to passing the message along to Woolgar.\n\nUlpius knew that they could not escape notice for long but, as Quintus made his report he was disappointed that the tower had failed to give them warning. It had been fortunate that his standing orders had had the mounted patrol out or they would have been surprised. He turned to the decurion next to him. \"Senior officers in my headquarters now.\" He turned to the two troopers. \"You have done well. Rejoin your turma.\"\n\nAs soon as he saw the empty horses being led by the handful of scouts Earl Woolgar knew that he was facing a larger force and it was not far away. He had sent for his men as soon as he realised his first messenger had perished. The first elements were making their way into this new camp. The Carvetii chieftain had decided that this flat area with the Roman tower and water close by would be a good base either to defend against roman attacks or use as a springboard to assault the invaders.\n\nFrom his scouts he discovered that there were two forts, one Roman and one Brigante, less than a legion but more than a cohort or century. As he quenched his thirst with some warm beer he considered his options. The Romans could not attack Venutius without passing him. They had chosen the site of the tower well for it was a natural bottleneck. If they chose to head west he would soon know and it would play into his hands as it was still Carvetii land patrolled by Carvetii warriors. Was this a Roman invasion or a diversion? He would need prisoners. He decided not to send a message to Venutius until he knew more. He was still smarting over his treatment at the hands of the king. He would send to the king when he knew everything. He shouted to Aetre whose success had made him the favoured one. \"Gather my blood brothers we will go and see these Romans for ourselves.\"\n\nGlanibanta\n\nInside the headquarters building Ulpius was having similar problems of intelligence. From Marcus' report he knew that the tribes were gathering. From Quintus' report he knew that there were enough tribesmen to overwhelm his outpost. Was this a patrol like that of Marcus or was it the main force? He looked around at the faces of his senior leaders; Orrick who spoke for the Brigante; Quintus Brutus who led the legionaries and Marcus now promoted to senior decurion. \"Well we are blind are we not?\" He was pleased that they smiled at his self-deprecating comment. \"Or at least half-blind. We need to know what we face.\"\n\nOrrick was the first to speak. \"I can take my scouts out to discover who they are. We will be less easy to spot than your troopers.\"\n\n\"True but I fear they will be watching the fort. Hidden but watching. It matters not whether it is Brigante or Roman they will be watched.\"\n\n\"If we leave at night?\"\n\n\"Then there may be a chance. Marcus when you led your patrol you headed west did you not? Could we go that way and outflank them?\"\n\n\"The problem is the hills and the water.\" He was pleased that Orrick nodded in agreement. \"The water and the mountains force you to travel north for half a day before you can even think about turning east and we still have the problem of the narrow valley of two lakes.\"\n\n\"East\"\n\nOrrick spoke. \"Your young commander is right and the mountains to the east are even higher. There is also a valley, the valley of the long lake and it comes out close to where Venutius will have his muster.\"\n\nUlpius turned to speak to the legionary centurion who had not spoken. \"Any thoughts centurion?\"\n\n\"It seems to me that my legionaries were chosen because they can defend walls.\" They all nodded their agreement. \"But they are the very troops who could force a narrow pass for that is work for men fighting shield to shield. The barbarians cannot stand against such tactics. They fight as individuals. We are not enough to face a huge army but as long as they are equal numbers, my men could easily force them back.\"\n\n\"How narrow is the pass to the north Marcus? You travelled down it last.\"\n\n\"It is ten men wide until you come to the land where the two lakes join where it is quite flat although boggy and marshy, about three hours march and then it narrows again to forty men wide just north of the northern lake.\"\n\nA plan was forming in his mind. \"So if our legionaries can force them back to the wider part then our cavalry would be able to fall upon them?\"\n\nMarcus nodded and Orrick spoke up. \"The centurion is right the hills to the west are steep, for horses. My men are hill men. I could take a warband on foot and attack them in the rear at the neck of land between the two lakes.\"\n\nTheir discussion was interrupted by the shout of \"Stand to! Riders approaching.\"\n\nThe men quickly raced to the ramparts. The bolt throwers were already cocked although the enemy were too far away to hurt. \"That's him.\"\n\n\"Who?\" questioned Ulpius.\n\n\"The leader of the men I fought. I recognise his hair and beard.\" Marcus had mistaken the warrior brother of his defeated opponent but it raised his standing amongst the Brigante.\n\n\"You did well young Marcus for that is Earl Woolgar. In his youth he was a mighty warrior and he is one of Venutius' wisest and fiercest leaders.\"\n\n\"So,\" continued Ulpius, \"we can assume it is a large force but not the whole army.\" His three lieutenants nodded their agreement. \"They will, of course, base themselves at our outpost as it controls the pass. How many men would he have with him do you think?\"\n\nOrrick pondered for a moment and then said, \"He would have at least a thousand. They would be his warband.\"\n\nUlpius looked at Decius Brutus. \"You can force the pass against a thousand warriors?\" It was more of a statement than a question.\n\n\"Against undisciplined warriors with little armour? Yes.\"\n\n\"Good, let us retire and I will tell you my plan. If we all approve then we will proceed.\"\n\nAn hour later the plan was finalised. As soon as it was dark Orrick would take a hundred and fifty of his best warriors west to provide the ambush. Ulpius and Marcus would take ten turma as a screen towards the tower. Decius Brutus would follow with his legionaries and two bolt throwers and attack the Carvetii at the pass. The remaining soldiers both Brigante and Roman would defend the Roman fort. As Ulpius said it was a gamble but if they did not strike quickly then perhaps the Carvetii would bring their whole army and destroy them.\n\nEarl Woolgar turned to his nephew. \"What do you think?\"\n\n\"I think that we would lose many men attacking from here. They have the fort defended by the water. We could starve them out. Stop their men getting supplies or we could inform the king.\"\n\nWoolgar nodded. He had come to the same conclusion. If they had boats then the assault would be easy but as long as they had the lake behind them and the walls defended by the bolt throwers, archers and javelins then they would be wasting lives. \"I agree.\" He turned to his blood brothers. \"You have the honour of the first duty. Watch the fort and let no one leave. I will return with more men.\"\n\nBoth forts were filled with the sounds of blades being sharpened and equipment being checked. For the Roman legionaries, who had been largely guards until this moment, it was a chance to show the barbarian horse soldiers what real Romans could do. For the auxiliaries it was a chance to hit back at the hated Carvetii. When Woolgar had returned he had also brought the heads of the dead cavalrymen and they had been placed atop long poles for all to see. The Brigante were warriors first and foremost. The fact that they would be partially avenging the death of their Queen was a bonus and they would take few prisoners. The act angered the legionaries more than Ulpius' men who also understood the gesture of removing an enemy head.\n\nAs darkness fell Ulpius called his key leaders together. He spoke first to Orrick. \"There will be no signal for you to attack for I know not how long it will take us. You will have to judge the time for yourself. I do not think they will be expecting an attack as it is an almost impossible thing I ask of you.\"\n\n\"We will not fail and we will need no signal for as soon as we see them we shall attack.\"\n\nUlpius nodded. He knew himself that warriors lost confidence when attacked from a direction they felt was secure. \"Marcus you will take six turmae along the right flank, Lucius Emprenius you will take six to the left and I will command the remaining three in the centre.\"\n\n\"But sir that is the most dangerous part. You will be facing the main body of Earl Woolgar.\"\n\n\"Aye Marcus and that is why it is my duty. The men must see me leading. And besides,\" he smiled at Decius Brutus, \"I will be backed by a cohort of the finest legionaries in Britain. Are you sure your bolt throwers can still be effective firing over the heads of my men?\"\n\n\"It is true they are more effective firing through ranks of men but believe me they will cause chaos falling amongst the ranks who feel secure.\"\n\n\"Good. If there are no further questions may your gods help you tomorrow.\"\n\nMarcus waited until they had left. \"Commander. I have a request.\"\n\n\"I know you wish to be married.\"\n\n\"But how...\"\n\nUlpius smiled. His craggy face made it seem a little lopsided. \"I may only have one eye but it sees well enough and besides Lenta spoke to me or should I say took me to task and berated me.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"Of course, you may marry. I would have married her sister if time had allowed. Do it now. It will make the women happier.\"\n\n\"Thank you. And will they be safe?\"\n\n\"A good question. The men we leave are the weakest we have and if we are defeated they will not hold out long. Had we managed to build a boat then they could have escaped on that so I will not lie to you. If we lose then they will be lost. If we win then they will be safe. Now go and marry her before I feel the rough edge of her sister's tongue again.\"\n\nIn the middle of the night Orrick silently led his men out. They avoided the Carvetii guards by following the mountain stream which fed the lake. They were in the foothills within an hour of leaving the fort. As a precaution, Esca took fifty Brigante and they watched the Carvetii. They would kill them at dawn before the attack.\n\nIn the fort the cavalrymen were mounted and watching the faint light of dawn begin to creep over the steep sided mountains to the east. Marcus looked at his men. They were now hardened into a battle-ready team. At his right, guarding his sword side was Decius almost the shadow of the decurion. He looked unconcerned as he chewed on a piece of dried horsemeat. Marcus knew that inside he was as wound up as he was. Perhaps Marcus was in a greater turmoil having married the now heavily pregnant Macha and just as suddenly left her. He had everything to fight for.\n\nJust behind the gate Ulpius fingered the hilt of Cartimandua's sword. It gave him comfort to know it would be with her weapon that he would wreak havoc upon her murderers. Certainly, the Brigante were in awe of the weapon. As Esca had left he had asked Ulpius if he could touch the scabbard. As the thought entered Ulpius' mind he wondered if the young man had achieved his objective; were the sentries dead? He was answered by the sentry who quietly called down. \"The signal sir from the tree line.\"\n\nHe turned to his men. \"Our allies have done their work now it is up to us. Remember we are fighting for Rome but we also fight for our lives. Fight as you have been taught and we will win.\"\n\nWith that he led his turma forward. The cavalry quickly exited and formed a skirmish line. Ahead of them the Brigante trotted forward as scouts. Finally, the hobnailed boots of the cohort of legionaries tramped through the gate. As Ulpius watched them he thought it was a pitifully small force with which to begin a war but it was his army and they would win.\n\nWoolgar was also awake. Sat in the Roman tower, he had spent the night preparing the report he would send to Venutius. It would be a spoken report and he was using one of his wiser lieutenants who would not deviate from his words. Once the report was sent he would begin to prepare his defences. He called his messenger over to him. \"Listen carefully and report my words exactly to the king. Tell him that we have found some Romans and Brigante and they have fortified a site at the big lake. They are the size of a large warband, our numbers. We await his orders. Repeat it.\"\n\nThe messenger repeated the report word for word. Woolgar had been careful to avoid any word which might imply cowardice or doubt. Venutius was too unstable to give him an idea that Woolgar was trying to oust him. He heard the horse galloping north and he called for his food. He would eat and then prepare his camp. Above him at the top of the tower the guard who had been fitfully dozing suddenly became alert. Before he could shout a warning a Brigante arrow entered his neck and his dead body tumbled down the ladder. Woolgar shouted the warning. \"To arms to arms!\"\n\nThe sleepy warriors grabbed the arms they had slept with as Ulpius' cavalry charged across the flat open field before the tower. On the right, Marcus rode his turma close to the stream as did the turma on the left. In the centre, Ulpius headed straight for the tower. That would be where the enemy commander was. Strike the head from the snake and the body would be easily destroyed. The Carvetii outnumbered the Romans but this was the perfect situation for auxiliary cavalry. The tribesmen had no formation and the javelins and spathas wreaked havoc as the solid line of Romans galloped forward. Marcus had the easier task as the ground sloped from east to west and the men there fell back even faster. To his right rode the ever present Gaius guarding his weaker side. A small group of Carvetii had hidden in a small fold of land behind a rocky outcrop. As the turma wheeled left to drive the fleeing tribesmen towards the legionaries they leapt out and went straight for Marcus. Gaius urged his horse forward and the trooper next to him followed. Leaning forward in his saddle the auxiliary slashed down severing the warrior's arm. The trooper next him tried the same manoeuvre but overbalanced and immediately three warriors began hacking at the body. Gaius was now isolated and Marcus had moved forward with the rest of the turma. One of the warriors thrust a spear into the belly of Gaius' horse and he tumbled to the ground. The breath was knocked out of him and the other two rushed towards him teeth bared in anticipation of an easy kill. He still had his shield and as the first of them smashed down with his sword he deflected the blow but in doing so bared his body for a thrust from his companion. Expecting to meet the Allfather Gaius began to mutter his death prayer. As the spear approached Gaius felt a movement out of the corner of his eye and a spatha smashed through the wooden shaft.\n\n\"Not so fast you fucking bastard!\" Decius then back slashed to take the warrior in the throat. Just as he did so the first warrior tried to stab the unprotected back of the grizzled veteran. Gaius had his wits about him and his sword sliced through his assailant's ankle. Turning Decius despatched him through the throat. \"Thanks young Gaius now let's get back into this war.\" He charged off on foot to continue killing Carvetii.\n\nIn the centre the initial charge of Ulpius slowed as the warriors closer to the tower began to form up. Ulpius saw their leader, now armed and armoured organising them. Soon his men would begin to weaken as the ground near the tower rose and their momentum slowed. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Decius Brutus' legionaries were less than a hundred paces behind. He turned to his standard bearer. \"Now!\"\n\nAt this he began waving the horsetail standard signalling the two flanks to slow. He shouted, \"Halt!\" The disciplined ranks of the two turmae stopped. The Carvetii were confused for they could only see a thin line of Roman horse that had suddenly stopped. Ulpius raised his sword and the two turmae all drew the javelins they had reserved. The Carvetii charged forward to hit the stationary Romans. \"Release!\" His men threw their javelins as one into the charging warriors. He looked again at his aquifer. \"Now!\" He waved the standard again and as Ulpius shouted, \"Fall back!\" The two flanking lines of cavalry charged.\n\nThe tribesmen saw none of this, they saw the Romans retreating and they charged forward over the bodies of the warriors killed by the javelins. The whole host of tribesmen were now racing forward, a warband enraged and angry, desperate to get to grips with the Romans who had decimated their ranks. Earl Woolgar could do little to control them and, looking out from the tower he saw the trap laid by the Romans. He could see what his men could not, a line of legionaries and as the first bolt took one of his bodyguards in the chest, bolt throwers. His military mind could not help but be impressed as the front line of cavalry fell back and his men charged into a solid line of legionaries. It was like throwing snow on a fire for they were slaughtered by the heavily armoured Romans. Scanning the battlefield Woolgar could see that the cavalry on the flanks were forcing his men into the centre where they were cut down by the relentless Romans who were fighting almost as a machine with the mechanical slash and thrust of razor sharp gladii. It was time to retreat. He shouted for his blood kin. \"We will retreat but with order. You,\" he pointed to Aetre, \"Ride forward and tell the men to fall back. We do not want to run but we can move faster than those Romans.\" Aetre galloped off. \"The rest of you mount. We will see if we can defeat those Romans.\" He pointed at the turma who were at the western edge of the battle. They were downhill and had a stream at their rear. If Woolgar could attack them whilst their attention was on those to their front then it could allow his men to escape north.\n\nUlpius rested his mount as he watched the progress of the legionaries. They were an impressive sight. Their short stabbing swords made light work of the unarmoured Carvetii. He could see the decurion princeps calmly surveying his men as they moved inexorably forward. Few of the tribesmen had helmets and even fewer had armour whilst their blows were taken on stout shields and iron helms. Suddenly Ulpius was aware that a mounted man was ordering them back and they began to fall quickly back. The warrior had organised some archers whose arrows although not causing casualties slowed down the legionaries. This was as he had expected but then disaster struck. Ulpius saw the Carvetii leader charge Lucius Emprenius in the flank. The decurion had lost the cohesion of his line and they were bowled back towards the stream. The warriors closest took advantage and began hacking at the legs of the horses.\n\nUlpius turned to his two turmae. \"To me! Three lines.\" His men formed behind him ten men wide and three deep. \"Charge!\" The brief rest had allowed his mounts to regain their wind and they hit the bodyguard of Woolgar in the flank. Ulpius' mighty sword flashed death as he carved a path through warriors eager to destroy Lucius' men. Soon all order was lost and the cavalry were enmeshed and embroiled on all sides. Swords and spears flashed as every man fought for survival.\n\nIn the centre, Aetre had extracted most of the men and there was now a gap between them and the legionaries. He kept berating those warriors who would have returned to the fray. It was vital that they retreated to the narrows close to the lake and the steep hillside. Gradually they edged their way back and soon there was a noticeable gap between his men and the Romans who were now approaching the more uneven ground which would break up their formation.\n\nOn the right, Marcus had halted his horses as they were blown. He looked around to see which of his men had survived. Both Decius and Gaius were with him although he could see a tendril of blood dripping slowly from a wound on Gaius' arm and both men were afoot. The battlefield was littered with the bodies of horses hacked down as the barbarians tried to get to grips with their riders. For a cavalryman it was one of the saddest sights they could ever witness. The horses of the turmae were snorting heavily and they were looking weary.\n\nWoolgar could see this from his mount and he suddenly shouted to his men. \"Withdraw!\" Leaving many of his blood kin in a wall around him Woolgar took his bloodied and blood-soaked survivors back towards the bulk of his army. Although they had lost many men they still outnumbered the Romans.\n\nDecius Brutus had taken this lull to bring up his bolt throwers and they began to hurl death at the retreating tribesmen. This was what his men did well. He roared. \"Forward!\" and the cohort once more began its relentless pursuit of the enemy.\n\nUlpius Felix sheathed his sword and trotted Raven over to the legionary who was ordering his lines. \"You and your men did well centurion.\"\n\n\"Aye we have only lost one or two men but this ground is no good for us; it is too rough.\"\n\nBefore them the ground was littered with large pieces of rock, scrubby trees and bushes. The enemy were forming up again with their flanks protected by water and the steep hillsides.\n\n\"Now is the time to wear them down. The longer we hold them here the more time that Orrick will have to attack them in the rear. Have more bolts brought up let us see if they have the will to take the punishment.\"\n\nThe centurion nodded and began to organise his men. The bolt throwers were placed either side of the cohort so that the men could retreat behind the cohort in the case of a sudden attack. Ulpius turned to Julius Augustus. \"Lucius was wounded in the last attack. Take charge here. Send the wounded back to the fort and watch out for sudden attacks.\" Dismounting he led his mount over to Marcus and his troopers. He could see that his young deputy had dismounted his men. \"Well done men! Be vigilant the day is not yet ours.\" The men gave a tired cheer and Ulpius drew the centurion to one side. \"Send any wounded back to the fort. It will bolster their defences. How many men did you lose?\"\n\nLooking around briefly to confirm the numbers he said, \"Eight dead and four wounded enough to merit a trip back to the fort. The rest would not thank me for taking them away.\"\n\n\"Good. I had thought that we would have ended the day victorious but they have a wiser head commanding than we are used to. It will be a slog. Our legionaries will batter at the enemy and I will send a patrol along the stream to see if we can flank them.\"\n\nMarcus shook his head. \"The stream leads to the lake and there is no path this side. The path on the hillside is steep and dangerous we would not be able to travel swiftly. I fear that the only way is through this narrow pass.\"\n\n\"Then we will have to rely on our foot soldiers. Rest your men but be alert. I do not think they will attack but you never know with these warriors. They may decide to make a death or glory charge.\"\n\nWoolgar was also consulting with his lieutenants. They had not emerged with as few casualties as the Romans. Many of his best warriors had perished in the initial attack and the charge of his blood kin had also resulted in many of his better armed and experienced warriors dying. The warband remained intact but they were not as solid and controlled as their well trained and disciplined opponents.\n\nThe leader had been given a variety of opinions. His men shouted out suggestions without even thinking. They just confused their leader.\n\n\"Let us attack now for we are being slaughtered by these machines.\"\n\n\"I say we retreat to the head of the lake and ambush them.\"\n\n\"Let me take me warriors up the stream to attack from their rear.\"\n\n\"Silence you are chattering women!\"\n\nEven as they spoke they heard the screams as the bolts flew through his ranks slaughtering whole files of them as they stood awaiting the next order to charge for they were so enraged that all they could think of was a charge to destroy these heartless machines which had made the battlefield a sea of blood.\n\n\"My lord our men are being killed here, we need to move to somewhere they cannot attack us with those devilish weapons.\" Aetre was no coward but he hated to watch men dying without being able to strike back. Their voices were pleading with the young leader to be allowed to fight, to attack and avenge their horrendous losses. Already another thirty men had been killed or wounded as they vacillated.\n\n\"You are right but the minute we retreat those horsemen will be upon us.\"\n\nAetre looked up at the scrubby trees around them. \"We have axes a plenty why not cut down a barrier. They would have to move it and that would give us enough time.\"\n\nWoolgar slapped his nephew on the shoulder. \"That is why you will lead this band one day nephew. You think.\" He turned to his blood kin. Cut down trees and build a barrier in front of our men.\"\n\nThe bolt throwers continued to take a heavy toll on the lightly armoured tribesmen. As the wood barrier began to form they were less effective and Ulpius walked over to Decius Brutus. \"Our native friends are becoming cleverer.\"\n\n\"Yes and no for it means we can assault them without risk of a sudden sortie. We will prepare our attack. Are your horsemen ready commander?\"\n\n\"Yes, they are rested.\" The cavalry leader looked around at the reformed turmae. They were now down to seven effective turmae but Ulpius knew there were at least thirty men back in the fort that would soon be able to rejoin. He could see that they had made the barrier the height of a man. It was time to attack. \"Centurion, begin your attack.\" It would take them some minutes to reach the barrier and the bolt throwers were already being dismantled in preparation for the next attack. \"Mount. Single column.\" The narrow pass meant that they would have to follow the legionaries in a much narrower formation than they would have liked but Ulpius was pleased with the way his troopers had grown and developed into this team.\n\nThe legionaries at the front of the column moved slowly to keep their formation intact. The last thing they wanted was for a shield to slip and allow the enemy inside. They braced themselves for the onslaught of missiles which they knew would come and this was made worse by the fact that all that they could see was a wall of wood looming ever larger. Suddenly the arrows, stones and javelins began to shower down. There was a scream of pain and the centurion shouted. \"Close ranks! Do not stop for wounded men.\" It was vital that their momentum continued and as long as they marched shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield there was little damage that could be done to them. Decius Brutus hoped that the weight of men would demolish the barrier and he needed the speed he could muster. Men continued to cry in pain as the missiles began to strike home and the legionary leader could see that they were but a few paces from the wall. \"Charge!\" They hit the wall with the power of a hundred men but the barrier held for the Carvetii had braced it with more logs which were partially embedded in the ground. The missiles now began to take casualties as the tribesmen fired from many paces behind the barrier.\n\nUlpius recognised the problem and he called to Marcus. \"Take your archers, shoot over the barrier and clear those tribesmen.\"\n\nBy the time that the obstacle had been cleared and the threat of archers removed the tribesmen were long gone. Their task had been to slow up the enemy and they were gone as soon as they had loosed their missiles. They had learned from their Roman enemies and mounted their archers. Ulpius surveyed the battlefield. They were not in a position to successfully pursue the defeated tribesmen but Ulpius needed them to be looking behind rather than forward in the hope that Orrick would be able to complete his ambush. He called over to Esca. \"Bring your best men. Marcus, take charge here and then give me your turma, Decius Brutus remove the barrier and strengthen the tower I will follow the enemy. We do not want them to return.\"\n\nEsca and Marcus came over to him. It was Marcus who spoke first. \"I will follow them, commander. \"\n\n\"You could follow them Marcus but Esca and Orrick would like to see the sword of Cartimandua wielded would you not?\"\n\nThe Brigante nodded. \"The sword is worth a hundred men.\"\n\n\"Aye well start your men down the pass and I will follow with my men. Be watchful for ambushes. Their leaders are too clever by half.\" As he loped off Ulpius turned to Marcus. \"I mean you no slight, decurion, for you could do the task as well as I but this is more than a skirmish; we need the Brigante to fight for their land not as mercenaries but as brothers in arms. The sword will do that for with the Queen dead it is the symbol of Brigantia. If we can defeat the Carvetii I have hopes that more tribesmen will come to join us and that gives us our only chance of success for if Venutius brings his whole army we will be defeated.\" Marcus nodded. \"One thing still rankles. Find out from the two men who survived the tower how they believe the enemy was able to get past them. I do not want a repeat of that disaster. If it were not for their survival and quick thinking we could have suffered ever greater losses.\"\n\n\"Yes sir.\"\n\nOrrick had reached the neck of land between the lakes as the battle was raging near to the tower. His scouts reported Woolgar's messenger heading north but were unable to stop him. He knew this area well and the thin, spindly copse would hide his men. He sent thirty archers to the opposite hillside as the enemy was not in sight it would give them the chance to climb high enough to be safe from an attack. Orrick turned to his men. \"At last we have a chance to strike back at the deceitful Venutius by destroying this warband. I have no doubt that our Roman friends will defeat them and they must return by this path. You will await my signal to attack. I want to trap them between us and Ulpius. Now hide and rest but be vigilant.\"\n\nThey were too far from the battlefield to hear anything and the late winter morning was silent so it was that they heard the first wounded stragglers dragging themselves towards their camp. Orrick wondered, as he signalled for his men to remain hidden, if he could have attacked their camp but he dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his head for the camp would be fortified and he might not have reached it, no the Roman barbarian had been right. Suddenly they heard the tramp of a larger number of men and the whole of the Brigante force tensed as they sensed they would soon be embroiled in a deadly conflict. Orrick was in the middle of the ambush and he waited until he had counted fifty men pass him. Then with a scream of Brigante invective, he launched himself at a warrior with a chieftain's torc. His sword sliced through the shoulder of the grey-haired leader who died almost without knowing they were being attacked. As the ones further away from the assault turned to face their attacker they found arrows raining down on their unprotected backs. Orrick felt immortal as his sword sliced through thin leather and damaged shields his enemies falling away before him. The momentum could not last for the Carvetii outnumbered them three to one and soon his men began to fall. On the other side of the path Carvetii archers were picking off the hidden Brigante.\n\nA voice boomed out. \"Brigante bandit face a real man\" and he found himself facing Earl Woolgar who was dressed in mail with a mighty helm upon his head. Undaunted the younger warrior leapt forward and slashed at his opponent's head. A shield blocked it and Orrick barely had time to raise his shield as the axe hammered down chipping pieces of metal and wood. Before he had time to counter Woolgar backhanded the hammer end of the axe and it jarred against Orrick' arm making it slightly numb. Earl Woolgar then used the boss of his shield to punch Orrick in the face. As he stumbled backward the last thing he saw before oblivion took him was the axe head slicing down. The blow was so powerful it split not only the warrior's head but the top half of his body.\n\nThe day would have been even worse for the Brigante had not Aetre suddenly shouted. \"The Romans they are right behind us!\"\n\nWoolgar turned to his blood kin. \"Hold the pass! We will meet in the afterlife.\" His blood kin gave a mighty cheer and turned to make a shield wall before the oncoming soldiers. Leaving the remaining Brigante who were still engaged in combat Woolgar and Aetre took his personal warband through the narrow part of the pass and into the wider land between the lakes.\n\nUlpius and Esca emerged like wolves from the hillside and fell upon the Carvetii still fighting. The rearguard locked shields and began to sing the Carvetii song of death. The Roman in Ulpius wanted to use archers to slaughter his enemy but the barbarian and warrior knew that it was important to kill them as warriors. He formed a line of troopers where the pass was at its widest and, as his men threw their javelins they charged.\n\nRaven was a warrior's mount and as they approached the shield wall the jet-black horse raised his front hooves; as they crashed through one man's skull Ulpius sliced down on another. His blade went through metal, leather and bone. A shield wall was only effective when every shield was locked. Ulpius had taken out two in the middle and suddenly its cohesion was gone; its strength had left it and the end was in sight. The Romans had the advantage of height and their spears allowed them to strike beyond the range of the Carvetii weapons. It was only a matter of time before every warrior lay dead in a lake of blood. Not one of them had surrendered and they had bought their Lord the time needed to get to his fortified camp. The warriors died to a man holding their weapons in their hands, fighting until the last gasp of breath was driven from their bodies and they all died knowing that they would meet again in the Allfather's hall and tell the tales of their bravery for all eternity.\n\n# Chapter 16\n\n#\n\nBrocavum\n\nVenutius' muster had gone well and, as he surveyed the mighty army gathered before him, Carvetii, disaffected Brigante even some Novontae and Selgovae from the northlands, he could not help but feel smug, for it was a huge army. There were chariots drawn by small ponies, men armed with javelins, slings and arrows, warriors armed with huge hammers and men who fought with two seax, one in each hand. It was a hotch potch and it lacked uniformity but it had a purpose. At the last banquet he had seen the passion each warrior chieftain felt for their cause. This was the last roll of the bones; the Silures, Ordovices and Deceangli were all but defeated. The last druid strongholds on Mona were being put to the sword by ruthless Romans, bent on revenge for the actions of those savage priests. It was only here, in the north, where there was any resistance. Caractacus, Boudicca and the other figures of opposition were dead or imprisoned. Venutius had managed to gather the last army. He could not help a self-satisfied smile, not noble born but a marriage to Cartimandua had given him the chance to be king of two tribes. This was his destiny and this was his moment. After he had defeated the Romans he could unite the whole of the land under one king, King Venutius of the Britons.\n\nHe paused to acknowledge the cheers of another contingent, this time blue painted warriors from the north. His army was huge the trick would be to ensure that they fought together, He remembered the stories of Boudicca's army, five times bigger than the legions she had opposed but they had been slaughtered. They had allowed the Romans to choose the battlefield he would not fall into that trap. He had already organised his armies into four giant warbands. This played to his strength, loyalty to your tribe. It also meant that within the warband there would be smaller groups of warriors who could be used tactically. He had seen the Roman army enough to know that the century, small though it was, could operate independently or as part of the whole. He could not presume to make his army as disciplined as the Romans in such a small time but he could use the ideas. The other strength of his army was mobility; they were lightly armoured but they could strike at the enemy and then retreat. He frowned for this was the one weakness of his force. They had a tendency to lose their heads and keep attacking, disobeying orders. Earl Woolgar's experience had shown them all the danger of indiscipline. This was why he had decided to keep one war band in reserve. If one warband failed to keep order he would not have lost the battle. As for the place of the battle, he would fight close to his stronghold at Brocavum. The Romans would be coming from the east and the land, although flat sloped up to his walls. There was more than enough room for him to outflank the Romans and not do as Boudicca had done and give the enemy secure flanks.\n\nThinking of the flanks made him look westwards. Earl Woolgar had still to send a messenger. Were the Romans he had encountered a patrol or had this Alasica decided to attack on two fronts? He still cursed the failure of his plan to disrupt the Romans at Eboracum. Even though Fainch had begun the work well security had increased with the arrival of the new commander and they were being well supplied. The use of the river to carry his supplies had caused problems. He could not disrupt by raiding the ships he had none. In a single stroke, he had been out manoeuvred. He was now reliant on his army defeating the Romans in battle. His allies and subordinates were arriving in huge numbers, in fact, his biggest problem was feeding such a mighty host. He was only awaiting the return of Earl Woolgar who would report whether he had Romans to his rear or not. As soon as he heard from Woolgar he could begin to plan his battle, the battle that would rid his land of Romans.\n\nEast of Brocavum\n\nGalba was having his own problems. He had long left the proximity of his new fort and the supplies which could come up by boat. He needed secure supply lines and that meant wagons; wagons meant a road and that was what was slowing him up. He was building the road across the windswept land to the west of Eboracum. His scouts were constantly in touch with the enemy scouts and he knew that they were close. In five days he would be within striking distance of Brocavum.\n\nBrocavum\n\n\"King Venutius, it is Earl Woolgar, he returns.\"\n\n\"Send him to me.\" It was a bloodied and battered Earl Woolgar who prostrated himself before the mighty king. As he had made his way through the huge host assembled he had decided that he would swallow his pride and bite his tongue. This was not the time to upset the unpredictable king. He could paint his action as a victory rather than a defeat. \"Well Earl Woolgar. Have you good news?\"\n\n\"I have your majesty. There is no Roman army to the south and west it is merely a small force of cavalry.\"\n\n\"Whom you, of course, destroyed?\" The sneer in his voice was apparent to all who listened.\n\n\"Most of them are dead sire but a small force escaped and joined with some rebel Brigante in their fort at the head of the big lake. They cannot do anything as my warband has fortified the valley of the two lakes.\"\n\n\"And what if I need your warband Earl Woolgar. What then? Will they still be trapped? Will they still be unable to attack?\" Why did you not destroy these forts? Their marching camps are weak little affairs.\"\n\n\"My lord the fort is not a marching fort. The Romans must have been there over winter. It will take siege engines to destroy it.\"\n\nFor the first time Venutius was at a loss for words. How had the Romans managed to build such a building over winter? If there were one could there not be more? Perhaps this Alasica was bringing more legionaries from the south. It made battle even more necessary. \"I need your warband. If these cavalry are defeated then a few men should be able to hold them.\" As Earl Woolgar left Venutius, wondered if these Romans were the same ones who had spirited away Cartimandua? Part of him wanted to destroy them himself but he knew his destiny lay in defeating the bigger Roman army.\n\n\"My Lord! My Lord! The Romans are at the other side of the valley. We have seen their cavalry.\"\n\n\"Excellent! Then we attack the day after tomorrow.\" He turned to Aetre, the leader of the rebel Brigante. \"Send your warband to the valley and prevent their cavalry from crossing. Send reports as more Romans arrive. We have them. To your warbands it will not be long before the camp is surrounded by the heads of dead Romans.\"\n\nGlanibanta\n\nAt the Roman fort Ulpius was scanning muster lists of dead wounded and fit. Now that the action was over he felt tired and weary. Would the Carvetii attack sooner rather than later? Although he had fortified the tower again he had had to use even more troopers as they had to watch the path they had discovered to the east. Although not big enough for an army it was big enough, as they had discovered to their cost, for a small group of men to cause havoc. His other problem was supplies. They had used almost all that they had brought and were running low on almost everything. He called in Decius Brutus and Marcus. It was time for some decisions to be made and he was sure that Marcus would not like them.\n\n\"We may have driven off the enemy but it has been at a cost. Centurion, how many effectives have you?\"\n\n\"One hundred and ten counting those who are lightly wounded. Ten others may be fit within the week as for the rest?\" The shrug told it all.\n\n\"Marcus?\"\n\n\"We can mount two hundred troopers which will leave two hundred dismounted and able to fight.\" The winter had been harsh and many fine animals had died. Their bodies had supplemented the meagre diet of the troopers who honestly preferred any food to horsemeat.\n\n\"We have supplies for another week if we go on half rations. There are two hundred Brigante left. Have you any suggestions?\" The looks on both men's faces told Ulpius all that he needed to know. \"I have spoken with Esca. There is a trail which goes south, then east and then north east. It brings us perilously close to Brocavum but if we take it then we will be heading towards our supply lines.\"\n\n\"But sir the princesses. The wounded. We couldn't move them.\"\n\nUlpius held up his hand. Perhaps I was not clear. I was not talking about moving all of us. If we all went we would run out of supplies sooner rather than later. At least here we can fish and forage. No, I am talking about taking my Pannonians. If we take the best horses we can make good time and bring the supplies we need back here. Decius Brutus can command the legionaries, Brigante and unhorsed Pannonians. By my reckoning, he should have ten mounted auxiliary for scouts. Well centurion how does that sound?\"\n\n\"It is a good plan although,\" the legionary leader laughed, \"We would have plenty of supplies if we all ate horse!\"\n\nUlpius laughed. \"It may come to that. Now Marcus what is your opinion?\" The steely look in his eye told Marcus that he had had the only outburst which would be tolerated.\n\n\"If it means the princesses will be safe and results in more supplies then I am happy.\"\n\n\"Good. Well go and say goodbye,\" he suddenly became serious, \"for ours is the more dangerous mission. If we are not ambushed and do not run into the whole Carvetii host then we might be able to return,\" he paused and added \"as long as we haven't fallen from a crag or drowned in a lake or perished in a thousand different ways. Give the men today and tomorrow to rest. Find any who are weak and let them remain here. I want no weak links when we ride, for we will need our best men and all our strength, if we are to survive.\"\n\nGaius and Decius went with Drusus to the lake. They took lines and bait for it was not often they were told to rest by the decurion princeps. They did not think they would catch anything but it mattered not for they would chat and engage in the kind of ribald banter which bonded warriors such as these.\n\n\"Well I for one am glad that I am not remaining in the fort,\" said Drusus as he cast his weighted line into a deep channel.\n\n\"Then you are stupid... sir. I'd rather stay in the fort where you have a bit of wood and soil to protect you. Out there in the hills you never know where your enemy is or when he is going to pounce. Remember the patrol we went on? Those sneaky fuckers slit two throats of men on guard, good men and they heard bugger all.\"\n\n\"That can still happen here, Decius. The ones who are left are generally the wounded and those not as fit as those chosen.\"\n\nDecius spat into the water. \"Well, in that case, I should still be here because I am not fit and a lazy bastard to boot.\"\n\nDrusus laughed. \"You cannot fool us, Decius, for we have seen you fight. There is no better warrior in the turma. You might have carried off that act once but now we know the truth. Who knows we might even see you promoted.\"\n\n\"Get away. Me an officer? That'll be the day. I just fought to stay alive.\"\n\n\"That's all any of us do isn't it?\"\n\nThere was a companiable silence as they watch their lines bobbing up and down. When Gaius spoke it was as though his small quiet voice was a shout and the other started in surprise. \"I don't want to die. I am afraid of dying.\" There was a pause as the two older men looked at the youth. \"I am not afraid of fighting; I just don't want to die. Does that make me a coward?\"\n\n\"Does not wanting to die make you a coward? If that was a rule then the whole fucking turma would be cowards for none us want to die.\"\n\n\"That's right we don't want nor expect to die but Gaius, \"Drusus added gently, \"it helps to be prepared for it can come to any of us. You fought bravely, almost too bravely at the tower. You weren't afraid then.\"\n\n\"No but when I saw how close we all came to death I knew I had too much to live for and I am afraid of going into a hole, a hole like the one we put the queen in.\"\n\n\"That isn't death. That's just the body being respected. You aren't in your body. You are with the Allfather, Metellus, Julius and all the other dead comrades. Don't be afraid of a small dark hole, for that isn't death.\"\n\nThey fell to silence once again each of them pondering their own vision of death. Decius broke the moment. \"And the secret is, son, fight like you did at the tower. When you fight like a mad bastard there's no-one who can stand up to you.\" He sniffed, \"Except of course me. Whoa there!\" He suddenly stood up as his line became taut. \"Got one! Look at it! Got one!\"\n\nSuddenly the three of them were as children, all thoughts of death forgotten as they held the small river trout as though it was a mighty beast they had taken hours to subdue.\n\nMacha and Marcus were lying in the shelter of the wagon. Marcus was stroking his unborn child. Each was lost in their thoughts.\n\n\"Do you have to go Marcus? The baby is due soon, perhaps in the next few days. He has been kicking. I think he wants to see his father.\"\n\nMarcus laughed and put his head next to her enormous bump. \"I can feel him!\"\n\n\"Then stay. I know if you asked Ulpius...\"\n\n\"I have no need to ask for he said I could remain if I chose.\"\n\nShe looked at him, hope in her eyes. \"Then you can stay.\"\n\n\"No, my love. Listen, don't get upset. Let me explain.\" She nestled into the crook of his arm and he nuzzled her hair, smelling the woman in her. \"If I stay yes I shall see our son born, yes I will be close to you but Ulpius will not have me at his side. I am a good warrior. There is only Ulpius who is a better fighter than I am; there is only Ulpius who is a better leader. I say this only to you for I would never speak in this way before my men.\"\n\nSmiling she raised her head, \"I know my husband for there is only you who does not know that you are the finest man in the whole ala. They all say so.\"\n\n\"Well I don't know about that but if I go with Ulpius we have a better chance of winning and if we win then you and our child will be safe and I will then return to you both. Believe me, I will return. I have so much to live for that for the first time in my life I can see beyond the saddle cloth of the horse before me. I can see a future. I can see my son and I can see his sister and his brother.\"\n\nPulling away in mock indignation she said, \"Oh is that how it is to be? You keep filling me with children and then off fighting with your comrades.\"\n\n\"Seems a good life to me!\"\n\n\"Well soldier it is a good thing you are going off then but mark my words when you return we will revisit this idea of me as a mother to a troop of cavalrymen!\"\n\nLaughing she rolled on top of him and they kissed. \"Oh my love I am so glad that we met for I love you so. You have brought hope into my life.\"\n\n\"And you my husband have brought love into mine and shown me what a real man is like.\"\n\nAs the troopers rode along the lakeside Gaius turned to Decius. \"What I don't understand is why we are going south if we are supposed to be heading back towards Eboracum.\"\n\n\"You are a dozy little turd do you know that? There's fish over there, \"he gestured at the lake on their right, \"with more brains than you. Look there what do you see?\" He pointed to the east of the lake.\n\n\"A mountain?\"\n\n\"That's right a fucking huge mountain. Now we could go north but if you remember there are a few Carvetii who would like to nail your balls to their spear so we go south until one of them savages,\" he gestured at the Brigante, \"finds the path that will take us home.\"\n\n\"Ah.\"\n\n\"Ah is fucking right mate. I am not worried about the mountains it is the army we might just find.\"\n\n\"You mean the main army?\"\n\n\"Aye, remember that little lot we ran into were on their way to join up with that king of theirs; the one who was married to Cartimandua? They were part of the army. We were lucky before but we stand no chance against the whole army and our horses are about ready for the cook to make them into a big stew! Keep your eyes peeled my son. We might end up having to high tail it back to Glanibanta.\"\n\nThey were about half way down the long lake when their Brigante scouts pointed north east to a wooded defile which ran between two small hills. It was wide enough for two of them abreast. Soon it widened out and they could see that there was a stream which bubbled and rushed over a wide rocky bed. In the distance they could see two huge hills. The one to the west they were familiar with as it ran the length of the valley of the two lakes. The other was new and Ulpius frowned as he saw how narrow the pass was. He turned to Esca. \"Make sure your riders scout that pass. It would be a perfect place for an ambush.\"\n\n\"It is but, fear not Roman, the Carvetii do not know of this path yet. Few people use this valley for even in high summer there is little sun; it is hard for a tribe to find enough food. The woods end soon.\"\n\nEsca had been entirely accurate for as they crested the pass the leading Romans could see a long narrow lake meandering up between low barren and bare hillsides. Even now in early spring there was little evidence of any life either human or animal. Ulpius could see why this was an unknown route. He could see no signs of life at all. The hills rose precipitously on either side and it was hard to see if any animals, even the goats, could survive here. There was little land for grazing and none for crops. The sheep and goats which had been dotted about the hillsides in the other valleys were absent. It was as though it was a dead valley. The valley bottom close to the lake was wide enough for four men abreast and Ulpius took the opportunity to reform his men and warn them of the dangers they would face.\n\nIt was mid-afternoon when Sigger's scout returned. Esca drew Ulpius to one side, \"My scout reports the main rebel army. There are many, many men far more than the deer in the forest. He has never seen so many even at the tribal gathering. There are warriors from all of the northern tribes.\"\n\n\"Can we avoid them? Is there another trail?\"\n\n\"There is another valley to the south; it is narrow but it is unguarded. If we travel at night then we may be able to pass them. There is something else; my scout believes he heard a buccina perhaps signalling. It may be it was a captured one and the Carvetii are celebrating but it may be your army.\"\n\n\"Good that gives me some hope at least for that means there could be friends nearby.\" Ulpius began to wonder who it could be. Had the invasion started or was the Brigante correct and it was a captured buccina? If it were the invasion then Bolanus was behaving in a more aggressive way than he had thought possible. Could he have misjudged the Governor? Speculation would get him nowhere.\n\n\"Just ahead will be the main Carvetii army. We will rest at the head of this valley and then try to make our way home without letting know we are there. We will become spirits of the forests. I want no noise from any piece of equipment, man or animal. When we rest, find some cloth and muffle their hooves. If we can get past them we will have a clear run to home and the army. That means food and safety!\" He decided not to tell them that there might be friends nearby- if there was not an army the disappointment might make them weaker- if he waited until they knew for certain it would lift his men's spirits.\n\nNorth of Eboracum\n\nFainch felt as though she was being followed, she had the sense that someone was in the woods watching and following. She had twisted and turned a number of times, she had doubled back upon herself, she had been as motionless as a statue waiting for what seemed like a thousand moments and yet she could neither shake off her pursuer not find out who it was. Perhaps it was her imagination for when she dreamed a powerful dream the mushrooms and herbs seemed to make her both weaker and yet more attuned to slight sounds and sensations. She decided that she had kept from her hearth long enough and she quickly made her way to her hut. Once there she felt safe and should anyone try to do her harm she had the means within her grasp to prevent it.\n\nAtticus was now officially a deserter. Always a loner the transfer to the second ala had been the last straw for he had become the butt of pranks and tricks at best and attempts to do him serious damage at best. The decurion princeps had not been happy about the transfer but he owed Ulpius Felix and had to honour a promise. The trooper was lazy, sly and unsociable. He got on with no-one. His turma did not feel they owed this outsider anything and they let him know, in no uncertain terms, what would happen to him if he let them down or even if they thought he had let them down. The fight at the river had frightened the small man who, even amongst reluctant soldiers, stood out as someone who loathed the occupation. Although he did not relish the thought of being caught as a deserter nor did he feel he could countenance another battle where he would not have comrades to protect him. Ulpius had in fact done him a favour for had he not transferred him he might even now be lying in a field in the west, with his entrails before him. As it was he was in the safety of the east made safer because of the patrols of Ulpius and his ala. The military governor had taken most of the army to fight Venutius and there were few patrols for him to worry about.\n\nHe would get out of this land and find his way to a big city perhaps even Rome but to do so he needed money. His best chance of money was the quartermaster Gaius Cresens. He had been looking for him since the death of the queen with no success. He did remember following him once when he visited a hovel by the river and it was there he had seen Fainch. He did not know she was a witch, he thought her a whore but when he deserted he spotted her leaving Morbium after having met with other women whom he assumed were also whores. She would be the best chance to find Cresens and if not she would have money for whores were always careful with their money. One way or another he would have money. Her evasive tactics had also made him wonder about her for she took far too much care to hide her tracks. The crafty Atticus assumed that she had to have a good reason; it was, indeed, what he had done to avoid being pursued by his ex-comrades. He had always known where she was heading and so had been able to catch her up no matter how many twists, turns and double backs she took.\n\nHe was already waiting inside her hovel behind the entrance. Fainch stood near to her door and scanned the path and woods around her home but she could see nought. She quickly grabbed a handful of dry twigs from the undergrowth and spread them around the entrance. If anyone came she would hear the twigs crack. Feeling relief she stepped inside her home; even as she did so she knew she was not alone there was a smell and a presence but before she could retreat a strong, rough hand had taken her around the throat and a sharp knife was pressing into her neck.\n\n\"No no my little whore. You are going fucking nowhere.\"\n\nShe remained silent wondering who it was. She did not recognise the voice and, from his words, it seemed he only knew her as a whore. The thought puzzled her for she had never worked as a prostitute merely gave the appearance of being one.\n\n\"This can go one of two ways. First I find out what I want and you live or I don't and you die, painfully and slowly. Now that is simple enough isn't it?\" When she remained silent he pushed a little harder with the blade drawing blood. \"I know you can talk because I heard you talking with the fat man.\"\n\nShe felt some relief; from his voice she knew he was a Roman; she had been worried that he was an agent and that others knew of her. If he only knew Gaius Cresens then he knew nothing and she knew how to play the game.\n\n\"I didn't know Cresens had any friends.\"\n\n\"He doesn't but you can't be a choosy whore if you let him slide his greasy fingers all over you.\" Now that he was close to her Atticus could see that she was both prettier and younger than he had assumed. Before he took her money he might have fun with her. It had been some time since he had had a woman and young Brigante slave boys were not as exciting.\n\n\"What do you want with him? Rumour has it he has disappeared.\"\n\n\"He has but I thought you might know where he went or,\" he added meaningfully, \"where he left his money.\"\n\nShe had the measure of the Roman now. He was a thief. She dealt with thieves on a daily basis. \"I don't know where he went or where he hid his money. Have you tried his domus?\"\n\n\"You think I am stupid? The tribune has guards around it. Now perhaps if you were to distract them.\"\n\n\"First of all it is hard to do anything with a knife at my neck and secondly what is in it for me? I have to make a bit of money as well.\"\n\n\"I know you whores, you have money all over the place.\" The conversation was making Atticus relax a little. She was neither fighting nor shouting, she might be a reasonable woman and the money might just drop into his lap. For her part Fainch felt the knife begin to slip away and she began to slowly slide her right hand down to the folds of her dress; in it she had secreted an eagle's claw, each talon sharpened until it was as a razor and each one tipped with poison. Holding it by the ankle she drew it slowly out talking all the time.\n\n\"How about if I have half of what he has?\"\n\nHe laughed an evil laugh, \"Half! Don't get above yourself, you might get a tenth if you are good.\" He realised he could promise her anything for she would die once he had it but he also knew that if he didn't haggle she might be suspicious.\n\n\"Thirty.\"\n\n\"Twenty, take it or leave it.\" Thinking the deal done he relaxed his grip with his left hand and lowered the knife so that it was pointing at her back.\n\nShe spun round and saying,\" Done,\" she raked the eagle claw from his eye to his chin. She was quite powerful and the talons were sharp; the whole eye came out and the talons raked to the bone. He screamed in pain but still had enough strength to stab out at her. Although she was quick and already twisting away the sharp blade sliced into her side making her gasp with the pain. Before he could attack again she removed his other eye and the blinded deserter flailed around as she moved easily out of his flailing arms.\n\n\"Where are you? You bitch! I'll gut you. I'll fucking cut you into little tiny bits!\"\n\nShe knew that if she remained silent he would not be able to find her and she needed to save her strength to enable her to stem the bleeding. She knew it was not fatal but she didn't know if he also treated his blades with poison. As she staunched the bleeding with a cloth she watched him sink to the floor the pain of the poison taking over from the evisceration of his eyes.\n\n\"Aarrgh. What have you done? You bitch! You...\" Atticus, the deserter, had his miserable life ended on a dirt floor in a tiny hovel, dying as he had been born screaming, alone and miserable.\n\nFainch knew that she had had a lucky break and she kissed her charm thanking the mother that she had protected her daughter. Eboracum was becoming too dangerous for her. She determined that, once she had secured her wound she would head back to Mona. Perhaps others of the religion would travel there too but she hoped that the hidden places with the secret herbs and roots would still be there and help her to regain her strength. Before the next dawn had broken all trace of Fainch disappeared from Eboracum and all that remained to show what had transpired was the emasculated body of Atticus the deserter.\n\nWest of Brocavum\n\nCaesius Alasica was pleased with his legionaries. They had made much better time than he could have dreamed possible all those months ago when he began planning this campaign back at Eboracum. Although not up to full compliment he had six thousand legionaries and two thousand cavalry. No matter what the barbarians threw at him he knew he could defeat them. According to his scouts once they crossed the river they would be within a day's march of Brocavum. He had yet to see a barbarian stronghold which could withstand his siege weapons. He thought back to the fortress at Stanwyck he had visited whilst his men were building his new bridge. Although it had been deserted by the barbarians his inspection had convinced him that an onslaught of bolts and stones from his onagers would have made it simplicity itself for his legionaries to carry the feeble walls. The very size of it meant that it would need a huge army to control the walls. He could only hope that Venutius would hide behind his walls. He wondered, as he did every day, where his lost vexillation was; he had had no word of them. Had they perished at the hands of the enemy or had they succumbed to the climate of this inhospitable land? Not for the first time he cursed the order which had left him shorthanded for the cavalry he had with him were new to Britannia and untried. It was the one area of weakness in his army.\n\n\"Sir, sir,\" The rider who galloped up to Alasica was one of the young auxiliary optios. \"The decurion told me to tell you we can't cross the river sir.\"\n\n\"Why not optio?\"\n\n\"There are hundreds of barbarians stopping us.\"\n\nTaking only his aide and the young trooper Julius rode to the river to see what the problem was. When he arrived, he could see that the boy had not been exaggerating. There were indeed hundreds of barbarians; they were painted for war waving spears and swords and they had the high ground. He had no doubt he could carry the crossing but he would lose many men in doing so and his legionaries' lives were too valuable to be wasted. He called over the messenger. \"Prevent them from crossing if you can but if they do manage to cross your orders are to get to me as quickly as possible.\" He paused and looked sternly at the auxiliary. \"And no heroics, without the Pannonians you are my only cavalry.\"\n\n\"Sir.\"\n\nAs he rode back Julius began to search for a solution to his problem. Heading towards his men he could see the road climbing away to the west. He could not allow the enemy to take the road for if he were to be cut off from his supplies then the barbarians could starve him out. He was reluctant to retreat. He saw the solution as he closed with his aides. The road began to climb up a terrace. His engineers had had to make a deviation from their normally straight lines. They had made it twist and turn. Although it was nowhere near finished it was a solid base upon which to stand his men. They would all have firm footing. He could use the terrace as it would allow his bolt throwers to fire over the heads of his only infantry and would scythe down the enemy. It went against his nature but here, as when Boudicca was defeated, defence would have to come first. He did not have enough men to guarantee victory and he was in a perilous position so far from a secure fortress and support. He gathered his officers about him and quickly issued his instructions. He had chosen his men well and soon the legionaries were arrayed on the terrace with twenty bolt throwers above them. His few archers were just in front of the bolt throwers but above the legionaries. His weaknesses were his flanks. He had too few cavalry to guard both flanks. His auxiliaries were placed on the right flank as this faced the barbarians at the river crossing. He placed the strongest century, the first century with First Spear on the left flank. They were his best chance to hold the enemy.\n\nThere was the sudden sound of a buccina and then he saw the auxiliaries riding for their lives. The commander of the cavalry on the right flank signalled the decurion and the rearguard fell in behind them. The decurion in charge began to dress his lines and prepare to face the advancing Carvetii.\n\n\"Hold your fire.\" Alasica did not want his missile surprise to be wasted on the few hundred barbarians who suddenly stopped their pursuit when they saw the Romans before them. They were a mass of taunting painted barbarians who were waving the heads of the Romans they had just killed. He had fought such men in Batavia and Germania as had his legionaries. They would ignore such taunts but he was less sure about his inexperienced auxiliaries who could see the decapitated heads of their comrades. The longer they taunted the more likely that his auxiliaries would feel honour bound to charge. Alasica did not have to wait long for Venutius, mounted in a richly decorated war chariot suddenly appeared on the facing hillside ahead of his huge warband filling the skyline from east to west as far as the eye could see. He was armed and mailed with a driver next to him. He looked huge next to the diminutive driver and his armour gleamed in the morning light. The warriors around the king were his oath brothers; they were the best mounted warriors with finest armoured helms, shields and corselets. They would be fearless in the fighting and the Roman commander could see that whilst the majority of the warband were second rate there was a huge elite force of well-armed and armoured warriors. They would have to be the target for his bolt throwers. He was taken aback by the numbers. He would have been taken aback even more had he known that a mounted warband of a thousand warriors was making its way around the unguarded left flank of the Roman army. All he could see was an unbroken line of enemies gradually edging forward. He looked at the forces arrayed against him spreading across the skyline. Although hard to estimate numbers when the formation was so loose it looked the equivalent of eight or ten legions; almost fifty thousand men. It would be a bloody day and would test the mettle of all his troops.\n\nUlpius and his men were exhausted. Even though they had rested for a couple of hours their night time ride skirting the camps of the Carvetii had sucked all the reserves of energy from the hungry troopers. When Esca had told them that there were at least two warbands to the north and east Ulpius and Marcus had had no choice but to begin a detour south and east to get around them. It was demoralising to move further away from hope and food and friends but with only two hundred men and a few Brigante scouts Ulpius could not hope to take on two warbands. As the early morning wore on they gradually found themselves climbing a saucer shaped hill. They had long left what passed for a path and were picking their way through scree and tumbled rocks. Suddenly Esca and his scouts ran back. \"There is a warband,\" before Ulpius could even begin to formulate a new plan Esca continued, \"and Romans.\"\n\nEven though he was well outnumbered by the host of barbarians before him Caesius Alasica was unworried. His archers and bolt throwers would make the thousand paces before him a killing ground. The barbarians wore little armour and had few defensive tactics. Waiting until they were but five hundred paces away he gave the signal and the missiles flew, carving a path of death and destruction through the enemy lines. The bolts took out whole ranks of men whilst the arrows plunged like a deadly rain from the skies. Not only did the front ranks fall and falter but the whole of the warband shuddered to a halt as they met missiles, fallen men and the upslope. The bolts were so powerful that they went through three or four warriors. The arrows began to take an even bigger toll as they plunged down onto unprotected bodies, painted but without any armour. The barbed tips tore through necks, backs and shoulders to kill in huge numbers.\n\nTo the west the two cavalry forces were engaged in mortal combat. Although the Carvetii outnumbered the auxiliaries the superior horses, weapons and training meant it was an even match. Alasica cursed again as he realised that his shortage of cavalry might cost him the day. The cavalry were holding their own; with another ala he might have been able to turn them. He was pleased that they had at least restrained themselves from a headlong attack and their fight was now a revenge dedicated to their lost comrades.\n\nVenutius signalled a third warband into action and these began to press towards the weaker left flank. Although the missiles were still causing devastation there were not enough to cover the whole of the front and their fire was slightly slower on the left added to that was the inevitable nature of missile fire the closer to your front ranks the less effective they would be. So it was that they inexorably began to draw closer to the front ranks of the Romans. With a sudden roar they leapt forward free from the torment of bolts and arrows. The legionaries released their pila and the front ranks fell only to have their places taken by the second rank who hacked and chopped with axes and swords, oblivious to both pain and wounds. It was as though they had regarded the arrows as fleas or insects and were now free from the torment.\n\nThe tribune from the left flank suddenly appeared at Alasica's side. \"Sir they are forcing us back we need support.\"\n\n\"And I have no reserves. You will hold them Titus Quintus. You will hold them.\"\n\nIn his mind the young commander began to work out how to extricate his men from this trap without being routed. A collective shout from the left ended that train of thought. Earl Woolgar's warband had worked around the left flank of the Romans and suddenly launched an attack on the unprotected edge of the defensive line. Even as he watched he saw the western most cohort begin to fall in lines as they were assaulted from two sides. The First Spear was a good leader but his men were being attacked on two fronts. \"Gaius Aurelius take two cohorts from the right and support the left. Antoninus begin to pull back our forces on the right but slowly use the cavalry to screen our withdrawal.\" Was this to be the early end of what had promised to be a glittering career? Alasica knew that defeat would mean the slaughter of his men and the loss of the eagle something which had never happened on these islands before. It could mean the beginning of the end of Roman rule in Britannia for defeat would leave the whole of the north unprotected. It would also mean the death of every Roman north of Lindum for with only a skeleton force at Eboracum this warband could sweep Rome's influence from the north of Britannia. \"Today gentlemen we all fight or we will leave our bones to be scattered, whitening on these desolate hills.\" Drawing his sword, he urged his horse towards the left flank which was in imminent danger of collapse.\n\nUlpius, Marcus and Esca sat on their horses just below the skyline. They had a perfect view of the battle and they could see the effect of the charge of Woolgar' warband. The unthinkable was going to happen, Romans were going to lose. No matter how disciplined they were they were outnumbered and outflanked. They would die. A whole Roman army would be destroyed it would be like Crassus in Parthia, the republic at Cannae or the most recent slaughter in the Teutoburger Forest. Their only chance was for the Pannonians to destroy the warband. Ulpius looked at his hungry, tired and battle-weary warriors. The warband outnumbered them five to one even if they saved their comrades they would all die. He looked at Marcus. \"There is but one chance the arrow formation, the wedge.\" Marcus nodded. \"Prepare the men\" He turned to his troopers. \"I know you are tired, I know that we are outnumbered but before us we see friends who will be slaughtered unless we intervene. You know me I don't lie and I don't bullshit.\" His men laughed a tired laugh. \"We are going to die but we are warriors and we will die together. Are you with me?\" The roar from his weakened men raised Ulpius heart. His men would not let him down. He turned to the Brigante,\" Esca we ride to our death take your men back to the fort and protect the princess. You can do no more here.\"\n\n\"No Roman, we can do something here. The enemies before us have killed our Queen and our brothers; we win or die with you here.\" Clasping hands in a warrior's handshake they roared their defiance. The troopers were now riding hard towards Ulpius with Marcus and Decius leading three men and then four so that a wedge fanned out. Ulpius drew his sword and kissed it. \"For Cartimandua and Rome. Charge!\"\n\nThe noise of the battle hid the sound of the thundering hooves crashing down the hillside and the first that Earl Woolgar and his band knew of their doom was when the arrows and javelins of the auxiliaries sliced through the rear ranks of the Carvetii. The shock was a palpable ripple which ran through the enemy ranks. The most frightening event for a warrior in a battle is to be attacked from the place you think you are safe. With enemies to their front and enemies to their rear panic spread through the ranks of the warband. The sword of Cartimandua carved a bloody path of death, the blade almost singing as it sliced through the unprotected ranks of Earl Woolgar's men; Decius and Marcus widened that path. The backs of the bodies before them were like the practice targets they had used back in Eboracum. Their only problem was ensuring that the blades did not become entangled or trapped in the dying bodies. As in all battles and wars the bravest and the most fearless are at the front so the opposite is also true, those at the rear are not as brave and not as fearless. Some of the Carvetii decided that they could avoid the swords and hooves of the Roman horses by breaking back towards their own lines. The pressure on the Roman line dropped and the legionaries were able to get a second wind. First Spear recognised the weakening. \"Dress your ranks we are not finished yet!\"\n\nThe Roman commander had no idea who had launched the attack on the Carvetii but he suspected and hoped that it was his lost vexillation. The battle was at a crucial stage and the pendulum was swinging in the Roman's favour. All along the Carvetii line warriors were slowing wondering what was happening on their right flank. Alasica's voice sounded above the din of war. \"Sound the advance.\" The buccina sounded loudly in the cacophony of noise that was the battlefield. \"Romans forward!\"\n\nVenutius could not believe his eyes. A few minutes earlier the battle had been won. He had seen the Roman left crumbling and the right withdrawing. Suddenly the appearance of a handful of cavalry had caused his men to retreat. Some of his allies had decided that discretion was the better part of valour and were retreating at full tilt north and east. He still had his own warband. If he could attack the Roman left open the field the impetus could swing the battle in his favour again; perhaps his allies would be shamed into returning. He could still win this battle. Even with some of his allies deserting him he still outnumbered the Romans and he had seen them falter, one more push would do it. Shouting to his driver to whip his ponies he cried, \"Charge!\" and the whole host began to charge forwards. His oathsworn brothers urged their mounts forward pleased to be released from the punishment which had been the bolt throwers. Those warriors on foot formed a solid, unbroken line of iron. They longed to sink their blades into Roman bodies. Their collective scream was a terrifying sound and they all raced forward to present a deadly line of blades. They knew they had longer blades than the Romans who had spent most of their deadly pila. If they could close these combat hardened veterans would save the honour of their king and defeat once and for all these Romans.\n\nOn the right flank, Earl Woolgar recognised the Romans as the ones who had beaten him twice. He saw the leader, a huge one-eyed wild warrior wielding a Brigante sword. He would defeat the Romans by killing their leader and in doing so he would regain the honour he had lost in his last battle; he had seen the weakening of his king's allies. This was his moment of glory. This would give him the revenge for his lost warriors. Either he or the Roman would stay on this field. He urged his horse towards the undefended right side of the decurion princeps. Ulpius was focussed on the enemies to the front. He could see the wavering lines begin to stiffen as the legionary centurions and aquifers steadied the ranks and began to start to edge forward. He heard the buccina announce the charge and could see the huge figure of the First Spear begin to lead the legion forward. This was their moment and, unlikely as it had seemed a short while earlier, they might just survive.\n\nMarcus, in the place of honour on the unguarded right of his leader, saw the Carvetii chieftain hurtling towards his friend. He recognised him from their battle in the lakes and saw that he fought with a sword and a short axe; he knew he was a cunning and ferocious warrior who had despatched Orrick himself a mighty warrior. Ulpius would be dead before he knew he was being attacked. He did not hesitate; his own horse was a powerful Roman mount whilst his adversary's pony was far smaller though nimbler. Marcus' horse crashed into Woolgar and his mount throwing him to the ground. As he passed the Carvetii war chief he back slashed with his sword and felt it grate against bone. By now the wedge had lost cohesion and, seeing no more enemies to threaten Ulpius he wheeled his horse around to face his enemy again. He had, indeed, wounded Earl Woolgar but the grizzled old warrior was like a wounded bear. Behind him, Aetre stood ready to protect his liege lord. Marcus rode hard at Woolgar keeping his sword between him and his enemy; as the decurion passed he felt the axe crash against his shield and he struck at the unprotected head of the war chief. Aetre appeared from nowhere and his sword stopped the blow connecting. In the follow through his blade caught the flank of Marcus' mount which reared and threw him. As he hit the ground he was winded and dazed but still held both sword and shield which saved his life for Lord Woolgar saw his chance and sliced down at the recumbent Roman with his mighty sword. Aetre saw his chance as Marcus lifted his blade to defend himself from the war chief's strike. In doing so he left his right side unguarded. The young warrior plunged his sword towards the decurion's armpit.\n\n\"No you don't you sneaky little fucker.\" Decius' spear took Aetre full in the throat. \"Now if you'll finish off this bastard, sir, we can get back in the war and beat these fucking barbarians once and for all.\" Grinning he wheeled his horse back into the fray. With a shout of anger Marcus leapt up hitting the boss of his shield into the face of the war chief who half fell backwards; as he did so he exposed his right side when his weakened arm dropped his sword to the ground. Marcus did not hesitate but sliced under his arm and through his neck. Withdrawing his sword, he decapitated the head of Earl Woolgar and raised it with a roar of victory. The warband saw it and were dismayed; Woolgar and Aetre were now dead, the blood kin of Woolgar were all slaughtered, killed either in the pass or defending their lord on this lonely, desolate hillside and the rest, warriors summoned for the war ran, eager to be away from the wall of death which had appeared from the mists. They would return to their homes, plant crops, raise families and forget the disaster to which Earl Woolgar had brought them. If he did but know it Maeve would soon be heralded as Earl Maeve and Woolgar's lands would be his.\n\nIf Venutius had been angry before he was, by now, furious with red hot rage. The one eyed Roman who had stolen the queen from him and defeated his warriors had now turned the battle. His surprise attack had been itself surprised and defeated. He cursed Woolgar as the remnants of his warband fled unhindered eastwards. Realising that the Roman was now alone and isolated, he raced his chariot towards his enemy. Soon the sword of Cartimandua, which he saw the Roman wielded, would be his and with it the allegiance of any wavering Brigante who would see it as a sign from the Allfather that Venutius was the rightful king of the Brigante. The king had one last gamble which could win him all. Ulpius was busy despatching two wounded enemies and did not see the chariot making like an arrow towards him. While he was still some distance away his driver was thrown from the chariot having been struck by two arrows. The king of the Carvetii threw his shield to the floor and grabbed the reins. Venutius was barely thirty paces away when he hurled his spear. Although the spear missed the Roman it took Raven in the neck and Ulpius faithful beast reared on to its hind legs mortally struck. The misfortune turned to disaster when the dying beast fell on Ulpius' leg leaving him helplessly trapped beneath the steed. Realising he would have to dismount to finish off the Roman and retrieve the sword Venutius halted the chariot. Ulpius struggled to extract his trapped leg. The Carvetii blade arced down towards the decurion princeps' head as it did so Raven's death throe released some of the pressure and Ulpius dragged his leg out. The blade missed his head but sliced down his left arm.\n\n\"Roman you fight well, let us see if you die well.\" Venutius was a powerful warrior; he had been a war chief before he had married the Queen and become king. He knew how to fight and Ulpius was a wounded, weary warrior but in his heart he had a fire and a need for revenge. He resolved to take Venutius with him to the afterlife. They both hacked at each other furiously, swords beating on shields and glancing off helms and armour. After a dozen thrusts at each other they paused to gather their breath. Ulpius was weak both from the fall and the wound in his arm which was weakening his defence. In contrast, Venutius was uninjured and filled with a passionate anger giving him extra strength. The end would not be long in coming and Venutius could not miss the opportunity to gloat. \"It is a shame the witch did not poison you as well as the bitch Cartimandua for then I would have won the battle and I would have the sword.\" Venutius spat the words at Ulpius hoping to make him lose his temper and forget his Roman training.\n\nThe decurion princeps did become angry but his training had been over twenty years and it was as though his body took over from the seething mind of the Roman auxiliary. With a roar Ulpius raced forward, his sudden charge catching his opponent unawares. He felt his blade strike the unprotected thigh of Venutius. The thick blood began to gush from the fatal wound. \"You should know Carvetii that whoever carries this sword cannot be defeated.\" The now dying Venutius tried ineffectively to break down Ulpius' defence but his lifeblood was spilling across the hillside for it was a fatal wound. Realising that he himself was wounded and seeing the weakening of the king's blows Ulpius ended the fight with a mighty stroke which all but severed the king in two. As he raised his sword to scream \"Cartimandua\" the arrow from Venutius' war chief Brennus struck him in his side. The barbed tip entered below his right arm, tore through his body and emerged near his left hip. It was a death wound and Ulpius sank to his knees on that muddy, bloody battlefield.\n\nAs he lay there amidst the carnage and slaughter he did not know that the death of Venutius marked the end of the battle and that the war bands, largely leaderless, were fleeing. He barely heard the cheer from the Roman ranks as they celebrated their victory. The sound of the buccina ordering a pursuit was a dim, far away echo as though in a tunnel. He began to slip away to the comfortable world of sleep, eternal sleep and peace. His only thoughts were for his men; he hoped that many would have survived and he prayed that Marcus would live. The sky was going dark and he gripped the sword hilt even tighter. \"Allfather your son is coming home. I hope that I have gained enough honour to be admitted.\" He closed his eyes prepared for death and hopeful of being reunited with Cartimandua.\n\n\"Ulpius!\"\n\nOpening his eye Ulpius realised he was still alive. \"Is that you Marcus?\"\n\n\"It is. Rest I have sent for a surgeon.\"\n\n\"No my friend for I will not recover from these wounds but do not weep for me for I shall be with the Queen and the Allfather.\" He coughed and Marcus could see the flecks of blood which told him his friend had deep injuries and had suffered a death wound. \"I want you to do two things for me.\"\n\n\"Anything but you must live.\"\n\n\"We both know that cannot be so for I am dying. First take the sword of the Brigante back to her people. The princesses will know what to do and,\" he coughed more blood and spittle, \"you must find and kill Cresens and the witch.\"\n\n\"Witch?\"\n\n\"It was not just the fat one who caused the death of my Queen, there was a witch; paid for by Venutius. Look to Eboracum that is where you shall find her.\" He opened his eye. \"Marcus you have been as a son to me now be a father to our men.\" Marcus nodded and gave the Roman salute; the oath was sworn.\n\nAlthough the eye remained open, Marcus told Decius and Gaius later that he saw the life leave his leader as Ulpius Felix, decurion princeps of the auxiliary smiled and passed over to be with his queen and his warriors.\n\nAlexandria\n\nThe newly appointed Emperor Vespasian sat in the cool throne room in the Imperial palace in Alexandria. Now that the East was subdued he could turn his attention to Britannia, the site of his first action with Aulus Paulinus. He had determined whilst serving there that one day Rome would rule that northern outpost of the known world. He summoned his clerk. He knew just the man to take charge and conquer that barbaric wild land.\n\n\"Send an order to Gnaeus Julius Agricola he is on the Rhine. He is to assume command of all the forces in Britannia and take control in the name of the Emperor Vespasian and Rome.\"\n\n# Epilogue\n\nIt was a cold clear morning as the wagon and small escort made their way across the spring hills sparkling with a sharp frost. Leading the way was Marcus with Gaius and Decius in close attendance. The silence in which they rode was a reflective silence as they carried the body of the warrior who had led them through many close encounters with death. As warriors they knew that the death of Ulpius Felix was the only death they could expect. So far no Pannonian had reached the goal of retirement and citizenship with all the benefits that brought. He had died on the battlefield, he had died undefeated, he had avenged the death of his love; what more could a warrior desire?\n\nIn the wagon Macha and Lenta were also thinking about the man who had brought love late in the life of their half-sister; the man who had saved them and their children from at best death and at worst slavery. As Macha suckled the young warrior to be named Ulpius by his father she dwelt on the thought that her husband, the new commander of the Ala, Marcus would probably end his days much as Ulpius Felix with a sword in his hand. She determined to make the most of every second they had together.\n\nThe newly promoted decurion Decius was perhaps also thinking less about Ulpius and more about Marcus for he now saw that the young warrior had changed him, had made him a better soldier and, if he was honest, a better man. He came on this journey not only to honour Ulpius but to protect Marcus. Although the Carvetii and Brigante rebels had been beaten Decius knew that there were still rogue bands wandering the lonely fells. Alasica had not yet begun the long process of mopping up all the dissident tribesmen.\n\nThe barrow loomed into sight, the earth still fresh from the burial of the Queen. This time they found the entrance instantly. When it had been opened they reverently took out the shrouded body of Ulpius. His hair was combed, his armour polished, his amulets and torcs shone; he looked resplendent, the complete warrior. .\n\n\"Are you sure you do not want me to put the sword in the grave with him? The three of them would be united forever.\"\n\n\"No. Ulpius made it clear to you, did he not, that he wished it to be passed back to the Brigante?\" Marcus nodded. \"We are now the leaders of the Brigante and we want the weapon wielded by a warrior. And when your son is old enough he too is Brigante and he will honour both his people, Brigante and Roman by fighting with the sword of Cartimandua.\"\n\nSo it was that Ulpius Felix warrior of Rome was laid to rest in an unmarked barrow with the last Queen of the Brigante, Cartimandua whose fabled sword continued to be used by Marcus Aurelius Maximunius decurion of Rome. The warrior who had been known as Lupus, The Wolf, when he first joined the Roman army joined his lover, Cartimandua in the Otherworld.\n\nFrom the cover of the high cliffs Fainch peered down. Her work was not over, it had hardly begun. When she returned from Mona she would be even more powerful and the little group in front of her would be the first to feel her power and she burned their faces on her mind. They would all die, the Romans, the Brigante traitors and even the suckling child, all would feel the wrath and revenge of Fainch.\n\nIn the land of the lakes Earl Maeve viewed the returning remnants of his half-brother's warband. They were a pitiful sight but they were now his warband and he swore that when he had built them back up into a fierce fighting force he would rid his land, the land of the lakes, of this insidious invader.\n\n# Author's comment\n\nThis is a piece of fiction! It is based on some historical characters. Cartimandua was the Queen of the Brigante, she did betray Caractacus, met Claudius, married Venutius, took a shield bearer as a lover and vanished from history in, about, 69 AD. Rome did have four Emperors in 69 AD.\n\nRoman auxiliaries came from newly conquered nations and fought in a turma of about thirty-two; each turma forming part of an ala or wing of cavalry. They fought in much less formal situations than the legions. Stanwyck is a superb Iron Age fortification and it was substantially improved by Venutius. Following its destruction by the Romans the capital of Brigantia moved down the road a mile or so to Alde borough. There is a fort at Ambleside called Galva or Glanibanta. There is no record that it was built by auxiliaries and certainly no suggestion that they built it as suggested by my novel. However, it was not a legionary fort and auxiliaries probably built it. When the unit left a fort, they would normally destroy its defences but would frequently bury such items as they could not carry. Glanibanta has seen numerous reincarnations.\n\nHistory is written by the winners and the main records we have are from Tacitus and other Roman writers. There are no Brigante records and I have surmised and speculated about what might have happened.\n\nI have used Roman names for places as that is the only record we now have. I suspect that the Brigante would have had their own names for them. The big river is obviously the Tees which formed a natural boundary for the Romans. The archaeological records for the auxiliaries in Britain suggest that they took Roman names and I have used Roman names for the auxiliaries. I have taken liberties with dates to suit the stories. Venutius was still alive a couple of years after my book is set. The idea of a common soldier taking a Queen as a lover was suggested by the fact that the Queen herself left her husband for a warrior.\n\nGriff Hosker September 2014\n\n## Other books\n\n## by\n\n## Griff Hosker\n\nIf you enjoyed reading this book, then why not read another one by the author?\n\nAncient History\n\nThe Sword of Cartimandua Series (Germania and Britannia 50 A.D. \u2013 128 A.D.)\n\nUlpius Felix- Roman Warrior (prequel)\n\nBook 1 The Sword of Cartimandua\n\nBook 2 The Horse Warriors\n\nBook 3 Invasion Caledonia\n\nBook 4 Roman Retreat\n\nBook 5 Revolt of the Red Witch\n\nBook 6 Druid's Gold\n\nBook 7 Trajan's Hunters\n\nBook 8 The Last Frontier\n\nBook 9 Hero of Rome\n\nBook 10 Roman Hawk\n\nBook 11 Roman Treachery\n\nBook 12 Roman Wall\n\nBook 13 Roman Courage\n\nThe Aelfraed Series (Britain and Byzantium 1050 A.D. - 1085 A.D.\n\nBook 1 Housecarl\n\nBook 2 Outlaw\n\nBook 3 Varangian\n\nThe Wolf Warrior series (Britain in the late 6th Century)\n\nBook 1 Saxon Dawn\n\nBook 2 Saxon Revenge\n\nBook 3 Saxon England\n\nBook 4 Saxon Blood\n\nBook 5 Saxon Slayer\n\nBook 6 Saxon Slaughter\n\nBook 7 Saxon Bane\n\nBook 8 Saxon Fall: Rise of the Warlord\n\nBook 9 Saxon Throne\n\nBook 10 Saxon Sword\n\nThe Dragon Heart Series\n\nBook 1 Viking Slave\n\nBook 2 Viking Warrior\n\nBook 3 Viking Jarl\n\nBook 4 Viking Kingdom\n\nBook 5 Viking Wolf\n\nBook 6 Viking War\n\nBook 7 Viking Sword\n\nBook 8 Viking Wrath\n\nBook 9 Viking Raid\n\nBook 10 Viking Legend\n\nBook 11 Viking Vengeance\n\nBook 12 Viking Dragon\n\nBook 13 Viking Treasure\n\nBook 14 Viking Enemy\n\nBook 15 Viking Witch\n\nBook 16 Viking Blood\n\nBook 17 Viking Weregeld\n\nBook 18 Viking Storm\n\nBook 19 Viking Warband\n\nBook 20 Viking Shadow\n\nBook 21 Viking Legacy\n\nBook 22 Viking Clan\n\nThe Norman Genesis Series\n\nHrolf the Viking\n\nHorseman\n\nThe Battle for a Home\n\nRevenge of the Franks\n\nThe Land of the Northmen\n\nRagnvald Hrolfsson\n\nBrothers in Blood\n\nLord of Rouen\n\nDrekar in the Seine\n\nDuke of Normandy\n\nThe Duke and the King\n\nNew World Series\n\nBlood on the Blade\n\nAcross the Seas\n\nThe Anarchy Series England 1120-1180\n\nEnglish Knight\n\nKnight of the Empress\n\nNorthern Knight\n\nBaron of the North\n\nEarl\n\nKing Henry's Champion\n\nThe King is Dead\n\nWarlord of the North\n\nEnemy at the Gate\n\nThe Fallen Crown\n\nWarlord's War\n\nKingmaker\n\nHenry II\n\nCrusader\n\nThe Welsh Marches\n\nIrish War\n\nPoisonous Plots\n\nThe Princes' Revolt\n\nEarl Marshal\n\nBorder Knight 1182-1300\n\nSword for Hire\n\nReturn of the Knight\n\nBaron's War\n\nMagna Carta\n\nWelsh Wars\n\nHenry III\n\nLord Edward's Archer\n\nLord Edward's Archer\n\nStruggle for a Crown 1360- 1485\n\nBlood on the Crown\n\nTo Murder A King\n\nThe Throne\n\nModern History\n\nThe Napoleonic Horseman Series\n\nBook 1 Chasseur a Cheval\n\nBook 2 Napoleon's Guard\n\nBook 3 British Light Dragoon\n\nBook 4 Soldier Spy\n\nBook 5 1808: The Road to A Coru\u00f1a\n\nWaterloo\n\nThe Lucky Jack American Civil War series\n\nRebel Raiders\n\nConfederate Rangers\n\nThe Road to Gettysburg\n\nThe British Ace Series\n\n1914\n\n1915 Fokker Scourge\n\n1916 Angels over the Somme\n\n1917 Eagles Fall\n\n1918 We will remember them\n\nFrom Arctic Snow to Desert Sand\n\nWings over Persia\n\nCombined Operations series 1940-1945\n\nCommando\n\nRaider\n\nBehind Enemy Lines\n\nDieppe\n\nToehold in Europe\n\nSword Beach\n\nBreakout\n\nThe Battle for Antwerp\n\nKing Tiger\n\nBeyond the Rhine\n\nKorea\n\nOther Books\n\nCarnage at Cannes (a thriller)\n\nGreat Granny's Ghost (Aimed at 9-14-year-old young people)\n\nAdventure at 63-Backpacking to Istanbul\n\nFor more information on all of the books then please visit the author's web site at www.griffhosker.com where there is a link to contact him.\n\n#\n\n# \n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nE-text prepared by Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam (http:\/\/www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by\nInternet Archive (https:\/\/archive.org)\n\n\n\nNote: Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive. See\n      https:\/\/archive.org\/details\/philadelphiahous00hodg\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHILADELPHIA HOUSEWIFE,\n\nOr,\n\nFamily Receipt Book.\n\nby\n\nAUNT MARY.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nPhiladelphia:\nJ. B. Lippincott & Co.\n1855.\n\n\nEntered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1855,\nBy J. P. Lippincott & Co.,\nIn the Clerk's Office of the District Court, in and for the\nEastern District of Pennsylvania.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nAs the health of a family depends more upon the quality of their\nfood than upon any other cause whatever, it is a public benefaction\nto give good advice upon this subject. That this advice may be most\nwidely beneficial, it should have reference to the material and the\npreparation of food; and in both these respects, regard should be had\nto economy. The rich, who are able to provide the most choice and\nexpensive articles of diet, frequently fail in having them prepared\nfor the table in an agreeable and healthful manner; and the poor, and\neven those in moderate circumstances, are not only not generally well\ninformed as to healthful and nutritious articles of food, which may be\npurchased at moderate expense, but when procured, they more generally\nerr in the healthful preparation of them, mistaking high seasoning and\nrich mixtures for delicious and wholesome food. It is to aid the family\nin procuring and preparing their food according to their means, and\nwith a view to elegance, taste, and health, that the authoress of this\nbook has been induced to publish these receipts and the accompanying\nadvice and reflections. She does this at the solicitation of many heads\nof families, and with the confidence of knowledge founded on long\npersonal experience. This is the only source of reliable knowledge on\nthe subject of procuring and preparing healthful food, in good taste,\nand with elegance and economy.\n\nBut proper materials may be obtained for food, and the cook may\nunderstand how to prepare them; yet she will fail if she does not have\nthe kitchen furnished with proper articles for culinary purposes. Each\nof these articles should be kept in its proper place, and scrupulously\nclean, while every thing should be done with exactness, and at the\nproper time.\n\nThe authoress has the greatest confidence that the circulation of this\nbook will promote elegance and comfort in wealthy families, and economy\nand health in families of moderate means.\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nFAMILY RECEIPT BOOK.\n\n\nTO PREPARE AND TO SELECT BEEF, MUTTON, LAMB, VEAL, AND BACON.\n\nWhite meats, such as veal, mutton, and lamb, should be washed as\nquickly as possible, or the juices of the meat will be extracted by\nthe water. Fresh beef should never be washed, but well scraped with a\nclean knife twice over; any soiled parts which cannot be scraped must\nbe cut off. If the bones are soiled, saw off the part with the meat\nsaw. Salted meat should be well washed in three or four waters, and\nsoaked at least fifteen minutes in cold water, before putting it down\nto boil. The pot should be filled with cold water, and boil slowly till\ndone, according to the size of the meat, or allow a quarter of an hour\nfor every pound of the meat; quick boiling will make the meat hard and\ninsipid. Be careful that it does not stop boiling, or the meat will be\ninjured; remove the scum frequently. People are not generally aware of\nthe injurious effects from eating the flesh of diseased animals. It\nhas been my practice to choose beef from the whiteness of the fat, and\nalways object to it if a dark shade of yellow; let the fat be clear\nand thick, and the beef smooth and close; if otherwise, it is old. The\nflesh of a young ox should be a good red, and have a smooth and open\ngrain, and feel tender. Pork may be judged by the thinness of the skin,\nand by pinching the lean; if young, it will break. When clammy, it is\nnot fit for use. Fresh pork will be always cool and smooth. The fat of\nmutton should be white and firm, and the lean a good colour. If the\nvein in the neck of lamb has a greenish cast, it is stale: it should be\nof a bluish hue.\n\nBACON.--The lean should be of a good colour, and tender, and firm on\nthe bone, the fat should be firm and of a red tinge, and the rind thin.\nTry a ham by putting a sharp knife in under the bone. If the smell\nis agreeable, the ham is good; if otherwise, and the knife soiled,\nreject it. Veal,--The whitest is the most juicy, having been made so\nby frequent bleeding: the flesh of a bull calf is firmest, but of a\ndarker colour. Old and diseased meat will shrink very much in cooking.\nHams and tongues, if they are old and hard, should be put to soak in\nwarm water the night before they are boiled. A large ham will take from\nfour to six hours to boil, and a tongue will take nearly as long. They\nshould be kept constantly boiling, and well skimmed: put them down in\nplenty of cold water. Fish should always be boiled in hot water with a\nlittle salt in it: let them boil slowly.\n\nWild fowls do not require as much cooking as tame. They should be done\nbefore a brisk fire, and be constantly basted. Wild ducks will cook\nsufficiently in a quarter of an hour; pheasants in twenty minutes. A\nlarge turkey will take from two hours and a half to three hours. Hen\nturkeys are the best for boiling. The time will depend on the size: if\na large one, it will take two hours and a half, and should be boiled\nin a cloth. All meats when roasting should be put some distance from\nthe fire, and brought gradually nearer; the more they are turned and\nbasted, the more juicy they will be. Vegetables should be freshly\ngathered; they are much sweeter and more healthy, if cooked as soon as\ntaken out of the ground. When potatoes are to be fried, throw them in\nwater with plenty of ice in it after slicing. This will make them crisp.\n\n\nBEEF SOUP, THIN.\n\nWash and scrape well a shin of beef, put it down early in the morning\nin plenty of cold water, with a piece of veal, and a small piece of\nlean ham; let it boil slowly one hour, and skim it well; then add two\ncarrots, washed, scraped, and cut fine, six potatoes, four onions, and\none turnip; some horse-radish cut in small pieces; season with black\nand cayenne pepper, and salt to your taste: about half an hour before\nit is done, put in a bunch of sweet herbs, parsley, and a little\ncelery cut in small pieces. You can either strain it or send it to\ntable with the vegetables in it.\n\n\nANOTHER BEEF SOUP.\n\nBoil a shin of beef the day before it is wanted. The next day put on\nyour stock, after removing the fat from the top of it; then put in\na tea-cup of barley, wash and cut up two carrots, three onions, one\nturnip, three tomatoes, put in parsley and the usual pot herbs, twenty\nminutes before it is done; season with cayenne and black pepper and\nsalt to your taste.\n\n\nVEAL SOUP.\n\nPut into the soup kettle a small piece of ham; wash and cut up four\nonions; put them into the pot with the ham, and six quarts of water;\nlet it boil slowly an hour and a half, then put in a shin of veal;\nlet it boil an hour and a half longer; then take out the ham; skim\noff the grease as it rises; beat up in a gill of good cream, two\ntable-spoonsful of flour, and the yolks of two eggs very light; and\nthen add the soup; season with parsley, pepper, and salt, and serve up.\n\n\nMUTTON BROTH.\n\nScrape and wash clean a breast of mutton; put it down in the soup\nkettle to boil with five quarts of water, put in a small cup of barley,\nor two tablespoonsful of rice; let it boil slowly three hours and\nthirty minutes; skim it well; add carrots, a turnip, an onion, and a\nlittle parsley cut up; let it boil forty minutes longer; season with\npepper and salt; serve hot. The carrots should be grated.\n\n\nCHICKEN BROTH.\n\nChicken broth may be made in the same way. Some persons prefer rice,\nbut rice is used in so many ways, that barley is more uncommon as\nwell as more nutritious. Noodles or vermicelli can be substituted, if\npreferred.\n\n\nCHICKEN SOUP.\n\nPut a pair of chickens in the soup kettle, with five quarts of water,\none large carrot grated, and let it boil; skim off the grease as it\nrises: after it has boiled three hours take out the chickens, and\nstrain the liquor through a sieve; put it in the kettle again; add the\nvermicelli after it has boiled an hour, an onion chopped small, some\npepper and salt, a few blades of mace, a little parsley cut fine. If\nyou like, just before it is served up, add a small bunch of thyme.\n\n\nOYSTER SOUP.\n\nStrain the liquor from a hundred oysters into the soup kettle; add\na quart of milk, a little mace, cloves, pepper and salt, with a\nlittle rolled cracker; boil 20 minutes; then put in the oysters; stir\nfrequently: fifteen minutes after the oysters are in, serve it up.\n\n\nMOCK TURTLE SOUP.\n\nClean very well a calf's head, take out the eyes, cut off the nose; let\nit soak for ten minutes; then put it down with five quarts of water,\na small piece of ham, four onions, and some salt; let these boil till\ntender, or till the meat will leave the bones; then strain it; add\ncloves, nutmeg, parsley, and thyme; let it stew slowly for an hour; add\na small piece of butter rubbed in flour, some wine and mushroom catsup.\nYou can then put the meat in or send the soup to table without it, as\npreferred.\n\n\nCALF'S HEAD SOUP.\n\nPrepare as above. Then put down the head and liver in six quarts of\nwater; let them boil till tender; take them up; cut the meat in small\npieces; be careful to take out all the bones; then put the meat into\nthe liquor with three onions, some cloves, mace, and nutmeg, pepper,\nblack and cayenne, and salt; set this on the fire; let it simmer gently\nan hour: just before taking it up, add a little butter rubbed in flour,\nand some wine.\n\n\nOX-TAIL SOUP.\n\nWash and joint two ox-tails; pour over them in a soup kettle five\nquarts of water; when it comes to a boil skim it, and add some salt,\nthree onions, two carrots cut fine, three turnips, four potatoes, a\nlarge bunch of pot herbs, some cayenne pepper, and a little rice flour;\nboil slowly for three hours, but do not put in the vegetables till\nafter it has been boiling two hours: half an hour before you take it\nup, add a little celery cut up fine.\n\n\nMULLAGATAWNY SOUP.\n\nThis soup is always made of the same materials, only varying in\nquantity. Brown in some butter six or eight onions; fry some pieces of\nrabbits and chicken; lay it upon the onions; have ready some stock,\nboiling hot; let it simmer gently for an hour and a quarter; then\nstrain it through a sieve; add two quarts more of stock, and let it\nstew; mix with it three tea-spoonsful of currie powder, and two of\nbrown flour with a little cold water; let it boil slowly for half an\nhour. If preferred, the juice of a lemon may be strained into it.\n\n\nOCHRA SOUP.\n\nWash well a dozen and a half young ochras; slice them thin, three\nonions chopped fine; pour on these five quarts of water early in the\nmorning with pepper and salt; let this stew slowly two hours; then\nput in a piece of veal and a piece of lean bacon, with seven or eight\ntomatoes, skinned and sliced; boil it till it is thick; serve hot to\ntable.\n\n\nCATFISH SOUP.\n\nTake one large catfish, clean it well, cut off the head; then cut the\nfish in half; put it in a pot with two onions, and a bunch of parsley\ncut up fine, and some pepper and salt; put in a quart of water, and\nstew slowly till the fish is tender; then add a pint of milk and a\nquart of water; let this all simmer for half an hour; roll a piece of\nbutter in a little flour: in twenty minutes after the butter and flour\ngo in, it will be sufficiently done.\n\n\nDRIED PEA SOUP.\n\nWash a quart of dried peas well; put them in four quarts of water to\nsoak over night; early in the morning place it over the fire in your\nsoup kettle; when it has boiled three hours, put in a small piece of\nsalt pork; add some salt, pepper, and two chopped onions; after it\nhas boiled some time take out the pork; mash the peas, and strain the\nliquor through a sieve into a kettle; put the pork in again; skim off\nthe fat; let it boil one hour; serve up hot with toast.\n\n\nGREEN PEA SOUP.\n\nShell a quart of green peas; wash them, and put them down to boil with\nthree quarts of water and a little salt; when it has boiled slowly\nan hour and a half, season with pepper and a little butter rolled in\nflour: boiling a few of the pods with the peas is an improvement.\n\n\nBEAN SOUP.\n\nWash the beans and soak them over night; in the morning throw off the\nwater, and put down the beans with five quarts of water and a small\npiece of salt pork; let it boil till the beans are perfectly soft; then\ntake out the pork and either strain the soup, or send it to table with\nthe beans in, as preferred.\n\n\nCLAM SOUP.\n\nWash the shells of a peck of clams carefully; put them to boil in two\nquarts of cold water; when the shells have opened, take off the liquor;\nreturn it to the soup kettle; take the clams out of the shells, put\nthem in the pot with the seasoning; a little salt and pepper; rub in\na small piece of butter, a dessert spoonful of flour; stir constantly\ntill boiling hot; add some parsley chopped fine, and a pint of milk.\n\n\nFISH.\n\nFresh fish are easily told by the redness of their gills. If the gills\nare white or the flesh is not hard to the touch, reject them. They are\nnot fresh. Fish should be sent to table as soon as cooked. Broiled fish\nshould be sprinkled with salt before broiling. When boiled, should have\nsalt in the water.\n\n\nTO BAKE A SHAD.\n\nShad should be fat. Clean it well, take out the inside and the gills.\nScore and salt the fish, make a dressing of bread, butter, pepper,\nsalt, parsley, thyme and sweet marjoram; fill the fish with this; tie\nit up and put it in a pan with some water: dredge the fish with flour,\nlet it cook slowly, baste it often; when nearly done, add some mushroom\ncatsup to the gravy; season to your taste with pepper and salt. Take it\nup very carefully: bake half an hour.\n\n\nTO BROIL A SHAD.\n\nCut it down the back, sprinkle it with pepper and salt, grease your\ngridiron well, and put it down on the flesh side first. Let it be well\ndone. Send hot to table.\n\n\nFRESH COD BOILED.\n\nClean and wash it well; put it down to boil in the fish kettle. It\nwill cook in half an hour; take it up carefully, garnish the dish with\nhard-boiled egg, and serve with egg sauce. All boiled fish should have\nsalt in the water, or the fish will be insipid.\n\n\nTO BOIL HALIBUT.\n\nSprinkle it with salt, tie it up in a cloth, put it in the kettle in\nboiling water; let it boil slowly till done, which will depend upon the\nsize, allowing eight minutes to a pound.\n\n\nTO FRY HALIBUT.\n\nCut it into small pieces, season it with pepper and salt, dip it in the\nyolk of egg, then into rolled cracker: fry in hot lard, and serve it up.\n\n\nTURBOT.\n\nTurbot is one of the most delicious fish we have, when properly\nprepared and served. It must be washed with the greatest care, and cut\ndown the middle of the back, on the dark side of the fish. Have your\nkettle perfectly clean; put your fish into boiling water, enough to\ncover it, with two table spoonsful of salt; let it boil slowly, skim it\nfrequently. It will cook sufficiently in twenty minutes: drain and dish\nit; serve up hot with butter and egg sauce, or any other preferred.\n\n\nTROUT.\n\nTrout should be fried as perch.\n\n\nTO BOIL STURGEON.\n\nSturgeon may be boiled as rock fish, and served up with the same\nsauces. It is very good with spiced vinegar poured over when cold.\n\n\nTO PICKLE FRESH HERRING.\n\nFirst scale and clean them well, cut off the heads, put salt, pepper\nand cloves in the vinegar; boil it, and when cold, pour over the fish\nin a stone jar; set the jar on a warm stove for half a day; then put\nthem in a cold place.\n\n\nTO BOIL SHEEP'S HEAD.\n\nSheep's head is one of the most delicate fish, and should be boiled as\nrock fish; to be eaten with egg sauce, walnut catsup, or harvey sauce.\n\n\nSEA BASS.\n\nSea bass are good either fried or boiled.\n\n\nHADDOCK.\n\nHaddock must be well cleaned and emptied of its contents; take out the\ngills and wash them inside and out with particular care; lay them in\nwarm water a little salted; drop in a small piece of saltpetre; skim\nthe water frequently, and let them simmer from ten to fifteen minutes:\nserve hot with egg and other sauces to your taste.\n\n\nTO DRESS A SALT COD.\n\nPut your fish in water over night to soak; add a little vinegar to the\nwater; wash it well: it should not boil, but simmer slowly for half an\nhour, or till tender: to be eaten with egg sauce and mashed potatoes:\nwhen cold, mix with mashed potatoes: dip them in egg, and fry them in\nhot lard.\n\n\nTO PICKLE SALT SALMON.\n\nPut it to soak over night; in the morning clean the scales and put it\ndown to boil for ten minutes; take it up, and put it in a stone crock;\nboil some vinegar with a little mace, whole pepper and allspice; pour\nover the fish, and when perfectly cold, cover and set it away: this\nwill keep for a length of time, and is a nice relish for tea.\n\n\nTO BOIL FRESH SALMON.\n\nTie it up in a cloth and put it in the kettle with boiling water; let\nit boil slowly, allowing ten minutes to each pound; sprinkle it with\nsalt before putting it in the cloth; to be eaten with egg sauce and\nwalnut catsup, or with fish sauce.\n\n\nTO BOIL FRESH MACKEREL.\n\nSprinkle it with salt after cleaning: tie it in a cloth, and boil as\nother fish. It will boil sufficiently well in twenty-five minutes;\nserve with egg sauce.\n\n\nTO BOIL ROCK FISH.\n\nClean and wash it well, tie it up in a cloth, boil it in water and\nsalt; let it boil gently according to the size: one weighing six pounds\nwill cook in half an hour. Garnish the dish with hard-boiled egg; to be\neaten with egg sauce.\n\n\nTO FRY ROCK FISH.\n\nTo fry rock fish, dip them in Indian meal and fry in hot lard; score\nthem and season with pepper and salt before you fry them.\n\n\nTO FRY PERCH.\n\nClean them well, and sprinkle with pepper and salt, and fry in lard;\nscoring them and dipping them in Indian meal before frying.\n\n\nTO FRY SMELTS.\n\nThese little fish must be drawn at the gills, as they must not be\nopened: they are a very delicate fish: season them with salt; beat\nup the yolk of egg very light, dip them in the egg; then in grated\ncracker; fry in hot lard; serve hot.\n\n\nLOBSTERS AND CRABS.\n\nAfter washing them, put them alive in a pot of boiling water. Lobsters\nwill boil in forty minutes, or longer, if they are very large. Crabs\nthirty minutes. Dress them with the yolk of hard-boiled eggs, oil,\npepper, salt, and mustard.\n\n\nTO STEW CLAMS.\n\nTake equal quantities of the liquor and new milk; stew it, and when\nit comes to a boil, stir in the clams; season with pepper, salt and\nparsley.\n\n\nTO FRY CLAMS.\n\nStrain them; then make a batter of the yolks of two eggs, two\ntable-spoonsful of flour, and a little milk; put them in and fry in hot\nlard.\n\n\nTO STEW CRABS.\n\nPut them into a pot of boiling water for ten minutes; then take out\nthe meat and put it down with the juice that runs out, and very little\nwater, pepper, salt, and butter; a few minutes will cook them.\n\n\nLOBSTER STEWED.\n\nProceed as for crabs. Cut them into small pieces; then stew for a few\nminutes; season with cayenne pepper, salt and butter.\n\n\nOYSTERS BROILED.\n\nTake them from the shell and broil on an oyster iron; season with a\nlittle pepper, salt, and butter; serve them hot.\n\n\nTO ROAST OYSTERS IN THE SHELL.\n\nWash off the shells and place them on a large oyster gridiron; put it\nover the coals; turn them once: ten minutes will cook them.\n\n\nTO PICKLE OYSTERS.\n\nPut the oysters on in the juice, and boil them plump; then take the\noysters out; add half as much vinegar as juice, a little mace, and\nsome grains of pepper, to your taste; boil this slowly; pour over the\noysters, and they are done.\n\n\nTO STEW OYSTERS.\n\nTake a hundred oysters; put them in a stew pan, with boiling water\nenough to cover them; stir them till they are plump; then take them out\nwith a strainer; add half as much juice as there is water in the pot,\nwith some mace, whole grains of pepper, and salt, half pint of cream,\nand piece of butter; two crackers rolled very fine, which sprinkle in;\nthen put in the oysters, and keep stirring for a few minutes, when they\nwill be done.\n\n\nOYSTER PIE.\n\nMake a puff paste; put some around the sides of a deep dish. Have a\nhundred good oysters; take each oyster out of the liquor with a wooden\nspoon or fork; mash as fine as possible the yolks of two hard-boiled\neggs. Put in a layer of oysters, over which strew a little of the egg\nwith some mace and whole grains of pepper; then another layer of\noysters with the egg, and spice as above, and so fill up the dish till\nthe oysters are all in; strew a little butter on the top: then place\nprecisely in the centre of the pie a small egg cup, so as to prevent\nthe top paste touching the liquor; strain the liquor, and put in\naccording to your judgment; cut a cross in the centre of the paste, and\nopen it to let the steam escape; let it bake slowly. If you find the\npaste getting too brown, put a sheet of white paper over the top. If\nthe oysters are fresh, add some salt.\n\n\nOYSTER FRITTERS.\n\nMake a batter in the usual way; have your lard boiling hot; drop in a\nspoonful of batter with an oyster in it, and let them brown; turn them\nonce, so that each side may brown.\n\n\nSCOLLOPED OYSTERS.\n\nPut well buttered toasted bread around the sides of a deep dish; put in\nthe oysters; season with salt, pepper, mace, and butter; strain into it\na little of the liquor; strew bread crumbs over it, and bake in a quick\noven.\n\n\nTERRAPINS.\n\nWash them very well; then put them into a pot of boiling water; let\nthem stay till you can easily take off the toe nails and the skin; take\noff the bottom shell; be careful in taking out the sand bag and the\ngall; (the gall is in the liver) cut the terrapins up; save all the\njuice which runs out in cutting; take out the eggs; put the terrapins\ndown to stew; season with cayenne pepper, salt; roll a piece of butter\nin flour and mix in; add some wine, and drop in the eggs just before\ntaking them up. The quantity of wine and butter depends very much upon\nthe taste of the cook; but a quarter of a pound to two terrapins will\nbe sufficient; and half a pint of wine to four or five terrapins.\n\n\nTO FRY TRIPE.\n\nHave some lard boiling hot; cut your tripe in pieces three inches\nsquare; dip them in butter and fry.\n\n\nTO PREPARE A RENNET.\n\nA rennet is the stomach of the calf. As soon as the calf is killed,\ntake it; wash it very quickly, and cover it with salt; let it lie three\nor four days; then stretch it on sticks; hang it up to dry: when dry,\nput it in a bag, and set it in a dry place to keep.\n\n\nTO MAKE SMEARCASE OR COTTAGE CHEESE.\n\nKeep thick milk near the fire till the whey has risen; pour it in a\nmuslin bag, and hang it in the shade for twelve hours; then take it out\nand dress it with pepper, salt, and cream.\n\n\n\n\nSauces.\n\n\nMELTED BUTTER.\n\nHave half a pint of water boiling hot; roll a lump of butter the size\nof an egg into three teaspoonsful of flour; when you have the butter\nperfectly smooth remove the water from the fire, and stir your butter\nin till every particle is dissolved. If this is carefully done, the\nsauce will be perfectly smooth; then boil ten minutes.\n\n\nEGG SAUCE.\n\nBoil two or three eggs hard, cut them up fine, and put them in the\ndrawn butter as above.\n\n\nCAPER AND NASTURTIAN SAUCE.\n\nCaper and nasturtian sauce is made in the same way, always remembering\nto cut the nasturtians in half: pickled cucumbers may be used in the\nsame manner, cut up small.\n\n\nOYSTER SAUCE.\n\nOyster sauce is made in the same manner, only putting the flour and\nbutter into the oyster juice instead of water; either cut the oysters\nin half or send to table whole; season with mace and whole pepper.\n\n\nONION SAUCE.\n\nTake small white onions; put them down to stew with a little water and\nsalt; when nearly done, which will be in twenty minutes, drain off the\nwater; then add milk or cream; let them simmer gently; rub a little\nflour and butter on a plate, and stir in.\n\n\nMINT SAUCE.\n\nWash well a bunch of mint; chop it up fine; put it in your sauce dish\nwith a little vinegar and sugar; to be eaten with lamb.\n\n\nCELERY SAUCE.\n\nThe celery must be washed, cut up and boiled till it is tender; have\nsome milk boiling hot, roll very smoothly a little butter and flour,\nstir till the butter is all melted, then put in the celery; send hot to\ntable.\n\n\nLOBSTER SAUCE.\n\nPut on to boil a pint of water with a little mace, black peppers whole,\nand some mustard seed; let it boil until the water is sharp; then\nstrain off the water and put it on to boil with salt and some butter\nrubbed in flour; cut up some lobster, and dress it with this sauce.\n\n\nMUSHROOM SAUCE.\n\nPick and wash some mushrooms; cut them up in a stew pan with pepper,\nsalt and a little water and mace; let them stew twenty or thirty\nminutes; rub in very little flour and butter.\n\n\nWINE SAUCE.\n\nBeat up a piece of butter, then add the yolks of three eggs, and some\nsugar, wine and brandy; put this on the fire, stirring it all the time;\nas soon as it is boiling hot, take it off: this sauce is for puddings.\n\n\nANOTHER WINE SAUCE.\n\nThe quantity of the ingredients depends on the quantity of the article\nyou make. Have equal quantities of wine and water, and a little brandy\nboiling hot, into which put some butter and sugar well beaten; season\nwith nutmeg, and as soon as boiling hot take from the fire, and send to\ntable.\n\n\nCREAM SAUCE.\n\nSweeten to your taste some good sweet cream; season with nutmeg or rose\nwater; this is good sauce for apple dumplings.\n\n\nPEPPER SAUCE.\n\nTake twenty-five peppers cut very fine, one root of horse-radish\ngrated, two tablespoonsful of salt and a tablespoonful of mustard seed,\na tablespoonful of cloves, the same of allspice, a little mace; boil\nthe spices in the vinegar, and pour over the peppers, mixing all well\ntogether; put in bottles or jars, and cork it.\n\n\nCELERY VINEGAR.\n\nBruise a pint of celery seed; after putting it into your bottles,\nfill them with strong cider vinegar; set it away for a month, not\nforgetting to shake it every day: it will then be fit for use.\n\n\nGRAVY FOR ROAST TURKEY AND CHICKENS.\n\nBoil the liver and gizzard with a little salt; when done, chop them up\nfine; mix with the water they were boiled in, some of the drippings\nin the bottom of the oven, a very little brown flour, then add the\ngiblets: season to your taste.\n\n\nVEAL GRAVY.\n\nTake some of the drippings in the bottom of your oven, to which add\nsome boiling water; put it on to boil, season with pepper, salt, and a\nlittle brown sugar and flour; send hot to table.\n\n\nVENISON SAUCE.\n\nTake equal quantities of claret and currant jelly, and some brown\nsugar; put it down and let it stew till thick; send hot to table; this\nsauce is very good for venison or roast leg of mutton.\n\n\nAPPLE DUMPLING SAUCE ANOTHER WAY.\n\nBeat loaf sugar and butter to a cream as light as possible, and stir\nslowly into it one wine glass of brandy. An excellent cold sauce for\napple dumplings or fritters.\n\n\nAPPLE SAUCE.\n\nPare a quarter of a peck of ripe green pippins; cut them in quarters\nand core them; then put them in a pipkin or earthen pitcher, with a\nlittle water to stew slowly; shake the pipkin or pitcher frequently;\ndo not put a spoon in; it might break them when nearly done: put in a\nlittle loaf sugar; shake them several times; when done, pour them into\na dish without breaking: serve up cold or hot.\n\n\nCRANBERRY SAUCE.\n\nWash and pick four quarts of cranberries; put them in a bell-metal\nkettle with one quart of water to stew slowly: when half done, add two\npounds of brown sugar: every berry must be broken with a spoon before\nit comes off the fire: stir frequently. Another way would be to add\nmore sugar and strain it through a fine cullender, and set it away in\nforms to cool: this we would call cranberry jelly.\n\n\nTO STEW DRIED FRUIT.\n\nDried fruit should be well washed in three or four different waters,\nand put to soak over night in the water in which you intend stewing\nthem; to four quarts of fruit, put water enough to cover them, so that\nnone need be added while cooking: season and sweeten to your taste.\nSome persons like dried orange peel in peaches.\n\n\nTO ROAST BEEF.\n\nScrape till clean the fat, the lean, and the bones of the beef. If any\nsoil remain on the bones, saw it off with a beef saw. It can be more\nthoroughly cleaned in this way than in any other. It spoils beef to\nwash it. Spit it and put it in a tin kitchen before the fire, with a\nhalf pint of water in the bottom of the kitchen; do not set it close to\nthe fire at first, but bring it gradually nearer; turn, and baste it\nevery few minutes. It should be cooked slowly. When nearly done, season\nwith black and cayenne pepper and salt. The habit of dredging beef with\nflour is a very bad one. Flour is no improvement to beef. Ten pounds of\nbeef will roast, before a good fire, in two hours. For the gravy, pour\noff the grease, add a little water, pepper and salt; send to table in a\ngravy boat. This receipt will answer for any part of the beef that is\nfit to roast. Garnish with horse-radish, grated. All roasts should be\nwell skewered to the spit.\n\n\nBEEF STEAKS.\n\nThe sirloin is the best. Cut the steak half an inch thick; put it on\na gridiron over clear coals; turn it very often; when half done, put\nit on a dish and squeeze as much of the juice out as possible; put it\nback; season with pepper and salt. When done, place it in the dish with\nthe juice; add a spoonful of water, and if you prefer, a small piece of\nbutter: send to the table immediately.\n\n\nTO STEW BEEF.\n\nCut all the meat from cold roast beef; put the bones down with some\nwater, pepper, salt, onions, carrots and potatoes, all cut up: a little\nbrown stock will improve it: let it stew till all of the vegetables\nare done; then take out the bones, cut your meat in small pieces, rub\na piece of butter in flour and stir in: put the meat in till it is hot\nthrough; then dish it.\n\n\nBEEF A LA MODE.\n\nChop fine some parsley, thyme and onions; add some grated bread,\nnutmeg, cloves, pepper and salt, with the yolks of three eggs beaten;\ntake out the bone and fill the space with these ingredients well mixed;\nmake holes in the lean part and stuff it; bind it firmly with tape; put\nit into an iron pot, sufficiently large to hold it, cover it with water\nand let it stew slowly for three hours. Make a gravy of the liquor it\nwas stewed in with a half pint of red wine and mushroom catsup; rub a\nlittle butter in flour, and let it simmer five minutes; then take it up.\n\n\nA BRISKET OF BEEF BAKED.\n\nTake a brisket, say ten pounds; make a dressing of ham, parsley,\noysters, seasoned with pounded cloves, pepper, salt and nutmeg, and the\nyolk of two eggs well beaten; make holes in the beef and stuff it; put\nit in a pan with a little water and half a pint of wine; bake it three\nhours; send hot to table. Garnish with sliced lemons.\n\n\nBEEF STEAK PIE.\n\nStew some tender pieces of beef, cut it up in small pieces, season with\npepper and salt; have some good paste in a deep dish, into which put\nthe pieces of beef with some gravy; put on a cover and bake.\n\n\nTO BOIL CORN BEEF.\n\nWash it well, and soak it thirty or forty minutes; put it down to boil\nin plenty of cold water: let it boil slowly, and skim often.\n\n\nA BEEF'S HEART.\n\nCut the heart open; let it soak in cold water for a few moments, then\ntake out the ventricles; put it down to boil; when nearly done, take it\nup: make a dressing of small pieces of ham, pepper, salt, parsley, and\nsome beef chopped fine; make incisions with a knife; stuff and bake it;\npour a pint of the water in which it was boiled in the pan for gravy,\nand thicken it with browned flour and butter.\n\n\nDIRECTIONS FOR COOKING THE DIFFERENT PARTS OF VEAL.\n\nThe fore quarter, the rack, and breast, are best boiled. The fillet or\nleg is very good stuffed and baked. The loin should be roasted. The\nknuckle is proper for soup, also the neck and shoulder.\n\n\nTO ROAST A LOIN OF VEAL.\n\nWash it well, and put it in a tin kitchen some distance from the fire;\nwhen it is hot through, place it nearer to the fire; baste it well;\nwhen nearly done, dredge it with flour; add pepper and salt; the time\nit takes to cook will depend on the size of the loin; put half a pint\nof water in the tin kitchen when you set it to the fire; garnish the\ndish with sliced lemons.\n\n\nVEAL CUTLETS.\n\nCut the cutlets half an inch thick; have some cracker rolled with\npepper, salt, and nutmeg; dip your cutlets in the yolk of egg well\nbeaten; then in grated cracker; fry in hot lard slowly till done, then\ntake them up: make the gravy by pouring a pint of cream with some\nchopped parsley in the pan in which it has been cooked; season with\ngrated nutmeg: garnish your dish with curled parsley.\n\n\nBAKED FILLET OF VEAL.\n\nTake the leg or fillet of veal; wash it well; cut off the shank and\ntrim it, so that it will sit nicely in the pan; make a stuffing of\nbread crumbs, pepper, salt, parsley and nutmeg, some butter and the\nyolks of eggs; stuff the fillet and bake it: put a little water in the\npan, and some mushroom catsup in the gravy.\n\n\nTO STEW VEAL.\n\nCut your veal in small pieces; slice three onions; fry them in butter;\nthen put the veal down with a little water, pepper, salt, nutmeg and\nparsley; rub some butter in flour; put in the gravy with lemon juice or\ncatsup.\n\n\nMOCK TURTLE OR CALF'S HEAD.\n\nClean the head well; let it soak for a few minutes in cold water; take\nout the lower jaw, the nose and the eyes: then put it down to boil;\nskim it well, and when the bones will fall from the meat, cut the meat\nin small pieces; take out carefully all the small bones; have some\nonions chopped fine, nutmeg, mace, cloves, pepper, salt, bread crumbs,\nbutter and egg, all well mixed together; put these nicely arranged in\na pan with some of the gravy; put egg and butter on the top; bake it\ntwenty minutes in an oven; when done, take it up; season the gravy with\nred wine and mushroom catsup.\n\n\nTO STEW CALF'S FEET.\n\nHave your feet nicely cleaned and cut in two; boil them till tender;\ntake out the large bones; put them down to stew with some of the liquor\nthey were boiled in, pepper, salt and parsley chopped fine; rub a\ndessert spoonful of butter in two of flour, and stir in. Garnish your\ndish with curled parsley.\n\n\nSWEET-BREADS.\n\nSweet-breads must always be parboiled. Have a dressing of bread crumbs,\npepper, salt, parsley and butter; stuff the sweet breads and roast; or\nfry them like oysters, cutting them into small pieces.\n\n\nSWEET-BREAD AND OYSTER PIE.\n\nStew the sweet-breads till tender; have a dish lined with a good paste;\ncut the sweet-bread up in small pieces; put some in the paste with some\noysters, pepper, salt, butter and the yolks of eggs boiled hard and\nmashed fine; then another layer of sweet bread and oysters till your\ndish is full; put on a top paste and bake; cut a cross in the middle,\nand turn it back to let the steam escape: send hot to table. Have a\nsmall egg-cup in the centre of the pie, to keep the upper crust from\ntouching the liquor.\n\n\nTO ROAST A LOIN OF MUTTON.\n\nWash it well, and put it down in the tin kitchen, with a little water\nand salt in the bottom of the kitchen; baste and turn it well; a loin\nwill cook in an hour and a half: send hot to table, to be eaten with\ncurrant jelly.\n\n\nTO ROAST A LEG OF MUTTON.\n\nWash it well; take off the flank; make incisions an inch apart in it\nwith a sharp knife; stuff it with some onions boiled for five minutes,\nand some sage leaves, both chopped fine, with black and cayenne pepper\nand salt, and bread crumbs; moisten the crumbs with a little melted\nbutter; turn and baste it frequently.\n\n\nTO STEW LAMB WITH PEAS.\n\nCut the lamb in pieces the size of a chop; put them down to stew with a\nlittle water, pepper, salt and mace; add some young peas; let this cook\nslowly till done: add some butter before you take it from the fire.\n\n\nSTEAKS OF MUTTON.\n\nHave your slices a quarter of an inch thick; dip them in boiling lard,\nthen into grated bread seasoned with pepper and salt, and broil on a\ngridiron, first rubbing off the bars with lard, that none may drip or\ncause a smell. These are also very good dressed like veal cutlets.\n\n\nMUTTON CHOPS.\n\nTake off some of the fat and broil quickly, turning them often; when\ndone, season with pepper and salt, but no butter.\n\n\nTO BOIL A BREAST OF MUTTON.\n\nCrack the joints; boil slowly; put a little salt in the water; when\ndone, dish and pour drawn butter, with parsley chopped fine over it.\n\n\nTO SALT A LEG OF MUTTON.\n\nRub the leg well with salt; let it remain two or three days; then chip\nit fine, and fry in butter like chipped beef.\n\n\nTO DRESS MUTTON LIKE VENISON.\n\nRub a leg of mutton well with allspice and black pepper pounded fine;\nlet it remain four or five days, when it will be fit to cook: wash off\nthe spices before you put it down to roast; put into the gravy some\nwine and currant jelly.\n\n\nMUTTON CHOPS LIKE VENISON.\n\nSprinkle your chops with pepper, salt and mustard; have ready some\nboiling lard; put your chops in and fry a light brown; make a gravy and\nseason it with wine and currant jelly; pour the gravy over the chops,\nand send hot to the table.\n\n\nTO STEW MUTTON WITH MUSHROOMS.\n\nCut some mutton about two inches square; stew it with some mushrooms;\nadd a little water, pepper, salt, and a small piece of butter rolled in\nflour; send hot to the table.\n\n\nTO STEW MUTTON.\n\nCut up in small pieces two carrots, one turnip, four potatoes, and\nthree tomatoes; put them down to stew with a little water, pepper and\nsalt: when they are nearly done cut up some mutton, and add to the\nstew, with some fried onions; let it simmer for a few minutes: serve up\nhot.\n\n\nTO BOIL A LEG OF MUTTON.\n\nScrape and wash well a leg of mutton; put it on the fire in cold water\nand a little salt; when done, (which will be in an hour and a half or\ntwo hours according to the size,) serve with drawn butter and capers,\nor pickled cucumbers cut up in small pieces.\n\n\nTO STEW MUTTON LIKE VENISON.\n\nTake some pieces of tender mutton; put it down to stew with two whole\nonions, some cloves, pepper and salt; when half done, add some red\nwine, currant jelly and mushroom catsup.\n\n\nKIDNEYS.\n\nKidneys must be well washed; boil for ten minutes; take them from the\nfire; cut them up; season with pepper, salt, and dredge well with\nflour; have some boiling lard; put them in, stirring them often; when\ndone, make a gravy; add some wine, and pour over the kidneys.\n\n\nROLOGEE.\n\nTake the thin piece which comes on the leg or loin of veal; wrap up in\nit cloves and mace, pepper and salt; roll it up and tie it tight in a\ncloth; boil it well; then put it under a press; when cold, cut it in\nthin slices for tea.\n\n\nFONDUS.\n\nPut in a stew pan a quart of water and a piece of butter; stir in flour\nto make a batter; beat it well all the time it is on the fire; have\nsome grated cheese with five eggs, beat all well; drop with a spoon on\nbuttered tins and bake.\n\n\nLIVER.\n\nLiver should not be washed: cut in thin slices, and fried in hot lard.\n\n\nTO ROAST A PIG.\n\nLet your pig be cleaned very well; boil the liver; chop it up with\nonion, sage, bread crumbs, pepper, salt and parsley; moisten with a\nlittle butter; stuff the pig well with it, sew it up, spit it and put\nit in a tin kitchen before the fire to roast. Put some salt and water\nin the tin kitchen, with which baste the pig well; as soon as the skin\ngets hard, baste it well with lard; turn it, but do not baste it with\nthe water again. A pig will take from two to three hours to cook; pour\noff the fat from the gravy; season with pepper and salt; add a little\nwater, if necessary, and browned flour.\n\n\nTO ROAST PORK.\n\nLet the piece you intend cooking lie two hours in salt and water; then\ncut the skin in squares, set it before the fire with salt water and\nfinely powdered sage in the bottom of the kitchen, baste, and turn it\noften.\n\n\nTO FRY PIG'S FEET.\n\nHave your feet well cleaned; let them lie over night in salt and water;\nthen put them on to boil: when they are tender, take out the large\nbones; dredge them in flour seasoned with pepper and salt, and fry in\nhot lard. Another way to cook pig's feet is to boil them, and dress\nlike terrapins.\n\n\nA PIG'S HEAD.\n\nClean the head well, cut off the ears and nose, take out the eyes; put\nit down to boil with the liver; when done, take it up, put the head\nin a dripping pan with some of the liquor; the liver chopped up fine,\nseasoned with onions, pepper, salt and parsley; spread some yolk of egg\nover the head, upon which sprinkle bread crumbs: bake half an hour; add\nsome catsup to the gravy. Send hot to the table.\n\n\nTO MAKE SCRAPPLE.\n\nSome of the pieces that will not do for any other purpose will make\nscrapple. Boil them in plenty of water, season with pepper and salt,\ntake out all the bones, and strain the liquor; put the liquor back in\nthe pot and thicken with Indian meal; stir it till done; turn it into\nbowls to cool; cut in slices and fry. Send hot to the table.\n\n\nTO CURE BEEF.\n\nRub the pieces well with saltpetre, salt, and brown sugar; let it\nlie two days in a tub; make a pickle and pour over it: it will be\nsufficiently cured in eight days. When wanted for summer use, let it\nremain in brine between three or four weeks; then hang it up to dry;\nsmoke very little.\n\n\nTO SOUSE PIG'S FEET.\n\nClean well the feet, and let them lie in salt and water over night,\nthen boil till tender; take out the large bones, cut them down the\nmiddle; dip them in flour and fry in hot lard, or, pick out all the\nbones; season with pepper and salt, and if liked, some vinegar; heat\nthem for a few moments when required.\n\n\nTO CURE BEEF'S TONGUES.\n\nRub each tongue well with brown sugar and saltpetre; have ready an\nearthen crock or wooden vessel; put into it a layer of salt, then a\ntongue, then a layer of salt, and so on till they are all in; after\nthey have been in three days, remove them and put the tongues which\nwere in the bottom of the vessel on top: they will make their own\npickle.\n\n\nTO BOIL HAM.\n\nIf a ham is old and hard, it should soak over night; if not, wash it\nwell, and put it down in plenty of cold water: the water should be well\nskimmed while boiling.\n\n\nTO BOIL A STUFFED HAM.\n\nMake incisions in the ham with a knife; have ready some mint chopped\nfine, with which fill them; then boil for five or six hours; trim, but\ndo not skin it.\n\n\nTO BAKE A BOILED HAM.\n\nFirst, boil till done; then skin and trim it; spread the yolk of egg\nover, then sprinkle with finely rolled cracker, and put in the oven\nfor a few minutes; or, you may boil, skin it, and ornament with black\npepper: a ham will keep much better, and will retain the juice, if the\nskin is not taken off.\n\n\nTO CURE HAMS AND SHOULDERS.\n\nCut up your hogs, take out the chine from the neck to the tail, cut the\nhams, shoulders, and middlings; have some finely powdered saltpetre;\nrub a tablespoonful in each ham for some minutes, then rub it well with\nsalt and brown sugar; let them lie on a board some distance apart for\nthree days, to draw off the blood; have a molasses barrel; sprinkle the\nbottom with salt and put in your hams with the skins down; sprinkle\nwith salt, and so on till you have the barrel full; make a strong\npickle that will bear an egg; pour over them, cover, and let them\nremain in pickle for five weeks, then hang them up with the hock down\nto preserve the juice. The shoulders will not require to be in pickle\nso long; it is not necessary to put saltpetre on the middlings; the\njowls will be ready to hang up in two weeks, shoulders and middlings in\nfour: they should be smoked but three times a week till done; if smoked\ntoo much, they will be hard. Before the weather gets warm, take them\ndown and rub well with hickory ashes.\n\n\nTO BOIL AND FREEZE CHINE.\n\nAfter the chines have been in pickle a week or ten days, boil them and\nlet them freeze. They are considered a great delicacy.\n\n\nTO MAKE SAUSAGE MEAT.\n\nTake the tender pieces of pork, lean and fat, one third fat and two\nthirds lean, season with salt and pepper, and those that are for\nimmediate use are improved by putting in some sage finely pulverized,\nbut if kept too long, it will have a musty taste. If sausage meat is\nput in to skins, laid for ten days in pickle, then hung up and smoked a\nlittle, they will keep all summer. Those that are not put into skins,\nshould be put into stone crocks, and have lard run over the top to\nexclude the air.\n\n\nHOG'S HEAD CHEESE.\n\nWash the heads well, take off the ears and nose, and remove the eyes;\nboil them till tender, and all the bones come out; then take it up,\ncarefully taking out all the bones; cut up the meat very fine: then\nseason with pepper and salt; put this back again into the pot with the\nliquor; let it simmer slowly for half an hour, pour into bowls, and set\nit away to cool; cut in slices for the table.\n\n\nTO ROAST A GOOSE.\n\nWash the goose well; make a stuffing of two thirds onions and one\nthird sage leaves, pepper, salt and butter; fill the goose, and put it\ndown to roast in the tin kitchen with some salt and water; baste it\nfrequently. A large goose will take an hour and a half to cook: make\na gravy with the giblets hashed; season with pepper and salt. Some\npersons prefer the dressing made of potatoes. Ducks are done in the\nsame way, but will cook in half an hour: to be eaten with cranberry\nsauce.\n\n\nTO ROAST A TURKEY.\n\nWash and clean the turkey well; make a dressing of bread, butter,\npepper and salt; fill your turkey; have some boiling water in the\nbottom of the tin kitchen: when half done, sprinkle with pepper and\nsalt, baste and turn it often, make a gravy with the giblets hashed;\nseason with pepper and salt; stir a little brown flour in the gravy;\nsend it to table in a gravy boat. A large turkey will take three hours\nto roast.\n\n\nTO BOIL A TURKEY.\n\nWash your turkey well, and let it lie a few minutes in salt and water;\nput it on in cold water with a little rice; skim it and let it boil\nslowly, but constantly, till done; make a filling of bread, butter,\npepper, salt, and some whole oysters, and a few slices of lemon. It is\nbetter to put the turkey in a cloth. A large turkey will boil in two\nhours; to be eaten with oyster or celery sauce.\n\n\nTO ROAST CHICKENS.\n\nMake a dressing, as for turkey; set them some distance from the fire\nat first, but move them gradually closer: they will roast in an hour:\nbaste them well; make a gravy of the giblets, some of the drippings\nin the bottom of the kitchen, and some of the water the giblets were\nboiled in: season with pepper and salt.\n\n\nTO FRY CHICKENS.\n\nWash them well and cut them up; wipe them dry. Have ready some rolled\ncrackers seasoned with pepper, salt and parsley; first dip the pieces\nin the yolk of an egg, then in the cracker; have ready some boiling\nlard; put in and fry a light-brown; make a gravy with cream, parsley,\nnutmeg, pepper and salt.\n\n\nTO STEW CHICKENS.\n\nPut the chickens down with a little water, pepper, salt and a little\nmace: when half done, add some cream, butter, rolled in flour, and\nparsley cut up. Dish the chickens and pour the gravy over them.\n\n\nTO BROIL CHICKENS.\n\nWash the chickens well, cut them down the back, and broil on a gridiron\nover hot coals: when nearly done, season with pepper and salt, and when\ndone, baste them with butter.\n\n\nTO BAKE CHICKENS.\n\nPrepare, as for boiling; put them in a bake pan with water, pepper\nand salt; baste them well: when nearly done, baste them with butter\nand dredge with flour; make a gravy of the giblets, and add to the\ndrippings.\n\n\nCHICKEN PIE.\n\nWash the chickens; cut them up and stew them with a little water, salt\nand mace; when done, make a paste; put it round the sides of the dish;\nthen put in the chickens; season to your taste, with pepper, salt and\nhard-boiled egg, some butter rolled in flour; pour in some of the\nliquor, and put on the top paste; cut a hole in the centre, and turn\nback the paste to let the steam escape; place a small cup in the middle\nof the pie.\n\n\nTO BOIL CHICKENS.\n\nMake a filling of bread, butter, pepper and salt; put your chickens in\na cloth, and boil them till done, which will be in an hour; make egg\nsauce, which pour over the chickens; garnish the dish with parsley;\nsend some celery sauce in the gravy boat to the table.\n\n\nTO STEW DUCKS.\n\nPut the ducks down to stew with a little stock and some onions, pepper\nand salt; let them simmer gently till they are done, adding a little\ncream and butter; make a dressing of sage and onions, with which fill\nthe ducks: set them in the oven to brown.\n\n\nTO COOK CHICKENS WITH CURRY.\n\nCut up the chickens, wash them clean, put them in a stew pan with a\nlittle water and salt; keep them covered closely till they are done;\nbrown some onions in butter, then put in the chickens with a little\npepper and curry powder; let the chickens brown in the butter; when\nbrown, put in the liquor, and let all stew for five minutes.\n\n\nTO COOK CHICKENS IN BATTER.\n\nMake a batter; cut up the chickens; stew them with a little pepper,\nsalt and parsley: when nearly done, take it up; put it in a buttered\ndish; pour the batter round, and bake.\n\n\n\n\nGame.\n\n\nTO FRY RABBITS.\n\nSkin the rabbit; cut it up and wash it; dip it in flour seasoned with\npepper and salt; cut up some onions, and fry.\n\n\nTO STEW RABBITS.\n\nSkin it; cut it up, as for frying; put it down with a little water,\npepper, salt and a little butter rolled in flour.\n\n\nWILD DUCKS.\n\nWhen the ducks are picked, wash them as little as possible: roast\ntwenty minutes. Some persons make a filling of bread, butter, pepper\nand salt; but the proper way is to cook them without filling; baste\nthem very often and turn rapidly; put a little water in the bottom of\nthe oven.\n\n\nTO ROAST WOODCOCK OR SNIPE.\n\nPick them very carefully, but do not draw them; they will cook\nsufficiently in ten or fifteen minutes; have some toast on a dish, upon\nwhich put the birds.\n\n\nTO ROAST PHEASANTS.\n\nRoast them before a brisk fire, turning and basting all the time with a\nlittle butter; have some water in the bottom of the roaster: after they\nhave cooked five minutes, add some salt.\n\n\nPARTRIDGES.\n\nPick them very carefully: draw them, and roast before a quick fire,\nfifteen or twenty minutes.\n\n\nPIGEONS.\n\nMake a filling of bread crumbs, pepper, salt and parsley; baste them\nwell: they will cook in twenty minutes.\n\n\nPEPPER POT.\n\nClean well two sets of calves' feet; put them into a pot with three or\nfour pounds of tripe and six quarts of water, and some cayenne pepper;\ncover them and let them boil till perfectly tender; strain the liquid,\nand cut the tripe in small pieces; put it in the liquid with some salt,\nthree sliced onions, two potatoes, sweet marjoram, parsley and thyme\ncut up fine, and some small round dumplings made of butter and flour;\nsend hot to the table.\n\n\nTO MAKE NOODLES FOR SOUP.\n\nBeat three or four eggs, (the yolks only) make them into a stiff paste\nwith flour; roll out very thin and let it dry; it should be made\nseveral hours before they are wanted for the soup; when quite dry roll\nup, and cut in very thin strips; shake them apart, and put them in the\nsoup.\n\n\nTO MAKE CROQUETS.\n\nChop up fine any kind of cold meat, fowl, ham, and pork; mix all well\ntogether; add salt and pepper, and mustard to the taste, some grated\nbread, butter and catsup; make them into cakes; dip them in the yolk\nof egg, and fry in hot lard.\n\n\nSPANISH OLIO.\n\nPut into a soup kettle one pound of beef, half a pound of mutton, half\na chicken, salt, pepper and a very little water; let it stew slowly for\ntwo hours; then put in four apples, two pears pared and cut up, three\ntomatoes, a bunch of mint chopped, two onions, lima beans and any kind\nof vegetables you may prefer; let them all stew slowly two or three\nhours longer; send hot to the table.\n\n\nMACARONI.\n\nWash a little macaroni, and boil in water till it is tender, which\nwill be in half an hour; drain it; butter your dish and put a layer of\nmacaroni in, upon which put salt, cheese, butter and mustard, a little\nof each; then macaroni, and so on till the dish is full. Parmesan\ncheese is the best, but any other kind will answer.\n\n\nTO MAKE POLENTA.\n\nTake cold chicken or meat of any kind and stew it; when done cut it up.\nHave potatoes mashed, which put around the sides and bottom of the dish\nabout half an inch thick; then put in your stew with the liquor; season\nwith pepper and salt; spread some macaroni which has been boiled on the\ntop of the dish, with grated cheese, butter, pepper and salt; bake, and\nbring to table in the dish in which it is baked.\n\n\nCHICKEN SALAD.\n\nOne pair of chickens, eight bunches of celery, six eggs, one dessert\nspoonful of mustard, nearly a bottle of oil, pepper and salt. Boil the\nchickens; take off the skins: cut them up in small pieces; sprinkle\nthem with pepper, salt and vinegar, and let them lie three hours;\nmoisten the mustard with vinegar; then pour in the oil, a few drops\nat a time, and keep constantly stirring it; have the eggs boiled\nhard; mash them up with a little vinegar, and then mix with the oil;\ncut up your celery very fine and throw it into cold water; when the\ningredients are all ready, mix the chicken and celery; (after draining\nit) then pour the dressing over it. Curl some pieces of celery by\ncutting it up about an inch and throwing it into cold water, with which\ngarnish the dish.\n\n\nITALIAN MACARONI.\n\nBreak the macaroni into pieces two inches long; boil it in hot water,\nwith a little butter, pepper and salt; when done, drain it on a napkin;\nthen put a layer of macaroni on the bottom of a dish; pour over it some\nhot tomato sauce; then some grated cheese, and so on, until the dish is\nfull; the cheese being on the top; put it in the oven a few minutes,\nand serve it hot.\n\n\nMACARONI WITH CREAM.\n\nBoil half a pound of macaroni in hot water, and when done cut it into\npieces; put it into a pan with a quarter of a pound of butter, two\nounces of grated cheese, and half a gill of cream; add a little pepper,\nsalt and mustard; shake it over the fire until well mixed and quite\nhot; dish it, and garnish with pieces of puff paste cut in diamonds.\n\n\nOMELETTE WITH CHEESE.\n\nBeat six eggs very light; add to them two tablespoonsful of cream,\nbutter the size of a walnut, a spoonful of chopped parsley, some pepper\nand salt, two ounces of grated cheese; beat all well together, and pour\ninto a pan in which butter is melting; let it cook until a light brown;\nthen fold up and dish for the table. Shake the pan while the omelet is\ndoing.\n\n\nOMELETTE WITH OYSTERS.\n\nBeat six eggs separately, very light; add to the yolks a little\nmustard, cayenne pepper and salt; mix this with the whites; pour it\ninto a pan in which butter is melting, and cook till a light brown.\nBefore folding, have a few nicely scolloped oysters and lay between;\nshake the pan about till the omelet is done.\n\n\nEGG TOAST.\n\nToast four slices of bread, a light brown; butter them well, and\nsprinkle on a little salt. Poach four eggs in muffin rings to retain\ntheir shape; place one on each slice of toast, and send to the table.\n\n\nCROQUETTES OF SWEET-BREADS.\n\nTake six sweet-breads, and after being well washed stew them until\ndone; when cold cut them into small pieces; season with pepper, salt,\na grated nutmeg, and a little mushroom catsup; stir them over the fire\na few minutes; then spread them on a dish to cool; the croquettes must\nthen be shaped; rolled in egg and bread crumbs, and fried in lard.\n\n\nTO BOIL EGGS.\n\nBoiling eggs depends upon the person for whom you cook. Two minutes and\na half will boil to suit most persons: if you want them very soft, two\nminutes will answer. If hard, they will take ten minutes.\n\n\nTO FRY EGGS.\n\nHave the lard hot, but not boiling; put in the eggs one at a time; when\ndone, send hot to table.\n\n\nTO POACH EGGS.\n\nHave ready a pan of boiling water with muffin rings, into which put the\neggs, one in each ring; let them remain on the fire till the whites are\nfirm.\n\n\nSCRAMBLED EGGS.\n\nBeat the eggs with pepper, salt, parsley and chives; have some butter\nin a saucepan; as soon as it has melted put in the eggs; stir till they\nare done.\n\n\nOMELET SOUFFLE.\n\nBeat the eggs separately till very light; then mix them: add sugar and\nlemon peel to your taste; have some melted butter in a pan; pour in the\neggs; and when baked, sift some powdered sugar over it and send it hot\nto the table.\n\n\nOMELET.\n\nSeparate five eggs; beat them very light; season the yolks with pepper,\nsalt and parsley; have some butter hot in a pan; put in the omelet;\nstir the whites in just before you put it in the pan; you can put in\nham, oysters, onions, chives, or any thing you prefer. Keep the pan\nmoving till the omelet is done; a little cream is an improvement.\n\n\n\n\nVegetables.\n\n\nTO DRESS SALAD.\n\nThe lettuce should be gathered early in the morning; pick and wash it\nwell; let it lie in water till required: then drain the water from it.\nHave eggs boiled hard, oil, mustard, pepper and salt, according to\ntaste. Ornament with slices of hard-boiled eggs.\n\n\nCAULIFLOWER.\n\nGet those that are hard and white; cut off the stalk; take off the\noutside leaves; put it down to boil in hot water, with a little salt:\na large one will take half an hour. Do not let it boil too much: eat\nwith drawn butter.\n\n\nPARSNIPS.\n\nScrape and wash them: cover them with water, and let them boil till\ntender, which will be from one to two hours: send to table with butter,\npepper and salt, or fry them brown.\n\n\nCARROTS.\n\nLet them be scraped and washed; boil them; try them with a fork; if\nthey are tender, they are done; dress with drawn butter.\n\n\nTURNIPS.\n\nPare, wash and cut up; put them on to boil; when done, take them up;\nmash them in a tin pan: season with pepper, salt, and butter; send hot\nto table.\n\n\nSALSIFY OR OYSTER PLANT.\n\nWash and scrape them well; put them down to boil; when soft, mash and\nseason with pepper and salt: make a batter of milk, flour and egg. Mix\nall well together; drop them the size of oysters with a tablespoon, and\nfry them a light brown.\n\n\nTO BOIL POTATOES.\n\nHave the water boiling. Put in the potatoes; let them boil till nearly\ndone, then pour off the water and throw in some salt; uncover the\nsaucepan and set them on the back part of the stove. If the potatoes\nare boiled fast, the skin will crack before they are done. For mashed\npotatoes, pare them before you boil them; when done, mash them with a\nsmall piece of butter, a cup of cream, and a little salt. Another way\nto boil old potatoes is to pare them around the middle, before you boil\nthem, and throw in a little salt. When potatoes are young, scrape and\nboil them; when done, pour off the water and dress them with a little\ncream, butter, pepper and salt.\n\n\nTO FRY POTATOES.\n\nPare large potatoes; cut them lengthwise: cut them into four pieces,\nof about a quarter of an inch thick. Have some butter boiling hot into\nwhich put the potatoes; keep turning them till they are done. Sprinkle\na little salt on them before sending them to table.\n\n\nTO STEW POTATOES.\n\nSlice the potatoes and put them down to boil, with just enough water to\ncover them; when nearly done, pour off the water, and add milk and a\nlump of butter rolled in flour, parsley and salt.\n\n\nMASHED POTATOES.\n\nYou can make mashed potatoes into any shape you wish them. Touch them\nover with the yolk of egg, and put them in an oven to brown.\n\n\nTO ROAST POTATOES.\n\nLarge potatoes will roast in an hour. Do not put them too near the\nfire, or they will burn before they are cooked. Sweet potatoes, if they\nare large, will take an hour and a half to roast.\n\n\nTO FRY SWEET POTATOES.\n\nParboil them, then peel; cut them in slices, and fry in butter: send\nthem hot to table.\n\n\nTO BOIL SWEET POTATOES.\n\nHave them as nearly of a size as possible. Put them in boiling water;\nas soon as they are done, (which will depend upon the size,) pour off\nthe water; then lay them on the back part of the stove, where they will\ndry, but not burn. Some persons parboil them, cut them in two, and\nbroil them over a gridiron.\n\n\nSPINACH.\n\nTake great care in picking it; wash it well, and put it in a steamer\nwith a little salt. It will cook in twenty minutes. Have some toast on\na dish; put your spinach on the toast, and some poached eggs on the top.\n\n\nTO BOIL GREENS.\n\nCabbage sprouts are better boiled with a piece of pork or bacon. Eat\nwith hard-boiled eggs, and if cooked without the meat, have drawn\nbutter or vinegar.\n\n\nLIMA BEANS.\n\nLima beans will require about three quarters of an hour to boil. Put\nthem on in cold water; when done, drain them: season with pepper, salt\nand butter.\n\n\nSTRING BEANS.\n\nString and cut them down the middle; put them down in as little water\nas you can cook them in, without burning them: do not strain off the\nwater, but let them cook till nearly all the water has evaporated:\nseason with butter, pepper and salt, and send to table.\n\n\nPEAS.\n\nShell and wash the peas. Cook them just as the beans. This is the best\nway to cook peas and beans; or you can boil them in the common way, and\ndrain off the water: season with butter, pepper and salt.\n\n\nASPARAGUS.\n\nScrape and wash the asparagus; tie it up in bunches; and put it on to\nboil in water in which there is some salt; it requires about fifteen\nminutes to boil it, and it must not remain in the water after it is\ndone. Have some bread nicely toasted, on which place it, and pour over\ndrawn butter. A better way is to cook it in just as little water as\npossible; do not pour off the water, but let it evaporate as much as\npossible; then season with butter, pepper and salt, and send to table\nwith the liquor around it. This is the German manner of cooking beans,\npeas, and asparagus.\n\n\nTO FRICASEE CORN.\n\nHave young corn cut from the cob. Save the juice; put it down to stew\nwith pepper, salt, and a little cream; roll a lump of butter in flour,\nand stir in. If the corn is young, it will cook in twenty minutes. Corn\nwill boil in half an hour; put it in boiling water, and take it up as\nsoon as done.\n\n\nTO KEEP CORN FOR WINTER.\n\nGet the corn when young. Boil it ten minutes; a longer time would\ninjure it; cut it from the cob; spread it on dishes, and put it in the\noven after the bread comes out; be careful the oven is not too hot; if\nit is, the corn will be spoiled. If not dry enough, put it in the sun\nfor a few days, stirring it frequently. When perfectly dry, tie it up\nin bags and keep it in a dry place. When you cook it, wash it well: put\nit down with a little water, butter, pepper and salt. It will require\nmuch longer to cook than it does in summer.\n\n\nHOMINY.\n\nWash it well, and soak it over night in the water you intend to boil it\nin; put it on early in the morning with a few beans and a piece of salt\npork. Let it boil slowly for three hours or more, if not soft.\n\n\nTO FRY HOMINY.\n\nAfter your hominy is boiled and cold, mash and season with pepper and\nsalt; have some lard hot in a pan, into which put your hominy. Cover\nit for five minutes, then stir it well, and cover again, and let it fry\na light brown. Fried hominy is very good for breakfast.\n\n\nTO FRY EGG PLANT.\n\nPare and let them lie ten or fifteen minutes in salt and water, to take\naway the bitter taste; wipe them perfectly dry; have ready cracker\nrolled fine, and seasoned with pepper and salt; dip each piece in the\nyolk of an egg beaten, then in the rolled cracker, and fry in hot lard.\n\n\nTO STEW EGG PLANT.\n\nCut in half with the skin on, then soak in vinegar to extract the\nbitter taste, say half an hour, then boil till quite tender; scrape out\nthe pulp and fill them with bread crumbs, butter, cayenne pepper and\nsalt; lay them open in your bake pan with a little water in the bottom,\nput them in the oven and baste them often so that they will not be dry;\nrub a little flour and butter together for the gravy.\n\n\nANOTHER WAY.\n\nPrepare as above, and mix with pepper, salt, butter, and bread crumbs;\nfry in sweet oil.\n\n\nTO STEW TOMATOES.\n\nTake off the skins by pouring boiling water over them; then stew them\nwith butter, pepper and salt; put in a little soda to correct the\nacidity; pour in some cream, and stew for a few minutes longer. Some\npersons prefer them without cream, and then it is not necessary to use\nthe soda.\n\n\nANOTHER WAY.\n\nWash and boil your tomatoes whole; then pass them through a hair sieve;\nseason with butter, pepper and salt; let them stew some twenty minutes,\nand serve. Or dress them with sugar and a little wine.\n\n\nTO BROIL TOMATOES.\n\nWash some large ripe tomatoes: wipe them dry; put them on a gridiron\nover hot coals to broil; when they are hot through, they are done; send\nthem hot to table: to be eaten with butter, pepper and salt.\n\n\nTO BAKE TOMATOES.\n\nHave some large ripe tomatoes; wash and peel them; cut them up in\na dish--have ready bread, butter, pepper and salt; put a layer of\ntomatoes, then the bread crumbs, butter, pepper and salt, and so on,\ntill your dish is full; bake, and send them to table in the dish in\nwhich they were baked.\n\n\nANOTHER WAY.\n\nTake some large tomatoes; peel them, cut the top off, and take out some\nof the seeds; have ready some mushrooms chopped fine to fill them;\nseason with butter, pepper and salt; then put them in a pan, and bake\nthem; serve up hot.\n\n\nANOTHER WAY.\n\nPeel your tomatoes; slice them and put down to stew; season with some\nonions cut fine, bread crumbs, butter, pepper and salt; they will be\nsufficiently done in twenty minutes. Some persons prefer a little flour\nrolled in butter.\n\n\nTO BOIL CORN.\n\nTake off carefully all the silk and all the husks. Put the corn in\nboiling water: if young and tender, it will boil in half an hour. Some\npersons serve it up in a napkin on the dish, but if it is sufficiently\ncooked, and can be served hot, it is better not to be steamed in a\nnapkin.\n\n\nTOMATOES AND OCHRAS.\n\nTake some tomatoes; skin and cut them up with equal quantities of\nochras; season with pepper, salt and butter; stew them till tender;\nwhich will be nearly an hour. Ochras may be stewed alone, seasoned with\nbutter, pepper and salt: add very little water when you put them down.\n\n\nEGGS AND TOMATOES.\n\nSkin some tomatoes; slice and fry them with butter, pepper and salt;\ncut up two onions, and put in with four eggs; stir all well together,\nand send hot to table.\n\n\nTO DRY OCHRAS FOR WINTER.\n\nGet the young ochras; slice and string them; hang them up to dry; when\ndry, put them away for soup in winter.\n\n\nCUCUMBERS.\n\nGather them fresh. Pare, slice and lay them in salt and water; just\nbefore dinner, pour off the water; season with pepper, salt, vinegar\nand onions.\n\n\nSQUASHES.\n\nSquashes should be young and tender; try them with a fork; if they are\nold, do not use them. Peel them and take out the seed; cut them in\npieces and boil till tender; when done, pass them through a cullender.\nStew with butter, pepper, salt and a little cream; send them hot to\ntable.\n\n\nTO BOIL BEETS.\n\nThe early turnip beet is best in summer: wash them, but do not cut the\ntops too close, as they are much sweeter with some of the tops boiled\non them. They will boil in three quarters of an hour; when done, take\nthem up, put them in cold water for a moment, so that the skin will\neasily peel off. Slice them, and season with pepper, salt and butter.\nOld, or winter beets, will take much longer. They will take from two to\nthree hours to boil. It is better to put them to soak over night, if\nthey are very solid: cut them in slices, and pour vinegar over them.\n\n\nTO COOK ONIONS.\n\nThe small white onions are preferred. Peel them, and put them down in\na little water and salt; when nearly done, pour off the water, and add\nmilk and a little flour mixed with butter.\n\n\nTO KEEP VEGETABLES FOR WINTER.\n\nSalsify, parsnips, beets, and carrots should be gathered in the early\npart of November. Those you want to use during the winter should be put\nin boxes, and covered with sand. Celery should be put in a box with the\nroots down, covered with sand. Some gardeners keep it in the ground all\nwinter, and dig it as they wish it, for use.\n\n\nTO STEW MUSHROOMS.\n\nWash and peel the mushrooms; put them down in a stew pan with a little\nwater, pepper, salt and butter; let them stew slowly for ten or fifteen\nminutes; then take them up. They are very good broiled.\n\n\nHOT OR COLD SLAW.\n\nThe hard white cabbage is the best for slaw. Wash it well, and cut it\nfine; have some butter boiling hot; put in the slaw and keep stirring\ntill it is shrivelled: then beat up some vinegar and the yolk of an\negg: season with pepper and salt; pour this in the pan over the slaw,\nand stir in till quite hot: send to table either hot or cold, as\npreferred.\n\n\nCOLD SLAW.\n\nCut fine some hard cabbage; dress with hard-boiled eggs, oil, vinegar,\nmustard, pepper and salt.\n\n\nTO BOIL CABBAGE.\n\nWash your cabbage well; cut it in two, and boil till tender in salt and\nwater. Some persons prefer it boiled with a piece of pork or bacon.\nIf it is boiled with bacon, the pot should be well skimmed before the\ncabbage goes in.\n\n\nBROCOLI.\n\nPick and wash it well; tie it up in bunches and boil it; when done,\ndrain it and serve it up with drawn butter. Put a little salt in the\nwater when nearly boiled.\n\n\nSEA KALE.\n\nSea kale is cooked in the same way as brocoli.\n\n\nBUTTER.\n\nIn winter the pans should be scalded before the milk is strained into\nthem; in summer the pans and strainer should be rinsed with cold water.\nDo not cover the milk until it is perfectly cold; a stone crock is the\nbest for keeping the cream in, and it should be stirred two or three\ntimes a day; if the cream is not stirred, the butter will have a bad\ntaste; do not let your milk stand too long, or this will make the\nbutter taste very unpleasant. Be particular to put cold water in your\nchurn the night before you wish to use it; pour it out in the morning,\nand rinse it again; before the butter comes, or while it is gathering,\ntake off the lid of the churn; have your butter-bowl scalded and\ncooled; work the milk out well, but do not put in any water; add salt\nto your taste. Everything connected with milk or butter should be kept\nvery carefully clean.\n\n\nTO KEEP BUTTER.\n\nButter, to keep, should be well worked; pack it in stone jars, and tie\nit up tight, and set it in a cool place.\n\n\nTO KEEP EGGS.\n\nGet eggs as fresh as possible; put a layer of salt in a jar; then put\nin some eggs, the small end down, then another layer of salt, then the\neggs; be careful not to let the eggs touch each other; set them in a\ndry cool place, and they will keep all winter.\n\n\nTO MAKE COFFEE.\n\nCoffee should be roasted with great care, to a dark brown colour,\nstirring it all the time it is on the fire, with a long-handled iron\nspoon; when it is done, put it in a stone jar, and cover it up. Freshly\nroasted coffee is much the best; grind it into a bowl, beat it up\nwith part of the white of an egg, and cold water; put it into the tin\ncoffee-pot, and pour on it boiling water, out of a tea-kettle, stirring\nit all the while; set it on the fire, and let it boil fifteen minutes;\nstir it frequently from the sides of the pot; when it is done, set it\na moment on the hearth, and it will settle; do not pour into it either\ncold or warm water, or coffee, to settle it: this spoils the coffee.\nPour it into your silver or china coffee pot, and send to table.\n\n\nTO MAKE TEA.\n\nBlack tea should be boiled fifteen or twenty minutes. Green tea should\nnot boil: but have boiling water poured on about five minutes before\nit comes to table.\n\n\nTO MAKE CHOCOLATE.\n\nHave a quart of good milk boiling; grate a piece of chocolate three\ninches square; mix it with a little cold milk; then stir it gradually\ninto the milk on the fire. If preferred thinner, use less chocolate. It\nshould boil at least half an hour.\n\n\nYEAST.\n\nPare six good-sized potatoes; put them on to boil with three pints of\nwater and a handful of hops; pour the water through a sieve on a pint\nof flour; stir it until perfectly smooth; mash your potatoes through\na cullender into the yeast; stir all well together, and let it stand\ntill nearly cold; then stir into it a pint bowl half full of dry yeast,\ndissolved in water; put the water on the dry yeast as soon as you mix\nyour flour and potatoes, and when it has sufficiently cooled, your\nyeast will be ready to go in. Set it in a warm place to rise. When it\nis light enough, keep it in a cool place; cover it close. Yeast should\nbe made the day before you bake; then it is good and fresh.\n\n\nTO MAKE DRY YEAST.\n\nMake as directed above. When perfectly light, stir in corn meal till\nit is quite dry; spread it on dishes to dry. Be careful not to let it\nbe in the sun, as this would sour it. When dry, put it in a bag, in a\ndry, cool place. In summer time, when the flies are numerous, spread a\nthin piece of gauze over to keep them off when it is drying.\n\n\nBREAD.\n\nSift the flour; put it in an earthen vessel; the quantity of flour you\ntake will depend upon the number of loaves you want. Four loaves of\nbread will require two quarts of water; pour the water, which may be as\nwarm as milk just from the cow, upon the flour, enough to make a thick\nbatter; put in two tablespoonsful of salt, and a pint of home-made\nyeast; do not beat it after the yeast goes in. Set it in a warm place\nto rise; when it is light, work it very well with flour. The more you\nknead it, the better. If the flour is running, the bread will require\nto be made stiffer than when it is superfine flour. Let it rise again,\ncovering it, and set it in a warm place. When it is broken on top, make\nit into loaves, with as little flour as possible. Put each loaf into a\nbasket: cover it over, and set it to rise again. When quite light, bake\nit in a brick oven, from three quarters to one hour.\n\n\nTO BAKE IN A BRICK OVEN.\n\nA brick oven will require one hour to heat. The wood should be split\nfine; make a little fire at first, then add more wood; when the oven\nis white at the top, it is sufficiently hot. Spread the coals over the\nbottom of the oven, and let them remain a quarter of an hour.\n\nRusk or biscuit, if they are very light, will bake in from ten to\nfifteen minutes. Bread requires one hour.\n\n\nPHILADELPHIA BUNNS.\n\nOne pound of flour, and a half pound of sugar, one pint of milk, with\none teaspoonful of soda, a few currants, and half a pound of butter, a\ntea-cup full of yeast. Mix all well, and let it rise; when well risen,\nput in six eggs, beaten separately: pour it in the pans, and let it\nrise again; then bake.\n\n\nBREAD ROLLS.\n\nWhen your bread is very light, take a piece of dough, into which rub a\nsmall piece of butter; make them into rolls a quarter of an inch thick:\nlet them rise, and bake.\n\n\nDIET BREAD.\n\nRub into a pound of flour, one tablespoonful of butter, and a\nteaspoonful of salt: work it very well, or beat it; roll very thin:\nstick with a fork, and bake.\n\n\nMUSH ROLLS.\n\nHave a pint of corn mush; when a little warm, add a little salt and\nflour, enough to make a dough; add a tea-cup full of yeast; let it\nrise, and when quite light, make into rolls; let them rise again, and\nbake. You can put a little butter with them, if you prefer: but they\nare very palatable without.\n\n\nRISEN MUFFINS.\n\nWarm a quart of milk, into which put a quarter pound of butter, enough\nflour to make a batter, two eggs, well beaten, and a cup of yeast, a\nlittle salt; when quite light, bake in rings. Do not beat them after\nthe yeast is in: they will be light enough in three hours.\n\n\nSODA CAKES, VERY SUPERIOR.\n\nSift into three pints of flour, three teaspoonsful of cream of tartar;\nrub one quarter of a pound of butter in the flour; dissolve one\nteaspoonful of soda in as much milk as will make a dough, thick enough\nto roll out; then take a large spoonful, sift flour on the board, roll\nout and bake: do not touch them with the hands.\n\n\nPHILADELPHIA MILK BISCUIT.\n\nRub half a pound of butter in three pounds of flour, a teaspoonful of\nsalt; warm the milk and pour on enough to make a thick batter; beat it\nwell, then add a cup of good yeast. Do not beat it after the yeast goes\nin; let it rise; when quite light mix in flour, enough to make it out,\nbut as little as possible: roll it out and cut into cakes with a small\ntumbler: let them rise again, and bake as soon as light.\n\n\nTWIST ROLLS.\n\nTwist rolls are made in the same way, only make in small twists or\nrings, and bake.\n\n\nLIGHT BISCUIT.\n\nHave a quart of milk a little warm, into which put two spoonsful of\nbutter; pour this on flour, enough to make a dough; add a tea-cup full\nof yeast, and a little salt; let it rise three hours, when roll into\ncakes: put them in pans: let them rise again, and bake.\n\n\nTEA BISCUIT.\n\nWarm a pint of good milk, into which put a piece of butter, the size of\nan egg; pour this on some flour, with a little salt and a tea-cup full\nof yeast. When quite light, knead it well; roll out and bake in pans.\nWhen done, pull them open and butter them.\n\n\nGERMAN CAKES.\n\nCut up into a pound of flour, lard the size of an egg, and a little\nsalt; milk sufficient to make a dough; roll out very thin, and bake.\nThese cakes can be fried in lard, in round cakes, and are then called\nsnow-balls.\n\n\nMARYLAND BISCUIT.\n\nCut up a quarter of a pound of lard and butter, into two pounds of\nflour; add a little salt and water enough to make a stiff dough; beat\nvery light with an axe, till it will break off short: stick with a\nfork, and bake in a quick oven. To be made up in small cakes.\n\n\nBUCKWHEAT CAKES.\n\nIn a quart of buckwheat meal, put a cup of Indian or wheat flour,\nwhichever is preferred. Make this into a batter, with water, a little\nwarm, a cup of yeast and a little salt. Set it to rise, and when quite\nlight, pour it on the griddle. It is better to set them to rise in a\npitcher, as stirring the batter spoils them.\n\n\nFLANNEL CAKES.\n\nMake a batter of a pint of milk, sufficiently warm to melt in it a\npiece of butter the size of an egg, two eggs, a little salt and flour;\nput in a cup of yeast, and set it to rise three hours: bake on the\ngriddle. If you wish them quick, make them of soda and cream of tartar,\none third soda, and two thirds cream of tartar, or yeast powder.\n\n\nSALLY LUNN.\n\nTake a pint of milk and water mixed; warm it, and melt a small piece\nof butter in it. Put in flour enough to make a stiff batter. Two eggs\nand a cup of good yeast, a little salt, but no sugar. Set it in a warm\nplace to rise. Send to table whole. This quantity will take near an\nhour to bake: do not beat it after the yeast goes in.\n\n\nPOTATO BREAD OR ROLLS.\n\nTake some mealy potatoes, mash them fine in some flour, a small piece\nof butter, a little salt and some yeast; when light, roll out in cakes:\nput them in pans, and set them away to rise, and when light, bake.\n\n\nMUSH MUFFINS.\n\nTake a pint of corn mush, and when milk warm, put in a lump of butter,\na little milk, two eggs, and flour enough to make a batter; add a\nlittle salt and one cup full of yeast. Set to rise for three hours:\nbake in rings.\n\n\nRICE MUFFINS.\n\nTake a cup full of boiled rice, and a piece of butter, the size of an\negg; pour upon this a quart of boiling milk; add a little salt and two\neggs well beaten; when cool, a tea-cup full of yeast and flour, enough\nto make a stiff batter: when light, bake in rings.\n\n\nQUICK MUFFINS.\n\nOne and a half pints of milk to a quart of flour, an even tablespoonful\nof butter, two eggs; sift with the flour two teaspoonsful of cream of\ntartar, and dissolve with a little milk and a teaspoon three quarters\nfull of soda: bake immediately.\n\n\nQUICK WAFFLES.\n\nQuick waffles are made with sour cream. To one quart of sour cream add\nflour enough to make a batter, two eggs well beaten, a small piece of\nbutter, and one teaspoonful of soda; just before baking, a little salt;\nbake immediately: a little boiled rice will be a great improvement.\n\n\nREMARKS ON MAKING INDIAN BREAD.\n\nIt is better in making Indian bread to pour the liquid, either water or\nmilk, boiling hot on the Indian meal. Indian takes more salt than wheat.\n\n\nTO MAKE MUSH.\n\nHave a pot of boiling water. Stir in gradually corn meal to make it\nthick. Salt it to your taste: let it boil one hour. When it is cold,\nslice it and fry it a light brown: send to table hot.\n\n\nCORN BATTER CAKES.\n\nPour boiling milk on meal, enough to make a batter; add a little salt\nand two eggs. The eggs will prevent them breaking when they are turned:\nsend hot to table. If this batter is made thick and baked in a pan, it\nis called pone.\n\n\nJOURNEY CAKE.\n\nMix well some corn meal with water, and a little salt. Have ready the\nmiddle board of a flour barrel-head; wet the board, upon which put the\ndough with a large spoon; smooth it over; bake before the fire; when\nbaked brown, turn the other side. Send hot to table.\n\n\nLIGHTENED PONE.\n\nPour either milk or water boiling hot on a pint of corn meal; add salt,\nand, when it is cool, some yeast and two eggs; when it is light, it\nwill open at top: bake in pans an inch thick.\n\n\nINDIAN BREAKFAST CAKES.\n\nUpon one quart of corn meal, pour one quart of boiling milk, with a\nsmall piece of butter, a spoonful of salt, a spoonful of cream of\ntartar, and a half one of soda sifted with the meal; when well mixed\ndrop them into a pan, and bake in an oven: these cakes must be rough on\ntop.\n\n\nPOTATO CAKES.\n\nBoil ten mealy potatoes, put to them a piece of butter the size of an\negg, some salt and flour, enough to roll them out; bake them in cakes,\non the griddle: send hot to table.\n\n\nTO MAKE PUFF PASTE.\n\nTake one pound and a half of flour; sift half of it into a tin pan. The\nremainder keep for rolling out the paste; take a pound of butter which\nhas been washed and well worked the night before, and kept in a cold\nplace. Cut up half of it with two knives into the flour, then mix it\nwith a tumbler of ice water. Then roll it out very thin, and spread on\nit in small thin pieces a quarter of a pound of butter, and sift flour\nover it. Cut it in strips, about four inches wide, and six long; lay\none upon another till they are all on; then roll again, and put the\nremaining quarter of butter on as before; roll and cut it in strips,\nand those strips in squares, and lay one upon another. When you make\nthe pie do not take one of the strips, but cut it down, so as to have\nas many layers as possible in each pie. Always use the knives: never\ntouch the paste with the hand.\n\n\nANOTHER VERY SUPERIOR PUFF PASTE.\n\nOne pound and a quarter of flour, and one of butter. The butter should\nbe divided into four parts, and the salt well washed out of it in three\ndifferent waters, the night before, and set in a cold place to become\nhard, the harder the better. Weigh a pound and a quarter of flour;\nsift half a pound of the flour into a tin pan, (such a pan as should\nbe always kept for making pastry,) keep the rest of the flour in the\nsieve. Cut up in the pan with the half pound of flour, a quarter of\na pound of butter with two knives. (The hands should never touch the\npastry.) Then pour slowly into the pan half a pint of ice water; mixing\nit with the knives. Sift some of the flour on your board, and roll it\nout very thin, with a floured rolling pin; sufficient flour must be\nused to prevent it sticking to the board; put over the paste in small\npieces as regularly as possible, one quarter of butter; then sift flour\nover and cut it in strips about three inches wide; then cut across as\nmany times, placing one piece upon another till it makes quite a high\nmound. Flour it and roll it out again as thin as possible. Then put on\nin very small pieces the third quarter of butter, and proceed as above,\nwith the last quarter; roll out very thin, cutting it as before. The\nflour is now all rolled in except half of a pound, reserved for rolling\nout the paste when making up. It should be made in a cold place, and\nnear an open window. When you make up your pies cut a piece from top\nto bottom of the pile, and roll out thin. The fire should be under\npastry to make it puff up. There is nothing better for baking pastry\nthan a ten plate stove.\n\n\nVERY SUPERIOR MINCE PIES.\n\nTake a fresh tongue and some of the neck, four pounds in all; two\npounds of suet, four pounds of raisins, two of currants, two of citron,\nsix pounds of sugar, one quart of brandy, one of Madeira wine, and half\na peck of apples. Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and very little salt.\n\n\nCURRANT PIES.\n\nPick and scald your currants; let them stand a few minutes, then\npour off the water. Some prefer them stewed. Sugar to your taste.\nGooseberries are prepared in the same way.\n\n\nRHUBARB PIE.\n\nTake off the skin; cut in small pieces; sugar them and put them in the\npaste, and bake. Some prefer them stewed.\n\n\nBLACKBERRY PIE.\n\nWash your blackberries; put them in the paste, with sugar to your\ntaste: bake, and send hot to table. These pies are not good, if they\nstand long after being baked.\n\n\nPEACH PIES.\n\nPare your peaches; cut them in slices; put them in your paste with\nsugar and a little water, and bake slowly.\n\n\nFLORENDINES.\n\nBoil a quart of milk; stir into it four tablespoonsful of rice flour;\nlet it boil ten minutes, then add a tea-cup full of powdered loaf\nsugar, grated nutmeg, a gill of cream, and five eggs beaten very light.\nMake a puff paste, and bake.\n\n\nCREAM PUDDING.\n\nTo one cup of cream, add two tablespoonsful of rice flour, and two\neggs; a few currants, sugar, and rose water, to your taste: bake in\npaste.\n\n\nINDIAN PUDDING.\n\nPour one quart of boiling milk over a half pint of corn meal; add two\ntablespoonsful of butter, and four of molasses; beat four eggs very\nlight; and, when perfectly cool, add them, with a glass of brandy, and\nmace and nutmeg: bake, and send to table hot with wine sauce.\n\n\nRICE PUDDING.\n\nTake half a pint of rice; wash it well; put it on to boil with very\nlittle water, and let it boil dry; then stir in a piece of butter the\nsize of a goose egg; a grated nutmeg, a tea-cup full of loaf sugar, a\nquart of milk, and two eggs well beaten: pour it into a pudding dish,\nand bake.\n\n\nCOCOANUT PUDDING.\n\nGrate one cocoanut; pour the milk on some sugar, then boil it, and\nthrow in the cocoanut; let it come to a boil again. When cold, add four\neggs well beaten: bake in puff paste.\n\n\nBREAD PUDDING.\n\nTake the inside of a stale loaf of baker's bread; pour over it one\nquart of boiling milk; when perfectly cold, add five eggs well beaten,\none cup full of sugar, a small piece of butter, a little brandy,\nmace, and nutmeg: bake in buttered pans. A few raisins would be an\nimprovement.\n\n\nPOOR MAN'S PUDDING.\n\nHave a pan well buttered; on which put a layer of bread crumbs; then a\nlayer of apples, pared and sliced, and some sugar and cinnamon; then\nbread and butter; then apples, sugar and cinnamon, till your dish is\nfull. The apples should be juicy: bake, and eat, with wine sauce.\n\n\nSAGO PUDDING.\n\nWash a tea-cup full of sago well, in two waters; then pour over it one\nquart of boiling milk; a small piece of butter. Set it on the stove to\nsimmer, slowly, for a few moments; then take it off. Beat four eggs\nvery light; add sugar and rose water, to your taste: bake in a crust,\nor in a buttered dish.\n\n\nTAPIOCA PUDDING.\n\nWash well the tapioca; one cup to a quart of milk; put it on the stove;\nlet it boil till soft; stir in while hot a little butter; let it get\ncold; beat three eggs very light: season to your taste, with sugar and\nlemon peel: bake in a paste.\n\n\nARROW ROOT PUDDING.\n\nBoil one quart of milk; dissolve one tablespoonful of arrowroot; and\nwhen the milk boils, stir it in as you would starch. Let it cool, and\nthen mix a half pound of butter, and the same of sugar; add six eggs\nbeaten very light; the rind of a lemon grated, and some grated nutmeg;\nput a paste in your dish, and bake: this quantity will make four\npuddings.\n\n\nORANGE PUDDING.\n\nOrange pudding is made like lemon pudding: using the oranges instead of\nthe lemons.\n\n\nJERSEY RICE PUDDING.\n\nWash well half a tea-cup full of rice; put it in a bake pan with two\nquarts of milk; sugar and cinnamon to your taste: bake in a slow oven\ntill it is as thick as custard.\n\n\nSPONGE CAKE PUDDING.\n\nMake a sponge cake batter. Boil it in a pyramid form. Make a sauce\nof the white of egg and loaf sugar beaten up together. Pour over the\npyramid.\n\n\nMUNSEY PUDDING.\n\nTake half a loaf of bread crumbled fine; a cup full of suet chopped\nfine; some pippin apples cut in thin slices. Have a tin pan well\nbuttered; put the bread around it; then put in alternately the apples,\nbread and suet, with some sugar and nutmeg; to be baked, and eaten with\nwine sauce.\n\n\nPEACH PUDDING.\n\nOne quart of dried peaches. Wash them well in four waters; then pour\nthree pints of boiling milk on one quart of bread crumbs, made fine;\nfive large tablespoonsful of flour, three spoonsful of cinnamon, one\nwine-glass full of brandy, half a pound of suet, two tablespoonsful of\nbrown sugar, eight or nine eggs beaten separately: boil three hours,\nand eat with wine sauce.\n\n\nPLUM PUDDING.\n\nTake the crumbs of a five cent loaf of bread; one quart of rich milk\nboiled and poured over the bread while hot, one quarter of a pound of\nsuet cut fine, two pounds of raisins stoned, half a pound of currants\nwashed and dried, one quarter of citron cut in thin slices, six eggs\nbeaten very light, one tablespoonful of flour. Mix these ingredients,\nand boil, or bake slowly. Make a rich sauce, half wine and half brandy.\n\n\nSWEET POTATO PUDDING.\n\nBoil one pound of sweet potatoes till half done; then skin and grate\nthem; add half of a pound of butter, the same of powdered sugar, beaten\nto a cream; add six eggs well beaten, a grated nutmeg, and lemon\npeel with a glass of brandy; bake in a paste, and when the pudding\nis done, sprinkle the top with sugar, and cover with bits of citron.\nIrish potato pudding is made in the same way. A little cream is an\nimprovement to the Irish potato pudding.\n\n\nPUMPKIN PUDDING.\n\nStew a fine sweet pumpkin till soft and dry; rub it through a sieve;\nadd half a pound of butter beaten to a cream, with half a pound of\nsugar, half a pint of new milk, and a wine-glass full of brandy, some\ncinnamon, and nutmeg, six eggs beaten very light: put in a paste, and\nbake.\n\n\nLEMON PUDDING.\n\nOne pound of butter; the same of sugar beaten to a cream; ten eggs\nbeaten to a froth, one wine-glass full of brandy and rose water mixed;\nthe rind of one lemon and the juice; add one tablespoonful of grated\ncracker, or Indian meal: bake in a paste.\n\n\nLEMON PUDDING ANOTHER WAY.\n\nOne cup full of sugar, one egg, the rind and juice of one lemon. This\nwill make one pudding: or mix with a little rice flour, and make two\nwith two eggs.\n\n\nA FANCY DISH.\n\nGet some small-sized oranges; take out all the pulp very carefully,\nby cutting a round piece out of the top; scrape out the pulp with a\nspoon. Make a jelly with the juice of the oranges; wash and wipe dry\nthe skins of the oranges. Have some blanc-mange of Irish moss: fill\nhalf of the oranges with the blanc-mange, and the rest with the jelly;\nlet it get perfectly cold, then cut them in halves or quarters, just as\nyou fancy; pile them in a dish, and ornament with orange or any kind of\nlong leaves.\n\n\nMERANG AUX POMME IN PASTE.\n\nHave a good under crust; cover with stewed apples seasoned with lemon\npeel; make an icing as for cake; spread thick over the apples: put it\nin the oven for a few moments.\n\n\nMERANG AUX POMME WITH CREAM.\n\nHave some good cooking apples; pare, core, and stew them slowly till\nthey are tender; then take them out, and fill the centre with any kind\nof marmalade. Arrange them in any fanciful manner you may prefer. Have\nsome apples stewed and mashed fine; fill all the uneven spaces; cover\nthis with icing, and decorate with blanched almonds, or macaroon. Set\nit in a moderate oven for a few minutes: to be eaten with cream, when\nperfectly cold.\n\n\nSPONGE CAKE CUSTARD.\n\nGrate some stale sponge cake; upon which put some thin slices. Whisk\nthree eggs very light; pour on them one pint of boiling milk: season\nwith lemon peel and sugar to the taste. Mix all well together: bake\ntwenty minutes in a slow oven. Cover the top with sponge cake, and pile\nthe icing up high in the centre.\n\n\nSWISS CUSTARD.\n\nTake a quart of thick cream. Mix very smoothly eight teaspoonsful of\nthe finest flour, with some of the quart of cream: season to your taste\nwith lemon peel and sugar. Then put the remainder of the cream on the\nfire, and when it simmers slowly, put in the cream and flour, stirring\nit very gently till it is thick; then pour it out: when perfectly cool,\nadd some lemon juice. Place in a dish some macaroons, upon which pour\nsome of the custard. And so proceed, till all of the custard is in.\nOrnament the top with any kind of preserves you prefer.\n\n\nSTRAWBERRY WHIPS.\n\nYou can make a basket of macaroons any shape you like, by dipping the\nedges of the macaroons in barley sugar, and putting them over a mould.\nWhip some cream with strawberry juice, fill your basket very high, and\nornament with strawberries and rose leaves.\n\n\nA GOOD DESSERT.\n\nTake half a pound of loaf sugar; rub on it the rind of a lemon; add\nhalf a pint of boiling water; let it stand till quite cold; beat the\nwhites of three eggs very light, and one yolk. Mix all together with\na little lemon juice. Put this in a pitcher and set it in a pan of\nboiling water, stirring it till it is thick: when quite cold, put it in\ncups. If you find it difficult to thicken, add two teaspoonsful of rice\nflour, with the boiling water.\n\n\nAPPLE DUMPLINGS.\n\nBoil some potatoes; mash them with salt and a small piece of butter;\nadd flour, enough to make a paste; pare and core your apples; have\nsmall dumpling-cloths, on each of which place a tablespoonful of dough,\nand roll it out; then tie up an apple in each one; scald and flour your\ncloth. They should be put in when the water boils, and will take from\nhalf to three quarters of an hour to boil, if the apples are good.\n\n\nPEACH DUMPLINGS.\n\nMake a paste of one pound of flour, and a quarter of suet; cut the suet\nup fine: put in water enough to make a paste; pare your peaches, and\nput each one in a cloth; tie up and boil: have a small cloth for each\ndumpling.\n\n\nFRUIT DUMPLINGS.\n\nPour some boiling water on flour; beat it very light; roll it on a\ncloth; put in your fruit; tie it up, and boil.\n\n\nINDIAN MEAL FRITTERS.\n\nMake a batter of a pint of milk, some Indian meal, and two eggs; have\nready some hot lard, and fry them.\n\n\nAPPLE FRITTERS.\n\nMake a batter of one pint of milk, and three eggs, and flour; chop four\npippin apples up fine; stir them into the batter; drop in a spoonful at\na time.\n\n\nPANCAKES.\n\nMake a batter of eggs, and milk, and flour; pour a little in the pan,\nsufficient to cover the bottom: when a light brown, turn on the other\nside.\n\n\nA QUICK PUDDING.\n\nMix one table-spoonful of arrow-root with a pint of milk; beat up two\neggs very light; while the milk is boiling, add the arrow root, and\nstir all the time: when it comes to a boil, take it off; let it cool;\nthen add the eggs, some lemon peel, and a little juice: bake in a paste.\n\n\nBOILED MILK FRITTERS.\n\nHave a quart of new milk boiling hot; stir into it flour enough to make\na stiff dough: then take it off, and let it get perfectly cold; beat\nseven eggs very light, and stir them in: drop them in hot lard, and fry\na light brown.\n\n\nA BAKED FLOUR PUDDING.\n\nTo one quart of milk, add eight tablespoonsful of flour. Stir till the\nflour is perfectly well mixed; then add six eggs, beaten separately,\nvery light: butter your pan, and bake in a quick oven; or bake in cups;\nthese are then called puffs.\n\n\nA FARINA PUDDING.\n\nBoil a quart of milk; stir into it four tablespoonsful of farina; let\nit boil fifteen minutes: when cold, add a cup of cream, a nutmeg, a\ncup full of powdered sugar, and four eggs; bake, and eat hot with wine\nsauce.\n\n\nCORN STARCH PUDDING.\n\nPut three table-spoonsful of corn starch into a quart of boiling milk;\nlet it boil ten minutes: then add four eggs, sugar and nutmeg to the\ntaste. Bake and serve with wine sauce.\n\n\nMACARONI PUDDING.\n\nBoil a quart of milk, and when quite cold, beat up four eggs very\nlight, and add to the milk, with sugar to the taste. Boil three ounces\nof macaroni, and when the pan is buttered, put in the macaroni, and\npour the custard around; when it begins to bake stir it well; season\nwith lemon: send hot to table.\n\n\nVERMICELLI PUDDING.\n\nVermicelli pudding is made in the same way, only add a quarter of a\npound of vermicelli to a quart of milk, and five eggs.\n\n\nRICE PUDDING.\n\nWash well three ounces of rice; put it in sufficient water to cover it:\nwhen it has boiled a few minutes, pour off the water, and add a pint of\nmilk: stir it; and when done, take it up; put in it a piece of butter\nthe size of an egg, some sugar and nutmeg; beat very light four eggs,\nand when cold, add to the rice, and if thick, some milk; a few raisins\nwill improve it very much: when nearly done, have some white of egg and\nsugar beaten up very light; arrange on the top, and set it for a few\nmoments in the oven.\n\n\nALMOND PUDDING.\n\nTo one quart of cream, add half a pound of almonds, blanched and\npounded in a mortar, with rose water; sweeten to your taste; beat to a\nstiff froth the whites of six eggs, with three table-spoonsful of rice\nflour: bake in a paste.\n\n\nA BOILED RICE PUDDING.\n\nTake four ounces of rice; wash it and put it in a bag, with some\nraisins; let the rice have plenty room to boil in the bag; turn it\nwhile boiling. It will take an hour and a half. To be eaten with wine\nsauce.\n\n\nRICE FLOUR FRITTERS.\n\nRice flour fritters are made the same as wheat flour fritters: six\neggs, a quart of milk and flour enough to make a batter.\n\n\nRICE MILK.\n\nTake any quantity of rice you wish; wash it well; put it down to boil;\nwhen half done, pour off the water: then add milk; season with vanilla\nand sugar.\n\n\nCOLD CUSTARD.\n\nTake three quarts of new milk; have a piece of rennet about an inch\nsquare, which put into two table-spoonsful of water; let it soak over\nnight; in the morning, pour this in the milk; keep it in a warm place\ntill it turns; then set it on the ice to become cold: eat with cream\nand sugar.\n\n\nTRIFLE.\n\nPlace some slices of sponge cake in a dish; put on them preserves\nof any kind; pour over this some boiled custard, then ornament the\ntop with the whites of eggs beaten up with loaf sugar, or whips, if\npreferred.\n\n\nWHIPS.\n\nTo one pint of cream, two whites of eggs, one wine-glass full of wine,\nand sugar to your taste; churn the cream, and take off the top as it\nrises; put in lemonade or other glasses, and ornament with macaroons.\n\n\nCARRAGEEN, OR IRISH MOSS.\n\nTake one ounce of moss; wash it very well, and let it soak for a few\nminutes: put on to boil four quarts of milk; when boiling, put in the\nmoss; let it boil for four or five minutes, then strain it into moulds;\nseason with sugar, rose water, or any thing you prefer; if vanilla is\npreferred, boil part of a bean in the milk.\n\n\nFLOATING ISLAND.\n\nBeat to a stiff froth the whites of six eggs; sweeten with loaf sugar;\nadd currant jelly or strawberry syrup to colour it; sweeten some\ncream, upon which put the float. You may season the cream with white\nwine, or the extract of vanilla, if preferred; it is then called\nsyllabub. Ornament with ripe strawberries.\n\n\nGOOSEBERRY FOOL.\n\nTake a quart of gooseberries; put them in a pan with two pounds of loaf\nsugar, and a little water; when quite soft, pass them through a sieve;\nwhen cold, add boiled custard till it is thick. Put it in the dish you\nintend to send to table, with whipped cream on top.\n\n\nAPPLE FLOAT.\n\nStew and mash very well some good cooking apples; sweeten the apples;\nmake a float of the whites of eggs and sugar, mixed well together, and\ncool on the ice. To be eaten with cream.\n\n\nICED APPLES.\n\nHave some good cooking apples; stew and mash them; sweeten to your\ntaste; beat the whites of four eggs to a stiff froth with sugar; cover\nthe apples, (which must be in the dish you intend to send them to table\nin;) set them in a moderate oven to brown for a few moments; take them\nout, and keep in a cold place till they are required.\n\n\nFREEZING CREAM.\n\nPut the freezer containing the cream into the bucket with the ice and\nsalt; put the ice closely around, so as to touch every part of it; as\nsoon as the ice is formed, scrape it from the sides to the centre. The\nfreezer must be kept moving constantly during the process.\n\n\nICE CREAM.\n\nTake four quarts of good cream; sweeten with loaf sugar very sweet, as\nthe sugar loses its strength by freezing; boil a vanilla bean in a pint\nof milk; then pour it in the cream and freeze it.\n\n\nLEMON CREAM.\n\nThe lemon must be rolled in sugar to extract the oil; use the sugar for\nsweetening the cream. Then freeze it.\n\n\nRASPBERRY CREAM.\n\nMash the berries; press them through a sieve; sweeten the juice, and\nmix it with the cream. Strawberry ice cream is made in the same way.\n\n\nCOCOANUT CREAM.\n\nPare and grate it; boil it with half a pint of cream; then add it to\nthe cream you wish to freeze. Strain the boiled cream before you put it\nin the freezer.\n\n\nALMOND CREAM.\n\nBlanch the almonds by pouring boiling water on them till the skins\nwill peel off easily; then pound them fine and put them in the cream;\nsweeten with loaf sugar and freeze.\n\n\nCHOCOLATE CREAM.\n\nScrape two ounces of chocolate; put it on to boil in a pint of milk;\nboil it till the chocolate dissolves. Sweeten it and add it to the\ncream and freeze.\n\n\nPEACH ICE.\n\nGet soft ripe peaches; mash them through a sieve; then sweeten and\nfreeze. Apples may be stewed and mashed and frozen also.\n\n\nFRENCH PUFFS.\n\nMix together four ounces of butter, and two ounces of sugar, three\neggs beaten separately, and five ounces of sifted flour; cut a sheet\nof paper into four pieces; spread them with batter; drop the batter\nwith a tea spoon in the form of balls on the paper; immerse the paper\ninto boiling lard; and as they cook drop them off, and fry them a light\nbrown; drain them on a sieve covered with paper, to absorb the grease;\ndust fine sugar over them; and eat them with sugar, butter, and wine,\nbeaten together.\n\n\nJELLY PUFFS.\n\nMake puff paste; roll it out half an inch thick; cut it out with a\nlarge tumbler; double them over; lay them in rows on sheet irons; egg\nthem over, and sift sugar on them; then bake, and, before serving,\nplace on them some currant or plum jelly.\n\n\nICED CUSTARD WITH FRUIT.\n\nLine the sides and bottom of a round mould with macaroons, fastened\ntogether with hot sugar; when cool, place it on a dish. Then make a\ncustard with the yolk of ten eggs, and one quart of milk, half a pound\nof sugar, and a vanilla bean. Freeze the custard; fill the macaroon\nmould with it; forming it in a pyramid; and ornament with strawberries,\ncherries, or any fruit in season.\n\n\nAPPLES AND RICE.\n\nPare and core a dozen apples; place them in a pan with a little butter,\nloaf sugar, and lemon peel; add a little water, and bake them slowly,\nwithout allowing them to become brown. Boil some rice with milk, sugar,\na little butter, and a nutmeg; when perfectly done, mash it with a\nspoon, and put into a round mould to cool; then turn it out, and\narrange the apples neatly upon it; eat it with wine sauce.\n\n\nSPONGE CAKE IN THE FORM OF A HAM.\n\nMake a sponge cake, and bake in an oval tin pan; when cold, shape it\nwith a sharp knife in the form of a ham; hollow it out on the under\npart; and fill with whipped cream. Pin a paper ruffle on the hock; and\ncover all over with broken calf's foot jelly.\n\n\nAPPLE CHARLOTTE.\n\nHave a tin pan well buttered, and spread around the sides and bottom\nnicely stewed apples. Make a rich custard; place some savoury cakes in\nthe pan; with raspberry jam between each layer of cake; fill up with\nthe custard, and steam a few minutes.\n\n\nTO CLARIFY ISINGLASS.\n\nCooper's isinglass is the best. Wash it well, and put it in a pan; and\nto a half pound, add a pint and a half of water, a quarter of a pound\nof sugar, and the juice of three lemons; let it boil slowly about\nfifteen minutes; removing the scum as it rises. When cold, the whites\nof two eggs may be added, and boiled again for a few minutes; then\npassed through a jelly strainer.\n\n\nTO CLARIFY SUGAR.\n\nTo two pounds of loaf sugar, add one quart of water; and when the sugar\nis dissolved, add the whites of two eggs well beaten; let it boil\nslowly, until the scum has ceased rising, then pour through a strainer.\n\n\nSTRAWBERRY JELLY.\n\nPour one pint of boiling syrup upon two quarts of strawberries; let it\nremain until cold; then press through a jelly bag. Let it boil again,\nand stir in it a pint of clarified isinglass; then pour into moulds to\ncool.\n\nPine apples, oranges, or any other fruit can be made into jelly in the\nsame way.\n\n\nMADEIRA JELLY.\n\nTo one quart of syrup add one quart of clarified isinglass, the juice\nof four lemons, and a pint of good Madeira wine. Pour it into moulds,\nand place them in ice.\n\n\nRASPBERRY CREAM.\n\nBruise in a bowl two quarts of ripe raspberries, with half a pound of\npowdered sugar; rub them through a sieve. Mix with the juice, one pint\nof whipped cream, and one pint of clarified isinglass. Pour it into a\nmould which has been rubbed with sweet oil; set it in ice; and when\ncold turn it out on a dish.\n\n\nCHOCOLATE CREAM.\n\nMake a quart of rich vanilla chocolate; add to it one quarter of a\npound of sugar, and the yolks of six eggs. Stir all together over the\nfire a few minutes. Then add a half pint of whipped cream, and a pint\nand a half of clarified isinglass. Mix well together, and pour into\nmoulds.\n\n\nPEACH CHEESE.\n\nStone and pare a quarter of a peck of ripe peaches; put them into a\nporcelain lined kettle, with one pound of loaf sugar, and a little\nwater; stir over the fire until all is dissolved; rub it through a\nhair sieve into a bowl; add one pint of clarified isinglass; fill the\nmoulds, and place them in the ice; when it is firm turn it out; and\ncover the top with whipped cream.\n\n\nCALF'S FEET JELLY.\n\nTake two sets of calves' feet, and one of pigs' feet; put them in a\nkettle with two gallons of water; let it boil down one-half; strain\nit and set it away till the next day; before you put it on the fire,\nskim it well; add half a gallon of wine and a pint of brandy, the juice\nof eight lemons, the skins of four, pared from the rind, four sticks\nof cinnamon, sugar to your taste, the whites of ten eggs beaten to a\nfroth; mix all in the stock when cold. Let it boil twenty minutes. If\nthe stock is very stiff, ten will be sufficient; then strain it through\na jelly-strainer.\n\n\nA HEN'S NEST.\n\nPut some calf's feet jelly in a deep dish, upon which make a nest with\nsome skins of lemons cut in strips and preserved in syrup. Take some\neggs; make a small hole, through which empty them; wash and drain, and\nfill them with blanc-mange; when perfectly cold, take off the shell and\nput them in the nest.\n\n\nCHARLOTTE RUSSE.\n\nMake a rich boiled custard of a quart of milk and six eggs; sweeten\nwith sugar and season with vanilla; while warm stir into it a quart\nof calf's feet jelly; whip a pint of cream, and mix with it; make\na Turk's cap sponge cake; cut out the centre and fill it with the\nmixture; put on the top, and ice it when perfectly cold.\n\n\nCHOCOLATE CUSTARD.\n\nBoil one and a half ounces of gelatine in two quarts of good milk; add\nthree ounces of the best French chocolate; vanilla and sugar to your\ntaste; beat very light twelve eggs, omitting the whites of four; pour\nthe boiling mixture very slowly on the eggs; put it in a tin saucepan,\nand set it in a pot of boiling water; stir it till thick; pour it in\nmoulds.\n\n\nBOILED CUSTARD.\n\nPut a quart of milk on to boil with half of a vanilla bean or eight\npeach leaves, when they are in season; beat the yolks of six eggs and\nthe whites of three; pour the milk boiling hot upon the eggs, stirring\nall the time; then put it in a pitcher, and set the pitcher in a pot\nof boiling water; stir it well till it is as thick as good cream; then\npour it from one pitcher to another till it is nearly cold, when put it\nin cups, and ornament the tops with the whites of eggs and sugar beaten\nvery light, on which put a strawberry, or a rosebud, or jelly.\n\n\nTRANSPARENT PUDDING.\n\nHalf a pound of butter and one pound of sugar beaten to a cream; the\nyolks of sixteen eggs beaten very light; lay in the dish, either with\nor without pastry, some West India preserves. Then pour over them the\nmixed ingredients, and put it in the oven, which must be well heated.\nTry it with a knife; when done, ice it. Rose water or wine will improve\nit.\n\n\nA BOILED FLOUR PUDDING.\n\nMix together three pints of milk and six eggs, well beaten; stir in as\nmuch flour as will make a thick batter; have a pudding bag, which wash\nand flour well; pour in the batter, tie the bag tight, but far enough\nfrom the batter to give it room to swell; turn the bag frequently, and\ndo not allow it to cease boiling until done. To be eaten with wine\nsauce.\n\n\nAPPLE PUDDING.\n\nPare and core half a peck of apples; stew and mash them fine; add lemon\npeel, sugar, and nutmeg to the taste; beat five eggs very light, and\nmix all together, and bake in a paste.\n\n\nA RICH CUSTARD PUDDING.\n\nMake a custard of one quart of milk and three eggs, and sugar to the\ntaste; cut some slices of bread, butter them, and lay them in the\nbottom of the pan, which cover with raisins: do this till the pan is\nhalf full, then pour over the custard, and bake slowly.\n\n\nA BIRD'S NEST PUDDING.\n\nPare and core some good cooking apples; make a batter of one quart of\nmilk, a little flour, four eggs, and sugar to the taste; pour this\naround the apples and bake.\n\n\nGREEN CORN PUDDING.\n\nGrate one dozen ears of corn; then make a batter of a quart of milk and\nfour eggs, a little flour, and sugar to the taste, and a very small\npiece of butter; bake slowly one hour. To be eaten with sugar and\nbutter beaten up very light.\n\n\nA GOOD CUSTARD.\n\nTo three pints of milk, sweetened to your taste, add two eggs, well\nbeaten; cut some bread in squares, very thin, and put over the top,\nupon which grate nutmeg; bake very slowly, and be careful the milk does\nnot curdle.\n\n\nCAKES.\n\nThe flour for making cakes should always be sifted before using it, and\nof superfine quality, and dry. The butter must be the best, and the\nsalt and water well worked out of it. The eggs should always be fresh.\n\n\nICING FOR CAKES.\n\nWhip the whites of four eggs to a stiff froth; add gradually some fine\nwhite sugar till it will not run: season as you prefer, with vanilla or\nlemon.\n\n\nLIGHT GINGER-BREAD.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and two of sugar; beat five\neggs very light; add them to the sugar and butter. Have ten cups full\nof flour in a pan, into which put six cups full of molasses; season\nwith half a cup full of ginger, and one tablespoonful of cloves;\ndissolve one and a half teaspoonsful of soda in sour milk, and put it\nin just before baking: bake in small pans.\n\n\nCRISP GINGER-BREAD.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, the same of sugar; add ginger\nand some cayenne pepper; add two cups full of molasses, and flour\nenough to roll out. Cut in small cakes, and bake.\n\n\nGINGER-BREAD NUTS.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and the same of sugar; add a\npint of molasses, cloves, ginger, and cinnamon to your taste; flour\nenough to make a stiff dough. Roll out thin; cut in small cakes: bake\non pans in a quick oven.\n\n\nSHAVINGS.\n\nBeat the whites of four eggs to a stiff froth; add four or five\ntablespoonsful of white sugar, to one of butter; flour enough to roll\nout. Fry in hot lard: cut them in long strips and curl, before frying.\n\n\nSOFT MOLASSES GINGER-BREAD.\n\nSix cups full of flour, two of sugar, two of molasses, one of milk, two\nof butter; beat the sugar and butter together, to which add four eggs\nwell beaten; then add one dessert spoonful of cloves, and three of good\nginger, and the molasses and flour, till all is mixed; dissolve one\nteaspoonful of soda and three of cream of tartar,--each in half a cup\nfull of milk, which mix in just before you put it in the oven. This\ncake will take at least an hour and a half to bake.\n\n\nSPICED GINGER-BREAD.\n\nTo three pints of flour, and one pound of brown sugar, add three\ntablespoonsful of ginger, and one and a half of cloves mixed. Melt half\na pound of butter in a quart of molasses; knead all up; roll in thin\ncakes, and bake in a quick oven.\n\n\nA VERY GOOD GINGER-BREAD.\n\nMix well with a pound and a half of flour, a half tea-cup full of good\nginger. Melt in a pint of molasses half a pound of butter; when the\nmolasses is hot, pour it over the flour, stirring it well to keep it\nfrom becoming lumpy; let it stand till quite cold, then beat two eggs\nvery light, and stir in with flour, enough to make a stiff dough. Roll\nout and bake.\n\n\nLEMON CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream one cup full of butter, and two of white sugar; add\nthree eggs well beaten, one lemon grated and a little juice; one\nteaspoonful of soda dissolved in a little milk, and three of cream of\ntartar dissolved in water. Put in, after these ingredients are well\nbeaten, three cups full of flour: bake in tins an inch thick. Ice them.\n\n\nQUEEN CAKE.\n\nCream, half a pound of butter, and the same of loaf sugar; beat very\nlight four eggs; flour, a few currants, and put them in; stir in seven\nounces of flour: mix well, and bake in small tins.\n\n\nALMOND CAKE.\n\nBlanch a quarter of a pound of almonds, and rub them fine in a mortar\nwith a little rose water; beat five eggs separately till very light;\nbeat the sugar with the yolks of eggs; almonds with the whites of eggs,\nand a quarter of a pound of flour: bake an hour and a half in small\ntins.\n\n\nMACAROONS.\n\nTake half a pound of almonds, a few of them bitter; blanch them and\npound in a mortar, with a little rose water; beat the whites of three\neggs to a stiff froth, and add half a pound of white sugar, rolled very\nfine. Stir all together; drop on buttered paper, and bake in a slow\noven, or on paper with grated rusk or bread; this will keep them from\nsticking to the paper. Some persons add a spoonful of rice flour.\n\n\nGOOD JUMBLES.\n\nBeat to cream one pound of sugar, and the same of butter. Beat six eggs\nseparately, the yolks with the sugar and butter; add flour enough to\nroll out: season to your taste. Cut them in rings, and bake: sift sugar\nover them when they are hot.\n\n\nCOMMON JUMBLES.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and the same of sugar; add four\neggs, a little brandy and nutmeg; flour enough to roll out: bake in\npans: cut them in round rings.\n\n\nCRULLERS.\n\nOne cup full of butter, two cups full of sugar, one cup full of\nsour cream, four eggs, half a nutmeg, and a little cinnamon, half a\nteaspoonful of soda; flour enough to make a dough. Roll out, and fry in\nhot lard.\n\n\nDOUGH NUTS.\n\nMelt in a quart of boiling hot milk, a quarter of a pound of butter,\ninto which beat flour enough to make a stiff dough, and one pound of\nbrown sugar. When nearly cold, put in four eggs well beaten, and a\ntea-cup full of yeast. Let them rise, and when quite light, drop them\nwith a spoon into boiling lard. Spices to your taste, and a little\nbrandy.\n\n\nMERANGUES.\n\nHave a pound of fine white sugar, to which add the whites of twelve\neggs beaten very stiff, and two tablespoonsful of rice flour. When\nwell beaten, lay the mixture on thick white paper well buttered, or\nbread grated on it, to prevent the cakes sticking. Make the cakes in\nthe shape of a half egg. When they are a light brown, and firm to the\ntouch, take them out. Scoop out the middle, into which put preserves.\nPut them again in the oven to dry; when done, fasten two together with\na little white of egg. Send to table on a fancy dish. For dessert,\nwhipped cream is very excellent, in merangues.\n\n\nCOMPOSITION CAKE.\n\nOne pound of flour, one pound of sugar, the same of butter, seven eggs,\nhalf a pint of cream, and a gill of brandy, one tea-spoonful of soda\nand three of cream of tartar. Dissolve each separately and put in last.\nThis cake will take an hour and three quarters to bake.\n\n\nLOAF CAKE.\n\nTwo pounds of flour, one of sugar, half a pound of butter, one pint\nof yeast, eight eggs, one quart of milk; cream the sugar and butter\ntogether: add the raisins and spices after the first rising. This cake\nwill take an hour and three quarters to bake.\n\n\nSEED CAKE.\n\nThree pints of sifted flour, one pound of brown sugar, one\ntablespoonful of caraway seed, mixed together. Then melt half a pound\nof butter, and pour it into as much cold milk as will make them soft\nenough to roll out. Three teaspoonsful of cream of tartar. Put in the\nflour before it is sifted. Dissolve one teaspoonful of soda in the\nmilk: roll out; cut with a tumbler: bake in a quick oven.\n\n\nJELLY CAKE.\n\nJelly cake is made of either cup or sponge cake, as preferred. Bake\nin round tin pans on buttered paper; the pans should be as large as a\ndinner plate, and the cakes a quarter of an inch in thickness, when\nbaked. Spread jelly upon each cake; place one upon another, till you\nhave four or five, and then ice it.\n\n\nSPONGE CAKE.\n\nBeat ten eggs separately, very light; mix the whites and yolks\ntogether; add a pound of loaf sugar; then put in half a pound of flour.\nDo not beat it after the flour goes in, as this will make it tough:\nseason to your taste, with lemon or vanilla.\n\n\nANOTHER SPONGE CAKE.\n\nOne pint of flour, and one of sugar, half a tea-cup full of water; beat\nsix eggs very light; put in the water before the whites of the eggs,\nand stir as little as possible after all the ingredients are in.\n\n\nLADY FINGERS.\n\nBeat to a stiff froth the whites of four eggs, and the yolks of four,\nwith a pound of sugar. Mix with this two or three spoonsful of flour:\nseason with rose water or lemon: bake on buttered paper.\n\n\nALBONNIE CAKE.\n\nPut three teaspoonsful of cream of tartar into three pints of flour,\nand sift it; beat half a pound of butter to a cream, with two large\ncups full of sugar; add five eggs, well beaten, a teaspoonful of soda,\ndissolved in a small quantity of milk, and some caraway seed. Roll very\nthin: bake on tins.\n\n\nCUP CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream half a tea-cup full of butter, and one and a half\nof sugar; add three eggs beaten very light, two cups full of flour,\none teaspoonful of soda, and three teaspoonsful of cream of tartar.\nDissolve each separately in a little milk; mix them just before putting\nthem in the pan: bake an hour and a half.\n\n\nKISSES.\n\nBeat till very light the whites of four eggs; add one teaspoonful of\nflour, either wheat or rice: season with rose water or lemon: bake on\nbuttered tins or paper.\n\n\nRICE SPONGE CAKE.\n\nRice flour sponge cake, is made like flour sponge cake, only add a\nlittle more of the rice than you would of the wheat flour: bake in\nsmall tins. Ice them.\n\n\nWAFERS.\n\nBeat three eggs to a stiff froth; two cups full of flour, a small piece\nof butter, and milk enough to make a batter; add four tablespoonsful of\nsugar. Roll out thin as possible, and bake: roll them up while hot.\n\n\nWHITE CAKE.\n\nOne pound and a quarter of butter, one and a half pounds of sugar, the\nwhites of twenty eggs, two teaspoonsful of cream of tartar, and a third\nas much soda; dissolve each in a tablespoonful of cream; put in the\ncream of tartar the last; one and a half pounds of flour; season to\nyour taste: an hour and a half will bake it.\n\n\nCAROLINA CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream one cup full of butter, and two of sugar, three cups\nfull of flour, the whites of eight eggs, half a cup full of sweet milk,\none teaspoonful of cream of tartar, and the third of that quantity of\nsoda; dissolve each separately in the milk; add them the last; season\nto your taste; bake an hour and a half.\n\n\nBUNNS.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and the same of sugar, four\neggs, half a pound of currants, a glass of brandy, a pint of milk,\nflour enough to make a stiff batter; stir in a cup full of yeast. When\nlight, bake in small pans, or in a large one, and cut them out in\nsquares.\n\n\nSASSAFRAS CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and the same of sugar; whisk\ntill very light six eggs; add them to the butter and sugar, with a\nglass of brandy, the peel and juice of a lemon; add flour enough to\nmake a dough: roll out, and bake on tins.\n\n\nWARWICK CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream two tea-cups full of sugar, and one of butter; add half\na pound of currants floured, one glass of rose water, and six eggs\nbeaten separately; dissolve one teaspoonful of soda, and three of cream\nof tartar in a little cream; and add, just before putting the cake in\nthe pan, flour enough to make a stiff batter.\n\n\nPOUND CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream one pound of butter, with one pound of sugar; separate\nten eggs, and beat them very light; have a pound of flour sifted; add\nthe eggs and flour alternately; beat till the cake looks light just\nbefore going in the pan; put in a glass of brandy, rose water or lemon\npeel, or anything you prefer. This cake will take an hour and three\nquarters to bake.\n\n\nPLUM OR FRUIT CAKE.\n\nFruit cake is made as the above; with the addition of a pound of\ncurrants, a pound of raisins, and half a pound of citron; flour the\ncurrants, raisins, and citron before putting them in. Raisins should\nalways be seeded.\n\n\nA VERY CHEAP CAKE.\n\nOne tin cup full of flour, with two teaspoonsful of cream of tartar\nsifted with the flour; a piece of butter the size of an egg, half a cup\nfull of sugar rubbed in the butter, and half of a teaspoonful of soda;\ndissolve in a small cup full of milk; bake in a pound cake form.\n\n\nRUSKS.\n\nTake a pint of milk, a quarter of a pound of butter; warm the butter\nin the milk with half a tea-cup full of sugar; stir in enough flour to\nmake a very soft dough; beat three eggs very light, and add; lastly,\nput in a tea-cup full of yeast; do not beat it or any cake after the\nyeast goes in; set it in a warm place to rise; when light add more\nflour by stirring it in, but do not beat it; let it rise again; flour\nyour board, and pour out your dough; cut in cakes, and put in pans;\nhandle as little as possible, and do not put any more flour to them;\nset them to rise again, and as soon as light, bake.\n\n\nTO MAKE COCOA-NUT CAKE.\n\nTo two whites of egg, take one cocoa-nut; after it has been peeled and\ngrated, sugar to the taste; make them high in middle, and bake a few\nminutes.\n\n\nCOCOA-NUT AND ALMOND CAKE.\n\nBlanch half a pound of almonds, and pound them in a mortar, with a\nlittle rose water, to prevent them oiling; add an equal quantity of\ngrated cocoa-nut, three whites of eggs beaten to a froth, and sugar to\nthe taste; bake ten minutes.\n\n\nLADY CAKE.\n\nBeat to a stiff froth the whites of ten eggs, add one pound of loaf\nsugar, blanch half a pound of almonds, and pound them very well with\nsome rose water; beat to a cream a quarter of a pound of butter, then\nadd the sugar; stir in alternately with half a pound of flour, the eggs\nand the almonds; bake one hour and a half.\n\n\nSMALL ALMOND CAKE.\n\nBlanch and pound, with rose water, a quarter of a pound of almonds;\nbeat very stiff the whites of four eggs; add three tablespoonsful of\nrice-flour, and sugar to the taste; bake in fancy shapes on buttered\npaper, in a slow oven, ten minutes.\n\n\nDROP CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and a quarter of a pound of\nloaf sugar; three eggs and the third of a cup of cream, half a pound of\nflour, rose water to the taste; drop them in buttered pans, and bake\nfifteen minutes. If preferred, they can be seasoned with chocolate.\n\n\nFEDERAL CAKE.\n\nTwo pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, three quarters of butter, four\neggs, the juice of one lemon, three teaspoonsful of cream of tartar,\nsifted with the flour, one of soda; dissolve in milk enough to make a\ndough; cut the cakes in the shape of a diamond.\n\n\nHARD GINGERBREAD.\n\nOne and a half pounds of flour, half a pound of butter, half a pound of\nsugar, a pint of molasses, a tea-cup full of ginger, a tablespoonful of\nground orange peel, and cloves; roll them very thin, and bake.\n\n\nBUTTER DROPS.\n\nOne quarter of a pound of butter, one pound of flour, two spoonsful of\nrose water, three eggs, well beaten, a little nutmeg; dissolve a small\nlump of pearlash in a little milk, and stir in just before baking; drop\nthem on tins, and bake.\n\n\nOHIO CAKES.\n\nOne and three-quarters of a pound of flour, three-quarters of a\npound of sugar, four eggs, five tablespoonsful of thick cream, and a\nteaspoonful of soda; spice to your taste. Roll them about a quarter of\nan inch thick, and bake.\n\n\nSUGAR CAKES.\n\nThree pounds of flour, and half a pound of sugar, thirteen ounces of\nbutter, and a teaspoonful of soda dissolved in half a pint of water;\nrub the butter in the flour; mix the sugar and water, then knead all\nwell together; roll thin, and bake.\n\n\nANOTHER COCOA-NUT CAKE.\n\nOne pound of cocoa-nut, one pound of flour, three quarters of a pound\nof sugar, half a pound of butter, six eggs, well beaten; mix all\ntogether, and bake.\n\n\nNEW YORK COOKIES.\n\nTwo pounds flour, one of sugar, one quarter of a pound of butter, a\nlarge cup full of milk, a teaspoonful of soda, two of cream of tartar,\ntwo tablespoonsful of caraway seeds; roll them, and bake on tins.\n\n\nDIAMOND CAKES.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and the same of sugar; add four\neggs, well beaten, half a pound of flour, and the same of currants,\nwashed and dried, and well floured, to keep them from sinking, a small\nteaspoonful of soda, and two of cream of tartar dissolved separately in\nmilk; bake them in small pans, diamond shape.\n\n\nA SPANISH CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter; with the same quantity of\nsugar, four eggs, well beaten, a quarter of a pound of currants, a\nglass of wine and brandy mixed, two tablespoonsful of rose water, and\nhalf a pound of prepared flour, (which can be bought at any grocery\nstore in the city;) bake in small tin pans, any shape preferred. Ice\nthem.\n\n\nA. P. S.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, with same of sugar, a few\ncaraway seed, three eggs, rose water, and nutmeg, and flour enough to\nmake a dough; roll out thin, and bake.\n\n\nSPANISH BUNNS.\n\nThree quarters of a pound of flour, a pint of good milk or cream, three\neggs, two tablespoonsful of rose water, half a nutmeg, half a pound of\nbutter, and the same of sugar; warm the butter in the milk; when milk\nwarm, stir in the flour and eggs; then beat in the sugar, a little at a\ntime, and some currants; put in the yeast, and set it to rise in square\ntin pans; when very light, bake for fifteen or twenty minutes.\n\n\nSCOTCH CAKES.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and three quarters of a pound\nof sugar, a tablespoonful of caraway seed, one tablespoonful of rose\nwater or essence of lemon, a pound of flour, and five eggs, beaten very\nlight; roll half an inch thick, stick them with a fork, and bake.\n\n\nA GOOD SMALL CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream three quarters of a pound of butter, and the same of\nsugar; whisk three eggs very light; season with rose water; add flour\nenough to roll out; cut them half an inch thick, and bake.\n\n\nCREAM CAKE.\n\nOne and a half cups full of butter, two of sugar, four eggs, one cup\nfull of sour cream, into which dissolve one teaspoonful of soda, four\ncups full of flour; season as you like; beat very light, and bake.\n\n\nLEMON DROP CAKES.\n\nGrate the rinds of six lemons; add six heaping tablespoonsful of\nthe best white sugar and two of flour; work all well together; beat\nvery light the whites of two eggs; drop the mixture from a spoon on\nbuttered paper. When cold, take them off very carefully with a knife.\n\n\nORNAMENTAL ICING FOR CAKES.\n\nPut the icing on any way you prefer with a syringe, which must be\nkept for the purpose. It is better to put it on plain first, and then\nornament it.\n\n\nPOTATO PUFFS.\n\nTake a pint bowl of white potatoes, mashed as fine as possible; then\nadd two eggs and one tablespoonful of flour; drop them from a spoon\ninto hot lard, and fry: when done, sprinkle sugar over them.\n\n\nSAVOY CAKES.\n\nSeparate twelve eggs, and beat them very light; add a pound of the best\nloaf sugar; stir in three quarters of a pound of flour, essence of\nlemon, or rose water to the taste; do not beat it after the flour goes\nin, as this will make it tough: bake in small tin pans in a quick oven.\n\n\nCOCOA-NUT POUND CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream a quarter of a pound of butter and half a pound of the\nbest white sugar; add four tablespoonsful of cream, one tablespoonful\nof the essence of lemon, one of flour, and three eggs; beat till very\nlight: then grate the white meat of a cocoa-nut; stir it lightly, and\nbake in tin pans. Some persons omit the flour.\n\n\nALMOND POUND CAKE.\n\nBlanch the almonds by throwing them into boiling water: take them out;\ndrain and pound them in a mortar with a little rose water, and proceed\nas for cocoa-nut pound cake. Ice them, if preferred.\n\n\nEVERY DAY CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream half a pound of butter, and the same of sugar, some\ngrated nutmeg and rose water, two eggs well beaten; stir in a pound of\nflour: roll out, and bake.\n\n\nCOMMON RUSK.\n\nOne cup full of butter, the same of sugar, one pint of milk, flour\nenough to make a batter; beat it well, and then put in a cup full of\nyeast; (but never beat any cake after the yeast goes in;) when very\nlight, add more flour; make into cakes, and set them to rise; as soon\nas they are light, bake them.\n\n\nA VERY CHEAP AND GOOD CAKE.\n\nOne cup full of lard, two of molasses, two of sour milk, one egg, three\ntablespoonsful of cinnamon, half a nutmeg, essence of lemon, and flour\nenough to make a thick batter; beat a great deal, and bake in a tin\npan, one hour and a half or two hours.\n\n\nHOME-MADE POUND CAKE.\n\nOne pound of patent flour, one of pulverized sugar, one cup full of\nbutter, one of milk, and four eggs; bake in a quick oven: if it gets\ntoo brown, put paper over the top.\n\n\nA VERY GOOD HOME-MADE GINGER-BREAD.\n\nOne pint of molasses, one tea-cup full of sugar, three quarters of a\npound of butter and lard mixed. Spices,--one tablespoonful of good\nginger, three of cinnamon, a whole nutmeg, a teaspoonful of cloves.\nRoll out thin, and bake in a quick oven.\n\n\nCINNAMON CAKE.\n\nTake one pint of risen dough; work into it one cup full of butter, and\ntwo of sugar, one tablespoonful of cinnamon; set it in a dripping pan,\nand pour over it a little melted butter and some cinnamon; set it to\nrise, and when light, add more cinnamon, and butter, and bake. Cut them\nin square cakes.\n\n\nPRESERVES.\n\nA porcelain kettle is the best for preserves. Have a ladle with a long\nhandle, and pierced with holes. The sugar should be the best loaf\nsugar. All soft fruit should be done gently, and not allowed to remain\nlonger than half an hour after it begins to cook, till it is laid on\ndishes. This makes the fruit more firm.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE CLING-STONE PEACHES.\n\nGet the finest cling-stone peaches; take out the stone without\ndisfiguring them; lay them after they are pared in half of their\nweight of sugar, allowing a pound of sugar to a pound of peaches; let\nthem remain two hours: then put both sugar and peaches in the kettle\ntogether; let them boil till clear, skimming them frequently. Have\nsome of the kernels cracked, and preserve them with the peaches.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE PEACHES IN BRANDY.\n\nThe heath cling-stone are the best for this purpose. Half a pound of\nsugar to a pound of peaches. Throw into boiling pearl-ash water for a\nmoment: then take them out and rub the skin off with a coarse towel,\nand throw them into cold water; make a syrup with as little water as\npossible; put in the peaches to boil, until they begin to look clear;\nthen take up the peaches, and let the syrup boil ten minutes longer,\nmixing equal quantities of the syrup and the best white brandy. Put the\npeaches in jars: pour over the syrup, and seal them.\n\n\nPEACH MARMALADE.\n\nTake free-stone peaches; pare and slice them, allowing half a pound of\nsugar to one of the peaches. Sprinkle the sugar over them and let them\nstand two hours: then put them down to cook. Stir and mash them; let\nthem cook gently, till they are a transparent pulp; then take it off,\nput into jars, and seal them.\n\n\nQUINCES.\n\nTake fine large quinces; pare and core them; cut them round half an\ninch thick; then put them in the preserving kettle with the skins and\ncores, with water enough to cover them; let them boil till they look\nclear: take them up; strain the juice; put it back again into the\nkettle with the sugar, allowing three quarters of a pound to a pound\nof quinces: let the syrup boil slowly; skim it, and put it in the\nquinces for twenty minutes.\n\n\nQUINCE JELLY.\n\nPut down the quinces, after mashing and quartering them, in sufficient\nwater to cover them; let them boil slowly more than half a day: then\nstrain the juice, and add a pound of sugar to a pint of the juice. Let\nit boil till it jellies.\n\n\nQUINCE MARMALADE.\n\nBoil your quinces till soft: when cool, pass them through a cullender;\nadd half a pound of sugar to a pint of the pulp; let it boil till it\nwill jelly.\n\n\nPEARS.\n\nLeave the stems on, and stick a clove in the blossom end, after paring\nthem; make a syrup of a pint of water to half a pound of sugar; skim\nit, and put in the pears: let them boil till clear.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE GREEN TOMATOES.\n\nGather those that look clear, not very large; put them down to boil\nwith plenty of water. Throw this water off; then add more water and\nsome green ginger; let this boil till the water tastes of the ginger\nvery strong: allow three quarters of a pound of sugar to a quart of\njuice; make a syrup and put in the tomatoes; let them boil till clear.\nThe syrup, when boiled down, will make a nice jelly.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE CITRON MELON.\n\nPare the melon, and cut it in any shape you fancy; put it down to boil\nin a strong ginger water; after it has boiled ten minutes take it up;\nmake a syrup, allowing a pound of sugar to a quart of the water; add\nslices of lemon; cut them; put in your citron: when clear, it is done.\n\n\nSPICED PEACHES.\n\nTo nine pounds of peaches, take three pounds of sugar, and one pint of\nvinegar; make a syrup; then put in the fruit. Soft free-stone peaches\nare the best; let them boil ten minutes.\n\n\nPLUMS.\n\nPlums are prepared in the same way as peaches, also cantelopes before\nthey are ripe; add cloves, mace and allspice, to the taste: make the\nsyrup; put in the plums, and let boil ten minutes; or pour the boiling\nvinegar and spices over the plums.\n\n\nBLACKBERRY FLUMMERY.\n\nPut the blackberries down to stew, with sugar to the taste; thicken\nwith a little flour; keep stirring till it is done, which will be in\nten minutes. This is sometimes called blackberry mush.\n\n\nCURRANT JELLY.\n\nWash the currants; then spread them on a dish in the sun to dry; then\nput them in a stone crock, and set the crock in boiling water till the\ncurrants are soft; then strain them through a flannel bag or a hair\nsieve; press all the juice out; allow a pound of the best loaf sugar to\na pint of the juice; boil twenty minutes, not longer. Another way is to\npour the boiling juice on the sugar: this makes much prettier jelly,\nbut not so rich.\n\n\nAPPLE JELLY.\n\nCut up some fine pippin apples; do not pare them; let them boil till\nquite tender: then strain the juice and put it down with sugar,\nallowing three quarters of a pound to a pint of juice; put in while\nboiling, some lemon peel: when the jelly is done, which will be as soon\nas it is thick, take out the lemon peel. Put the jelly in half-pint\ntumblers.\n\n\nGREEN GRAPE JELLY.\n\nPut the grapes on to boil with a little water; mash them, and when the\njuice is well out, strain it; add a pint of juice to a pound of sugar;\nboil until it jellies.\n\n\nMORELLA CHERRIES OR CARNATION.\n\nAllow one pound of sugar to a pound of cherries; take out the stones\nwith a quill; boil the juice and the sugar; skim it well, and then put\nin the fruit: when clear, they are done.\n\n\nRASPBERRY JAM.\n\nAllow a pound of sugar to a pound of fruit; stir it well, and when it\nis a thick jelly, it is done.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE STRAWBERRIES.\n\nThe medium size are the best and the firmest; allow a pound of sugar to\na quart of the fruit; sprinkle them with sugar for a couple of hours;\nthen put all into the kettle together; skim it well, and let them boil\ntwenty minutes; be very careful not to mash them.\n\n\nMAGNUM BONUM PLUMS.\n\nStick them with a large needle; make a syrup of a pound of the fruit to\nthree quarters of sugar; then put in the fruit; let them boil slowly\ntill they clear.\n\n\nSTRAWBERRY JAM.\n\nStrawberry jam is made in the same manner as raspberry jam.\n\n\nPINE APPLES.\n\nGrate them; allow a pound of sugar to a pint of the fruit; after it has\nbeen grated, half an hour will cook it sufficiently.\n\n\nAPRICOTS.\n\nScald and wipe them dry; a pound of fruit to a pound of sugar; water\nsufficient to make a syrup; boil and take off the skum; put in the\napricots: boil slowly till the fruit is clear.\n\n\nGREEN GAGE PLUMS.\n\nTake a pound of sugar to a pint of the fruit; scald the plums and wipe\nthem; pierce them with a needle; put very little water to the sugar;\nwhen the syrup boils, put in the plums. Have a slow fire, and let them\nboil till they are clear; take out the plums, and spread them on dishes\nto cool; put the syrup in a tureen, and set all away till perfectly\ncold. Then put some of the plums in half pint tumblers, nearly filling\nthem full of the syrup, which will be very rich; pour on the top of\neach tumbler a dessert spoonful of good brandy. Cut a round piece of\nwhite paper the size of the top of the tumbler; soak it in brandy, and\nlay it on top; then cover it tight by pasting paper over. Preserves\nproperly done and put up in this way will be as good at the end of\nthree years as the first. Glass tumblers are excellent for putting up\njelly and preserves. Prune plums, egg plums, and the common blue plums\nmay all be done in the same way.\n\n\nWATER MELON RINDS.\n\nThe rinds are cut in various fancy forms; make a strong salt and water;\nput them in with cabbage leaves as for greening; keep them near the\nfire, turning them very often, till they become yellow; have a kettle\nof alum water ready; wash the rinds, and put them in the kettle with\ncabbage leaves over and under them and between every layer; put the\nkettle on the fire; do not let them come to a boil, but keep them\nscalding over two hours; when they are green, put them in cold water\nfor three days; change the water several times. Some persons make two\nsyrups; but one will be sufficient, by making a syrup of a pound and a\nquarter of sugar to one of melon; drop in some ginger; boil twenty-five\nminutes.\n\n\nPINE APPLE PRESERVES.\n\nPack the pine apple, after it is peeled and cut into slices, in a jar\nwith a layer of sugar on every layer of the fruit; set the jar for\nfifteen minutes in a kettle of boiling water; cover it tight, and keep\nit in a dry place.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE CRAB APPLES.\n\nMake a syrup of a pound of sugar for a pound of fruit; put in the\napples after skimming the syrup; let them boil till they are clear.\nSome persons make a second syrup, and keep the first for cordial.\n\n\nTO DRY PEACHES LIKE FIGS.\n\nPare and cut the peaches in slices; make a syrup of half a pound of\nsugar to one of fruit; put the peaches in and let them scald; then take\nthem out, put them on a flat dish, and set the syrup away; next day\nrepeat the process; then put them in the oven, after the bread comes\nout, on a flat dish; do this till they are dry; pack them in jars,\nsprinkling sugar over each layer. The syrup will make cordial.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE LIMES.\n\nGet the limes green; take out all the inside very carefully with a\npen-knife, then lay them for twenty-four hours in salt and water; take\nthem out, wash and scald them till all of the salt is out; make a syrup\nwith three quarters of a pound of sugar to a pound of limes; skim it,\nand put in the fruit; let them boil till clear. It is better to boil\nthe limes in water for twenty minutes before they go in the syrup.\n\n\n\n\nPickles.\n\nThe vinegar for pickling should be the best kind of cider vinegar.\n\n\nMANGOES.\n\nHave the melons of a good size, solid, but not large; put them in a\ncrock, and pour over them salt and water, boiling hot; let them remain\nfor three days; take them out of the pickle, cut a hole in the side,\nscrape out the inside; make a dressing of the following articles; some\ncucumbers cut fine, some cabbage, onions, horse-radish, race ginger,\nmustard seed, mace, and cloves; mix all well together and fill the\nmangoes; sew up the mangoes, put the top on, lay them in a jar, and\npour over them boiling vinegar. They will be fit for use in three\nmonths.\n\n\nTO PICKLE ONIONS.\n\nThe small white onions are the best; pour boiling salt and water over\nthem, and let them stand till cold; repeat this several times; then\nput them in a jar and pour boiling vinegar over them; cover tight, and\nput them away for three weeks, when they are fit to use.\n\n\nTO PICKLE CUCUMBERS.\n\nGather the small cucumbers; put in brine for a day and night; then pour\noff the water, put them in jars, and pour boiling vinegar over them,\nwith whole ears of pepper and allspice if you like.\n\nGherkins, radish pods, and beans may be pickled according to the above\nreceipt.\n\n\nTO PICKLE NASTURTIONS.\n\nNasturtions should be young: pour boiling salt and water over them; let\nthem stand till cold; pour it off and repeat it; let it stand two days,\nthen pour off the water; add cold vinegar with a little mace.\n\n\nTO PICKLE TOMATOES.\n\nHave ripe tomatoes; the small ones are the best; put them in a jar,\nwith salt over each layer; next day take them out, and wipe them off;\nwash the jar; wipe it perfectly dry; put them in again in the same\nmanner; let them stand another day; then drain and wipe them; put them\nin a clean jar with mustard seed, cloves, and whole grains of pepper;\nand if preferred some onions sliced; pour cold vinegar over them, and\nput them away.\n\n\nTO PICKLE PEPPERS.\n\nGet some good green peppers; cut a hole at the top, and take out the\nseed; lay them in salt and water for two days; then wash them; fill\nthem with cabbage, horse-radish, mustard seed, and onions, all chopped\nfine with pepper and cloves. Boil the vinegar and pour over them.\n\n\nTO PICKLE BUTTER NUTS.\n\nGather the nuts in the beginning of July; put them in strong salt and\nwater for a week; take them out, wash and drain them; lay them in a\nstone jar; boil some good vinegar with pepper grains, mustard seed,\nmace, and cloves; pour this boiling hot over the nuts, and let them\nstand a week; then take them and put on fresh vinegar with the spices\nwhich were in the first vinegar; in a month look at them; if the\nvinegar has lost its strength, boil fresh and pour over: this will be\nfit to use in six months.\n\n\nTO PICKLE MUSHROOMS.\n\nGather the small mushrooms; peel and mash them; put them in a jar; add\na little mace and white mustard; cold vinegar sufficient to cover them.\n\n\nTO PICKLE GREEN TOMATOES.\n\nWash them and cut them in slices, with an equal number of white onions;\nput in a jar with a layer of tomatoes, then a layer of onions and\nsalt; let them remain twenty-four hours; take them out; have some good\nvinegar and pepper, white mustard seed, and cloves; mix some mustard,\nflour, and turmeric, with the vinegar; and when boiling hot, put in the\ntomatoes and onions; let them boil ten minutes; then take them up, and\nput them away; in two weeks they will be fit for use; at the end of\nthat time boil the vinegar again, and pour over them.\n\n\nPICCALILLE.\n\nPiccalille is made in the same manner, only the vinegar must be cold\nwhen it is poured on: omit the cloves, as they will make them dark, and\nuse white vinegar.\n\n\nCAULIFLOWER.\n\nCut the cauliflower in small pieces, but long, so as to show the\nflower; lay them twenty-four hours in salt and water; then take out and\nwash and drain them for two hours; add to the vinegar, mustard seed,\nhorse-radish, ginger, allspice, and mace; boil for ten minutes, and\npour over the cauliflower.\n\n\nTO PICKLE RED CABBAGE.\n\nCut up the cabbage with a slaw cutter; sprinkle it with salt in\nalternate layers; let it stand twenty-four hours; then take it out and\ndrain it; put it in a jar, and pour boiling vinegar, with horse-radish,\nblack pepper, and cloves; cover it; when nearly cold, tie up the jar.\n\n\nTOMATO CATSUP.\n\nWash the tomatoes; cut them in slices; put them into a stone jar, with\nalternate layers of tomatoes and salt, till the jar is nearly full. Set\nthem in the sun every day for a week. Bring them in at night, or if\nit is cloudy at the end of that time, put them in a bell metal kettle,\nwhich must be very clean; let them get well heated; take them up, and\nstrain them through a sieve; let some of the pulp pass through, but not\nthe seeds or the skins; boil it for two hours, with whole grains of\nblack pepper and cloves. Otherwise, you may add mustard seed, cayenne\npepper, mace, nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, and ginger. When cold,\nbottle: cork tight, and rosin the tops.\n\n\nMUSHROOM CATSUP.\n\nTake full grown mushrooms; put them in a stone jar with layers of salt.\nBreak up the mushrooms, and cover the jar close. Let them remain ten\ndays. Stir several times a day. Then strain off the liquor and boil it,\nand season with the following ingredients, whole pepper, mustard seed,\ncloves and ginger. Boil thirty minutes; when quite cold, bottle it; put\ninto each bottle a gill of vinegar. They should be corked tightly.\n\n\nWALNUT CATSUP.\n\nPut them in salt and water for eight days. Take them out and mash them\nwell; to fifteen walnuts allow one quart of vinegar; let it stand for\neight or ten days, stirring it very often. Then strain it; season\nwith mace, cloves and pepper; boil twenty minutes, and when cold,\nbottle. This receipt will answer for either English or the common black\nwalnuts.\n\n\nELDER-BERRY WINE.\n\nGather and pick the berries. To every quart of the berries add a\nquart of water; after they have been mashed in a clean tub, let them\nlie three days, stirring it very often. Then strain it; sweeten to\nyour taste; put the juice in a kettle, and boil it an hour and twenty\nminutes, with a little ginger and cloves; then put it in a cask, and\nwhen cold, if you have four gallons, stir in a tea-cup full of yeast:\nafter it has fermented, add a little brandy.\n\n\nWILD-CHERRY BRANDY.\n\nTo two gallons of brandy, add three quarts of wild cherries; mash a\npint of them, and break the stone. In two weeks they will be fit for\nuse.\n\n\nBLACK-BERRY CORDIAL.\n\nTake three pints of the juice of the black-berry, three pounds of the\nbest loaf sugar, one pint of good brandy, one ounce of cinnamon and\ncloves, each: boil half an hour, and skim it well. This is very good\nfor children.\n\n\nROSE BRANDY.\n\nFill a jar with rose leaves; pour over some good French brandy; let it\nstand twenty-four hours; take out the leaves, and add fresh ones. Do\nthis till the brandy is sufficiently strong with the roses. The jar\nmust be kept covered: when done, bottle it.\n\n\nORGEAT.\n\nBlanch two pounds of almonds; pound them in a marble mortar, adding a\nlittle rose water to keep them from oiling. Then boil one quart of milk\nwith a small piece of cinnamon, and when cold, put in the almonds: let\nit boil for ten minutes, then strain, and when cold, bottle it.\n\n\nTO KEEP LEMON JUICE.\n\nTo one pint of lemon juice, add a pound of sugar. Strain the juice\nbefore you put in the sugar, then let it stand till the sugar is\ndissolved; stir it often. Then bottle it; add a gill of French brandy\nto each bottle; cork it up tight: cover with rosin. To be kept in a\ncool place.\n\n\nCOLOGNE.\n\nTo a quart of alcohol, add two drachms of essence of bergamot, and the\nsame of essence of lemon; one drachm of oil of rosemary and lavender;\nput all into a bottle, shake well together, and cork up tight.\n\n\nCURRANT SHRUB.\n\nTo one quart of currant juice, take two pounds of loaf sugar; put the\nsugar in the juice, and let it stand all night; then put in half a pint\nof spirits, and the juice of three lemons. Bottle, and set it away for\nuse.\n\n\nRASPBERRY VINEGAR.\n\nTo a pint of English raspberries, take a pint of white wine vinegar;\npour the vinegar on the raspberries, and let it stand all night, then\nstrain it through a bag; add another pint of raspberries, and let it\nstand a day; then strain it; to each pint of the liquor, add a pound of\nsugar; put it into a jar, and set the jar in a pan of boiling water for\nhalf an hour. When it is cold, bottle it.\n\n\nBLACK-BERRY CORDIAL, ANOTHER.\n\nTake two quarts of black-berry juice, one and a half pounds of best\nloaf sugar, a half ounce of nutmeg, one ounce cinnamon, a quarter of an\nounce of mace, and the same of cloves and allspice pounded fine; boil\nall together for twenty minutes; when cold, add one pint of the best\nFrench brandy. The berries should be fresh, and if kept more than a\nyear, add a little more brandy.\n\n\nCHERRY SHRUB.\n\nMorella cherries are the best. Pick, and mash them; put them in a jar,\nand set the jar in a pot of boiling water, for two hours, then strain\nthrough a flannel bag. Sweeten with the best loaf sugar; bottle it, and\nput a little brandy in each bottle. Sealed air tight. Keep in a cool\nplace.\n\n\nTO MAKE CHERRY BRANDY.\n\nHave some good morella cherries. Get a small cask, one holding about\nfive quarts; fill it nearly with cherries; add two quarts of water; the\nwater should be hot; let it stand full three hours, then add one quart\nof brandy; let it stand four days; add two quarts more of water, and\none of brandy; let it stand two more days, then drain it off: wash\nout the cask well. Put your juice on the fire with sugar, (say half a\npound of sugar to two quarts of the juice) let it boil fifteen minutes;\nskim it; take it off, and let it get perfectly cold, then put it in the\ncask, and set it away. If it is too strong of the brandy, add water.\n\n\nSPRUCE BEER.\n\nBoil some sassafras root, cut fine, and half as much hops, in five\ngallons of water; add, while hot, two quarts of molasses, one\ntablespoonful of spruce, and the same of powdered ginger, and a little\nallspice; when perfectly cold, put it into a cask; add a gill of good\nyeast; mix it well. After it has fermented, bottle it.\n\n\nMEAD.\n\nTo prepare mead, take two pounds and a half of honey; add three quarts\nand a pint of warm water. Mix it well, and when it is dissolved in the\nwater, pour it into the cask. After it has fermented and is clear,\nbottle in stone bottles, and cork tight.\n\n\n\n\nSoup.\n\n\nCALF'S HEAD SOUP.\n\nTake a calf's head; wash and soak it for one hour. Then put it down\nearly in the morning with four quarts of water to boil. When you can\nseparate the meat from the bones easily, take it up. Be careful to\ntake out all the bones, and chop the meat very fine. Then put on your\nsoup to boil again, with two onions, a bunch of parsley and thyme,\nseasoned with pepper and salt, with a little flour made very smooth in\nwater, allspice, cloves, and mace. Have ready a small piece of butter\nboiling hot, into which put white sugar and half a tumbler full of\nclaret wine; put this in a pitcher; add as much of this as you wish;\nwhen you first put on the soup (the quantity will depend upon the\ncolour you wish the soup,) boil three eggs hard; take the yolks and one\nof the whites, mash them up fine with a little flour; fry them a light\nbrown. Keep the pan moving all the time. Before you put on the head\ntake out the brains; boil them for a few minutes. Then chop them up,\nand put them in with the eggs and half a tumbler full of Madeira wine,\njust before you dish the soup. A little mushroom catsup will improve\nthis soup very much. Beef soup made in this way is very good.\n\n\nCALF'S HEAD SOUP ANOTHER WAY.\n\nAfter cleaning it well, put it down to boil with one gallon of water.\nWhen it is half done, take up the meat; cut it up in small pieces,\ncarefully removing all the bones. Put the meat in the soup with a quart\nof beef stock: season with black and cayenne pepper and salt. Fry two\nonions; cut in thin slices, in butter, and stir in a little flour to\nthicken the gravy; put this in the soup. About ten minutes before\nserving it up, put in some chives and parsley chopped fine, with egg\nballs made as in the above receipt, with two spoonsful of mushroom\ncatsup and one of soy, and a pint of white wine. Squeeze a lemon in the\ntureen, and pour the soup upon it. This is very good.\n\n\nCALF'S HEAD SOUP ANOTHER WAY.\n\nTake a large calf's head, wash it very clean, and let it boil an hour\nand a half. Then take it up, removing all the meat from the bones; skim\nthe soup well; add two quarts of veal stock, and put in the meat after\ncutting it in small square pieces; add three large onions, half an\nounce of cloves, and nutmeg and mace; chop very fine all kinds of sweet\nherbs. Strain off the liquor. Put a quarter of a pound of butter in a\npan on the fire, and when it is hot, stir in some flour and a little\nsugar. Put this in the soup, stirring it well: season it to your taste:\nadd eggs, balls fried, and a pint of wine. Serve it up hot.\n\n\nTURTLE SOUP.\n\nIn most of the markets the turtle can be bought cleaned and ready for\ncooking. If not, place it on its back to make it extend itself. Then\ncut off its head and fins; let it bleed freely; when quite dead, cut\nthe belly part clean off, take out the gall and the sand bag. Draw and\nwash the entrails well. Scald the black meat, so that the skin will\ncome off, which must be done very carefully. Cut the meat in joints\nlike a chicken, then put it down with five quarts of water. Let it\nboil till soft, (which will depend upon the turtle; if it is old, it\nwill take a long time.) Make forcemeat balls of one pound and a half\nof veal, chopped fine, with parsley, thyme, pepper, salt, and two eggs\nand flour to thicken; fry them in butter and lard; put half a pound of\nbutter in the pan, and when hot, stir in enough flour to thicken it.\nPut these all in the soup, and season with pepper, cayenne and black,\nwith salt to your taste; let it simmer, till the flour is well cooked:\nput in just as you dish it up, one quart of Madeira wine. This is very\nsuperior.\n\n\nEGG SOUP.\n\nBoil a small piece of beef or the scrag end of the neck of veal: season\nit with pepper and salt, and let it boil very gently till the meat is\nwell cooked. Then strain it. Beat the yolks of two eggs well, with some\nchopped parsley, and pour the soup in the tureen on the eggs. Keep\nstirring it all the time. A little rice will improve this soup very\nmuch: put the soup in the boiler again, after it is strained, and cook\ntill done.\n\n\nCLAM SOUP.\n\nTake two quarts of clams. After they are opened, cut off the beards\nand put them down to cook, with equal quantities of the water and the\nliquor. Take four crackers pounded fine and rolled in butter; stir in\nvery gently: season with pepper, salt, chopped parsley, a little mace,\nand add a pint of sweet cream, just before you take it up.\n\n\nOYSTER SOUP.\n\nOyster soup is made as clam soup, only omitting parsley and\nsubstituting a little mace.\n\n\nSOUP FOR THE SICK.\n\nIn a pint of boiling water put half a wine-glass full of wine; beat up\nthe yolk of one egg; when the water and wine boils, pour it out into a\nbowl; then on the egg; continue to pour it from one bowl to another,\ntwo or three times; then add a small piece of butter, a little sugar\nand nutmeg.\n\n\nTERRAPINS.\n\nTake the terrapins one at a time, and immerse them in boiling water for\nhalf a minute; take them out and remove the skin; put them back into\nhot water, and watch them carefully that they do not boil too much;\n(some will be done in half an hour, others will take much longer. They\nare sufficiently done when the feet are soft to the touch.) Take off\nthe shell and remove the sand bag and the gall, (which will be found\nin the liver; the sand bag is full of water;) then put them down to\nstew with one pound of best butter to three good-sized terrapins:\nseason with red and a little black pepper; (no salt;) when they are\nperfectly heated through, put in the following dressing, and when it\nboils furnish the seasoning with a little salt, &c., if required.\nDressing,--Take three yolks of hard-boiled eggs, to one large terrapin;\nmash them up fine, and add the best Madeira, a little at a time, until\nyou make a thin paste; stir this into the terrapins, and add more wine,\nif necessary. There should be just dressing enough to float near to the\ntop of your terrapin in the saucepan.\n\n\nROMAN PUNCH.\n\nOne gallon of water, one quart of cream, the juice of a dozen lemons,\none pint of the best brandy, and a pint of rum; sugar to the taste; to\nbe frozen before the cream goes in. The cream stirred in and frozen\nagain.\n\n\nAPPLE TODDY.\n\nOne bushel of apples baked on white paper, and strained next day\nthrough a sieve, three gallons of water, one gallon of brandy, three\nquarts of Jamaica spirits; sweeten to your taste.\n\n\nTO MAKE A VEAL POT-PIE.\n\nHalf boil some veal; then cut it in small pieces; season it with\ncayenne pepper, salt, nutmeg, parsley and a little butter: make a\ngood paste; line the sides of a deep dish; put in the meat, and add\nsome cream; have a small cup in the middle of the pie; cut across the\ncentre, and turn back the sides to let the steam escape: bake slowly.\n\n\nGUINEA FOWL.\n\nThey are very good cooked as pheasants or stewed like chickens.\n\n\nSUCCOTASH.\n\nBoil some string beans in as little water as they can be cooked in,\nwith salt; when nearly done, have some corn cut from the ears put in,\nand season with pepper, salt, butter and a little cream; twenty minutes\nwill be long enough for the corn to cook; but the beans will require\nan hour and a half. In winter, succotash can be made with dried corn\nand beans; let them both soak all night in the water you boil them in,\nafter washing them well.\n\n\nPOTTED SHAD.\n\nTake fine large shad, and when they are thoroughly cleaned and washed,\n_split_ them in two and cut them in square pieces. Place a layer of\nfish in a stone crock; (a glazed one will not answer;) sprinkle over it\nsalt, cloves, whole pepper and mace; thus continue till your crock is\nfilled; pour over it the best pure cider vinegar; cover the mouth of\nthe crock with a bladder, which should be tied down sufficiently tight,\nto prevent the steam from escaping; place it in a moderately warm oven,\nand let it bake for several hours. It is a good plan to send it to a\nbake-house, and let it be put in a brick oven, after the bread is taken\nout. If properly done, the bones will all be dissolved, and it will be\nalmost equal to salmon.\n\n\nTO MAKE STOCK FOR SOUPS AND GRAVY.\n\nTo one shin of beef and one of veal, add eight quarts of water, and\nsalt to the taste; skim it well, and let it boil till it is quite\nthick: take out all the meat, and pour off the stock; set it away till\nnext day: you can add some of this to your soup, and it will improve\nit very much. Geese, ducks, and chickens are very good stewed in stock\nmade after the above receipt, and then browned in an oven.\n\n\nTO STEW SWEET-BREADS.\n\nParboil them; then cut in small pieces; season with pepper, salt, and\nnutmeg; put them down to stew in some veal gravy, and just before you\ntake them up, add some mushroom catsup and a glass of wine.\n\n\nTO ROAST SWEET-BREADS.\n\nHalf boil them; then take them up; lard them with ham, and roast before\nthe fire: season with cayenne pepper, salt and mushroom catsup.\n\n\nTO HASH MUTTON.\n\nCut in small pieces; have two onions fried brown; put it down in a\nlittle good gravy; just before you dish it, season with pepper, salt, a\nlittle currant jelly and wine, or a spoonful of walnut pickle.\n\n\nSUGAR DROPS.\n\nBeat to a cream a quarter of a pound of butter and half a pound of\nsugar, rose water to the taste, half a pound of flour; stir all well\ntogether, and drop them on buttered paper, and bake: ornament with\nsugar plums.\n\n\nCURRANT CAKE.\n\nOne pound of butter, one and a half of sugar, two pounds of flour, nine\neggs, two pounds of currants, and a little soda dissolved in milk.\n\n\nANOTHER SPONGE CAKE.\n\nFlour, one pound; sugar, one pound and a half, ten eggs, and a large\ntea-cup full of water. The water must be poured over the sugar and put\non the fire to dissolve, and come nearly to the boil; meanwhile, beat\nthe eggs separately very light; then mix them together, and add the\ndissolved sugar, beating it in the egg very hard; lastly, stir in the\nflour very _slowly_.\n\n\nPIGNOLATTIS.\n\nOne pound of sugar, three quarters of a pound of flour, five eggs, five\nounces of almonds or ground-nuts, blanched and pounded. Cut into cakes\nand bake.\n\n\nCOCOA-NUT CAKE, No. 4.\n\nHalf a pound of butter, one of sugar, six eggs, and one large cocoa-nut\ngrated.\n\n\nCOTTAGE PUDDING.\n\nHalf a pound of butter warmed, four eggs well beaten, four tea-cups\nfull of fine white sugar, two quarts of flour, four teaspoonsful of\ncream of tartar, two of soda, four tea-cups full of milk; stir all well\ntogether; flavour with grated lemon peel, and bake in a moderate oven.\n\n\nAPPLES IN JELLY.\n\nHave some moderate-sized cooking apples; pare and core without cutting\nthem open. Let them boil slowly till they are tender, with some slices\nof lemon; when they are done, take them up, and add sugar enough to\nthe liquor to make a syrup; put the apples in, and let them boil till\nclear; put in half an ounce of isinglass dissolved; lay a slice of\nlemon on each apple, and pour the jelly around them.\n\n\nSYLLABUB.\n\nTake the juice and peel of one large lemon, two glasses of wine, and\none of brandy; sugar to the taste; to this add a pint of whipped cream;\narrange it in glasses.\n\n\nA DISH OF SNOW.\n\nGrate the white part of the cocoa-nut, and pile it up in the middle;\nthis is nice to eat with preserves or fruit, and is a delicate relish\nfor tea.\n\n\nCHEESE CAKE.\n\nTo two bowls of cottage cheese, add ten eggs, and half a pint of cream,\nmace, cinnamon, sugar, and nutmeg, to the taste; add a little brandy;\nbake in puff paste.\n\n\nALMOND CHEESE CAKE.\n\nBlanch a pound of sweet almonds, and a few bitter; pound them in a\nmortar, with a little rose-water; add ten eggs, beaten very light, and\nsugar to the taste; a glass of brandy, and some lemon peel; bake in\npuff paste. You may take equal quantities of almonds and cocoa-nut.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE LEMON PEEL.\n\nTake out all the inside, and lay them in salt and water for two days;\nthen wash them well; put them in fresh water; let them boil till\ntender; then take them up; throw off the water; and make a syrup with\nhalf their weight of sugar; put in the peel for twenty minutes; then\ntake them up; and when the syrup is thick, pour over the peel; put them\nin jars, and cover tightly. This may be used as citron.\n\n\nTO COOK CHEESE AND EGGS.\n\nTo half a pound of grated cheese, add the yolks of six eggs, and half a\npound of butter; stir all together; add some cayenne pepper, and bake.\n\n\nTO PICKLE CUCUMBERS.\n\nScald the cucumbers in brine; let them stand till cold; repeat this\nthree times; then put them in jars, pouring on vinegar, with a small\nquantity of whisky in each jar; let them stand for three months; they\nwill be hard and green.\n\n\nTO MAKE MOLASSES CANDY.\n\nGrease the saucepan with butter; then put in the molasses, with a\nlittle brown sugar; let it boil for half an hour, stirring it all the\nwhile; when it is brittle, it is done. If you like, add the kernels of\nany kind of nuts you prefer: just before taking up, pour into buttered\ntin pans, and set away to cool.\n\n\nTO MAKE CANDY WITH THE KERNELS OF NUTS.\n\nMake a thick syrup; then throw in the kernels of any kind of nuts you\nprefer; have buttered tin pans, and pour it out.\n\n\nJELLY.\n\nThree quarts of water, four of gelatine, three pounds of sugar, the\nwhites of five eggs, one pint of wine, and six tablespoonsful of\nbrandy, and six lemons, peel and juice. The gelatine must be soaked in\none quart of water for half an hour; stir all the ingredients, except\nthe brandy, well together, before it is put on the fire; first beating\nthe white very light. Let it boil ten minutes without disturbing it;\nthen strain it through a jelly strainer.\n\n\nCARRAGEEN, OR IRISH MOSS JELLY FOR THE SICK.\n\nOne ounce of moss, one quart of water, three tablespoonsful of sugar,\nhalf a pint of wine; boil ten minutes, and strain.\n\n\nOINTMENT FOR MORTIFICATION.\n\nMake a salve of raw carrots; grate and stew them in lard; when done,\nstrain it. Another salve can be made of the leaves and bark of black\nalder, stewed in lard. Raw cranberries, cut in half and mashed, are an\nexcellent application.\n\n\nELDER-BERRY JAM.\n\nPut two quarts of elder-berries in a kettle, with some water, say a\npint; stir and mash them well; when the juice is all extracted, strain\nit, and add two pounds of the best loaf sugar; let this simmer twenty\nminutes. This is good for colds, and sore throat, and is a great\npurifier of the blood.\n\n\nBLACK CURRANT JELLY.\n\nMash your currants well, and strain them through a sieve; to one pint\nof juice, put one pound of loaf sugar; boil twenty minutes. Quince\njelly is also very good for the throat. The seeds should always be\nkept, as they are very good for sore mouth or throat.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE ORANGE PEEL.\n\nTake out all the inside; then let them soak in salt and water\ntwenty-four hours; take them out; wash them well, and let them boil for\nten minutes; throw off the water; make a rich syrup; after boiling the\npeel till they are tender, put them in the syrup; let them boil for ten\nminutes; and when the syrup is thick, pour it over the peel.\n\n\nSCOTCH CAKE.\n\nBeat to a cream one pound of sugar, and three quarters of a pound of\nbutter; beat separately nine eggs; put them into the cake; add the\njuice and grated rind of a lemon, and a wine-glass full of brandy;\nthen add one pound of sifted flour; and just before it is put in the\npans, a pound of seeded raisins.\n\n\nHARD GINGER BREAD.\n\nOne quart of molasses, one pound of brown sugar, three quarters of a\npound of butter, cloves, and ginger, to the taste; with very little\ncayenne pepper; flour enough to roll it out. The cake must be very\nthin, and bake in a slow oven.\n\n\nGINGER JUMBLES.\n\nOne cup full of butter, two cups full of sugar, and one cup full of\nmolasses, one of cream, and a teaspoonful of soda; dissolve in a small\nquantity of thick milk a tablespoonful of ginger, two eggs, a glass of\nwine, and flour sufficient to roll out thin.\n\n\nSPICE NUTS.\n\nTwo pounds of butter, and the same of flour, one quarter of a pound of\nginger, an ounce of cake seed, the same of cloves, and cinnamon, one\nquart of molasses, three quarters of a pound of sugar, and nutmeg; roll\nout thin, and bake.\n\n\nQUAKER CAKE.\n\nThree cups full of sugar, one cup full of butter, six eggs, five cups\nfull of flour, one teaspoonful of soda; season with lemons or almonds\nto the taste.\n\n\nA. P. S.\n\nCut fine half a pound of butter, in three quarters of flour, half a\npound of sugar, a glass of wine and brandy, rose water, and spice to\nyour taste; then mix in two ounces of flour, reserving two ounces to\nmould them in.\n\n\nDOVER CAKE.\n\nTake one pound of sugar, half a pound of butter, six eggs, one\nteaspoonful of soda, one cup full of sour milk, one pound of flour;\nseason to the taste.\n\n\n\n\nArticles of Diet for the Sick.\n\nHere we may observe that neatness in serving up, as well as care and\ncleanliness in the preparation, makes food for the sick room more\nlikely to be attractive to the fastidious appetite of the invalid.\n\n\nBARLEY WATER.\n\nWash well a tea-cup full of pearl barley; put it in a sauce pan, with\ntwo quarts of water, and a small cup full of raisins; boil it to a\nquart; then strain, and add sugar, nutmeg, and lemon juice, to your\ntaste.\n\n\nOATMEAL GRUEL.\n\nMix smoothly a dessert spoonful of meal, with two of cold water; pour\non a pint of boiling water, and let it boil for fifteen minutes,\nstirring all the time; sugar or salt may be added as preferred. Wine is\nsometimes used.\n\n\nCORN MEAL GRUEL.\n\nWash several times in cold water, three tablespoonsful of corn meal;\npouring off the water as it settles; then pour on a quart of water,\nand boil, stirring all the time; add a little salt; strain and sweeten,\nadding butter, wine, and nutmeg.\n\n\nARROW ROOT.\n\nMix a dessert spoonful of arrow root smoothly, in a little cold water;\npour on it a pint of boiling water; let it boil five minutes; then\nsweeten to your taste, and add nutmeg and wine. If richer food is\nrequired, this can be made in the same way, with milk instead of water.\n\n\nWINE WHEY.\n\nTo half a pint of boiling milk, add one glass full of sherry wine, and\na little sugar; let it boil until the curd has separated, and strain\nthrough a fine sieve.\n\n\nRICE GRUEL.\n\nStir into a pint of boiling water, a tablespoonful of rice flour,\nwhich has been mixed with a little water; let it boil fifteen minutes,\nstirring all the time; then season with sugar and nutmeg, or a little\ncream.\n\n\nTAMARIND WATER.\n\nUpon a gill of good tamarinds, pour a pint of boiling water; cover it,\nand let it stand until cold, with a lump of ice: it is very grateful to\na feverish person. Both currant and quince jelly make pleasant drinks,\nprepared in the same way.\n\n\nCREAM OF TARTAR PUNCH.\n\nPour on a teaspoonful of cream of tartar, a tumbler full of boiling\nwater; sweeten to your taste, with loaf sugar, and drink as hot as\npossible, upon getting into bed; a teaspoonful of nitre in it is\nexcellent for a fever, or a cold.\n\n\nLEMONADE.\n\nSqueeze and strain the juice of six lemons into three pints of ice\nwater; sweeten to your taste: by adding a gill of good French brandy,\nit will be lemon punch. Some persons prefer it made with boiling water,\nand then cooled with ice.\n\n\nVEGETABLE SOUP.\n\nSlice one potato, one turnip, one onion, one carrot, and a little\ncelery; boil in a quart of water one hour; toast some bread nicely; cut\nin small pieces, and lay in a bowl: add salt to the soup, and pour over\nthe toast.\n\n\nTOAST WATER.\n\nLet the water be boiled and cooled; then toast bread of a deep brown,\nand pour over it the water; let it stand half an hour. A small piece of\ndried lemon or orange peel gives it a pleasant taste.\n\n\nSAGO.\n\nSago should be well washed; put a tablespoonful in a pint of milk, and\nboil it until it is quite soft; sweeten to the taste, and add wine or\nlemon juice. Tapioca is made in the same way, but does not require so\nmuch washing.\n\n\nCARRAGEEN MOSS.\n\nPour upon one ounce of carrageen (after it has been well washed) one\nquart of warm water; cover it, and let it stand on top of a stove\nall night: it will form a tasteless jelly, which when sweetened and\nseasoned with lemon, is palatable and strengthening.\n\n\nCRACKER JELLY.\n\nTake a quarter of a pound of crackers; pour on them two quarts of\nwater; boil down to one quart; strain it: add one pound of sugar, one\npint of Madeira wine, and a little nutmeg.\n\n\nBEEF TEA.\n\nTake a tender, juicy piece of beef; cut into small pieces; put into\na bottle with a little salt, and a tablespoonful of water: place the\nbottle in a pan of hot water, and let it boil three quarters of an hour.\n\n\nBEEF TEA.\n\nCut up into small pieces a pound of juicy beef; cover it with a quart\nof water, and let it stand for two hours: then boil it until it is\nreduced to a pint; let it cool: skim off all the grease; then boil\nagain; drink it while warm.\n\n\nBALM TEA.\n\nPour upon a tea-cup full of the leaves of dried balm, a pint of boiling\nwater; let it stand fifteen minutes, when it is ready for use.\n\n\nCHICKEN TEA.\n\nWash in cold water the leg and wing of a young chicken; put it in a\nstew pan, with a pint of water and a little salt; cover it, and let it\nboil twenty minutes; then skim and strain it.\n\n\nMILK TOAST.\n\nCut a thin slice from a loaf of stale baker's bread; toast it a light\nbrown. Boil half a pint of milk, and a small piece of butter ten\nminutes; then sprinkle in a little salt, and pour over the toast. Cream\ntoast is made in the same way.\n\n\nTO KEEP FLOWERS FOR A LONG TIME.\n\nTo one quart of water, add one teaspoonful of carbonate of soda: do not\nchange the water.\n\n\nTO KEEP FURS FROM MOTHS.\n\nGet the gum camphor; as soon as you can do without the furs, beat them,\nand put small pieces of camphor rolled in paper, in, and around them;\nsew them up tightly in linen, and keep in a cool place. Black pepper\nwill not prevent the moths getting in, nor will it kill them.\n\n\nTO WASH FLANNELS.\n\nWash them in clean suds as hot as you can bear the hands in; then in\nwater of the same temperature, with a little soap in, but not so much\nas the first; rinse in hot water, and hang up immediately.\n\n\nTO WASH WINDOWS.\n\nNever put soap on the windows, but wash them off with a shammy, and\nthen dry them with the same; if the shammy cannot be obtained, paper\nwill answer, but it is not so good.\n\n\nTO WASH BOTTLES BELONGING TO THE CASTOR.\n\nWash them well with water, with a little soap and soda in it, also some\nclean coarse sand or rice to get the marks out.\n\n\nTO WASH CALICOES.\n\nWash out the grease spots before putting the dress in, as the spots\ncannot be seen after it is wet; wash them well through two suds; then\nrinse them, throwing a little salt in the water to set the colours;\nstarch and hang them in the shade, as the sun will fade them. If the\ncalico is black, make the starch water as blue as possible. Wash, and\nhang up quickly.\n\n\nTO GATHER GARDEN HERBS.\n\nHerbs should be gathered on a dry day, just before they blossom. Wash\nthem and hang them in a dry place; as soon as they are dry, put them\nin a paper bag. Sage, sweet marjoram, summer savoury, and thyme should\nbe pounded fine, and kept in bottles corked tight. When parsley is dry,\ncut it fine, and keep in bottles.\n\n\nFOR A COUGH.\n\nMake a strong tea of hoarhound; then strain it, and add half a pound of\nthe best loaf sugar, to a pint of the tea: let it simmer till thick;\nthen bottle it, and take a little two or three times a day.\n\n\nFOR A SORE THROAT OR MOUTH.\n\nMake a sage tea by boiling some sage leaves; when strong, add honey and\nsome alum or borax. Gargle the throat with this often through the day.\n\n\nFOR THE STING OF A BEE OR WASP.\n\nRub the part with hot tallow, or with hartshorn, or wet clay.\n\n\nFOR POISON.\n\nMix in a tumbler full of warm water one teaspoonful of the flour of\nmustard; drink while warm: it will make the patient throw off the\npoison. This is good for the cramp.\n\n\nFOR BURNS.\n\nWhen the skin is not off, apply scraped raw potatoes. When the skin is\noff, apply sweet oil and cotton, or linseed oil and lime water made\ninto a paste. Elder ointment is very good: make the ointment of the\ngreen bark of the elder; stew in lard.\n\nLinseed oil and lime water mixed in a paste, is also an excellent cure.\n\n\nTO PICK DUCKS AND GEESE.\n\nDip them in boiling water; then wrap them for a few moments in flannel,\nand pick them, holding them by the feet, with the head down; be careful\nto dry the feathers as soon as possible. A very good way to cure\nfeathers is to put them several times in a brick oven after the bread\ncomes out: then let them lie on the ground for several days, bringing\nthem in at night. This will take away all the disagreeable smell which\nis so unpleasant in feathers when they are not properly dried.\n\n\nTO TAKE INK STAINS OUT OF LINEN.\n\nRub the stain with lemon juice and salt, or a little hot tallow; when\nthe lemon juice and salt are used, it must go in the sun for several\nhours; then rinse it: new milk boiling hot will take out most kinds of\nfruit stains; dip in them when dry, and repeat it often.\n\n\nTO CLEAN CARPETS.\n\nShake them well; then spread them on a clean floor, and rub them with a\nsoft brush dipped in camphine, or with a piece of cloth: when they are\ndry, if the grease is not out, repeat the operation.\n\n\nTO TAKE GREASE SPOTS OUT OF SILK OR WOOLLEN.\n\nRub the spots with a sponge dipped in camphine; rub, or if the article\nsoiled be silk, spread magnesia on the wrong side; let it remain for a\nday or two; then brush it off, and the spot will have disappeared.\n\n\nTO CLEAN KNIVES AND FORKS.\n\nThe iron filings from the blacksmith shop are excellent to clean knives\nand forks with. Rotten stone or fine brick dust is also very good. Do\nnot put the handles in hot water, as this injures them; wipe them dry,\nand keep them rolled in brown paper.\n\n\nTO CLEAN BRASS AND COPPER UTENSILS.\n\nAll brass and copper utensils should be well cleaned before using them,\nwith hot vinegar and salt, then washed in hot water; keep the vessel\nwarm till ready for use; when done with it, clean it well, and keep in\na dry place.\n\n\nTO CLEAN BRITANNIA.\n\nRub them well with sweet oil and whitening; when dry, rub them off with\nbuckskin. If they are well washed in hot soap suds, and rinsed in clean\nhot water every day, and let dry quickly near the fire or in the sun,\nthey will seldom require rubbing.\n\n\nTO CLEAN STOVES.\n\nMix some British lustre with alum water; put it on with a brush, and\nwith a dry brush rub it off.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE CORN FOR WINTER USE.\n\nTake off all the outside husks; fasten the inside ones down tight, and\npack in barrels or boxes with salt in alternate layers; keep in a cool\nplace, or the corn will heat and spoil.\n\n\nTO PRESERVE GRAPES.\n\nGather the bunches on a dry day; be careful that the grapes are all\nsound; pack them in sawdust or cotton: put them in a box; fasten it up,\nand keep in a dry place.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX.\n\n\n  A.\n\n  Albonnie Cake, 105\n\n  Almond Cake, 102, 115\n\n  Almond Cream, 91\n\n  Almond Pudding, 81\n\n  Apple Charlotte, 94\n\n  Apple Dumplings, 85\n\n  Apple Dumpling Sauce, 29\n\n  Apple Float, 90\n\n  Apple Fritters, 86\n\n  Apples, Iced, 90\n\n  Apple Jelly, 120\n\n  Apples in Jelly, 141\n\n  Apple Pudding, 98\n\n  Apple Sauce, 29\n\n  Apples and Rice, 93\n\n  Apple Toddy, 137\n\n  Apricots, 121\n\n  Arrow Root (for the sick,) 147\n\n  Arrow Root Pudding, 80\n\n  Asparagus, 58\n\n  A. P. S., 112, 145\n\n\n  B.\n\n  Balm Tea, 150\n\n  Barley Water, 144\n\n  Bass, Sea, 19\n\n  Batter Cakes, Corn, 74\n\n  Bean Soup, 16\n\n  Beans, Lima, 58\n\n  Beans, String, 58\n\n  Beef, To roast, 30\n\n  Beef, To stew, 31\n\n  Beef, To boil Corned, 33\n\n  Beef, To cure, 41\n\n  Beef Soup, 11, 12\n\n  Beef Steak Pie, 32\n\n  Beef Steaks, 31\n\n  Beef a La Mode, 23\n\n  Beef Brisket, (baked,) 32\n\n  Beef's Heart, 33\n\n  Beef Tea, 149\n\n  Beef Tongues, To cure, 42\n\n  Beer, Spruce, 132\n\n  Beets, To boil, 63\n\n  Biscuit, Light, 71\n\n  Biscuit, Maryland, 71\n\n  Biscuit, Philadelphia Milk, 70\n\n  Biscuit, Tea, 71\n\n  Blackberry Flummery, 119\n\n  Blackberry Pie, 77\n\n  Brandy, Cherry, 131\n\n  Brandy, Wild Cherry, 129\n\n  Brandy, Rose, 129\n\n  Bread, 68\n\n  Bread in a Brick Oven, To bake, 68\n\n  Bread, Diet, 69\n\n  Bread, Indian, 74\n\n  Bread, Potato, 72\n\n  Bread Pudding, 79\n\n  Bread Rolls, 69\n\n  Breakfast Cakes, Indian, 75\n\n  Brocoli, 65\n\n  Broth, Chicken, 137\n\n  Broth, Mutton, 21\n\n  Buckwheat Cakes, 72\n\n  Burns, For, 152\n\n  Butter, 65\n\n  Butter Drops, 111\n\n  Butter, Melted, 26\n\n  Butter, To keep, 66\n\n  Butternuts, To pickle, 126\n\n  Bunns, 107\n\n  Bunns, Philadelphia, 69\n\n  Bunns, Spanish, 112\n\n\n  C.\n\n  Cabbage, To boil, 64\n\n  Cabbage, To pickle, 127\n\n  Cakes, 99\n\n  Cake, A very cheap, 108, 115\n\n  Cake, A good small, 113\n\n  Cake, Albonnie, 105\n\n  Cake, Almond, 112, 115\n\n  Cake, Almond (Small,) 110\n\n  Cakes, Buckwheat, 72\n\n  Cake, Carolina, 107\n\n  Cake, Cheese, 141\n\n  Cake, Cinnamon, 116\n\n  Cake, Cocoanut, 109, 111, 140\n\n  Cake, Cocoanut Pound, 114\n\n  Cake, Cocoanut and Almond, 109\n\n  Cake, Composition, 104\n\n  Cake, Corn Batter, 74\n\n  Cake, Cream, 113\n\n  Cake, Cup, 106\n\n  Cake, Currant, 140\n\n  Cake, Diamond, 112\n\n  Cake, Dover, 146\n\n  Cake, Drop, 110\n\n  Cake, Every day, 115\n\n  Cake, Federal, 110\n\n  Cake, Flannel, 72\n\n  Cake, German, 71\n\n  Cake, Home made Pound, 115\n\n  Cake, Icing for, 99, 114\n\n  Cake, Indian Breakfast, 75\n\n  Cake, Jelly, 105\n\n  Cake, Journey, 74\n\n  Cake, Lady, 109\n\n  Cake, Lemon, 101\n\n  Cake, Lemon Drop, 113\n\n  Cake, Loaf, 104\n\n  Cake, Ohio, 111\n\n  Cake, Plum or Fruit, 108\n\n  Cake, Potato, 75\n\n  Cake, Pound, 108, 115\n\n  Cake, Quaker, 145\n\n  Cake, Queen, 102\n\n  Cake, Sassafras, 107\n\n  Cake, Savoy, 114\n\n  Cake, Scotch, 113, 144\n\n  Cake, Seed, 104\n\n  Cake, Soda, 70\n\n  Cake, Spanish, 112\n\n  Cake, Sponge, 105, 140\n\n  Cake, Sugar, 111\n\n  Cake, White, 107\n\n  Cake, Warwick, 108\n\n  Calf's Feet Jelly, 96\n\n  Calf's Feet, To stew, 35\n\n  Calf's Head or Mock Turtle, 34\n\n  Calf's Head Soup, 14, 132, 133, 134\n\n  Calicoes, To wash, 151\n\n  Candy, Molasses, 142\n\n  Candy with Kernels of Nuts, 143\n\n  Caper and Nasturtion Sauce, 26\n\n  Carrageen or Irish Moss Jelly, 143, 149\n\n  Carrots, 55\n\n  Castor Bottles, To wash, 151\n\n  Catfish Soup, 15\n\n  Catsup, Mushroom, 128\n\n  Catsup, Tomato, 127\n\n  Catsup, Walnut, 128\n\n  Cauliflower, 54, 127\n\n  Celery Sauce, 27\n\n  Celery Vinegar, 28\n\n  Charlotte Russe, 96\n\n  Cheese Cake, 141\n\n  Cheese and Eggs, To cook, 142\n\n  Cherries, (Morella,) or Carnation, 120\n\n  Cherry Shrub, 131\n\n  Cherry Brandy, 131\n\n  Chicken, To fry, 45\n\n  Chicken, To roast, 45\n\n  Chicken, To stew, 46\n\n  Chicken, To broil, 46\n\n  Chicken, To bake, 46\n\n  Chicken, To boil, 47\n\n  Chicken Broth, 13\n\n  Chicken Pie, 46\n\n  Chicken Tea, 150\n\n  Chicken with Curry, To cook, 47\n\n  Chicken in Batter, To cook, 47\n\n  Chicken Salad, 51\n\n  Chicken Soup, 13\n\n  Chine, To boil and freeze, 43\n\n  Chocolate, To make, 67\n\n  Chocolate Cream, 92, 95\n\n  Chocolate Custard, 97\n\n  Chops, Mutton, 37\n\n  Citron Melon, To preserve, 119\n\n  Clam Soup, 17, 135\n\n  Clams, To fry, 22\n\n  Clams, To stew, 22\n\n  Cocoanut Cream, 91\n\n  Cocoanut Pound Cake, 114\n\n  Cocoanut Pudding, 79\n\n  Cod, To boil fresh, 18\n\n  Cod, To dress salt, 20\n\n  Coffee, To make, 66\n\n  Cologne, 130\n\n  Composition Cake, 104\n\n  Cookies, New York, 111\n\n  Cordial, Blackberry, 129, 131\n\n  Corn, To boil, 62\n\n  Corn, To fricassee, 59\n\n  Corn, for Winter, To keep, 59\n\n  Corn Batter Cakes, 74\n\n  Cornmeal Gruel, 146\n\n  Cottage Cheese, 25\n\n  Cottage Pudding, 140\n\n  Cough, For a, 152\n\n  Crab Apples, To preserve, 123\n\n  Crabs, To boil, 22\n\n  Crabs, To stew, 22\n\n  Cracker Jelly, 149\n\n  Cranberry Sauce, 30\n\n  Cream, To freeze, 90\n\n  Cream, Almond, 91\n\n  Cream, Chocolate, 92\n\n  Cream, Cocoanut, 91\n\n  Cream, Ice, 91\n\n  Cream, Lemon, 91\n\n  Cream, Raspberry, 91, 95\n\n  Cream Sauce, 28\n\n  Croquettes, To make, 49\n\n  Croquettes of sweet Breads, 53\n\n  Crullers, 103\n\n  Cucumbers, 63\n\n  Cucumbers, To pickle, 125, 142\n\n  Cup-Cake, 106\n\n  Currant Cake, 140\n\n  Currant Jelly, 119, 144\n\n  Currant Pies, 77\n\n  Currant Shrub, 130\n\n  Custard, A good, 99\n\n  Custard, Boiled, 97\n\n  Custard, Cold, 89\n\n  Custard, Chocolate, 97\n\n  Custard Pudding, 98\n\n  Custard, Swiss, 84\n\n  Custard with Fruit, Iced, 93\n\n  Custard, Sponge Cake, 83\n\n\n  D.\n\n  Dessert, 84\n\n  Diet for the Sick, 146\n\n  Doughnuts, 103\n\n  Dried Fruit, To stew, 30\n\n  Ducks, To stew, 47\n\n  Ducks, Wild, 48\n\n  Dumplings, Apple, 85\n\n  Dumplings, Fruit, 85\n\n  Dumplings, Peach, 85\n\n\n  E.\n\n  Eggs, To boil, 53\n\n  Eggs, To fry, 53\n\n  Eggs, To poach, 53\n\n  Eggs and Tomatoes, 62\n\n  Eggs, To keep, 66\n\n  Eggs, Scrambled, 53\n\n  Egg Plant, To fry, 60\n\n  Egg Plant, To stew, 60\n\n  Egg Sauce, 26\n\n  Egg Soup, 135\n\n  Egg Toast, 52\n\n  Elderberry Jam, 144\n\n  Elderberry Wine, 129\n\n\n  F.\n\n  Fish, 17\n\n  Flannel Cakes, 72\n\n  Flannels, To wash, 151\n\n  Floating Island, 89\n\n  Florendines, 78\n\n  Flowers, To keep, 150\n\n  Fondus, 39\n\n  Freezing Cream, 90\n\n  Fritters, Apple, 86\n\n  Fritters, Boiled Milk, 86\n\n  Fritters, Indian Meal, 85\n\n  Fritters, Rice Flour, 88\n\n  Furs from Moths, To keep, 150\n\n\n  G.\n\n  German Cakes, 71\n\n  Gingerbread, A very good, 101, 116\n\n  Gingerbread, Crisp, 100\n\n  Gingerbread, Hard, 110, 145\n\n  Gingerbread, Light, 99\n\n  Gingerbread Nuts, 100\n\n  Gingerbread, Soft Molasses, 100\n\n  Gingerbread, Spiced, 101\n\n  Ginger Jumbles, 145\n\n  Goose, To roast, 44\n\n  Gooseberry Fool, 90\n\n  Grape Jelly, Green, 120\n\n  Gravy, 29\n\n  Greens, To boil, 57\n\n  Gruel, Cornmeal, 146\n\n  Gruel, Oatmeal, 146\n\n  Gruel, Rice, 147\n\n  Guinea Fowl, 137\n\n\n  H.\n\n  Haddock, 19\n\n  Halibut, To boil, 18\n\n  Halibut, To fry, 18\n\n  Ham, To boil, 42\n\n  Ham, To boil Stuffed, 42\n\n  Ham, To bake, 42\n\n  Hams and Shoulders, To cure, 42\n\n  Hen's Nest, 96\n\n  Herbs, To gather, 151\n\n  Herring, To pickle, 19\n\n  Hog's Head Cheese, 44\n\n  Hominy, 59\n\n  Hominy, To fry, 59\n\n\n  I.\n\n  Ice Cream, 91\n\n  Icing for Cakes, 99, 114\n\n  Indian Bread, 74\n\n  Indian Breakfast Cakes, 75\n\n  Indian Meal Fritters, 85\n\n  Indian Pudding, 78\n\n  Irish Moss, 89\n\n  Isinglass, To clarify, 94\n\n  Italian Macaroni, 51\n\n\n  J.\n\n  Jam, Elderberry, 144\n\n  Jam, Raspberry, 120\n\n  Jam, Strawberry, 121\n\n  Jelly, 143\n\n  Jelly, Apple, 120\n\n  Jelly Cake, 105\n\n  Jelly, Calf's Feet, 96\n\n  Jelly, Cracker, 149\n\n  Jelly, Currant, 119, 144\n\n  Jelly, Green Grape, 120\n\n  Jelly, (Irish Moss) or Carrageen, 143\n\n  Jelly, Madeira, 95\n\n  Jelly Puffs, 92\n\n  Jelly, Quince, 118\n\n  Jelly, Raspberry, 120\n\n  Jelly, Strawberry, 94\n\n  Journey Cake, 74\n\n  Jumbles, Common, 103\n\n  Jumbles, Good, 102\n\n  Jumbles, Ginger, 145\n\n\n  K.\n\n  Kidneys, 39\n\n  Kisses, 106\n\n\n  L.\n\n  Lady Fingers, 105\n\n  Lamb with Peas, To stew, 36\n\n  Lemonade, 148\n\n  Lemon Cake, 101\n\n  Lemon Cream, 91\n\n  Lemon Juice, To keep, 130\n\n  Lemon Peel, To preserve, 142\n\n  Lemon Pudding, 82\n\n  Lima Beans, 58\n\n  Limes, To preserve, 123\n\n  Liver, 39\n\n  Loaf Cake, 104\n\n  Lobsters, To boil, 22\n\n  Lobster Sauce, 27\n\n  Lobsters, Stewed, 22\n\n\n  M.\n\n  Macaroni, 50\n\n  Macaroni with Cream, 51\n\n  Macaroni, Italian, 51\n\n  Macaroni Pudding, 87\n\n  Macaroons, 102\n\n  Mackerel, To boil, 21\n\n  Mangoes, To pickle, 124\n\n  Marmalade, Peach, 117\n\n  Marmalade, Quince, 118\n\n  Mead, 132\n\n  Melted Butter, 26\n\n  Merang aux Pomme, in Paste, 83\n\n  Merang aux Pomme, with Cream, 83\n\n  Merangues, 103\n\n  Mince Pies, 77\n\n  Mint Sauce, 27\n\n  Mock Turtle Soup, 14\n\n  Mock Turtle or Calf's Head, 34\n\n  Muffins, Mush, 73\n\n  Muffins, Quick, 73\n\n  Muffins, Rice, 73\n\n  Muffins, Risen, 70\n\n  Mullagatawny Soup, 15\n\n  Munsey Pudding, 80\n\n  Mush, To make, 74\n\n  Mush Rolls, 69\n\n  Mushrooms, To pickle, 126\n\n  Mushrooms, To stew, 64\n\n  Mushroom Sauce, 27\n\n  Mutton, To hash, 139\n\n  Mutton, To roast a Loin of, 36\n\n  Mutton, To roast a Leg of, 36\n\n  Mutton, To boil a Breast of, 37\n\n  Mutton, To boil a Leg of, 38\n\n  Mutton, To salt a Leg of, 37\n\n  Mutton, To stew, 38\n\n  Mutton with Mushrooms, To stew, 38\n\n  Mutton like Venison, To dress, 37\n\n  Mutton like Venison, To stew, 39\n\n  Mutton Broth, 12\n\n  Mutton Chops, 37\n\n  Mutton Chops like Venison, 38\n\n  Mutton Steaks, 37\n\n\n  N.\n\n  Nasturtions, To pickle, 125\n\n  Noodles for Soup, 49\n\n\n  O.\n\n  Ochras for Winter, To dry, 62\n\n  Ochra Soup, 15\n\n  Ointment for Mortification, 143\n\n  Omelet, 54\n\n  Omelet Souffle, 54\n\n  Omelette with Cheese, 52\n\n  Omelette with Oysters, 52\n\n  Onions, To cook, 63\n\n  Onion Sauce, 27\n\n  Onions, To pickle, 124\n\n  Orange Pudding, 80\n\n  Oranges, A fancy dish of, 82\n\n  Orange Peel, To preserve, 144\n\n  Orgeat, 130\n\n  Ox Tail Soup, 14\n\n  Oysters, Broiled, 22\n\n  Oyster Fritters, 24\n\n  Oysters, Pickled, 23\n\n  Oyster Pie, 23\n\n  Oyster Plant or Salsify, 55\n\n  Oysters, Roasted, 23\n\n  Oyster Sauce, 26\n\n  Oysters, Scalloped, 24\n\n  Oyster Soup, 13, 136\n\n  Oysters, Stewed, 23\n\n\n  P.\n\n  Pancakes, 86\n\n  Parsnips, 55\n\n  Partridges, 49\n\n  Peaches, To preserve, 116\n\n  Peaches in Brandy, To preserve, 117\n\n  Peach Cheese, 95\n\n  Peach Dumplings, 85\n\n  Peach Ice, 92\n\n  Peach Marmalade, 117\n\n  Peaches, Spiced, 119\n\n  Peaches like Figs, To dry, 123\n\n  Peas, 58\n\n  Pea Soup, 16\n\n  Pears, 118\n\n  Perch, To fry, 21\n\n  Pepper Sauce, 28\n\n  Pepper-pot, 49\n\n  Peppers, To pickle, 125\n\n  Pheasants, To roast, 48\n\n  Piccalille, 127\n\n  Pickles, 124\n\n  Pie, Blackberry, 77\n\n  Pie, Currant, 77\n\n  Pies, Mince, 77\n\n  Pies, Peach, 78\n\n  Pies, Rhubarb, 77\n\n  Pig, To roast, 40\n\n  Pig's Feet, To fry, 40\n\n  Pig's Feet, To souse, 41\n\n  Pig's Head, 40\n\n  Pigeons, 49\n\n  Pignolattis, 140\n\n  Pine Apples, 121\n\n  Pine Apple Preserves, 123\n\n  Plums, 119\n\n  Plums, Green Gage, 121\n\n  Plums, Magnum Bonum, 121\n\n  Poison, For, 152\n\n  Polenta, To make, 50\n\n  Pone, Lightened, 74\n\n  Pork, To roast, 40\n\n  Potatoes, To boil, 55\n\n  Potatoes, To fry, 56\n\n  Potatoes, To stew, 56\n\n  Potatoes, Mashed, 56\n\n  Potatoes, To roast, 57\n\n  Potato Cakes, 75\n\n  Potato Rolls, 72\n\n  Potato Puffs, 114\n\n  Preserves, 116\n\n  Preserves, Pine Apple, 123\n\n  Pudding, Almond, 88\n\n  Pudding, Apple, 98\n\n  Pudding, Arrow Root, 80\n\n  Pudding, Bird's Nest, 98\n\n  Pudding, Bread, 79\n\n  Pudding, Cocoanut, 79\n\n  Pudding, Corn Starch, 87\n\n  Pudding, Cottage, 140\n\n  Pudding, Cream, 78\n\n  Pudding, Custard, 98\n\n  Pudding, Farina, 87\n\n  Pudding, Flour (baked,) 86\n\n  Pudding, Flour (boiled,) 98\n\n  Pudding, Green Corn, 99\n\n  Pudding, Indian, 78\n\n  Pudding, Lemon, 82\n\n  Pudding, Macaroni, 87\n\n  Pudding, Munsey, 80\n\n  Pudding, Orange, 80\n\n  Pudding, Peach, 81\n\n  Pudding, Plum, 81\n\n  Pudding, Poor Man's, 79\n\n  Pudding, Pumpkin, 82\n\n  Pudding, Quick, 86\n\n  Pudding, Rice, 78, 87\n\n  Pudding, Rice (Jersey,) 80\n\n  Pudding, Rice (boiled,) 88\n\n  Pudding, Sago, 79\n\n  Pudding, Sponge Cake, 80\n\n  Pudding, Sweet Potato, 81\n\n  Pudding, Tapioca, 79\n\n  Pudding, Transparent, 97\n\n  Pudding, Vermicelli, 87\n\n  Puff Paste, 75, 76\n\n  Puffs, French, 92\n\n  Puffs, Jelly, 92\n\n  Puffs, Potato, 114\n\n  Punch, Cream of Tartar, 148\n\n  Punch, Roman, 137\n\n\n  Q.\n\n  Queen Cake, 102\n\n  Quinces, 117\n\n  Quince Jelly, 118\n\n  Quince Marmalade, 118\n\n\n  R.\n\n  Rabbits, To fry, 48\n\n  Rabbits, To stew, 48\n\n  Raspberry Cream, 91, 95\n\n  Raspberry Jam, 120\n\n  Raspberry Vinegar, 130\n\n  Rennet, To prepare, 25\n\n  Rice Flour Fritters, 88\n\n  Rice Gruel, 147\n\n  Rice Milk, 88\n\n  Rice Pudding, 78, 80, 87, 88\n\n  Rice Sponge Cake, 106\n\n  Rock Fish, To boil, 21\n\n  Rock Fish, To fry, 21\n\n  Rolls, Bread, 69\n\n  Rolls, Mush, 69\n\n  Rolls, Potato, 72\n\n  Rolls, Twist, 70\n\n  Rologee, 39\n\n  Rose Brandy, 129\n\n  Rusks, 109\n\n  Rusks, (Common,) 115\n\n\n  S.\n\n  Sago, 148\n\n  Salad, To dress, 54\n\n  Salad, Chicken, 51\n\n  Sally Lunn, 72\n\n  Salmon, To boil, 20\n\n  Salmon, To pickle, 20\n\n  Salsify or Oyster Plant, 55\n\n  Sauce, Venison, 29\n\n  Sauce, Wine, 28\n\n  Sausage Meat, To make, 43\n\n  Scrapple, To make, 41\n\n  Sea Bass, 19\n\n  Sea Kale, 65\n\n  Seed Cake, 104\n\n  Shad, To bake, 17\n\n  Shad, To broil, 18\n\n  Shad, Potted, 138\n\n  Shavings, 100\n\n  Sheep's Head, To boil, 19\n\n  Slaw, Cold, 64\n\n  Slaw, Hot or Cold, 64\n\n  Smearcase, or Cottage Cheese, 25\n\n  Smelts, To fry, 21\n\n  Snipe or Woodcock, To roast, 48\n\n  Snow, A dish of, 141\n\n  Soda Cakes, 70\n\n  Soup, Clam, 135\n\n  Soup, Egg, 135\n\n  Soup, Oyster, 136\n\n  Soup, Turtle, 134\n\n  Soup, Veal, 12\n\n  Soup, Vegetable, 148\n\n  Soup for the Sick, 136\n\n  Spanish Olio, 50\n\n  Spice Nuts, 145\n\n  Spinach, 57\n\n  Sponge Cake, 105, 140\n\n  Sponge Cake in form of a Ham, 93\n\n  Sponge Cake, Custard, 83\n\n  Sponge Cake, Rice, 106\n\n  Spruce Beer, 132\n\n  Squashes, 63\n\n  Sting of a Bee, or Wasp, 152\n\n  Stock for Soups and Gravy, 138\n\n  Strawberries, To preserve, 121\n\n  Strawberry Jam, 121\n\n  Strawberry Jelly, 94\n\n  Strawberry Whips, 84\n\n  Sturgeon, To boil, 19\n\n  Succotash, 138\n\n  Sugar, To clarify, 94\n\n  Sugar Drops, 139\n\n  Sweet Breads, 35\n\n  Sweet Breads, To stew, 139\n\n  Sweet Breads, To roast, 139\n\n  Sweet Breads and Oyster Pie, 35\n\n  Sweet Potatoes, To fry, 57\n\n  Sweet Potatoes, To boil, 57\n\n  Syllabub, 141\n\n\n  T.\n\n  Tamarind Water, 147\n\n  Tea, To make, 66\n\n  Tea, Balm, 150\n\n  Terrapins, 24, 136\n\n  Throat, For a Sore, 152\n\n  Toast Water, 148\n\n  Toast, Milk, 150\n\n  Toddy, Apple, 137\n\n  Tomatoes, To stew, 60, 61\n\n  Tomatoes, To broil, 61\n\n  Tomatoes, To bake, 61, 62\n\n  Tomatoes and Ochras, 62\n\n  Tomatoes, To pickle, 125\n\n  Tomatoes, To pickle green, 126\n\n  Tomatoes, To preserve green, 118\n\n  Trifle, 89\n\n  Tripe, To fry, 25\n\n  Trout, 19\n\n  Turbot, 18\n\n  Turkey, To roast, 44\n\n  Turkey, To boil, 45\n\n  Turnips, 55\n\n  Turtle Soup, 134\n\n\n  V.\n\n  Veal, 33\n\n  Veal, To stew, 34\n\n  Veal, To roast a Loin of, 33\n\n  Veal, To bake a Fillet of, 34\n\n  Veal Cutlets, 34\n\n  Veal Gravy, 29\n\n  Veal Potpie, 137\n\n  Veal Soup, 12\n\n  Vegetables for Winter, To keep, 64\n\n  Venison Sauce, 29\n\n  Vinegar, Celery, 28\n\n  Vinegar, Raspberry, 130\n\n\n  W.\n\n  Wafers, 106\n\n  Waffles, Quick, 73\n\n  Water Melon Rinds, 122\n\n  Whips, 89\n\n  White Cake, 107\n\n  Wild Cherry Brandy, 129\n\n  Windows, To wash, 151\n\n  Wine, Elderberry, 129\n\n  Wine Sauce, 28\n\n  Wine Whey, 147\n\n  Woodcock, or Snipe, To roast, 48\n\n\n  Y.\n\n  Yeast, 67\n\n\n\n\n      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\nInconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.\n\n\n\n***","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n###### KEN SMITH\n\n##### COLLECTED POEMS\n\nKen Smith (1938-2003) was a major voice in world poetry, his work and example inspiring a whole generation of younger British poets. His politically edgy, cuttingly colloquial, muscular poetry shifted territory with time, from rural Yorkshire, America and London to the war-ravaged Balkans and Eastern Europe (before and after Communism). His early books span a transition from a preoccupation with land and myth to his later engagement with urban Britain and the politics of radical disaffection.\n\nHis _Collected Poems_ brings together poetry from four decades, including all the work from two earlier retrospectives, _The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962-1980_ (1982) and _Shed: Poems 1980-2001_ (2002), and from the posthumously published _You Again: last poems & other words_ (2004), as well as additional poems from two early collections, _The Pity_ (1967) and _Work, distances \/ poems_ (1972). The book is introduced with essays by Roger Garfitt and Jon Glover. Publication coincides with what would have been his 80th birthday and with the 40th anniversary of the publication of Bloodaxe's first title, Ken Smith's _Tristan Crazy_ (1978).\n\n'Ken Smith was a great poet... His last retrospective collection, _Shed_ , confirmed the immense power of his poetry.' \u2013 JON GLOVER, _Guardian_\n\n'Smith's writing exists in permanent disagreement with English fashion. A huge cast of overheard characters, wanderers, losers and remembrancers passes through his writing, bound by a common sense of loss and endurance.' \u2013 SEAN O'BRIEN, _Sunday Times_\n\n'His poems are squeezed out from under the unrelenting pressures of history, politics and the natural elements... some of his poems read like translations from war-ravaged Eastern Europe.' \u2013 CHARLES BOYLE, _London Magazine_\n\n'Ken Smith brought an original and memorable voice to poetry in Britain. He spent his writing life not so much swimming against the tide as ignoring the stream's existence... He was one of those by whom the language lives.' \u2013 SEAN O'BRIEN, _Independent_\n\nCover portrait: Ken Smith in Newcastle (1985) by Moira Conway\n\nKen Smith, London, 1982\n**KEN SMITH**\n\n# **Collected Poems**\n\n# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS\n\nThis edition includes all the poems from Ken Smith's two previous retrospectives, _The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962-1980_ (Bloodaxe Books, 1982) and _Shed: Poems 1980-2001_ (Bloodaxe Books, 2002), the latter including all the poetry which he wished to keep in print from that period. More poems have been included from his first collection, _The Pity_ (Jonathan Cape, 1967), as well as all the poems from his second book-length collection, _Work, distances \/ poems_ (Swallow Press, Chicago, 1972), in their original order but with later revised texts or revised titles taken from _The Poet Reclining_ in some cases, and with some other poems from the same period added where they appear in the selection he made for _The Poet Reclining_. The final section is of poems written after _Shed_ from the posthumously published _You Again: last poems & other words_ (Bloodaxe Books, 2004). _Collected Poems_ does not include the prose of _A Book of Chinese Whispers_ (Bloodaxe Books, 1987), which remains separately available. More details of original publication are given in the bibliography on page .\n\n# CONTENTS\n\n  1. TITLE PAGE\n  2. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS\n  3. [ROGER GARFITT: Ken Smith: _The Poet Reclining_  \nLIFE & WORK, 1: 1938\u20131986](9781780374338_other_04.html#Other4)\n  4. [JON GLOVER: Ken Smith: _Terra_ to _Shed_  \nLIFE & WORK, 2: 1986\u20132003](9781780374338_other_05.html#Other5)\n  5. **_from_ THE PITY (1967)**\n  6. Fossil \n  7. Grass \n  8. Means \n  9. Both harvests \n  10. Family group \n  11. Country: Keld to Reeth \n  12. The Pity \n  13. The Humanities, Dept of Literature \n  14. Lorca \n  15. Translation \n  16. Train \n  17. Between us \n  18. The hunter \n  19. Water \n  20. Europe\n  21. The street \n  22. The past \n  23. Leaving \n  24. A fragment \n  25. **_from_ WORK, DISTANCES \/ POEMS (1972)** \n  26. **_Poems 1967\u20131969_**\n  27. Exiles \n  28. Suburb \n  29. She speaks \n  30. The child's version \n  31. Age \n  32. Bitter \n  33. The boss \n  34. The son* \n  35. Gravedigger* \n  36. A good fox \n  37. Beyond breath \n  38. Persistent narrative \n  39. Skull \n  40. Somewhere else \n  41. Old mill, Newton St Cyres \n  42. The Amana Colonies \n  43. Inventory\/Itinerary \n  44. Farmer \n  45. Figures at daybreak \n  46. Going \n  47. L.A. \n  48. Poem 1 \n  49. Poem 2\n\n  50. **_The stone poems_** (1971)\n  51. The stone poems*\n\n  52. **_Death Songs\/Death Dances_** \n  53. Dream journeys \n  54. From the Nahua \n  55. On the north coast, Barnstaple \n  56. Where winter begins \n  57. Abandoned village \n  58. Song for the whites \n  59. The Sioux cleared from Minnesota \n  60. Here \n  61. Crying woman \n  62. Ghost songs \n  63. Ghost dances \n  64. In this place \n  65. Where did I learn such quiet \n  66. In Pennsylvania, winter's end \n  67. Little notes \n  68. After a journey\n\n  69. **_The Eli Poems_ **\n  70. The marsh \n  71. The third month \n  72. Eli's poem \n  73. The rooming house \n  74. His lament \n  75. The obsession \n  76. What was done \n  77. The door \n  78. Half songs, 1790*\n\n  79. **_The Wild Turkey_** \n  80. Wild Turkey One \n  81. Wild Turkey Two \n  82. Living in the Danelaw \n  83. The author, a teacher of petomania, reflects on the shortcomings of his students \n  84. The visit \n  85. Wild Turkey Six \n  86. Another part of his childhood \n  87. A description of the Lichway or corpse-road across Dartmoor \n  88. A farewell to the city of Exeter in south-west England \n  89. In the Americas, so the tale goes \n  90. A journey through part of western Pennsylvania \n  91. Wild Turkey Twelve \n  92. Wild Turkey Thirteen \n  93. The dream\n\n  94. * These poems were not included in _Work, distances_ but are from the same period and were printed with them in _The Poet Reclining_.\n  95. **_from_ THE POET RECLINING: SELECTED POEMS 1962-1980 (1982)**\n  96. Wolf vision \n  97. Hawk vision \n  98. Remembering when he was a wolf \n  99. Another night of muttering \n  100. Tales of Urias the shape-shifter \n  101. My father fading out \n  102. Valley \n  103. Childhood in the lowlands \n  104. Sunk Island, that winter \n  105. Old postcards of the river \n  106. The swan \n  107. Playing field observations \n  108. The Tivoli Bar \n  109. Federico \n  110. Maria the thief \n  111. Caesar Caesar \n  112. Reports from the east \n  113. To survive \n  114. Bowl \n  115. Wants \n  116. The veterans \n  117. Peasant \n  118. Duck at Haldon Ponds \n  119. Fly \n  120. Lake \n  121. Crocus \n  122. From the southern river \n  123. Winter occasions \n  124. At the Western Beacon, the second of the songs of Urias \n  125. Moir\u00e9 effect\n\n  126. **_Tristan Crazy_ **(1978)\n  127. One for sorrow \n  128. Two for nobody \n  129. Three: tales of the hunter \n  130. Four, being a prayer to the western wind \n  131. Five, which is here by the river \n  132. Six: the wife's complaint \n  133. Seven: when he can't sleep for thinking \n  134. Eight. The singer \n  135. Nine: Shorty's advice to the players \n  136. Ten: the tale unfinished\n\n  137. **_Fun City Winter_** (1977) \n  138. A red carnation \n  139. The town, a general description \n  140. The stone gatherer \n  141. By the northern sea, a farewell to one woman\n\n  142. **_Apocrypha from the Western Kingdom_** \n  143. 1 Six items heard in three locations in Leeds and Exeter \n  144. 2 At the coll\u00e8ge des beaux arts Escanceaster six further items imagined \n  145. 3 Surprised again beside the river \n  146. 4 Some unfinished movements \n  147. 5 Old business: the drowned bride \n  148. 6 A right curse on the enemy\n\n  149. **_The clearing_** \n  150. The clearing\n\n  151. **_Fox Running_** (1980) ****\n  152. Fox Running\n\n  153. **_The Poet Reclining_** \n  154. Spartan communiqu\u00e9 \n  155. From the Vale of White Horse: some news \n  156. Being the third song of Urias \n  157. In transit \n  158. Hun\u00e9us the shoemaker \n  159. Operations undertaken at or near the surface \n  160. Shallow dreaming \n  161. Old movies \n  162. Transcription of the crying woman \n  163. Planting aloes \n  164. Mouth \n  165. Tongue \n  166. The Ubi Sunt variations \n  167. The poet reclining \n  168. The night music \n  169. Fox in October \n  170. **_from_ BURNED BOOKS** (1981)\n  171. Recitation at the burned books \n  172. San Quixote of the cinders \n  173. Some notes on Perdu \n  174. Lost letter to Didot \n  175. A survivor \n  176. Fragment: memo to Milto\n  177. Nicholson's advice \n  178. Hunter's piece\n  179. The discovery of metal\n  180. From Belmont, a ghetto song\n  181. From the plain \n  182. From the book of changes\n  183. A note to his landlady \n  184. Towards a coda \n  185. Perdu: his last appearance in history\n  186. **_from_ ABEL BAKER CHARLIE DELTA** (1981) \n  187. the pussy willow song \n  188. without lime that is \n  189. abel baker ashore \n  190. supposing it's friday \n  191. his appearance in the white hart \n  192. remember young squire \n  193. now there's a subject \n  194. and as for you lot \n  195. charlie delta adrift \n  196. sight of the enemy \n  197. then there's my publications \n  198. nice one \n  199. where francis drake did drink \n  200. the one you got three days for in achiltibue \n  201. charlie growing old \n  202. no reply to that \n  203. and finally \n  204. **TERRA(1986)**\n  205. Hawkwood \n  206. Colden Valley \n  207. Roads in the north between two seas \n  208. Commercial break: RSK Porsche \n  209. Communiqu\u00e9 from desk 19 \n  210. Lilith \n  211. Het achterhuis \n  212. Letters from a lost uncle \n  213. Bogart in the dumb waiter \n  214. Three from the freak house \n  215. 1 _The tattooed woman_\n  216. 2 _Tiger Lill_\n  217. 3 _Tom Peeper_ \n  218. Hatred of barbers \n  219. The ballad of Eddie Linden at Earl's Court\n  220. **_The London Poems_** \n  221. After Mr Mayhew's visit \n  222. Encounter at St Martin's\n  223. The meridian at Greenwich\n  224. Movies after midnight\n  225. In Silvertown, chasing the dragon\n  226. Beyond hope and the Lea River\n  227. Clipper service\n  228. Message on the machine\n  229. Unfinished portrait\n  230. Out West\n  231. Leaving the Angel \n  232. At the Barbican\n  233. The talk at the big house\n  234. Dosser\n  235. Slow dancer's epitaph\n  236. The house of the androgynes\n  237. Of things past\n  238. Tube talk\n  239. Nobody's apartment\n  240. Your friend the drifter\n  241. Talking with God\n  242. The window of vulnerability\n  243. A bad day at HQ\n  244. Drinking at Dirty Dick's\n  245. The soldier's tale\n  246. A case of medals\n  247. Absolutely no selling\n  248. The Botanic Garden Oath\n  249. Not talking on the Circle Line\n  250. Person to person transatlantic\n  251. The John Poems\n  252. **_Ignore previous telegram_** \n  253. The Olympic Year\n  254. Aggie's advice \n  255. The actor \n  256. Eva's story \n  257. Autumn with full summer \n  258. Old Westerns \n  259. How to get a job \n  260. Two parts haiku \n  261. The Russians \n  262. The program \n  263. At the rostrum \n  264. The 1984 Tour of Britain \n  265. Visiting Americans \n  266. The previous telegram \n  267. Message from the Basque country \n  268. The black report \n  269. Bonnie over the ocean \n  270. Conditions in the west \n  271. Nielsen's visit \n  272. Living with the boss \n  273. The space salesman \n  274. Snobby Roberts' message \n  275. Remembering the Fifties \n  276. Graffiti in the hall of athletes \n  277. Long distances \n  278. The relay runner \n  279. Disco dancing in Streatham \n  280. To exorcise a blackbird \n  281. Gone for gold \n  282. Suburb city \n  283. Departure's speech \n  284. **WORMWOOD(1987)**\n  285. For Nicki in December \n  286. Airport silences \n  287. From my American period \n  288. Fun City encore \n  289. The rope \n  290. Serbian letters \n  291. A theme of razors \n  292. The wanderer Yakob\n  293. **_As it happens_** \n  294. On the swings \n  295. Wormwood \n  296. For the lost boys, sleepless\n  297. in the house of green ginger \n  298. the remembered city \n  299. in the flats, flat voices \n  300. Elsewhere the same night\n  301. As it happens \n  302. you owe me \n  303. it happens \n  304. Talking with the censor \n  305. My father with two knives \n  306. Towards daylight\n  307. The bee dance \n  308. Cain's songs \n  309. For the boys on the wing \n  310. What the righteous don't know \n  311. Bodies \n  312. Timekeeper \n  313. At the solstice \n  314. The night whispers \n  315. Carteret plage \n  316. **THE HEART, THE BORDER(1990)**\n  317. In the Evangelical Cemetery, San Michele, Venice \n  318. Dorothea extempore \n  319. Writing in prison \n  320. Greetings from the Winter Palace \n  321. Jack's postcards \n  322. The pornographer \n  323. Figures in three landscapes: \n  324. _One: Brady at Saddleworth Moor_\n  325. _Two: Hungerford nights_ \n  326. _Three: Murder at White House Farm_\n  327. Against the grain \n  328. Three Docklands fragments: \n  329. 1 _The Enterprise Zone_\n  330. 2 _Of things to come_\n  331. 3 _Yuppy love_ \n  332. The New Management \n  333. Running on empty \n  334. Imaginary confrontations \n  335. Intercepted letters: Harry inside \n  336. Intercepted letters: Harry on the road \n  337. Back from Leah's country \n  338. The spectator's terrace, Gatwick \n  339. Then the heart \n  340. First echo \n  341. Braille transcripts \n  342. The furniture game \n  343. Epitaph for a gardener \n  344. The annunciation \n  345. Venetian pieces: \n  346. _The Chamber of Torment_\n  347. _Casanova in the room of the Inquisitors_\n  348. _Sinistra_\n  349. _The baron regrets_\n  350. Neapolitan interiors: \n  351. _Views around the bay_\n  352. _Ercolano's message_\n  353. _A traveller's question_\n  354. _Postscript: nunc pro tunc_\n  355. The magic of Poland \n  356. _One_\n  357. _Two, the waitresses in Old Town_\n  358. _Three, the music of the Emperor_\n  359. Monument \n  360. Zoo Station midnight \n  361. Katja's message \n  362. The Wall \n  363. Passing through \n  364. Chinese whisper \n  365. After Brecht\n  366. **TENDER TO THE QUEEN OF SPAIN(1993)**\n  367. Tender to the Queen of Spain \n  368. Milly's end \n  369. The other elegy \n  370. The painter Mannfred Otto \n  371. Jack remembering \n  372. Brother Scratchwood \n  373. One of Milly's gifts \n  374. Three in a play \n  375. Woman without a name \n  376. Part of something else \n  377. Later in the tearoom \n  378. The blue time \n  379. Accounts \n  380. Brief encounter on the Yellowdog \n  381. The bad news \n  382. Film noir \n  383. Beginning again with a line heard in the street \n  384. Another day another dollar \n  385. Scenes from metropolitan life \n  386. The lives of the saints \n  387. The maker of fakes \n  388. Johannes from Dresden \n  389. Insomnia 1, 2, 3 \n  390. The emigrant \n  391. Filmclip: Leningrad, October 1935 \n  392. A survivor's memoir \n  393. By the Master of Jakabfalva, 1480 \n  394. No reply from the East \n  395. His epistle to the Tatars \n  396. Poem ending in frogs \n  397. Essential Serbo-Croat \n  398. Lovesong for Kate Adie \n  399. The fat man's movie \n  400. Task 17 \n  401. Task 18: the unmasking procedure \n  402. Positive identification \n  403. The Chicken Variations \n  404. Her mirror \n  405. The road to Henrietta's house \n  406. In praise of vodka \n  407. The carpenter's confession \n  408. The man who ran away from the circus \n  409. Interrogating the egg-timer \n  410. Unaccompanied singing \n  411. **WILD ROOT(1998)**\n  412. **_Eddie's other lives_** \n  413. Absent \n  414. Country music \n  415. Chief \n  416. When that cop come \n  417. Joy #1 \n  418. In the next street \n  419. Joy #2 \n  420. Poem to which the answer is no \n  421. More stick \n  422. Joy #3 \n  423. Joy #4 \n  424. The geography of clouds \n  425. East of here, west of here \n  426. Noises off \n  427. Joy #5 \n  428. Speech \n  429. A dream of disaster \n  430. Dead trousers \n  431. The theft \n  432. Joy #6 \n  433. The telephone is in the key of C \n  434. Before the Lisbon tribunal \n  435. Poem without a title \n  436. Part of the crowd that day \n  437. With a name like Spratt \n  438. Suspicion of reporters \n  439. White noise \n  440. Body Cakes \n  441. Archive footage \n  442. First and last, Alderney \n  443. Poem for translation \n  444. For Julia, 1910-1996 \n  445. Looking for the constant \n  446. No one \n  447. Countryside around Dixton Manor, _circa_ 1715 \n  448. The Great Hat Project \n  449. Go tell the honey ant \n  450. Columbus to Isabella \n  451. Days on Dog Hill \n  452. Here \n  453. Night at the Blind Beggar \n  454. The gracenote \n  455. Narrow Road, Deep North \n  456. Blue Prague, the worst you can say in Czech \n  457. Journey without maps: \n  458. 1 _Night train_\n  459. 2 _September distances_ \n  460. 3 _What Feri said_\n  461. 4 _Glimpse_\n  462. 5 _Flatlands_\n  463. 6 _Closed border, Slavonia_\n  464. 7 _TV in the East_\n  465. 8 _Waking in Heroes' Park_\n  466. Moscow dogs \n  467. Georgia, Georgia \n  468. **_Hungarian quartet_** \n  469. _The night anywhere_\n  470. _S\u00e1ndor the poet_\n  471. _Misi's song_\n  472. _Dmitri's song_\n  473. The Shadow of God \n  474. **_Wire through the heart_** \n  475. Where the scythe has been \n  476. Signed sealed & delivered \n  477. The Secret Police \n  478. Intermezzo, Sub-Carpathia, May 97 \n  479. In any case \n  480. Hucul \n  481. Heaven's dust \n  482. Border theatre \n  483. Malenki robot \n  484. **SHED(2001)**\n  485. Trillium \n  486. The Millennium near Barking \n  487. The other shadow \n  488. **_The land of Cockaigne_** \n  489. South \n  490. Paperwork for the Consul \n  491. Little lost poem \n  492. Bodega de carne \n  493. From Lorca \n  494. Coda: Montezuma's revenge \n  495. **_The Watch_** \n  496. El Pacifico \n  497. The wife's sister \n  498. So be it \n  499. Midnight angst \n  500. Asleep \n  501. The story so far \n  502. Reflections, shaving \n  503. The neighbour \n  504. The shed in question \n  505. After the storm \n  506. Mail from the Campania \n  507. The afternoon \n  508. Midday, Anna \n  509. Interim \n  510. Evening primrose \n  511. Wall dreams \n  512. Transit \n  513. Th\u00e9 dansant \n  514. Fast forward \n  515. Just one of you \n  516. The Donegal Liar \n  517. **YOU AGAIN (2004) **\n  518. **_LAST POEMS_**\n  519. Late night call \n  520. Ancient Lights \n  521. You again \n  522. The 72 virgins question \n  523. Bin Laden is Ken Smith \n  524. From Semtex to Anthrax \n  525. The Ring \n  526. **_Almost_ **\n  527. _IM Izet Sarajli\u0107_\n  528. _Everything, almost_\n  529. _Begins like this_\n  530. _Nema problema_\n  531. _Nightbird_\n  532. _Listening_\n  533. _Split interlude at deadmouse.com_\n  534. _Night coming_\n  535. _Things_\n  536. _Seafarer_\n  537. _On the other hand_\n  538. _Old man's advice_\n  539. _For Jan Morris_\n  540. _A night of many dreams_\n  541. _Almost not a sonnet_\n  542. _I rest my case_\n  543. Poverty's prayer \n  544. The white chair \n  545. **APPENDICES** \n  546. SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY\n  547. COLLECTED POEMS\n  548. INDEX OF TITLES AND SUB-TITLES\n  549. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n  550. COPYRIGHT\n\n# [ROGER GARFITT  \nKen Smith: _The Poet Reclining_](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(LIFE & WORK, 1: 1938-1986)**\n\nKenneth John Smith was born on 4 December 1938 in Rudston, a village in the North Riding of Yorkshire, the son of a farm labourer, John Patrick Smith (1904-71) and Millicent (Milly) Emma ( _n\u00e9e_ Sitch) Smith (1911-90). Harsh conditions and an unyielding temper ensured that his father never kept a job for long. The first of the wanderer figures that haunt Smith's poetry were his own family, moving on at the end of harvest:\n\na darker blur on the stubble,\n\na fragment in time gone, we left\n\nnot a mark, not: a footprint.\n\nThe isolation of this life meant that he grew up 'talking to myself and inventing mates', which is where 'the habit of inventing people and dialogue, stories and fictions' began.\n\nSolitude intensified when he moved to the city at the age of 13. The horizon shrank, the world became small and hostile. His conversation with himself became silent and turned to writing. His father had saved enough to buy a grocer's shop in Hull, an independence with which he rapidly became embittered. He prospered and bought a second shop, which Smith ran when he left school. But there were continual violent arguments, in which Smith had to defend his mother. It was a situation Smith was locked into until, at the age of 19, conscription released him.\n\nIn the Air Force he became a typist, and assuaged his boredom by reading widely and completing his university entrance qualifications. He was demobilised in the spring of 1960, returning to Hull, where he married Ann Minnis, a secretary, on 1 August. In the autumn they moved to Leeds where he read English at the university.\n\nLeeds had become an important literary centre. The school of English included Wilson Knight, Douglas Jefferson and Geoffrey Hill, who was then teaching contemporary poetry. Jon Silkin had just completed two years as Gregory Fellow in Poetry and was now an English undergraduate himself. His successors as Gregory Fellow were William Price Turner and Peter Redgrove. Literary activity centred on the weekly magazine _Poetry and Audience_ , of which Smith became assistant editor. Through _Poetry and Audience_ he met Silkin, and in 1963 he became a co-editor of _Stand_ , an association that lasted until 1969.\n\nFor a few months after graduating with a B.A. in 1963 he edited, reviewed, and wrote full-time. But his daughter Nicole had been born in 1961 and the pressure of supporting a family soon forced him into teaching, first at a school in Dewsbury (1963-64), then at Dewsbury and Batley Technical and Art College (1964-65). His son Danny was born in 1965 and his daughter Kate in 1966. In 1965 he moved south, to teach complementary studies at Exeter College of Art. The teaching proved complementary for him too. His own education had been literary and linear: from the art students he learned to think laterally, by image and association, and acquired a much sharper visual sense. It was a development that was to prove crucial to his poetry.\n\nHis first pamphlet, _Eleven Poems_ , was published by Northern House in 1964 and his first collection, _The Pity_ , by Jonathan Cape in 1967. _The Pity_ was very well reviewed. P.J. Kavanagh wrote in the _Guardian_ , 'Anyone who despairs of contemporary verse should be led by the hand to this book.' The most arresting poem is the title-poem, which incorporates the lines Mao Tse-tung wrote in prison when his pregnant wife was garroted in the next cell:\n\nI cut my hands on the cords at the strangling-post\n\nbut no blood spilled from my veins;\n\ninstead of blood I watched and saw the pity run out of me.\n\nWriting in Mao's voice, Smith gives a restrained and sensitive account of that moment of inner revolution when 'Compassion... takes the hawk's wing, diving.'\n\nIn one sense Smith's poetry was released as soon as he was free from study. He wrote 'The pity' and 'Family group' in the week that he graduated. In another sense the poems still felt like studies, the results of conscious writing strategies. Despite the achievement of _The Pity_ , he felt the need to break his habits of mind, to break free from his cultural inheritance: 'Part of being English is that we entertain really only a few footholds on the imagination.'\n\nIn 1969 he moved to America, where he took up a post as writer in residence at Slippery Rock State College in Pennsylvania. Once outside England he felt free 'to take much bigger risks...to follow out ridiculous ideas...I could invent much more, push a particular image in ways that in English poetry would be regarded as luxurious.' He learned from the work of American poets: James Wright, Robert Bly, David Ignatow, William Stafford, and the Alaskan poems of John Haines.\n\nHe learned still more, perhaps, from oral and primitive poetry, in which there was a revival of interest in America at that time. His second collection, _Work, distances\/poems_ (Swallow Press, Chicago, 1972), includes 'Ghost songs', 'Ghost dances', and an adaptation, 'From the Nahua': but particular borrowings are important only as indications of a deeper influence on his poetic language that persisted on his return to England. When he walks beside a playing field in Exeter and writes of\n\naccepting my birthday.\n\nHow the shadows move in\n\nat such news and are strange\n\nin the light. This feather\n\nleft for his marker my brother\n\nthe crow had dropped by the goalpost\n\nseems a dead man's finger\n\nkeeping his page\n\nin the unfinished biography,\n\nhe is re-entering, if only for the space of a metaphor, a universe that is a unity, where the poet can discern his own myth taking shape in correspondences, reflections, foreshadowings. Poetry ceases to be what it so often is in England, an art of framed observations: it becomes the spelling out of a selfhood, 'a language to speak to myself'. The practice of the poet becomes a matter\n\nof silence\n\nand waiting, how to forget,\n\nhow sleep, to see and not notice\n\nthe moment the mind\n\ntakes to its channel, its\n\nleaping and threading and listening,\n\nthe business of dreams, visions,\n\nand distant barely perceptible sounds\n\n\u2013 how they effect\n\nwhat is brought to the world's gate.\n\nOne sequence is literally 'the business of dreams'. 'The Eli poems' sprang, as Smith describes in a prose passage, 'the door', from insistent dreams of a landscape through which two figures moved, Eli, a lodging-house keeper, and Kate, a mill girl he had got with child. The first poem, 'Eli's poem', was dreamed complete as a poem on a page in a book and typed out immediately on waking. The final poem, 'Half songs, 1790', came from a waking dream a year later, a daylight glimpse of Kate that was like 'a going and a showing at the same time'.\n\nMore often Smith works from a kind of personal archaeology. The sequence _The clearing_ came from exploring an actual clearing (set in 'Minnesota perhaps' but in fact in Massachusetts) and sifting through the settler's abandoned house. Once again a prose passage, ' _Concerning the clearing_ ', gives the genesis of the poems. Into this reconstructed history, the sense of 'poverty rising out of the ground', he weaves elements of his own mythology. The hawk of 'Hawk vision', who in a moment of liberation 'diving \/ somehow upward' vanished, now returns 'hungry, \/ weary, wrong-muscled, \/ grey bird of my death'. The fusion of personal myth with documentary material is Smith's way of relating his own life to the unity of lives, of reaffirming that he is 'a cry among cries'.\n\n'Tales of Urias the shape-shifter', an intermittent sequence, began to take shape in Yorkshire beside Colden Water, a moorland stream that became a mill stream in the Industrial Revolution. One root of the poem is a local belief, recorded by Elizabeth Gaskell, that 'there were little people, there were spirits here...until the machinery came'. Another root is Smith's own sense of\n\nsomething very surly and crushed that for the sake of a metaphor...for the sake of a fiction you could say was the spirit of that water...My sense of the world is not much in common with my time...The universe is articulate, it is trying to speak, we are one of the agencies by which it speaks,\n\npart of how the world thinks\n\nso through us the blank\n\nstuff of space knows itself.\n\nBut we're not the only agency.\n\nHere again Smith's poetry forms part of an older tradition. 'The kingdom' of which he writes is the kingdom of William Blake's grain of sand, of Thomas Traherne's Orient and immortal wheat. 'The other world' appears when we give proper attention to this world:\n\nDescribing the buds of the sycamore\n\ncoming out boxed each 4 to unfold\n\nis to be in the other world\n\nlistening in this one.\n\nThree years at Slippery Rock were followed by a year as poet in residence to the College of the Holy Cross and Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts. _Work, distances\/poems_ , which had been rejected by three English publishers, was well-received in America. Ralph J. Mills, writing in the _Chicago Sun-Times_ , welcomed Smith as 'a poet of formidable range and strength'. Smith returned to England in 1973 but continued to travel extensively in America and to have his work published in America. He continued to be better-known in America until Bloodaxe's publication in 1982 of _The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962-1980_ re-established his reputation in Britain. _The Poet Reclining_ is a testament to Smith's integrity and endurance. A major imaginative enterprise 'in the American grain', it had to be sustained against the grain of contemporary English poetry.\n\nThere is no stylistic or thematic division between _Work, distances_ and _The Poet Reclining_ as there is between _Work, distances_ and _The Pity_ , and the above discussion of Smith's work ranges freely between them. But ten years separate the two volumes, ten years in which Smith became virtually an underground poet in Britain. He received an Arts Council Bursary in 1975 and from 1977 to 1979 he was the founder editor of _South West Review_. But his own work surfaced only in pamphlets. From 1976 to 1978 he was Yorkshire Arts Fellow at Leeds University, commuting from Exeter, where his wife Ann held a secretarial post. Immediately after the Leeds Fellowship was over, the marriage broke up.\n\nSmith moved to London and into the experiences of his long poem _Fox Running_ (1980), a brilliant recreation of a man under stress encountering the city. Rapid, compulsive rhythms create flicker pictures of the Underground and the seedier districts, in which Fox glimpses his double, the shadow he could so easily become:\n\nFaces\n\nmentioning defeat saying\n\nbankruptcy desertion failure redundancy\n\nlost bottle. Their light\n\nthat had gone or never lit\n\nor they burned now on the lamp oil\n\nof necessity the pure oil\n\nof ageing euphoria.\n\nAll that separates them is the survival instinct, whatever it is in Fox that 'speaks \/ from the lengthening floor \/ of his blood his conviction \/ _not me not me jack_ '. Smith finished up as a live-in barman in an Irish pub in Kilburn. As a poet he survived, in the words of Jeff Nuttall's _Guardian_ review, by 'taking heartbreak in both hands and using it like bricks and mortar to build art... _Fox Running_ is an astonishing leap in compositional scope'.\n\nThrough the University of Antioch in London Smith met the American writer Judi Benson and made a new home with her and her son Todd. From 1979 to 1981 he was writer in residence at Kingston Polytechnic, and they moved to East Ham.\n\n_The Poet Reclining_ was widely acclaimed, even critics like Peter Porter, who would be hostile to the element of projective verse in Smith's poetics, being forced into 'a new respect for his powers'. His subsequent collection _Terra_ (1986) included the sequences _Hawkwood_ and _The London Poems_. _Hawkwood_ is based on the figure of Sir John Hawkwood, a 14th-century condottiere, whose career enabled Smith 'to write about war and aggression and masculinity...under this metaphor of the wanderer'. The poems are like 'late night work Hawkwood might have done...a closed book I'm opening'. _The London Poems_ are all short, 12-line poems, 'sonnets without the concluding couplet', his interest being partly formal, to see how much he could pack into three four-line stanzas.\n\n_Terra_ was followed by _A Book of Chinese Whispers_ (1987), a collection of prose pieces. Smith's prose is closely akin to his poetry. Some ideas simply develop into prose: 'the stories are really very convoluted metaphors'. Because there was a limited market for experimental fiction, the prose pieces had only appeared in five pamphlets. _A Book of Chinese Whispers_ collected these together with more recent prose, adding another dimension to the work of a poet who sees his development as a long 'learning to let be...to let a set of images or patterns or obsessions form itself into shape'.\n\n[1985\/2004]\n\n# [JON GLOVER  \nKen Smith: _Terra_ to _Shed_](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(LIFE & WORK, 2: 1986-2003)**\n\nKen Smith's reputation was established and his readership widened by _The Poet Reclining_ in 1982. To some extent his achievement paralleled the expansion and influence of Bloodaxe. His journeys were both inwards and outwards. His poems were intimately related to self-discovery as he placed himself in stranger and more demanding situations.\n\n_Terra_ (1986), _A Book of Chinese Whispers_ and _Wormwood_ (both 1987) were all published while Ken was writer-in-residence at Wormwood Scrubs prison between 1985 and 1987. These were followed in 1989 by a major prose account of prison life, _Inside Time_ (with Dave Wait). He continued to travel and gather his intensely felt observations into prose and poetry, including _Berlin_ (1990), on the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the poems of _The heart, the border_ (1990), as well as several poem sequences for BBC radio. He travelled widely in the US, Europe and Latin America, visiting Hungary, Slovakia, Ukraine and Romania for his BBC projects, which merged poetry and speech with music and sounds recorded on location.\n\nLater books included the collections _Tender to the Queen of Spain_ (1993) and _Wild Root_ (1998), as well as _Shed: Poems 1980-2001_ (2002), which received wide praise from poets and reviewers in poetry magazines but not a single review in a national newspaper. Having the most significant book of his life ignored by the national press hurt him deeply, and disappointed all those admirers of his work who regarded _Shed_ as one of the most important books of poetry from the second half of the 20th century. Four collections reprinted in _Shed_ were Poetry Book Society Recommendations and _Wild Root_ was the PBS Choice, while _Terra_ was shortlisted for the Whitbread Poetry Award and _Wild Root_ for the T.S. Eliot Prize. He received America's highly prestigious Lannan Award in 1997, and a Cholmondeley Award in 1998.\n\nHe continued to speak for victims of oppression, and the collaboration required for radio work was a vital counterbalance to his intense individuality. He edited, with Judi Benson, _Klaonica: poems for Bosnia_ (1993), and with Matthew Sweeney, _Beyond Bedlam_ (1997), a book of poems by mentally ill people. A book (with CD) of his BBC-commissioned poems from Hungary, _Wire through_ _the Heart_ , was published \u2013 in English \u2013 by Ister in Budapest in 2001.\n\nUnlike some poets whose work is sparse, Ken Smith simply lived to write, and he was at the height of his powers when he brought Legionnaire's Disease back to London after a visit to Cuba. After four months in intensive care, he caught an infection while recovering in hospital, and died on 27 June 2003.\n\nLike many poets of his generation, Ken Smith formed a creative symbiotic relationship with America \u2013 its landscape, history and language. While he lived for many years in London's East End, he could, perhaps, talk about the city experience only after the freedom and distances of the US and its people. His poetry offers a special insight into the world in which we now live. Highly personal yet accessible and involving, it provides a record of journeys that seem at first to be strange, distressing and unique. But many readers will continue to join him as though finding vital common ground for the first time.\n\nKen Smith was a great poet. He was a writer of personal experience who often reflected a sense of loss as he talked through the urban landscape. But he was also a fine poet of the visual and the present. His poems had to be heard, seen and felt, and they live on now as the visual, tactile and audible worlds of a wonderfully rich imagination. His last retrospective collection, _Shed_ , published in 2002, confirmed the immense power of his poetry.\n\n[2003]\n\n# COLLECTED POEMS\n# [FROM  \nTHE PITY](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n(1967)\n\n# Fossil\n\nMade stone, cleft, shape and shell of a thing\n\npast being dead, presses your finger:\n\na reptile once lithe in the hot sea; dead.\n\nA simplicity still wanting pain, where skin\n\nand nerve coiled, turning itself on itself,\n\ndying. Not skeletal even, the dead's condition:\n\na pressed black stone.\n\nInside, white crystals, jammed, hard.\n\nNot far from the beginning, the begetting seed\n\nborne in it is a finished thing changed.\n\nIt suggests itself \u2013 solid, voiceless.\n\nYou keep it on your mantelpiece;\n\na broken thing, shaping your hand.\n\n# Grass\n\nGrass erupts slowly, locking the soil in frail roots.\n\nWithout these tenoned fingers earth would be as sea,\n\ndrifting, unsure. It is a sort of knowledge,\n\ngripping together, confirming that hill's shape.\n\nDo not forget the grass; that trodden softness\n\ncould only be an innocence that insists, comes back,\n\nseason by growing season. It cannot stop itself.\n\nThough you kill it, grass does not seem to die.\n\nRocks, morticed in themselves, do not require it,\n\nnor does its colour clutch the spaces of the desert.\n\nIts absence is death's sign, brooding its own mystery.\n\nGrass exists. All life revolves around its rooted blade.\n\nAnd yet grass does not care. Accepting without flower,\n\nit seeds on plains or in cracked rocks, indifferent\n\nto a touch that sears the granite. Grass\n\nmoves on, impotent in will, a rooted apathy\n\nexposed to hoof and fire. It cannot stop itself.\n\nGrass waits the mower's knife, the ditcher's spade.\n\n# Means\n\nI walk the robing corridors of trains, touching\n\nsteel and glass, sure of their shape. Clutching\n\nthe sides of things, suspended by motionless objects\n\nin motion, I am a man believing in things fingers\n\ntouch. Touch tells me most. I reject\n\na reflected existence in metal that lingers\n\nbeside me; it is tricked into being by light,\n\nlike an aping shadow. Yet I accept that slow\n\nprocession of fields beyond glass, this night\n\nreaching over stooked corn, the sun's dead glow.\n\nWatching the side rail slide into darkness, pale\n\nwindows tighten to mirrors. They borrow frail\n\nshapes from the lit and peopled compartment.\n\nMeans become ends. I turn from this game of bent\n\nlights and return, trusting the corn to hold still.\n\n# Both harvests\n\nGuns twitch the gloved ears of the rabbit,\n\nthat ripened with the corn. Summer\n\nwas burrowed, with the young peering\n\nover green shoots. Now they move\n\nunder red corn. But blades are set\n\nand honed. A tractor roves the scythed\n\nedges. These men who stook and bend,\n\nbend and stook, have their business\n\nwith grain. Those who come after,\n\ncome to kill, gun under shoulder.\n\nA rabbit is a grey thing running,\n\nstopped, hung in air, dead. Some\n\nhide under bound sheaves. Some panic\n\ninto the mower and are savaged, blood,\n\nbone, and pelt. Set blades are determined.\n\nRabbits die running, not like standing grain\n\ncut clean. The field is clear, its straw\n\nlined and ordered: it will be bread\n\nand bedding for safe cattle. The rabbit\n\nneed not fear the winter. Shot corpses\n\nbrace under fur, are shared out evenly.\n\n# Family group\n\nHe also was a stormy day: a squat mountain man\n\nsmelling of sheep and the high pasture, stumping\n\nthrough pinewoods, hunched and small, feeling\n\nthe weather on him. Work angled him.\n\nFingers were crooked with frost, stiffened.\n\nPloughing he would fix his eye on the hawthorn,\n\nwalking firm-booted, concerned for the furrow.\n\nHorse and man in motion together, deliberate,\n\none foot put before the other, treading cut clay.\n\nHe would not see the bird perched on the plough.\n\nHe would not chase the plover limping over stubble.\n\nHe was my father who brought in wood and lit\n\nthe hissing lamp. And he would sit, quiet\n\nas moor before the fire. She drew him\n\nslowly out of silence. She had a coat\n\nmade from a blanket and wore boys' shoes.\n\nShe was small and had red hands, firm-boned,\n\nand her hair was greying. The house was stone\n\nand slate. It was her house, his home,\n\nand their family, and they quarrelled often.\n\nShe churned butter, baked, and scrubbed floors,\n\nand for forty years he laboured the raw earth\n\nand rough weather. In winter we made mats\n\nfrom rags with pegs. We guarded ourselves\n\nand were close. We were poor and poorer banking\n\neach pound saved. Each year passed slowly.\n\nNow he lives in the glass world of his shop,\n\nand time is grudged. Ham and tinned meat\n\nand vegetables are his breathing day.\n\nHe works harder and is unhappy. She too\n\nstoops through the labouring year, is greyer\n\nand grumbles. Nothing gets made any more\n\nbut money that cannot be made. Nothing\n\nmeans happiness. The light comes down wires,\n\nwater through tubes. All is expensive, paid.\n\nSilence is gone from their lives, the city\n\nhas taken that poised energy. Violence\n\nis articulate. The deliberate motion is gone\n\nand he moves with pain through time that is work\n\nthat is cash. He will not notice the crashed\n\ngull fallen in the storm, the grabbing sparrows.\n\nShe cannot ease him into speech, or be content\n\nbefore the broody fire. She is in fashion now.\n\nBut seasons pass them without touching.\n\nThey will not feel the winter when it comes.\n\n# Country: Keld to Reeth\n\nEach day the earth offers itself\n\nto the sun's heat, water.\n\nA picture I carry, a country\n\nall weeds, pale flowers\n\nshaped in poor soil.\n\nThe rain drifts over it, I hear\n\nmy feet crush the winter grass,\n\nsee my father who walks in a landscape\n\nthat seems not growing but shrinkage.\n\nReturning, he did not pause on the hill\n\nbetween the still faces of horses.\n\nWe were a darker blur on the stubble,\n\na fragment in time gone, we left\n\nnot a mark, not a footprint;\n\nthe cold forest, the birds of the moor\n\ndo not recall us.\n\nThe hills lie on anvils of stone,\n\nsheepcut, shaped by all weathers.\n\nGreat stones squat on the ridges\n\nas if the ice might come back for them.\n\nA few harebells lift to the wind.\n\nThere is a ragged field, patches of bramble.\n\n# The pity\n\nI cut my hands on the cords at the strangling post\n\nbut no blood spilled from my veins;\n\ninstead of blood I watched and saw the pity run out of me.\n\nMAO TSE-TUNG\n\nShe was destroyed and my child ceased in her belly.\n\nIn Kiang-si we had walked in the clear morning,\n\nshe hanging back, barefoot, childbig. Crossing\n\nthe plank bridge I saw the falling mountain\n\nwith its stream hang still. The land lay like a bowl\n\nof pebbles, hills behind me at its rim. A hawk\n\nsplayed in the wind, dived to kill; so sparrows die.\n\nChina was patience you said: the sketched lines\n\nof valley and the reaching twig, all still, rest in motion;\n\na large pale flower twitching, a flower waiting, open.\n\nSo a vast land itched for death, its people mild\n\nand ministered.\n\nBut the cockroach and the grinning toad\n\ndrawn beautiful was China; the fly grown fat on flesh,\n\nglittering in heat. I was lashed and drained\n\nof the gentle passion. Patience was prised from me.\n\nI picked lice from my hair. You thought me gentle still.\n\nI ate filth, wore it, would have died in filth.\n\nThe horned and hanging bat sees a bat's world.\n\nFish quiver in the shallows, cold as their element,\n\nthinking water. I wore contempt, grew hatred.\n\nI was locked and jailed. She that was my wife\n\nwas garroted. And compassion had not anything to do\n\nwith this; she was destroyed where I could hear,\n\nand the child ceased in her.\n\nCompassion cannot go forever in the sun,\n\nparaded, bowing, twig-like. It rests,\n\nand somewhere takes the hawk's wing, diving.\n\nShe was destroyed and my child ceased.\n\nI cut my hands on the cords at the strangling post,\n\nbut no blood spilled from my veins;\n\ninstead of blood I watched and saw the pity run out of me.\n\n# The Humanities, Dept of Literature\n\n#### I\n\nIn April with its showers\n\nI stood on the banks of the river, Lethe\n\nsome people were talking\n\nin the rooms they had caused to be made\n\nbut I don't know who they are\n\nasking is this my life also\n\nand take from my mouth the word _love_\n\nthat falls like a water between stones\n\n#### II\n\nMy child thinks her shoes get smaller\n\nnot knowing about growth\n\nthe mouths of some professors are shut\n\nlike a boot against water\n\nnot knowing growth either\n\n# Lorca\n\nThis morning a man died\n\nhe went out to the hills\n\nwith others not remembered\n\nhe was shot\n\nhe was cut out of his shadow\n\nhis grave has no marker\n\nit opened as many graves\n\nopened\n\nafter and before\n\nthat precise morning\n\nLorca was murdered\n\nhe has no sheet\n\nno bell\n\nthe grass crops his skull\n\nhe is dead\n\nand this sprig of words\n\nhas no grave to bear it\n\nin Europe's long graveyard\n\nhe is the thorns on the dead thistle\n\nthe lemons' surviving acidity\n\na reaped wind in the olive trees\n\n# Translation\n\nWe had been caught\n\nin an instant.\n\nOur faces looked out\n\nfrom a photograph\n\nfluttering\n\ndown the corridors\n\nEverything falls.\n\nA collapsing universe.\n\nNot a shred\n\nof intelligence\n\nholding\n\nthe fence-posts\n\nthat strain\n\nin their nailed and rigid\n\norder.\n\nPaper and burst oranges\n\nfloat from the ship's wake\n\nplunge into\n\nthe blue mouth of the sea\n\non a wall\n\nwhere no wall is\n\nin ink whose blue atoms\n\nare flying\n\noutward\n\nI write a message\n\nfor no one to read\n\n# Train\n\n_(after Max Ernst,_ 'Europe After the Rain' _)_\n\nIn the dark\n\neach sits alone\n\nclutching his flag\n\nI have more than my one death\n\nto attend to.\n\nThere is a sickness about\n\nand the magician has vanished\n\nBut I sit with my 26 years\n\nspread on my palms\n\nand I wait for the silence\n\nwhen the programme is interrupted\n\nand the actors have no script.\n\nAnd I think how to carry my children\n\ninto the sewers\n\nRoll up the cities.\n\nLet the window explode\n\nin a million glass flowers.\n\nIn the darkness already\n\nthe woman picking milk from the step\n\nthe ashes raked last thing at night\n\nare postures, buried\n\nslipping into dust, rock, ooze,\n\nfurniture of a planet\n\nwheeling in silence\n\nlonely as a train\n\nwaving its little handkerchiefs of steam\n\n# Between us\n\nOn this day of my life\n\nI'd like a truce\n\nwhen I would not think\n\nwhat came before\n\nwhat does it lead to\n\nI have wished for a day\n\nwithout thinking\n\nwho owns this field\n\nthat I'm not sure I can cross\n\nNot to be drawn into this day\n\nneeding to possess\n\nthe food that takes me to another\n\nThere's no object\n\nnot owned\n\nnot a tree not a blade\n\nnot the white thumb of a mushroom\n\nAnd there's no way out\n\nbut I wait for a day\n\n\u2013 Thursday or Friday\n\nit doesn't much matter \u2013\n\nwith a great peace\n\nbetween us\n\n# The hunter\n\nOn the hill three hawks\n\non spread feathers\n\nfish the summer grass.\n\nIn summer on the bare hill\n\nthe light falls in sheets.\n\nThe sheep turn like ships\n\nat their moorings.\n\nThe crows fly downwind,\n\ntheir sounds fall from the sky,\n\ndownwind they are crying.\n\nMan, dog, birds. On the hill\n\nsheep and the wrenched grass\n\nlie downwind. It is summer.\n\nThe birds crossing the sky\n\nare naked, the light falls,\n\ndownwind they are falling.\n\nIt is summer,\n\ndog and man share the hill,\n\nsniff the air,\n\nhunt the birds.\n\nAs we look in the tunnel\n\nfor the end\n\nfor the bleak\n\nunblinking eye of the daylight\n\nhe is looking\n\nfor the black holes in the sky.\n\n# Water\n\n#### 1\n\na country beginning to open its spaces\n\na silence being broken by voices\n\nover the first wrecked cliffs\n\ndarknesses moving in darkness\n\nthe sea keeps moving up. The sea\n\ncomes with a thin razor of water\n\nit takes what it gives\n\nthe salt white birds fly over it\n\nthe sea wipes off the footprints of gulls\n\nthis country seems grass under the feet\n\nits sounds are not shaken like trees\n\nits shapes do not move like slow horses\n\nno metal rings through this silence\n\nin half-light the coasts lift themselves\n\na sea beats on them, is wild to come in\n\n#### 2\n\nthe cold of the wind is not from the sea\n\nnot absence of sun makes this darkness\n\nin the dry river-bed I have seen\n\neven the granite rippled by water\n\nthe rocks lie without ease on each other\n\nhills scoured by rainfall wait for the sea\n\nthe sea holds a knife to the land, breaks\n\nout the first stone shells. The sea\n\ntakes the land away, moans, lifting small\n\nwhite flags in this impossible darkness\nI want to be as though newborn,\n\nknowing nothing, absolutely nothing, of Europe\n\nPAUL KLEE\n\n# Europe:\n\ncathedral of the dead\n\nto be free of you\n\nI lay down\n\nin speechless grass\n\nI shut up my mind\n\nand became\n\nonly an ear\n\nthat listens\n\nThe earth turned to its season.\n\nHugged to its lit side\n\nI turned with the smallest creatures\n\nthe earth has\n\nI could not press myself\n\ninto my shadow\n\nnor cease knowing\n\nof the camps in Europe\n\nWhen every stone lies on a man\n\nthere is no end or beginning, the dead\n\nare with us, we\n\nare not children\n\nwe carry them about with us.\n\nWe cannot hush them in their silence,\n\neach one\n\na sound\n\nlaid still\n\nWe inherit in this map\n\ncenturies of misery, plague, trachoma,\n\ngenerations bent to the shape of a ploughshare\n\nIt is a field of listening skulls\n\nit is a tree shaking out blood\n\nit is a boy walking in Warsaw\n\nnameless\n\nEuropean Jew, a continent\n\nshrunk to his face\n\nto that crying\n\nNo man envies this quiet\n\nthe dead have. The bones of the feet\n\ndo not dance\n\nthe thigh-bones do not find each other\n\nthe fine bones of the fingers lie empty\n\nContinent of skulls\n\neveryone tastes it\n\nthe birds carry it\n\nthe snails eat it\n\nIn the rattling grass\n\nand the spider's quivering\n\nI listen\n\nto the dead\n\nspeak of my country\n_(i.m. Antonio Machado.  \nAnd for Europe, 1936-45)_\n\n# The street\n\nleads nowhere, cannot be entered,\n\ndown which no one is walking\n\ninto the silence, the pure sea\n\nof boats, cryings, scuffed quays.\n\nThe grey air is empty, built into\n\ncloud-columns. Street of childhood,\n\nno one is calling.\n\nIn its doorways no person is standing\n\nnor stares from one house to another.\n\nThings happen to us.\n\nWar boarded these windows, split walls\n\nspilled in the held spaces.\n\nIn the growing dark only a sadness\n\npresses the stairs to the stilled rooms\n\nwhose walls peel like maps. Here the guns\n\nand the toys become one another. The war\n\nhas moved off. Who left can't return.\n\nWho lived here forgot the clear lines\n\nthe far buildings had, _it has happened_\n\nwe say, the sound bobs on the water.\n\nWho stares at the great shadows, remembers\n\na voice, forgets whose, who watches\n\nthe sunlight fall, there, between high houses\n\nthemselves fallen, his feet don't lead back.\n\nWho had a house now has a stone.\n\n# The past\n\nis like the sea\n\nwhere we look for a light\n\na blue hill\n\nthe two waves parting\n\nbehind us\n\nrest at a distance\n\nThe past is nowhere\n\nthough I look everywhere\n\nfor it\n\nalways expecting\n\nto walk round the house\n\ninto it\n\nPerhaps I don't\n\nsee myself\n\nin the present\n\nand search\n\nin the immense bonepit\n\nasking\n\nhow silence could ever be lifted\n\naway from these dead\n\nIt is sea\n\nwithout rock or fish\n\nwithout bird\n\ncrossing its face\n\nOnly this arrow\n\nof our world\n\nflies straight\n\nfrom distance to distance\n\nWhile the continents\n\ndrift through it\n\nthe water\n\nholds up the same look\n\nThe past doesn't exist\n\nwhere my grandfathers\n\nlaboured\n\nto open the earth\n\nwith their hands\n\n# Leaving\n\nPutting my head to you\n\nI said Yes\n\na heart\n\nbeats\n\ngently:\n\na child reaching\n\ninto its fingers'\n\nquivering,\n\nwithin you\n\nan immense\n\nsmall shiver\n\nof silence\n\ncontained like a sound\n\nin its bell.\n\nI, who sit over a poem\n\ntrying to see what is\n\npressed into light\n\nconfess being moved\n\nmore by death:\n\na darkness almost\n\nnot possible;\n\nI have felt even a stone\n\nitch to unfold itself\n\nand the sea's crying\n\nin the shell of my skull\n\nWe create as the husks\n\nof the grass\n\nbear seed,\n\nwanting like grass surely\n\nto obliterate\n\nearth's darkness.\n\nThe earth we have risen from\n\nin a blind rearing\n\nurges us,\n\nthe earth broods under us\n\nI ask \u2013\n\ntell me it is not this\n\na dark we go into\n\nshut like a stone\n\n# A fragment\n\nout of our joined\n\nlives is grey sky\n\nmountain and pine\n\ngrey lake, late summer\n\nthe year of our child.\n\nFor you there were faces\n\nsnarled in your coatsleeve,\n\nyou were a creature trapped\n\nin its flesh, in its pain\n\nthe roots of your hair\n\nthe knife of my body\n\nthe night, the light\n\nhurt you, the light\n\nstreamed out of you.\n\nUnder the wood the child\n\nopened its mouth\n\nto the earth of your breasts.\n\nWe became under the rain\n\nthe mountain the reeds\n\none cry, smaller than a minute\n\nthree mouthed\n\na small shrill crying.\n\n# WORK, DISTANCES \/ POEMS\n\n(1972)\n\nAs he moves forward with his environment, Man takes with him all the positions that he has occupied in the past, and all those that he will occupy in the future. He is everywhere at the same time, a crowd which, in the act of moving forward, yet recapitulates at every instant every step than it has ever taken in the past. For we live in several worlds, each more true that the one within it, and each false in relation to that within which it is itself enveloped.\n\nCLAUDE L\u00c9VI-STRAUSS, _Tristes Tropiques_ (1955)  \ntr. John Russell\n\n#  Poems 1967\u20131969\n# Exiles\n\n_(for Marek Laczynski)_\n\n**_One the foreign woman_**\n\nMore than my life's map\n\nof notebooks and lost gloves\n\nI know the moon's other look.\n\nI remember a hat rolling\n\nand rolling. No name\n\nno other detail swings\n\nin that street's wind.\n\nCounting the steps to my room\n\nin the damp house I glimpse\n\nthe fence and the roof\n\nof my grandfather's house.\n\nHere I continually\n\nopen a drawer on the dust\n\ntrapped under newspaper.\n\nI look through the glass\n\nat an indifferent skyline.\n\nI count the steps\n\nin a strange house.\n\n**_Two the return_**\n\nObjects, clenched in their\n\nseparateness. Streetnames,\n\na park, the Jewish memorial.\n\nIn a place changed\n\nout of my presence I find\n\nknown friends in strangers.\n\n_I remember_ I say, being\n\ndeceived, touching\n\nthe stopped door to a room\n\nlit with child's songs.\n\nDead streets, dead houses,\n\ndead people. Here I walk\n\nwith my eyes turned away\n\nnot to see absences, blind windows.\n\n**_Three the photograph_**\n\nFace of Kafka, the camera\n\nflattened old shadows that moved\n\nin the eyes and mouthcorners.\n\nHow much of our lives is filed\n\nin deep drawers, a red form\n\nfor my birth, a black for my death.\n\nDocuments, passports, the\n\nEuropean darkness is trapped\n\nin the breath of officials \u2013\n\njobs to do, quotas to fill.\n\nAs we learned when the shoes\n\nwere fetched up and counted\n\nand the long graves were dug.\n\nOut of that darkness ashes\n\nand letters and photographs.\n\nStopped in a fragment\n\nthe shutter admitted\n\nthe curious look of a man.\n\nThe smile and the angle\n\nof sunlight survive him.\n\n# Suburb\n\nTo sleep\n\na million years\n\nin the prow of the amoeba,\n\nin the spark of the lizard's disappearance,\n\ncoming home through the long cry\n\nfrom the Vistula\n\nto wear our shoes out in this place.\n\nThe news is from elsewhere.\n\nThe postman will bring letters not yet written.\n\nThe telephone squats on its greetings.\n\nThe window shuts out the insects.\n\nThe curtains shut out the window.\n\nI am the shoe's foot.\n\nI am the ring's finger.\n\n# She speaks\n\nThis late evening, years\n\nit seems, years I have been sitting,\n\nthe life in me sleeping, the chair\n\ngrown to me, drawing\n\nround me the figure of my quiet. In which\n\nI have sat out his silences, silences\n\nin stone and coral, silences beyond sleep\n\nand still water. Not him I endured\n\nbut his speechlessness \u2013\n\nwanting him cupped to my ear,\n\nhim shape to my sounds, years\n\nnot knowing what name rode in his skull,\n\nwhat cry might break at the end of it.\n\nNight after night, till he rises,\n\nwinding the clock, dropping his boots,\n\nturning toward me as if he contained\n\nother lives, as if\n\nhe were the sum of all the dead trying to get out.\n\nYears of this. Grumbling asleep\n\nnames from a sunk continent, strange words\n\nwith salt and age in them. Or I have caught him\n\nalone on a street saying aloud\n\n_A man lives when his name is pronounced._\n\nWhose name? who lives? I ask\n\nthe slope of his shoulder, his shut jaw.\n\nOr will he never speak again? I don't know\n\nhow to open him, how to enter\n\nthis difference, this mountain of quiet,\n\nchipping it, savouring moments of speech\n\nwhen he plays family man and looks up\n\nover the offering bowls of his table\n\nto where I have my own name ready to be spoken,\n\nand the child's tricks, and things he must buy.\n\nI offer tiny stones from my own house.\n\nThat he hates. He thinks he is heather\n\ntaken from the moor, continually bent\n\nto a wind no longer pressing it, he's like a stone\n\nshaped by water water shall not have again.\n\nAm I to wait at the mouth of this man\n\nthe dead lunge through? I don't know what beasts\n\nstalk me, what dancing goes on in his head.\n\nI watch, letting him see that I watch,\n\ncatching his postures to the bathroom mirror,\n\ntalking to himself.\n\nThere'll be no steps I can't dance.\n\nAnd I can't sing there'll be no song.\n\nI'm his cynic, his lame mule,\n\nI clatter my pans in his ear.\n\nI shall blow his house down.\n\nI am anti-matter, he shall be my omega.\n\n_Go teach the birds singing._\n\n_Go talk with the dead._\n\n_Go walk in the graveyard._\n\n# The child's version\n\n_Twaddle_ her mouth said, tired\n\nthat she knew better, given up\n\nto the mouth's part.\n\nIn his notebook\n\nthe air takes the smell and shape\n\nof rooms of unfinished things \u2013\n\nclock parts, bits to set moving,\n\nqueerly shaped pebbles.\n\nLittle use to a people hoping\n\none day to jump on the moon's face.\n\nI should not put a frame to him.\n\nImagine him water, taking any shape\n\nwhile the shape is, untrustworthy.\n\nEverything discarded: wood and stone\n\nhe chipped to unreconciled faces,\n\nobsessions with maps, codes, mirrors,\n\nor wondering how it would be\n\nto have never seen horses.\n\nThey were ashamed of their own sounds,\n\nI know that she bore me in terror\n\nless of pain than of pain's cry.\n\nI am a leaf at its edge, turning\n\nits growth back, fashioning\n\nthe image of his face in sunlight.\n\nShe is pictured turning away.\n\nMostly I see him staring\n\ninto a field of yellow flowers,\n\nstaring and nodding gravely\n\nwith the worldless dignity\n\nof big flowers, curious, unyielding,\n\npart of that tall yellow dancing.\n\n# Age\n\nThe old aches come home to be fed.\n\nHe looks through photographs of dead relatives,\n\nthe daughters nudge each other and grow quiet\n\nNow it is the slow time\n\nbefore the jaw's clench.\n\nHe accepts the idea of silence,\n\nthe street a journey across mountains.\n\nHe says goodbye to the sea, again and again\n\nIt's like being too early for a train,\n\nnothing but to wait and grow patient.\n\nHe rages in the bathroom,\n\nthe world shrunk to a cracked fingernail\n\na lost stud, a button sewn tight\n\nHe contains all the planet's dust.\n\nHe's a socket where sorrow gathers\n\nits small hard grains\n\nThey want him gone, and in each of them\n\ntwo rivers, one of grief one of guilt,\n\nflow into each other\n\n# Bitter\n\nThis is the house, good as a shoe.\n\nOne by one\n\nthe dead years count themselves.\n\nThe words are old, the mouth\n\njust goes round them.\n\nShe sings for the wrecked moon.\n\nFor love the miracle of touch.\n\nAll the miles go underfoot.\n\nToo many trains, too many neons.\n\nShe sings for the coloured lights.\n\nShe is singing the one word _bitter_.\n\nGrown with water in the cracks,\n\nbitten into the roots of stones.\n\nIt wants to make everything dust.\n\n# The boss\n\nThe stone of his life weighs on him.\n\n_My life's work My life's work_ he whispers\n\nholding the stone, his hands open.\n\nIt lies on us. House-stone, stone\n\nof his past, his years are the one stone\n\nsoothed to his shape our lives lie under.\n\nThere are other stones: his wife and her two stone breasts,\n\nhis money, his speechless look through the window,\n\nhis children, carrying their own lives.\n\nHis ambition is the great stone he carries.\n\nWe polish the stone, it is our lives are worn.\n\nWe polish the stone, his house rears in the suburbs.\n\nWe polish the stone, he dreams and fears loneliness.\n\nWe polish the stone, he grows famous.\n\nHis is the stone on us when we are still.\n\nHis is the stone announcing itself when we move.\n\nOur lives tremble, we cry _the stone the stone_.\n\n# The son\n\nHe inhabits corners of their lives,\n\nhis cry forever raised in them.\n\nHe is running into the yard or the sea.\n\nHis voice deepens, there is mud on his clothes,\n\ntar on his boots, it happens continuously.\n\nHe goes into the army, he comes back and marries.\n\nHe lives far away, he still eats with them.\n\nWherever he is now he is the same\n\nstaring at nothing or holding still\n\nfor the camera. The son who dreams\n\nlooks from all the photographs, he hides\n\nin the cupboard with old shoes.\n\nThe son who went off one day.\n\nThe son who has wife and children.\n\nThe son who works out of town.\n\nThe son who is in another country,\n\nwhere it rains the same rain.\n\nHe's in the house they made,\n\nhe uses the furniture and spoons in the drawer.\n\nHe's in with the paint, always around\n\nwith the dust, he stares through the window,\n\nhe's expected any moment, food is waiting.\n\nForever leaping through air, or waving,\n\nor asleep in the shed.\n\nHis look is familiar. He is the son.\n\nWhen he comes back he wonders where he is,\n\nwhen they speak of him he wonders\n\nwho they are speaking of.\n\nEverything is ready.\n\nHe wipes off his plate.\n\nNow he wants none of it.\n\n# Gravedigger\n\nBefore him go the armies, the metals shining.\n\nUp the green hill\n\ngo the hobbling women spitting smoke,\n\nthe processions of sadly missed wives.\n\nSo much spent muscle and bullet.\n\nSo many stopped quarrels.\n\nThe shoemaker but sleeps.\n\nThe bird sings in the high trees.\n\nThere is a silence of wheat.\n\nWho owns the dead who are always dead \u2013\n\nmen once trees in their own land,\n\nwomen desirable as water?\n\nHe spits on his hands grey with earth.\n\nHe rules with a shovel.\n\nHis spade speaks for him.\n\n# A good fox\n\nThe fox ran, everyone ran after.\n\nThe fox's care: he drew out the pack,\n\nhe ran so we ran with him\n\nGlimpsed red on the field, he ran\n\nto his wood, to his own cover,\n\nthe light trembled across him. He ran\n\ninto holes, under leaves, across water,\n\nran in the open, everyone ran\n\nWater never tires over the stones,\n\nit is the stones are milled down.\n\nThe fox never tired. He worked at running.\n\nNot for fox but for the running we went,\n\nthe fox knew it. Under the star\n\nhe lay down, he was nothing we wanted\n\nWe knew he was fox, running out\n\non the sly fields, we knew he was red meat\n\nand bone and nothing but fox.\n\nSo we ran, we just ran, he with us\n\nAnd the fox runs alone, peers through bracken\n\nred against red, slinks to the house,\n\nappears by the hedge, no one after him\n\nWe tired of that game, fox, we tired of your red slash\n\non the skyline. We tired of your pause and turn\n\nand run on with a shake of the head.\n\nWe tired of nothing but fox, we learned better.\n\nWe tired of nothing but fox, but a good fox\n\n# Beyond breath\n\n#### I\n\nBeyond breath labour bread \u2013\n\nhe feels grass shake without wind \u2013\n\na twig snaps with no footstep\n\nFields flecked by rain and yellow \u2013\n\ntoo long he wanted more \u2013\n\nhis hands make a dismissal\n\nShe sweeps the dust out,\n\nthe smuts of the rain forests \u2013\n\nshe sweeps words out of her mouth \u2013\n\nhe sits with rats in the barn \u2013\n\nthe silence cannot endure itself\n\n#### II\n\n_Tear up the map of your lands_\n\n_Let the foxes out hunting_\n\n_Fill the forms up with jokes_\n\n_Give the schools to the children_\n\n_Scrap the dead languages_\n\n_Prevent nothing, prevent nothing_\n\n_Behind those who pile up the bread_\n\n_come the armies_\n\n_You will be accused, deny nothing_\n\n# Persistent narrative\n\nThe speaker opens his mouth.\n\nThe lovers lie down together.\n\nThe boy is sent to the war.\n\nThe last train leaves the city.\n\nThe sky clouds over with ruin.\n\nThe animals step back into shadow.\n\nThe speaker opens his mouth.\n\nThe fields are trampled by horses.\n\nChildren crouch in the ashes.\n\nSurvivors wait at the frontier.\n\nTwo armies meet in a forest.\n\nThe lovers take off their clothes.\n\nThe speaker opens his mouth.\n\nAn earthquake topples the belltower.\n\nThe boy lies down in a cornfield.\n\nSoldiers patrol all the streets.\n\nThe grocer has run out of flour.\n\nThe girl dreams of a wheatfield.\n\nThe speaker opens his mouth.\n\nNow the woman sweeps out her house.\n\nNow there is a christening.\n\nThe ship enters the harbour.\n\nThe girl waves her red scarf.\n\nThe lovers cry out in their love.\n\nAnd at last it is still.\n\nAnd the speaker says _I shall begin_.\n\nThe children are all asleep.\n\n# Skull\n\nWorms, moles, water and grasses\n\nhave brought down the mountains \u2013\n\nthe landscape presses its messages.\n\nThe hurts come together, the eye\n\nopening on light, a shrill of insects\n\nflooding the ears, the paranoid skull.\n\nLet it all go down, blue water of lakes\n\nat prayer in the rocks, bracken, sticks,\n\nthe woods and the shivering creatures\n\ninvading the threads, the warm cells,\n\nbone canals weepy with blood.\n\nPain raises its monuments, the dead\n\nthick as porridge in Flanders go down,\n\nthe villages make do with an obelisk.\n\n_Let it all go down_ the voices\n\ncry on under the helmet. The stone\n\nimage presents arms: he was there,\n\nhe was real \u2013 motion of shoulder,\n\ntoo long in the sleeve, the set jaw.\n\nHe writes postcards, sneaks through wire,\n\nhe crouches again in the muck, he envies\n\nthe dead brother and the snails,\n\nhe trails home like a black sulking wing\n\nfresh from nowhere, the dreams\n\nready their sights and their knives \u2013\n\nnothing now but this blood, this cry out\n\nLet it all go down\n\ntill the bone hood shatters\n\nand the roots break in\n\n# Somewhere else\n\nMountain upon mountain upon mountain,\n\nassembled a long time. I am underneath\n\nwith my eye in my head, watching\n\nI enter the sea, I fly over the winter forests,\n\nI bring the stars back from their beginnings,\n\nI put history under my lid,\n\nI make everything real, the worlds reverse in me.\n\nI go back before the stones, I examine\n\nthe first moss, I construct my amoeba\n\nWhat I feel at what I see\n\nis part of what I see\n\nand as transient. It's all right,\n\nwe are safe from each other.\n\nDo what you like \u2013 tie each other up,\n\ncaress, club, obliterate with love\n\nor napalm or silence\n\nIt only hurts whom it hurts.\n\nMy job is seeing.\n\n'I am concerned with the way we see things'\n\nAnything else is crap. I am becoming all eye,\n\nall jewel, panoramic or close-up\n\nas I move. Soon I shall invent everything\n\nFar off I am near, under the kiss,\n\nunder the cat's leap, angled\n\nunder the batons, under the tanks\n\nWithout blinking, a valved shell\n\nfollowing orders from the light, I sift through\n\nthe waters of everything\n\nIf you don't\n\nlike it switch\n\nthe thing off\n\n# Old mill, Newton St Cyres\n\nBring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth\n\nBLAKE\n\nKnowledge alone is no more than a weariness of the soul\n\nARTHUR C. CLARKE\n\nAlways this pressing for shape \u2013\n\npaddlewheel, gear's tooth, millstone,\n\nwood driven on water, the force\n\npushing through iron to stone and the stones\n\ngrinding to quiet the shudder of wheatfields.\n\nCenturies of grain, centuries of water,\n\ngalaxies of dust mottling the sunlight\n\nsheened their working flesh, dust\n\nin the eyelid, chaff in the shoes.\n\nSomewhere are numbers and graphs\n\nfor the mountains of bread, the fat loaves\n\nrising in ovens: knowledge of soils,\n\nrainfall, knowledge of mills, beams, joints,\n\nor the tensions of water \u2013 for the curious\n\nthreading their beads of fact, those magpies.\n\nLeave that old weariness\n\nknowing or not knowing, the earth's water\n\nis pressing out of shape, its denial gives\n\nin its _no_ the quick of renewal, a mere\n\ngesture of water here and not here\n\nlike a going of air. I revolve doubt\n\naround doubt in this certainty of things \u2013\n\nstone, metal, wood, the running grain\n\nbeaten to meal: show me a thin cook\n\nor a poor baker, wherever I look\n\nI might see only wheatfields, possibles\n\nturning about without centre,\n\ndoubt at the axlehub driving the flour\n\ninto bread and the bread into sleek girls\n\nmeasuring their waists in pale slices.\n\nCrush the doubt under words, it\n\nraises its ear, its signal for silence;\n\ncrush out the silence, it waits at the end\n\nof our syllables, entered this mill\n\nlike an anthem. A quiet under sound,\n\nthe doubt back of certainties, there's hunger\n\nfor bread and hunger apart from the bread.\n\nMeasureless absence, hunger is no word\n\nit is nothing in the mouth\n\nbut struggling to say. On Famine Ridge\n\nthe bones count out loud: rib bone,\n\nshut mouth, dead genital,\n\nstone sounding on stone, throat whispering\n\n_eat eat_ in the sour fields,\n\ncharity's ashes and lemonjuice, eat,\n\ndevour the earth. To the last crumb\n\n# The Amana Colonies\n\nFounded 1855 in Iowa by a group calling themselves Inspirationists originated in Germany about 1714. The immigrants 'according to His laws and His requirements in our own consciences' attempted a community sharing work and wealth equally that persisted up to the Depression but that exists now as tourist bait close to Interstate 80: 'one of the midwest's most historic and recent attractions.'\n\n#### 1\n\nFortitude, endurance, _amana: remain faithful._\n\nWe survive the sea and the great silences.\n\nUnder God and the blue sky we share all we have.\n\n_Amana_ \u2013 we put a spade to the wilderness.\n\n_Amana_ \u2013 skill of our hands on the new turned land.\n\n_Amana_ \u2013 the word is our breath, we share,\n\nwe survive the woods that are gone\n\nwhere the redmen went hearing the rain speak.\n\n_Amana_ , the corn roots, cattle and vines,\n\nmortise and tenon, coins and sweat run together.\n\n_Amana_ , our work and our bread.\n\n_Amana_. The voice within each of us speaks.\n\n#### 2\n\nIn the turning of wood or habit of speech\n\nthat old life may whisper, a black dress\n\nfluttered in wind, wooden shoes in the snow,\n\npoverty chewing its nails, winter and summer.\n\nWill nothing of sharing survive, the cry\n\nof what was weathered away in the guidebook.\n\nErosion is paint from an aerosol can, visitors\n\nsniffing repeating _authentic authentic_ \u2013\n\na word in the mouth. We make and we sell,\n\nwe share our dead root, we dream of endurances\n\n#### 3\n\nWhat prints mark butterchurn, spinning-wheel,\n\nwhat is a scythe's use, how held, what sweats\n\nstain the handles of tools? What sleeps\n\nin the dropped vowels or survives\n\nin the ticking of clocks? Why these names\n\nand _amana_ , this word that remains, that endures?\n\n# Inventory\/Itinerary\n\nIllinois, Iowa\n\nDead grass & maize stalks\n\nMiles, miles, 4\u00bd thousand\n\nTimeshift 7 hours\n\n2 continents, 1 ocean\n\nTravelling, 4 days\n\n1 good time, much being quiet\n\n200 cigarettes, 1 bottle brandy\n\n1 arrival in Iowa City\n\nMarch 25th 1969, 6.00 pm\n\n$3.38 in my pocket\n\n1 cab-ride into the clapboard wilderness\n\n1 return on foot carrying 2 bags\n\n9 phone calls, 2 wrong numbers, 1 reply\n\nWaiting, waiting\n\nHunger, loneliness, weariness, silence\n\n1 poem written quickly holding things down\n\nThe durations of wind, cold, grainfields\n\nEndless helpfulness, cheerfulness, on the nail\n\nThe bland faces, America America\n\nAnd silence. And night\n\nAnd wind blowing, right through the heart\n\n# Farmer\n\nNo tree but the one tree before the house\n\nNo house but the one house behind the tree\n\nNo earth but the land he treads on\n\nby the barn, the plough, by the silence\n\nNo speech but the clipped yawl\n\nhe sings into the eternal wind\n\nThe corn breaks its husk, rain falls,\n\nthe house creaks and settles\n\nHe works, the grain sings on the field,\n\nthe sky covers him. Labour and bread\n\nand a mouth to speak with, the rest\n\nhe does for himself, tree or no tree\n\n# Figures at daybreak\n\nA woman walking alone through the outskirts\n\nof some small town, I don't know what daybreak it is \u2013\n\ncarrying herself and some moon of sadness slowly\n\ntoward open fields\n\nThere are landscapes that ache under birds' wings,\n\nirreducible, not filled by a wind's length.\n\nMagnolias soft as an eyelash, Indianapolis spills\n\nover the plain\n\nFields and farms, great barns under those rooves\n\nof a settling wing, the eye drifts on the same images,\n\nthe land cut so, stamped to familiars, each thing\n\nshaped to our way\n\nI imagine the water-towers growing, tiny and bulbous\n\nout of the soil of some distant farm, row after row.\n\nAloud I think, Love we are shaped in our acts, in our words\n\nfor each other\n\nThe roads lie straight as a look. This way three hunters\n\ncross tracks where trains hoot in the loneliness,\n\nwalking loose-limbed and apart into thin woods,\n\ninto grey light\n\n# Going\n\nGoing, crossing the flat lands\n\nwhere the sea lay its print,\n\nothers sang of the wheat, the wheatsongs\n\npraising the earth for its giving.\n\nUnder sun or frost the grasses pale\n\nas if something were wrong\n\nto grow where the land gives plenty.\n\nAlways another speaks, listen he says,\n\nthe world is dying. Far out corn\n\nyellows on all sides, its sea\n\nbends at the horizon where half-barn\n\nand half-tree signify only the eye's\n\nlimits. Listen, he says to the wheat,\n\nthe sea dies, fish\n\nturn their hulks to the sky,\n\nin the white bear and the penguin\n\nthe threads are breaking, the whale\n\npressing those unlikely spaces\n\nthreshes a dead foam, its flesh\n\nflecked by our issue. The wheat\n\nlistens and grows, through Illinois' silence\n\nthe train drives straight. DDT he says,\n\na dead stain inks the globe over,\n\nfeels out the horizons, grown\n\nlike a cuticle. Do the farmers\n\nwho bend to this plain know it,\n\ntheir corn-haired girls who study the ways\n\nof the lost Algonquian, do professors\n\nof speech know? I am trying to bury\n\nmy faith in the grass. It's blown\n\nhe keeps saying. I listen for birds\n\nby the tracks: there are none \u2013\n\nset out for the wrong places,\n\nthey lie in a field of premature skulls.\n\nI hear no poems, only the stillness of light\n\nand the feasting molecules, chromosomes\n\nbreaking the chain in a world\n\nthat is dying he says. For not singing\n\nthe fullness of wheat I make\n\nno apology. Listen, the world it is dying\n\n# L.A.\n\nI am alone with the shadows of my room.\n\nThe darkness gets nearer\n\neach time I look at it, as if\n\nit were the lid of my eyes. When I sleep\n\nthe night moves over my face\n\nThe mountains may teach their stillness.\n\nIn Orange County, in the first\n\norange grove, they have preserved\n\none tree in the asphalt\n\nMy children, far away and sleeping\n\nin your city of looped water\n\nwhere we walked in quiet places\n\nthe mind lived, how to speak to you\n\nof this sound on the earth,\n\nand this dark that comes close\n\nI must speak of,\n\nhow begin to be still\n\n# Poem 1\n\nIf I am stone then I'm all stone.\n\nIf I am water I contain nothing else\n\nof thrashed rock and salt\n\nthat is all of the sea's taste: ocean\n\nadmitting neither its boats nor its fish\n\nHow far it is it's a small place.\n\nMapping the journeys I outline a flower\n\nwhose colours belong to the lands it crosses\n\nfrom mountain to sea, a thing of spaces\n\nand lines that meet where confusion arrived\n\nseeking itself in the places doubts are.\n\nSee how they swell into cathedrals,\n\nso many police states, so many flowers\n\nAnd meanwhile here come the skeleton helmets,\n\nveterans enter the cities in triumph\n\nsaluting the monuments. Here come\n\nthe gas-mask makers, those who weave nightmares\n\nout on the ridge and dream money, salesmen arrived\n\nat the airports bringing the latest in death.\n\nHere come the tool-makers, napalm chemists,\n\nsharebrokers, altar-boys, leg-irons\n\nI've been pulling a face so long it's stuck.\n\nI've been sitting here watching myself\n\nwatching the sea and its motion, its move\n\non the shore to and from like a sweeping brush:\n\nthe sea an enormous heart beating on stones\n\n# Poem 2\n\nSo much light and there is darkness.\n\nSo much metal and stone, the nations\n\nwhirling in dustclouds, horses and horsemen\n\nIn the city glare ours\n\nis a light that goes out. Too much alone\n\nthere are days the mind backs up\n\nIn the squared land to the west I saw\n\nhow we denied the gatherings of water,\n\nreading the earth and the connections\n\nThe plains are forever, the sky is,\n\nwhere the bombers ride on the skull,\n\nthe land's people grains of rice on a map\n\nTo be sought out, to become splashes of blood\n\nand burnings, to be counted in numbers,\n\nand nothing to add to this nothing\n\nNothing to add to the wheat\n\nand the separate voices: power\n\nto the lifting blades of the grass\n\n# The Stone Poems\n\n**(1971)**\n\n#  The stone poems*\n\n### 1\n\nA man's work\n\nhe must bend for them,\n\nhis lifting become\n\nstone-shut\n\nwith a stone's presence.\n\nStone of house, stone\n\nof monument.\n\nNothing in their gift.\n\nStone in a man's field\n\nor a man's shoe \u2013\n\npiece of the Earth's\n\nwish to be idle, rid of us,\n\nfraction of misery.\n\nNot as the sea is:\n\nweeds, birdcries, a fish\n\nglancing the sunk light.\n\nSea changes totally,\n\nstone rarely. The dead\n\nform a new kind of stone.\n\nIt will not alter. Snap\n\nand be nattered to dust\n\nor the chafing of water.\n\nPart of the sea asleep\n\nin its own shadow. Part\n\nof its stone.\n\n### 2\n\nEither he shifts it\n\nor goes round it.\n\nDragged to the field's edge\n\nto be grown over, useful there.\n\nOthers rise in the rain,\n\nchiselled by frost,\n\ntossed up by boys.\n\nSome arrive strangely by night\n\nor happen as comets do. In New England\n\nfrost forces them out,\n\nstone on the move.\n\nAnd some lie continually\n\nin the field's road\n\nfinding their ways back\n\ninto bleak malevolent creatures\n\nwanting to sit in open fields.\n\nThe man keeps pelting them\n\nin a backward whirlpool of stones\n\nslewed over centuries.\n\nAs if this were a battle: a man\n\nhurling stones and the stones'\n\nslow returns to their orbits.\n\nAs if they would lie barearse\n\nto the sun, giving nothing growth.\n\n### 3\n\n_Stonecold_ we say. The great music\n\ngoes on without them,\n\nMozart's mind forming again\n\nin the members of the orchestra,\n\nin the air, in the bow\n\ntouching the string, the conductor\n\ncommanding what he heard once\n\nof rivers, of stones, birds, men.\n\nIn the blank faceless thing\n\nnothing of our meanings\n\nbut that it outlasts us, holds up\n\nthe names that mean nothing now\n\nin the wind wearing them away\n\nwhere the scripts change\n\nand the dialects weather\n\nas the words shift their meanings\n\nin the long war with silence\n\ntill what's left is a finger-traced\n\nblur where the chisel cut\n\n_let vandals look upon this epitaph._\n\nThat it is stone, that\n\nit is cold, that it is\n\nchosen for sepulchres.\n\nNothing there: a few bones\n\npicked clean as sticks\n\nand the seasons drained out:\n\na stone flag,\n\na lament for dead people.\n\nAnd nothing in that, nothing\n\ncan be staved off: mine\n\nis a stoney vision they say.\n\nOut in the strange light\n\ngrown in the world.\n\n### 4\n\nAbsence of stone\n\n_assenza di pietre,_\n\nthe stone\n\n_solo pietra raschiata_\n\nscraped to its usefulness.\n\nStone taken into speech,\n\nstone touched in a bargain,\n\ncounting stone, stone\n\nturning in the mill,\n\nthe ruminant, _la ruminante_.\n\nStone taken from the moon,\n\nI have since touched one.\n\nStone ballast used again\n\nbuilding the shipman's house,\n\nthe miller's table.\n\nA Roman stone I took\n\nyears ago that had lain\n\ncenturies its pavement\n\nunder the Saxon graveyard.\n\nStone of absence\n\n_pietra di assenze._\n\nStone of Beethoven's fist.\n\nNo more the miracle of gneiss,\n\nnor graining nor quartz,\n\nno scourings of rivers,\n\nno granite, no dross\n\nnor the eye of volcano\n\n_n\u00e9 l'occhio dei vulcani,_\n\nso little, the hot gas\n\nof atoms blown back into space\n\nthat were Socrates, chert,\n\nflakes of flint tool,\n\ntouch of all lovers, _di fiumi_\n\n_massi, puddinghe, detriti._\n\nNothing grown wild,\n\nmoving strangely, not moving\n\ntill the long ice moves them.\n\nNot the bull's dark,\n\n_l'oscurita del toro._\n\nNot the beasts' wonder,\n\n_la meraviglia delle bestie_\n\n_stupite della loro stessa nascita_\n\nover their own birth.\n\nNot lichened over\n\nunder half the stars.\n\nNot city stone nor stone\n\nthe wind forgot.\n\nNo stone at all:\n\na land gleaned clean.\n\n### 5\n\nAll through stone. Things\n\nimmersed in it\n\nbecome stone.\n\nWithout feature or interest\n\nto what ice or water\n\nscrapes it to.\n\nAnonymous,\n\nnot dreaming nor dancing.\n\nIntending nothing \u2013\n\nneither the good house\n\nnor arrowhead\n\nnor inconvenience.\n\nResisting.\n\nNot resisting.\n\nHolding on while the planet\n\nshudders into more stones.\n\nNothing to be done\n\nbut be a grey boulder\n\nor be pebble or be sand.\n\nNo inside, no outside, no centre.\n\nNo squatting like an animal.\n\nNo nesting like a bird.\n\nNot wanting to go back\n\ninto rock, not wanting\n\nto enter the sea, not wanting\n\nto be a small red flower\n\nor a black shoe\n\nor a lost button.\n\nNot likeable.\n\nNot bothered.\n\n### 6\n\nTurned in the hand, idly,\n\nto the contempt of the busy.\n\nWhat it would be\n\nto be brought to it\n\nforever in its place.\n\nA man's say to be\n\npig figure, bird entering flight\n\nor the tiny house of a snail,\n\nreplica of the southern wind.\n\nA man's say. Not a thing\n\nto do with all he says of it,\n\nno more than birds their names.\n\nThat it may look\n\nfrom the church wall\n\na man sharpens chisels.\n\nFrom the bleak glance\n\nof quarries came footstools,\n\nthrones, the gargoyle's\n\nsnarling waterspout,\n\nknights in stone armour,\n\nthe poor kneeling or stooping,\n\nstone thumb to the stone nose\n\nin contempt of their masters,\n\nlocked beasts, Siva's dance,\n\na man peering so long\n\ntill the seawind wears him away.\n\nThe man's tools seek\n\na stone anaconda.\n\nBunched in riverbeds,\n\nabandoned, stones\n\nlie down anywhere.\n\nThey will not answer\n\nout of the strange mouth\n\nof the dead.\n\nThey will never mean anything.\n\nTheir silence\n\napplauds them.\n\n# Death Songs \/ Death Dances\n\nBegin anew and put away the wisdom of your fathers. You must lay up food and forget the hungry. When your house is built and your store-room filled, then look around for a neighbour whom you can take advantage of and seize all he has.\n\nRed Cloud's advice to his people, the Oglala Sioux,\n\non how to become wealthy like the whites, whom\n\nthey should otherwise avoid (1868).\n\n(from R.K. Andrist, _The Long Death_ )\n\n# Dream journeys\n\nIn the last light we made camp.\n\nI slept with the dogs' whimpering\n\nand dreamed of the continent, a fierce mask.\n\nFrom doorways the people offered their indifference\n\nor crept through the bush to watch us. One came,\n\nbent and crow-faced from years listening\n\nto the desert. I recall he was dumb\n\nand told off the words on the palm of the woman\n\nwho spoke for him. No more of that place than we,\n\nhis way lay south as ours west by the mountain.\n\nI knew roads to the places he spoke of.\n\nBy the fire a stranger, in the dream\n\nI knew him far back. His was old news\n\nof burnings and wanderings, of the people\n\nwho spread through these lands.\n\nI half-slept, the men with us listening\n\nfor some wonder. When she described the sea\n\nour people opened their mouths, though I had once\n\nseen it myself, grey and endless, like our way.\n\nI was kept silent, it was nothing.\n\nIn that woman's voice I fell into deep sleep,\n\nall the ages of Europe elaborated,\n\na mathematics of blood. At the last\n\nhe walked between land and sea, a man\n\ncenturies old stepping the waterline stones\n\nwith an easy care, his eye never to one side\n\nbut to the edge of water and haze, and stepping so\n\na child came whom he seized and ate,\n\nthrowing aside what was half-eaten\n\nas he came to the distance, without pause.\n\n# From the Nahua\n\nDown from Ometeotl who is\n\nall pairs beyond flesh &\n\ndivisions, descending\n\nthe twelve flights through\n\nmany gods, strifes, nights,\n\nthe birds & the sun,\n\nthe Milky Way that is\n\nas a woman's skeleton we come\n\nto the world we know at rest\n\non the backs of 4 crocodiles\n\nsupporting the 4 created\n\ncorners & floating on a lake\n\nwhere are our stones & flesh\n\nthe soul travels down nine\n\nmore, passing a yellow dog\n\nguarding the river, through\n\npeaks to a mountain of pure\n\nobsidian, met in turn\n\nby bone cutting winds, flags,\n\narrows & wild beast, through\n\na narrow place to the final\n\nrung: the ranks of the known\n\n& the unknown. And all this\n\napart from the 3 heavens \u2013\n\nthe sensual in Water & Mist,\n\nthe mind's Land of the Fleshless,\n\nthe Sun's House of Pure\n\nImagining, & last Mictl\u00e1n\n\nthe inferno at Earth's core \u2013\n\nall this in time a calendar\n\nworked from the stones\n\nbut precise as it matters,\n\nand all a continuum bent\n\non itself where the soul\n\ntravels away through the flesh,\n\na circle begins as it ends\n\nfor those who cannot give up.\n\nConsider this system, cut\n\ninto bloody cakes by the\n\nMexica, Dog People of Atl\u00e1n.\n\nAnd consider Hern\u00e1n Cort\u00e9s\n\narrived the appointed year\n\nfrom the east, the way\n\nof the people after the sun\n\nto the seed ground, who\n\nconsidered them _far from_\n\n_the knowledge of God not_\n\n_possessed of reason,_\n\ndispensing glass beads\n\nof syphilis & abrupter more\n\ncasual deaths in the real.\n\n# On the north coast, Barnstaple\n\nSilt flourishes, easing our junk\n\nto its colour of birds and rain,\n\nprolongs in its pause\n\nthis wave that is breaking\n\nThe town set like a seal\n\nshook out stiff cloth and linen.\n\nBeads of metal\n\nran down the world's old map\n\nThe statues rot. In the churches\n\na few merchants gaze in benevolence\n\nover the poor, elbows\n\npropped on a skull's globe\n\nPassing, the wave slides\n\nover grey flats, the town\n\na suburb of its history,\n\nenclosed like a plate\n\n# Where winter begins\n\nBirds fly south, a saw\n\nyells through the woods.\n\nNight is coming, water\n\nchirrs in the stream.\n\nI want to be an animal\n\nbetween one sound\n\nand another. At evening\n\nI come to a river, the reeds\n\nlike the dark in my own skull.\n\nI want to sleep, to be still\n\naway from the villages,\n\nnight is coming.\n\nImage of bird in the sky,\n\nimage of leaf, shadow on shadow.\n\nDarkness begins in the trees\n\nand the tight maize-heads.\n\nBurrowed out of the owl's look\n\nI dream the shush of grass\n\nin the night fields, sleeping.\n\n# Abandoned village\n\nWe had left that place, even our shadows,\n\nand there's nothing to say of it.\n\nA house not to be lived in again,\n\nnot to be _dwelling-place_ ,\n\nour memory's house comes down\n\nwhere trees hold up their heads\n\nlogging up summers, good years and bad.\n\nThat house is a lung breathing out,\n\nits smell woodrot and leaving\n\nNothing of ours, not a sweat-bead,\n\nwhatever a man might have touched\n\nor his hand rested. Odour of absences,\n\nants track in our rain-quickened speech.\n\nOurs is the quiet of an animal sleeping,\n\nthe light far into woods,\n\nthe musk of the rainforests,\n\nburied kingdoms of wood\n\n# Song for the whites\n\nI live away from my own people among strangers\n\nfor whom words have too many shadows.\n\nBack there my mouth turned to a taste of ashes.\n\nI sit all night writing my songs\n\nfor no instrument that no throat sings,\n\nand don't care if they're bad, to be tied up\n\nwith strings like a doctor's skeleton.\n\nMost days I make small voices. Sometimes at night\n\nsounds run through my head that I must get up;\n\nif the world is running to death I shall take\n\nat least my own sounds with me. I've grown used\n\nto the strangers, their speech no longer alien\n\nand I see they have no covering against winds.\n\nCome under the song strangers, I shall tell you\n\nwhat you don't know and don't care for \u2013\n\nhow when we tortured it was to respect you.\n\nOver the best fighter we put a buffalo robe,\n\ncut a cross in the breast of the bravest dead.\n\nWe honoured those who destroyed us.\n\nLet me tell you about the frozen grasslands\n\nand how when we had nothing to eat\n\nyour words were _let them eat grass_.\n\nLet me tell you about the Cheyenne who died at Sand Creek\n\nand of White Antelope who sang _nothing lives long_\n\n_only the earth and mountains_.\n\nYou may write that in books if you will.\n\nIt was his death-song, his and the buffalo's.\n\n# The Sioux cleared from Minnesota\n\nI prefer women with flesh, the bones\n\nhave too much to say about cemeteries.\n\nHere they're so thin I can't see them.\n\nWhen I first came here I grew plants\n\nthat were dead by morning.\n\nI went alone seeking quiet.\n\nThen the subway burst through my sleep, inches away.\n\nI prayed to whatever god listened,\n\nhearing 15 million buffalo die.\n\nNow when I close my eyes to talk\n\nto the voices I hear Little Crow \u2013\n\nHawk that Hunts Walking, speak out.\n\nHow he led without hope to the slaughter.\n\nHe's gone saying his people can't win,\n\nhe wants peace, not the life of a no one.\n\nA year later shot down\n\npicking berries, they threw him\n\nin the offal pit. So much for Little Crow.\n\nI've seen their cities.\n\nI have nothing to put out but this hand\n\nand this little glass.\n\n# Here\n\n#### 1\n\nHow they whisper the grass,\n\nthe undying. Their voices\n\ncome off the black shore\n\nspeaking their bones & losses,\n\npossible lives.\n\nThe damned came near\n\npassing the sea hand over hand\n\nMother my dreams are\n\na sky of spilled wings\n\nand the stars falling limbs\n\nThe new world under the bandage\n\nsmells antiseptic, corridors,\n\npipes busy with plasma\n\nfor miles out of power-plants\n\nI fear the sea's mind.\n\nIn my head I carry my people.\n\nThey have no names,\n\nyou cannot arrest them\n\nI'm reading the books again\n\nfor a loophole, I call Ohio\n\nand hear grainy voices\n\ntalking apart in strange rooms\n\nAll year the movies told\n\ntheir disturbing journeys:\n\na thrashed country, laid\n\nto the stone\n\nThe sun went down, the cities\n\nflying below at evening \u2013\n\nprecisely\n\nmarks on a bad lung\n\nDriving past, their faces\n\nwhite & set homeward,\n\nsoon the damned will be\n\nwhere we can't reach them\n\n#### II\n\nGoodbye deathmask, goodbye redwoods,\n\npaper forests touched\n\ninto ash blown\n\ncatty-corner\n\nI predict a strange dance\n\n& yearning. Already\n\nin the Mojave new rumours\n\nknot themselves thickly\n\nI shall dance, celebrations\n\nof all we were\n\nin that land of leaves & water\n\nMay the grass\n\nbe within me\n\nfurled & moving, a dancing\n\n# Crying woman\n\nShe is making her sounds, the ones for everyone else.\n\nShe goes _cri-cri_ like a walking bird and then\n\nsounds of a big bird alert on the rocks.\n\nCrying woman makes the sound of a baby about to be fed.\n\nThis one is the sound of someone alone a long time,\n\nthe sound of someone cast out at sea, the sounds\n\nof wreckers guiding a boat to their reef,\n\nof the ship's crew who are drowning\n\nand the indignations of those who tell this years after.\n\nThis one is from the mountains, she makes big sounds\n\nfull of cloud and rain, she begins her infinity.\n\nThis one cries _mother_ , thinking of her people.\n\nWhen she thinks of the south she sings\n\nlike someone asleep in the sun all day.\n\nThis one the otter. This one the gazelle\n\nrunning for love of running. And this one\n\nwho is quiet a long time is a gull\n\npitching out from the cliff between land and sea\n\ntill she becomes the air she swings on. This one\n\nbegins shouting straight off and never stops,\n\na devourer that wants everything at once.\n\nThis one is creeping through grasses to ambush,\n\nand at last she's a spilled song\n\nfinishing somewhere into the roofbeams.\n\nSilence is hers, she makes that\n\nwhen she thinks of another, when through her sleep\n\nher children are running too near the water.\n\nThe cry of an animal kicked awake to its guard,\n\nnoises of something lost in the thicket, she croons\n\nthe names of old lovers dead in the wars.\n\nSome sounds come from nowhere, she wants\n\na man who lives on the moon's back, she wants\n\nto die if she does for eternity what she does now.\n\nThe first awake in the camp, she's about\n\nseeking warmth, she goes out of her self's house.\n\nShe's the first creature to crawl out of the sea.\n\nShe makes all sounds, I don't know if she's one or many.\n\nIf ever she puts them together at once I shall drown\n\nand drift with her in the sea off Northumberland\n\ncrying _forever forever_ , awake to the last star.\n\n# Ghost songs\n\n#### 1\n\nOnly a little way the dead come with us\n\nwanting to live in their names spoken out.\n\n#### 2\n\nThe wind follows its footprints.\n\nI sleep in the owl's coveting watch.\n\n#### 3\n\nThis is the feel of belonging to no place:\n\n_the gods come loose from their stones_.\n\n#### 4\n\nNo man can drink all of the water.\n\nThink of the ice frozen a thousand years.\n\n#### 5\n\nWhen the butcher comes give him bones.\n\nWhen the clerk comes give him nothing at all.\n\n#### 6\n\nWhen I draw you why do you pose so\n\nunless I am taking something away?\n\n#### 7\n\nAll the facts are breaking apart.\n\nThe jetplanes are sowing dead grass.\n\n#### 8\n\nIf the dance takes an age I shall dance,\n\nif my sleep lasts a minute.\n\n#### 9\n\nWrite it all down, enough for a postcard.\n\nPick someone at random and send it.\n\n#### 10\n\nSend it away from you. Let them burn it.\n\nLet them feed it to cattle.\n\n# Ghost dances\n\n#### 1\n\nWhoever you are looking in I'm in here\n\nlooking out. Do you hear singing?\n\n#### 2\n\nI want to be nothing more than the spaces\n\nbetween sounds, as the air is between grass.\n\n#### 3\n\nOnce I was a road where everyone passed.\n\nWhen I heard the dance first it was over me.\n\n#### 4\n\nFirst I became dancer, then dance.\n\nI shall fill all the room's crevices.\n\n#### 5\n\nFor music I need my hands and my feet.\n\nLet the rest of me join and fill like a smoke.\n\n#### 6\n\nLet the air be the crows', to the fish water.\n\nMy sign is an ear of good wheat.\n\n#### 7\n\nThe animals come and go. The sea\n\ndoesn't go down forever.\n\n#### 8\n\nThe automobile is a dead beast going the way\n\nof the mammoth. Let it go.\n\n#### 9\n\nI shall dance through your landscape\n\nback to my beginnings, a thousand years.\n\n#### 10\n\nWe are alone here with the stones.\n\nDance joyfully for that woman spinning.\n\n# In this place\n\nMy hands pray to nothing.\n\nI am the world of the little sand-grain.\n\nI allow nothing that I am to be taken away,\n\nI turn from the camera\n\nagainst what it takes from me\n\nThe bird came, he looked maybe at the sky,\n\nI thought he is looking at nothing\n\nand contends with it. I contemplate\n\nwriting the history of birds \u2013 Alexanders\n\nand Hitlers and St Jerome, strutting the branches\n\nfor the sake of this straggler\n\nWhen I go back to my people I feel\n\nlike an invader. I belong no place\n\nand live only in my speaking.\n\nI am content with the woman I took long ago\n\nand the children she pressed out crying.\n\nI have what I want, I have what is not much,\n\na few friends, books and songs, right now\n\nit's maybe the middle of the fifteenth century\n\nand they've begun to fight all through winter.\n\nIf they come I shall defend these things\n\nand ask nothing of theirs. I am the stream\n\nthat doesn't know it wears stones away,\n\nthe beaver building its dam for itself\n\nnot for the hunters and those who take pictures.\n\nI am the leaf lying downwind and use\n\nonly a few things. I am salt in the shaker,\n\nmy hands pray to nothing\n\n# Where did I learn such quiet\n\nWhere did I learn such quiet, after the Punic wars\n\nand the killing of those who surrendered,\n\nwhere did I learn it?\n\nEven Europe has come and gone and the star patterns\n\naltered, Hannibal would no longer know\n\nthe way through the mountains. From where\n\ndid the silence come over the Polish Corridor\n\nand the sleeping Xanthoi sentries?\n\nBrothers the field longs again for its grass,\n\nthe wind travels the old passes, the snow begins.\n\n# In Pennsylvania, winter's end\n\nA year I turned in myself\n\nlike a sail, round and around\n\nturning to voices\n\ncaught by the light.\n\nThe dancers are turning\n\nto look, asking who partners them,\n\npoised as they move they see\n\nhow the light moves on itself.\n\nI lay on the side of a hill\n\nin summer, the hill\n\nthat is as the side of my own life.\n\nThe grasses rippled, ancient.\n\nI became very small\n\nand entered my body, seeing within\n\ndancers crossing the slope far away.\n\nAre they arriving or leaving?\n\nAre theirs these voices calling\n\nback or beyond them?\n\nUnder the hill an iron bell\n\nrocked by the moon is booming,\n\nits sound a slow tide,\n\nwells of sweet water.\n\n# Little notes\n\nNick draws her brother.\n\nIn the enormous eyes\n\nare pictures\n\nof people and flowers.\n\nThis wood then, its grain\n\nrecorded itself growing.\n\nAnd these stones of the cathedral,\n\nwhat do they record?\n\nOh the small agonies,\n\nmen and women in time \u2013\n\ndancing, dancing, bread\n\nand a short life.\n\nThe moon's a round cry.\n\nTake a good look\n\nbefore it's covered in moss.\n\nNick says the moon is the moon.\n\nShe draws her mother,\n\none breast then the other.\n\nDraw me the sounds\n\nof her feet, of her breathing.\n\n# After a journey\n\nWhen we wake\n\nsnow will lie on the sills. There are things\n\nhappening when no one knows it.\n\nI returned from the west finding the trees bare.\n\nWith the first cold my children came,\n\nI don't know where they learn their songs from.\n\nI know the dead have little to say to us,\n\nbut speak like they were the same, like clocks\n\nscuttling into the dark with the same nothings.\n\nLater perhaps they turn aside to a place\n\nwhere they no longer need us to listen, or go out\n\nwhen they are at peace like burned wicks.\n\nWhat we don't know yet is no matter.\n\nI pray not to a god but to stone,\n\nto the grass, to the running hooves of the horses.\n\n# The Eli Poems\n# The marsh\n\nEvenings the crows pass\n\nin and out the beech trees.\n\nPerhaps it is autumn,\n\nshe walks the lowland.\n\nThe first pinch of winter \u2013\n\nred docken sticks, colour\n\nrunning from the pasture,\n\nweeds leaning east.\n\nThe stripped falling\n\nface of the willows\n\nis part of it. The land\n\nlevels down to the marsh.\n\nA place the river\n\nloses itself, boggy land\n\nof overgrown water\n\nthe foot strikes into.\n\nOctober swells in the beds\n\nof reeds and tall grass.\n\nShe blows the thistledown,\n\nputs her feet squarely\n\nand passes the place\n\nhorse and man went down\n\nat a gulp: bottomless pit\n\nof bones and lost footholds.\n\nOh rumours go back, soldiers\n\nand farmers mistaking\n\nthe look of firm footing \u2013\n\nghosts, river vapours.\n\n\u2013 Or birches at twilight\n\nabove fallen leaves, there\n\nwhere the stones lie\n\non the slope as she goes.\n\nAs she leaves that place\n\nthat after will speak of her:\n\nface peering through water\n\ninto a face, into a dark.\n\n# The third month\n\nOh she is\n\nno one's,\n\nher belly\n\nis big.\n\nShe\n\nputs her hands\n\nto touch, she\n\nhas tried to\n\nignore it, she says\n\nwho will help.\n\nIt\n\ncannot be stopped\n\nnow it's planted\n\nhe shrugs, his hands\n\nface outward,\n\nhe says this or that\n\nand goes.\n\n_Well go_\n\nshe says after\n\n_and you might._\n\nOther times\n\nwhat tones he took,\n\nwhat ways\n\nand she let,\n\nshe can't recall\n\nnow there's this.\n\nWell\n\ngoes sometimes\n\na long time\n\nbetween breakfast\n\nand supper and\n\ndown along there\n\nshe lay down, he also,\n\nunder a bush, for\n\nthey met walking\n\nby maybe chance\n\nout by the water\n\nand no they weren't\n\nstrangers, sat often\n\nto the same table.\n\nAnd not for the\n\nlast time they\n\nlay so, and he\n\nwhat was it\n\nhe said and what\n\nmatter: there's this\n\nfeeding itself\n\non herself, and him\n\nwalking away whose\n\nshort legs\n\npressing her down\n\nwhose eyes shut\n\nand the damp grass\n\nchilled her, he\n\nmuttered and cried\n\nan animal sound.\n\nAnd see\n\nwhere that got me\n\nto herself\n\nshe says, as who\n\nwould she speak to\n\nwith nothing her own,\n\na thin\n\nworking girl,\n\nthat sort goes hungry\n\nstopping up draughts,\n\ngoes down\n\nwith fever, galloping\n\nconsumption,\n\nif only the poor\n\nlearn manners, and look\n\nher skirt\n\ncan't afford to\n\ntrail the ground,\n\nshe'll work\n\ntill she's brought\n\nto bed she yells\n\nafter him, slow\n\ndistant figure\n\ncrossing the street\n\nto his house, _go_\n\n_and you might,_\n\n_looking for brats,_\n\n_here's brats,_\n\n_go speak_\n\n_with your wife_\n\n_old man_\n\n_old man_\n\n_old man._\n\n# Eli's poem\n\nI met a woman from the sea coast,\n\nshe took me aside in the bushes\n\nand wrapped me around and said _we are alone_\n\n_as the moon up there is with just two sides._\n\nI did what was to be done and came away with her.\n\nNow I am with a crazy woman\n\nwho hurts herself with ashes and briars\n\nrunning in the scrub. She takes blankets\n\nand stuffs them under her skirt for a child.\n\nShe takes out the blanket and croons on it,\n\nwashes it, beats it with sticks till it cries\n\nand tears it to pieces. Her lament\n\ngoes down the street on cut feet in the gravel.\n\nShe runs in a nightgown thinking she's the police\n\nand charges anyone with ridiculous crimes\n\nlike wearing a hat sideways and walking wrong.\n\nThe people here know her and smile and say\n\nyes they will come to the court to answer.\n\nShe writes everything down in her book.\n\nIn bed she's like trying to catch a hare.\n\nShe wants to sleep with me all night\n\ntill my back breaks, if I doze off\n\nshe wakes me crying for love.\n\nI married a crazy woman for her brown hair.\n\nAt first I thought she was pregnant\n\nbut her blood runs, the doctor shakes his head at me.\n\nI tell her your child is in the other country\n\nand will not come here because of your frenzy.\n\nShe runs to the church crying she's evil,\n\nthe priest holds out his god's battered arms\n\nand says _come child everyone's evil_.\n\nI cool her with my breath, I cool her with water.\n\nShe's insatiable as the river, like winds\n\nshe has no place to go and runs\n\nfrom whatever does not move. She's holding a wooden knife\n\nand staring it down till it becomes pure menace\n\nand I fear it myself. I sleep with her\n\nbecause then I control her and know where she is,\n\nbut I don't know what runs in her.\n\nNow she is out on the hill wailing\n\ncutting her flesh on the stiff grass\n\nwhere I go to her lamenting.\n\n# The rooming house\n\nDead girl what we did\n\nwas done against death,\n\nour thrusting against\n\nall the room's shadows.\n\nI held your long hair\n\nover your breasts,\n\nunder its glove of fur\n\nyour belly ran like an animal.\n\nI put my hands to your hip-bones\n\nthat seemed like the gates\n\nof the universe, I thought\n\none day to fall through forever.\n\nAnd cried _do not go from me._\n\nI saw you walking around\n\nin another place, in a small\n\npicture of death.\n\nHearing the sounds you made\n\nI held you against parting.\n\nI came in to you, your dark\n\nhowled against my dark.\n\nIn the room now I breathe\n\nfor the smell of you, your thighs\n\nwet as horses' flanks in harvest,\n\nyour heat's dumb flailing.\n\nDust you breathed, memory\n\nof your throat-sound, your sweat\n\ningrained in my flesh,\n\na stained quilt, survive you.\n\n# His lament\n\nWas it all my effort\n\nto release you, all I knew\n\nbut to give sound to your moving,\n\na white to your stark face.\n\nWords I had spoken, pulled out\n\nand held near to myself\n\nI released then, their twistings\n\nran clear as milk from a jar.\n\nI saw as you saw, shimmer\n\nof the rising wave mirrored\n\nin the cornfield, a thrush bone\n\nsplayed on the air's flesh.\n\nI had walked this way, I\n\nhad not seen the spidery roots\n\nof the grass, leaf-vein division,\n\nmap of my own blood.\n\nBirds combed the estuary mud,\n\nwater threading their prints.\n\nYou sang an old song, I\n\nsaw you glance through the air's web.\n\nI touched the thin bones.\n\nYou cried out as I entered you,\n\na gull's yelp, breath-borne, all\n\nthe years of my life crying.\n\nYou died, so scrawny you were.\n\nYou moved out of the light though\n\na shape of the light still,\n\nand you stir in my bones now.\n\n# The obsession\n\nMonths now I have lifted\n\nyour frail shell and listened.\n\nYou would not speak, you went out\n\nthe door down the street,\n\ntaking the fieldpath.\n\nIn the hood's shadow your face\n\nis a blur I cannot remember.\n\nI must read the slope\n\nof your departing shoulder, it says\n\nI have shaped you in words\n\nthat aren't true, in my dream\n\nyou move as you would not move.\n\nYou passed by, the water\n\nlooked up at you, ice-rimmed,\n\nthe marsh winter-stiffened.\n\nOn the slope where the trees begin\n\nbird-prints had locked in hard ground\n\nover each other. And here\n\nyou lost sight of yourself,\n\nmust come again and again\n\ndown the marshway, the dead end\n\nof the recurring decimal.\n\nIn the wood fine snow grains\n\noutline the pine needles.\n\nHow far it is to the hill\n\nand the cart-rutted track.\n\nAlong there the trees thin out\n\nwhere wind breaks the seedlings\n\nand the ridge is bleakly open.\n\nFar off the river widens to the sea,\n\na white mist. You must come again\n\nto the scrubland down the side\n\nwhere the brown turns to grey shale,\n\nfinding the house deserted.\n\nIs this the place lady where pain\n\nbroke like a parting of oceans across you?\n\nFrom here you have no name\n\nbut return and return to this room,\n\nstoop over the linens, folding the sheets\n\nand folding the sheets till there's nothing\n\nand you but the want to be nothing\n\nput away with them,\n\nand the heat of you gone\n\nas the room's warmth spends itself\n\non the window glass.\n\n# What was done\n\n_Push_ they said,\n\nholding your limbs,\n\nspread you apart.\n\nSo much joy they took\n\nin the pain, the women\n\nbore down on you.\n\n_All for men's pleasure_\n\nthey said, they\n\nlooked most for a boy.\n\nOf their own labours\n\nthey spoke, alternately\n\nsweetened and bullied.\n\nTurning hour after hour\n\nthe muscling wheel\n\nrode through you.\n\n_And he saw you now_\n\n_he'd think twice._\n\nBut they envied this.\n\nStrangely they moved\n\nin the old dance,\n\nfeeding up gossip.\n\nThey did what they must.\n\nYou suffered, love,\n\nbut to wag tongues.\n\nAt the last you saw\n\nyour own body's shafts\n\nand the driving muscle\n\nbetween them print out\n\nits track, the child\n\nleapt to their hands\n\nand the wheel rolled\n\nout of you, pushing\n\nthe small life from you.\n\n# The door\n\nA few days before my father's death the last dream cried as I woke:\n\n_My name is Kate, I am an Irish girl_\n\n_My name is Kate, I am an Irish girl_\n\nPeople might say the dreams were coincidences, dreams merely, indulgences perhaps, and that death's blank event drove them off at last. Over a month or two there had been about a dozen of them, almost always the same dream, or a part of it: marshland, hills one way, the tidal estuary of rising birds another. The marsh compelled attention, and the path through it that turned away up the slope and along a ridge of scrubby woods. The dream turned evening there among the briars. There was a dark quiet house, abandoned, the cold wind landward between clearings. The house lay at the track's end where the dream always ran out in a search through old drawers and cupboards of musty clothing and abandoned domesticity: but for what? Usually I saw different parts of the same landscape, entering the dream at different points on the journey she made through the marsh and up the slope along the ridge to the house, over and over. Crossing the field, walking through tall grass or wandering the marshes, she was always going away, always turned away from me. I saw only her back in a long shabby dress, her head's bulk of dark hair, a thin shoulder hunched inwards, turned towards the slope. I think she was a bit simple, a bit mad perhaps, quiet, sometimes clearly speaking a kind of song that in other times might have been taken for witchery or angelic wisdom:\n\n_She stood by the driven spring_\n\n_She cried my love's_\n\n_face down in the sea_\n\nPeople didn't bother with her. I don't know who he was. Eli. Not a workman. Pompous, a bully, middle-aged, kept a lodging-house, wife an invalid, perhaps a man who called himself a master builder for once putting up an outhouse. Kate roomed in his house, huddled with others in the dark under the slates like birds, the hired girls in their sleep dreading the dawnless yells of the knocker-up. When they were let work the mill swallowed them, sent them home limping, aching in every bone.\n\n_Two lay over the clover_\n\n_Sunday afternoon_\n\n_Three break bones in the mill_\n\n_singing another tune_\n\nThe Industrial Revolution broke across England. There were still cottagers working at home, proud of their cow and their loom and their kitchen gardens. There were still mechanics who could mould and cast and file and build before your face an engine worked from a rough sketch of an idea in your skull. But more and more the independents were going under, sending their wives and then their children to the mill, coming themselves when they could get work \u2013 for women were paid less and given work first, and children barely able to speak, they too were found useful and put to long labour. The workshop became a mill, the villages grew into muddy settlements, towns, cities. Rural communities shrank, many vanished into the fields. Driven off from their holdings and commons the country poor came to be hired for day labour and entered the lives of the towns. They were told they owned half the world, their empire branded into it two centuries deep. Dour, close, with a tight-mouthed humour, they became the industrial working class, a province of the rich.\n\n_Don't ask me how I fettle_\n\n_don't askit me no longer_\n\n_Burdock's good for nettle_\n\n_Nettle's good for hunger_\n\nSomewhere Kate lived, a thin working girl, not of that place, without family. Eli got her pregnant, she died in childbirth. He grumbled that I contain her life within mine, and stood now in his way of her: that I was once that frail girl in the time of misery. He nattered so, when I tried to release her like a bird through the poem he must step out so she went away again, nothing to say to him, he would not leave me. What I said then was to do with his presence and her absence and my impatience. I was no go-between. The dreams continued, the landscape of marsh and ridge, the clear light on the reeds, opened like an eye. Small stirrings, sometimes her face in shadow, turning away \u2013 but her face, a glimpse. And lastly the dream of her voice, in which she was speaking:\n\n_My name is Kate_\n\n_I am an Irish girl_\n\nMy father died and not until he was dead did I learn that his mother had died in childbirth, in Ireland. Perhaps a narrative with all its light and weariness had forced itself upon me, perhaps it was all _coincidence_ \u2013 though I am no longer willing to believe in coincidence \u2013 and in any case the names do not match, the dates do not match, and I am not sure in what country this happened, and this is perhaps only a tale told by the prisoner to the jailer. Perhaps the patterns of separate events containing certain details in common as to birth and death and origin, perhaps these overlie each other, and some light gets through into these dreams with which I lived then, in some terror, through the time my father was moving towards his own death. But that place of the dreams surely exists, where this narrative happened, where a man called Eli loved a girl called Kate who died of that love in a place called Watertown in the distant year of 1790. They were alive once; they were real fictions, the mask, the face, the voice. I no longer dream of him or of her, but years later, some years ago now, wide awake, I saw her clear as I see her now in the light, in a faded dress of grey cloth with small green flowers, her coat across her shoulders, her face thin and wiry, her shoes letting wet, coming towards me down the slope's loose stones. \n\n# Half songs, 1790\n\n#### 1\n\nSaw you come down the shale, love,\n\nthe stones black in the rain.\n\nIn your hand a kerchief,\n\nin that plain bread.\n\nYour frock's all frayed,\n\nyour face white as thistle hair.\n\nAnd the wildness in your face, love,\n\nand the cold stood there.\n\nCome down to the mill's lamps,\n\na May morning.\n\nPeewit cried on the clover.\n\nSaw you turn and turn.\n\n#### 2\n\nRain on the running hill's back,\n\nrain on the mill's black side.\n\nNowt but trouble ails you,\n\nyou're no bugger else's bride.\n\nThe lovers meet in the marshland,\n\nthe lovers meet in the sky.\n\nThere's no one comes to meet you\n\non the black pit's other side.\n\nBut your face so pale and sleek, love,\n\nand your eyes like a bird's, so sharp.\n\nThere was hunger enough till now, love,\n\nbut now there's never enough.\n\n# The Wild Turkey\n\n_for John Patrick, my father, died 2nd April 1971_\n\nI should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience. Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such accounts as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me.\n\nTHOREAU\n\n# Wild Turkey One\n\nAll day walking, noticed\n\nnothing unusual, nothing\n\nthat came to me: grey wind,\n\ninsect glitterings. Came\n\nto the moor edge, trackless,\n\ndull, too many years dying.\n\nThe hand released what it held,\n\nwhat those imagings meant.\n\nIt was the first time, a speck\n\nof wing came away, that merely,\n\nthe dog licked my fingers,\n\nthe robin that's bird of death\n\nin my own country stared at me.\n\nThe event would not shape itself\n\nas a stream's name begins\n\nfrom meandering waters.\n\nA slight wind pulls at the cloth.\n\nOn the table a dead fly,\n\na water-drop, claim me minutely.\n\nI am a small x in some place\n\nI've begun to exist in.\n\nThe rain,\n\nfills the pasture.\n\nI listened as one who reaches\n\ninto a dream he cannot remember,\n\nfound nothing but edges, places\n\nthat quickly forget themselves,\n\nwords that aren't true.\n\n# Wild Turkey Two\n\nA language of afterthoughts\n\npursuing the moment, events\n\nswallowed in ritual.\n\nThese obeisances, rituals,\n\nproper marks, our prescribing\n\nobjects and forms of piety, as \u2013\n\nlet us worship the prophet's\n\nshoebox, his glove-shadow:\n\nall so many farewells.\n\nAnd keep moving. Otherwise\n\nthe moment is vacant and free,\n\nevading us. Lately I found\n\nreaches of time, open lands\n\nto be crossed in the long step\n\nbetween one and the next moment.\n\nThe forests gather themselves\n\nnever to be cut there\n\nbetween eyelash and eyelash.\n\nI grow roots in myself\n\nthat I am any place, rooted\n\nand moving, anywhere.\n\nSoon may I learn\n\na language to speak to myself.\n\n# Living in the Danelaw\n\nHills around. That's\n\none picture. Also\n\na sense of the sea near\n\nbeyond the next town,\n\nbehind the seawind\n\non the bushes by the Thirsk road\n\ntwisting home. Farms\n\nback of trees, dutch barn,\n\nline of poplars. Far off\n\non one hillside a badge \u2013\n\nthe white horse cut in lime.\n\nBeneath that a village,\n\nthe horse in its keeping.\n\nHere the linked consistencies,\n\nseeds, soil, sufficient water,\n\nblades of common grass, thistles\n\nlording it over the field,\n\nbird with his message of wheatstraw,\n\ncloud shadows moving quickly\n\nacross Northumbria.\n\nThe plain of York. In and\n\nthrough which my father turns,\n\nhis forearms veined, sweat-\n\nand dirt-grained, persistent,\n\nthe picture never quite fades.\n\nThrough it I walk from school\n\nthree miles, hot, scuffing\n\nthe road, or it rains,\n\nthe ruts fill, the airfield\n\ngroans with its war. Through\n\nthe beetfield Canadian airmen\n\nwave, bayonets flicking the rain.\n\nLater out of the bush\n\nsteps the German they're hunting,\n\na man wanting home,\n\nasks me the way seaward. And I\n\nshowed him to walk with the white\n\nhorse to his right side\n\nlong ago, in my picture of that place,\n\nprecise as to sky and land,\n\nred-veined leaves of the beets,\n\ncobbles of the market,\n\ntown, fields, uniforms. My father\n\nspat on their stripes, those armies\n\ncrossing the yard end, turned\n\nas often he turned saying _now it is_\n\n_yours this world it is yours now_.\n\n# The author, a teacher of petomania, reflects on the shortcomings of his students\n\nI undertake what I undertook\n\nthough they flounder, asleep\n\nin the mysteries. _Truly_\n\n_they're not swans he said,_\n\nbut I'll show them the water.\n\nA language of afterthoughts\n\ndemanding the several attentions\n\nthere is. I teach stance, posture,\n\ncomposure, the importance of silence\n\nand waiting, how to forget,\n\nhow sleep, to see and not notice\n\nthe moment the mind\n\ntakes to its channel, its\n\nleaping and threading and listening,\n\nthe business of dreams, visions,\n\nand distant barely perceptible sounds\n\n\u2013 how they effect\n\nwhat is brought to the world's gate.\n\nAnd oh they gape, tell us\n\nhow does this far off dubious\n\nbarking of dogs involve us?\n\nTruly they lack duende,\n\nwatching with hard eyes, confess\n\nthey cannot enter the dream,\n\ncannot see how the bowls\n\noffer their silences, big leaves\n\nbounce the rain in to their roots.\n\nDescribing the buds of the sycamore\n\ncoming out boxed each 4 to unfold\n\nis to be in the other world\n\nlistening in this one.\n\nIs to persist; everything's\n\nyet to be learned, even the arts\n\nand science of farts.\n\n# The visit\n\n#### I\n\nThe lady has a shrunk heart,\n\nit is all she has, next to it\n\nshe keeps her man's life\n\nThey have reduced themselves\n\ntill their lives are two strips\n\nof leather. Around them\n\nthe pots hold out\n\nthe disappointments,\n\nthe sighs of marriage\n\nas if saying _see how lightly_\n\n_we take things,_ or, now\n\n_I'm a little depressed, cheer me_\n\n#### II\n\nWhen I open my eyes they return,\n\nin their eyes the hard points\n\ndiminish with each adjective.\n\nThey don't trust each other\n\nto say anything\n\nWith such people I fell in,\n\nfelt my own name become an alias.\n\nI was a black star\n\nshining in another place\n\n#### III\n\nAll the ranch-style houses\n\nare gone to bed. The cars\n\nare going where they believe\n\nthere's a place to be got to,\n\ngirls sitting close to their drivers.\n\nThe town night is swollen,\n\nthe town cop sweats in his gun-belt\n\nand the town drunk is wading\n\nand singing through the cat-tails.\n\nI hear him clearly singing out loud\n\n_a farce, a comedy._\n\nI want to go home forever\n\n# Wild Turkey Six\n\nWrote _walked into the field,_\n\n_the grasses waving, tall_\n\n_pollen heads streaming the wind,_\n\n_wind-river of seed, endless_\n\nAnd there was nothing again\n\nto be said matching that flow.\n\nIt is the wind's field,\n\nthen the grasses\n\nWalked, gathering the fall\n\nabout me, saying aloud\n\n_it is, it is. We the grass,_\n\n_we shall live again_\n\n# Another part of his childhood\n\nTo speak of the north\n\nof my own life is bleak,\n\nis to say I have\n\nalready said it.\n\nI ran with the Swale,\n\nclear mountain river,\n\naround me, learned\n\nin its stones. I was\n\nits listener, that country\n\nof turf and hill\n\nfalling into the cut\n\nbut oh slowly.\n\nA hard grind, the soil\n\nheld back, the wheat\n\nlay thin by the river,\n\nstorms raked the moor.\n\nAbandoned farms, pit-shafts,\n\nabbeys, monks' Latin\n\ngravestones, the pines\n\nreared in the drizzle.\n\nIn '47 shut in\n\nwith dead sheep the 4 month\n\nsnowfall pinned us.\n\nAskrigg, Marske, the high\n\nperched villages\n\nof the Vikings\n\nlooked down on us.\n\nMy father, a small\n\ngentle man I had seen\n\nweep for a dead dog,\n\ntook a shotgun,\n\nchased my uncle over the moor.\n\nIt was a life bound\n\nto the land, to silence\n\nof another kind, it was\n\nthe other place.\n\nFor the last time\n\nI turn from it, I\n\nset my face. It is\n\nwherever I look,\n\nshapes my life took:\n\nthe blown hill, the sun\n\nclose on the mountain,\n\nthe yellow weeds waving.\n\n# A description of the Lichway or corpse-road across Dartmoor\n\nLICH: Old English _lic_ as a suffix for -like (likely). Used as a noun, a word for form, body, corpse: the substance of a thing. Also see the Anglo-Saxon _hlinc_ whose nearest synonym is ridge, hence a word for a boundary, or a path cresting a ridge, and so a word for link.\n\nFrom Babeny and Pizwell\n\nwest to Lydford 11\u00bd miles\n\nas the crow flies who needs\n\ncarry only his own death.\n\nIt seems not much,\n\nby their ways a day and a half-day's\n\ntravel got the corpse\n\nto Lydford Church, setting\n\nthe dead down again.\n\nHardly a tree for shade,\n\nnone for coffinwood. In rain\n\nthe moor runs like a sieve,\n\nthe brooks flood, clay pulls\n\nto the roll of the slope.\n\nIn what boots they went\n\nis not said, nor their curses.\n\nBy 1260 these villages\n\nlet off that passage.\n\nThe rest, scattered farms, inns,\n\nMerripits and Bellever\n\ntrudged on, the Forest dead\n\non the dead's road converged\n\nacross Longaford, the Cowsic,\n\nunder Whittor and Whittaburrow.\n\nKing's land, men struggled\n\naway from their masters,\n\nscratching for tin, thin\n\nscrawny cattle, a few oats\n\nshared with the beasts\n\nunder one roof, chaff blown\n\nin the Atlantic wind, survived\n\nby the rain and fern.\n\nAnd gone. Their hands\n\nlifted the stone, sifted\n\nthe streams for metal. In winter\n\nsalted the dead down.\n\nNot long back a traveller\n\nlifted the bench lid on a corpse\n\nfloating in brine \u2013 the innkeeper\n\nsaved for spring burial.\n\nCut by enclosures, mines,\n\nartillery ranges, theirs\n\nis the dead's print, pressing\n\nof feet through the strange land.\n\n# A farewell to the city of Exeter in south-west England\n\nSay goodbye love to this clock's\n\njourney over its own face, turn\n\nof these streets on their centre.\n\nAfter four years of silence\n\nI looked at my shoes, two shapes\n\nof myself standing apart, ready to go.\n\nWhile those others touch their lips\n\nto their diplomas, let's leave without sound\n\nin the living wind, saying _finis_\n\nto the estuary reeds strange in the light\n\nbefore rain, the ever arriving water.\n\nSoon we shall learn there's no future.\n\nThe planet became infinitely small \u2013\n\na turning stone mottled and veined,\n\na pebble alone, an eternity of shoes.\n\n# In the Americas, so the tale goes\n\nA first grasp at land\n\nsuddenly found, in his way\n\nhe discovers a continent,\n\nsteps off to the prairie.\n\nFall comes, _the wild goose_\n\n_has raised its accustomed cry._\n\nWinter approaches, the white zero\n\nof afterwards, oh of boredom,\n\nhaving seen it all, the sun\n\ngone down on the world.\n\nAnd too much yet to be said,\n\nsurprise land of river reeds\n\nshaking in light, desert cries\n\nstrange and ancient, gaze\n\nof the word for which all else\n\nis afterthought, the mouth's\n\ndaft shape. And _where is_\n\n_that lawing and that song_\n\nI sang, crossing the mine waste:\n\npitted clay, runnels, weeds\n\ndry and isolate, sun-split stones\n\nof the slit hill, remember\n\nthis glazed land of the future\n\nlaid open and left by our going.\n\nAnd if none may survive\n\nwe should speak our farewells\n\nin this place. For this I turn\n\nsaying adieu to each leaf-sound,\n\nfinding the grass living again,\n\n_the red rose and the lily flower._\n\n# A journey through part of western Pennsylvania\n\nCanvas shoes, pants,\n\na lone Indian walks\n\nto New Wilmington\n\nthrough Amish farmland,\n\ngreen rolling, the houses\n\nsurprise each hill, white\n\nas a smoke, blue doors\n\nfor their marriageable daughters.\n\nWe were driving some place,\n\ntwo men nodded\n\nwaving their arms\n\nfrom the Thirty Years' War.\n\nThe wheat waved and nodded\n\nover the bones\n\nof the Erie, the Shawnee,\n\nthe Delaware, the Iroquois.\n\nWe drove though there is\n\nno place to go and\n\nthe future is shut\n\nby our shutting it.\n\nFor we ran much, filled\n\nall the cracks, emptied\n\nand filled the valleys\n\nof the complex Earth.\n\nAnd it's done, oh\n\nbearded ones, girls in-a-ring,\n\ngrief-reared face travelling\n\nnowhere, into Ohio.\n\n# Wild Turkey Twelve\n\nOn the porch\n\ndrinking beer and\n\nwatching the cars, ah so\n\nAmerica\n\npassing with\n\nblank stares, finger signs,\n\nadvice re hair\n\nand all\n\nWho needs your\n\nnight spray & napalm,\n\nwhat you do\n\nthe world knows\n\nThe best of you\n\nare going away.\n\nSome I have loved\n\nwith a grace\n\ntheir open faces\n\nthe tulip-tree leaf,\n\ntheir gesture\n\nample as landscape,\n\nas frail, as\n\npersistent as milkweed,\n\ndeserve more than\n\ngood luck\n\nSo love it\n\nor leave the crow said.\n\nWe looked\n\nat the blue lonely world\n\nIt could have been\n\nanywhere, it turned out\n\nthis blank stare\n\nhere, here\n\n\u2013 a gift of not much,\n\npresence running out\n\nlike spilt milk \u2013\n\nwas your face passing,\n\npassing. Let's\n\nget it over with let's\n\nget it over let's\n\nget it over with\n\n# Wild Turkey Thirteen\n\nSome circumstantial evidence is very strong,\n\nas when you find a trout in the milk.\n\nTHOREAU\n\nSome quit\n\nwithout farewells, walked\n\nwith the knowing of woods,\n\nhusbandry, building,\n\nmaking, to be gentle\n\nFound property\n\n_what is proper_ men use,\n\nmen's ways and women's\n\nSaturday nights\n\nthe millworkers' posse\n\ndrinks up\n\ntalking of rape,\n\neach with a six-pack along\n\nIn Michigan they broke\n\nboth his hands with rifle butts,\n\nin Taos castrated him,\n\ntook his woman, beat him\n\nthrough the Sierra Nevada\n\n_After the first blush of sin_\n\n_comes its indifference_\n\nAnd if there is no place\n\nto stay then we'll go,\n\nand if there is no place\n\nto go then we'll stay\n\n# The dream\n\n#### 1\n\nA place you would be\n\nfamiliar with, birds,\n\ntrees, men & women, world\n\ndeclaring itself\n\nmoment by moment\n\nThe mountain, the distance,\n\nthe cricket's emergence,\n\nflick of a grasshopper,\n\nblue jay & crocus, is\n\nor is nearly the whole\n\nThe words a country\n\nof leaves on the field,\n\ncity of wheat to come to,\n\nlandscape glimpsed\n\nthrough flashes of lightning\n\nAnd moving. Their carts\n\ncreak by the fence\n\nto where they will move\n\nin a circle slowly,\n\nspeaking the names\n\nDraw near the well,\n\nthe last water.\n\nI bring my flesh\n\nto your flesh,\n\na place we shall live\n\n#### 2\n\nReturn of the earth\n\nto itself\n\nlike water, here\n\nis no future\n\nlady walling your face\n\nto desire, gentleman\n\nunder the helmet,\n\nthe grasses take you\n\naway from all this \u2013\n\nthistleburrs, pines,\n\nmorning-glories,\n\nmashed into dollar bills\n\nSchools full of silence,\n\nthe blue eyes, sober\n\ngrey suit, clipped head\n\nwould assure us\n\nThe day of the last\n\nclean wind off the plain\n\nand the lake\n\nfull of shit\n\nThe deer stand\n\nat your whistle, come down\n\nfrom the wood\n\nto their own country\n\nHe hides down there\n\nby the women's house.\n\nShe writes poems\n\nfull of gesture\n\nsteps on the grass\n\nlifting her feet\n\nas though to avoid it,\n\nis in love or not\n\nShe has no desires\n\nto speak of\n\nO friend\n\nI would write you\n\nyou would not believe\n\n#### 3\n\nOf the mountain,\n\nwhat country we came,\n\nhe said nothing\n\nSpoke of rooms of tall grass,\n\nFoxtail & Brome, the spread\n\nof the Queen Anne's Lace,\n\na ribbon of birds dipping\n\n& rippling, going away\n\nwheeling its nebula \u2013\n\nthe way we would go,\n\nwind crying direction\n\nyellows through maple\n\nDescribed the cicada's\n\nbrief time, a few weeks\n\nit's over: birdsounds,\n\nshiver of aspen, briars\n\non stones, ripples\n\nthe summer field has\n\nas through this she walks\n\nstep by step, her skirt\n\nprinted with corn-ears\n\nswirling, she pivots herself\n\nto one foot, in the glass\n\nreflects she was young\n\nand turns as he turns,\n\nas the wheat moves aside\n\nat their going, as colour\n\nslips out, like water\n\n#### 4\n\nWe are among resonances,\n\nbones of the skull\n\nTiny plates of the ear\n\nmove on each other\n\nThough I speak to myself\n\nI speak also to you\n\nWe shall burst into silence,\n\nwe shall rise from our mouths\n\nWhat I have spoken of\n\nspeaks of itself:\n\nthe river over stones,\n\nthe grass repeating itself\n\nIf I'm drunk & can't see\n\nI shall get home\n\nWalking the street of myself\n\nto the door, I shall go in\n\nI will enter the dream's trick\n\nto believe in itself\n\nWhere we are we belong,\n\nhere or another place\n\nHow the tree speaks, talks\n\nof a fox passing through\n\nThe peewee's cry instant\n\nby instant discovers itself\n\nWhat a cry of solitudes,\n\nsounds across water\n\nWhat a small arc of a circle,\n\nwhat a circle\n\nWhat a small sound in which\n\nto begin to complete myself\n\n# [FROM  \nTHE POET RECLINING](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\nSELECTED POEMS 1962-1980\n\n(1982)\n\nThis section includes all the poems from _The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962-1980_ (1982) which postdate _Work, distances \/ poems_ (1972), mostly drawn from small press titles published in the US and UK between 1974 and 1981, beginning with _Hawk Wolf_ (1974). Some poems appeared in more than one pamphlet: details of original publication are given in the bibliography. The order follows that in _The Poet Reclining_.\n\n# Wolf vision\n\nAt the abandoned farm\n\nin the clearing shrunk\n\nfrom the field it was,\n\nwoods of birch\n\nand hickory sprung\n\nfrom the forest's axeing \u2013\n\nAmerican trees still awake\n\nin their Indian names,\n\nold field measured out\n\nin blunt immigrant speech \u2013\n\nI was a man with his dog\n\nrunning out\n\non the snowclapped\n\nglazed winter grasses\n\ngone into scrubland.\n\nSome look in his eye\n\nnot dog's but wolf's\n\npierced me. Running\n\nagain through the edges\n\nof clearings the late\n\nsunlight blazed in,\n\npond ice, bracken,\n\nsaplings risen again\n\nfrom their winters, away\n\non some plain\n\nanswering only ourselves\n\nwe were wolves howling.\n\n# Hawk vision\n\n_(for Tom Nickerson, vanished Indian)_\n\nAt Wachusett, the lake darker\n\nthrough winter straight pines,\n\nrocks dumped in the ice sheet,\n\nwe stood for a bird's high\n\nhovering over the inlets: red hawk\n\nlike none the books mention\n\ncircled and lazed on the air's\n\nupdrift over his watching hold\n\ndown the cone of his vision\n\nof stone and valley tight to his eye\n\nthat fed on a wide space of small\n\nmovement he's triggered by: snake,\n\nrabbit: liquid shutting the lens\n\npinpricked down to his dive \u2013\n\neverything in him going in one\n\nfeather spread downflight first\n\non the fur-stripping claws\n\nsecond his bone-splitting beak.\n\nI should shudder, remembering\n\nvictims I've known, times\n\nI've been killer, harbour gull\n\nsnapping off crabs' legs;\n\nother times I was running\n\nhome through the evening, then\n\nhunched by that knived\n\nfalling out of the light.\n\nThat day we were watching, part\n\nof his landscape, a claw's length\n\nout from the wars of ferrets\n\nand eagles, land grabs, horse thefts,\n\nslavings and sack of our separate\n\ntribes, alert for his dive\n\nbut he circled. And rose\n\nin a spiral upward into the blue\n\nshock of the sky diving\n\nsomehow upward and vanished.\n\n# Remembering when he was a wolf\n\nThe light on the fields\n\nslowly vanishing,\n\nthe old dark padding back,\n\nthe old sifting of dust.\n\nI sat by the stone, rainspots\n\nhad pitted and dried. Here the wind\n\ncarries everything off:\n\nseeds, names, old barns.\n\nIn such light we skirted the clearing,\n\nsunset breaking across us. And ran\n\nthrough the open, we howled\n\nso the stones must hear us.\n\nIn the scrub leaf-mould thickened,\n\ncold to my hands. I fell there,\n\nthe pack left me, heat of my body\n\nleft me, a briar whipping my cheek.\n\nCreatures had dug in the frost,\n\ntheir small breaths melting the ice,\n\nlittle wandering pumps\n\nchewing up leaves. I was a wolf,\n\nmy work to wait\n\ntill nightfall and catch them. It could be\n\nmy boots snapping sticks\n\nthrough this wood is all I want now.\n\nIt could be that sitting here\n\nwith my black gloves on a stump\n\nkeeping my hands' shape\n\nis what I always wanted.\n\n# Another night of muttering\n\nand shaking, cat cries,\n\nboots kicking in the alleys\n\nand all night I swear someone\n\ncalling from far off _please_\n\n_to come in._ I dreamed\n\nnothing, I dreamed I was asleep\n\nwith the eyes of my enemy\n\nwatching.\n\nThe sun, skimming the mist off the marshes,\n\ntrees breaking through\n\nlike junked ships. At the tips of three sticks\n\nof the wintered elm\n\nthree crows, like three\n\nblack flames.\n\nThat describes it. On the sea\n\na quick slap of sunlight, the day\n\nset loose.\n\nIn the street\n\nearly risers with flasks\n\nand lunchbuckets set out\n\nfor the port. There is\n\nnothing to tell you, the city\n\ncoming awake, everyone\n\npulls on the ropes, from a lifted window\n\na man shouts down his hands\n\n_such good little citizens._\n\nHard to say where I've been. One place\n\nwas a thin skirling music,\n\nits own sound, rain\n\ngusted through rocks,\n\nArab music the way they hear it.\n\nThey played, each his own song\n\nwith others, a joyful lament.\n\nA girl danced, dark, skinny-legged.\n\nOthers stood to one side listening.\n\nIn a doorway a drunk\n\nwas taking a leak\n\nand falling. When he sat up\n\nhe was spitting his teeth out,\n\na gob of whiteness.\n\n# Tales of Urias the shape-shifter\n\nFirst he was stone, the great sleeper,\n\nthe company of other stones\n\nwas no blessing.\n\nStone-still he'd talk\n\nwith the white hurrying mane of water,\n\nno one believes it.\n\nGlimpsed in and out woods\n\nfollowing the beck, by the downrush\n\nforgot all his words for water.\n\nThen a bird was his lifting wing-shadow\n\ndropped down the valley.\n\nIn his skull dreamed again smoke,\n\nmill-waste, the cotton-spinners'\n\ndreamless sleep, Pennines\n\ndark and satanic, so he sang _Jerusalem_.\n\nMan again, from gutturals\n\nmaking his first sentence,\n\nsinging through looms and his grudging masters\n\nall the songs of the settlement.\n\nA country their god had forgotten\n\nhis blessing. The birds, they sing\n\nonce there and fly off\n\nleaving no message.\n\nBy the stream of a Sunday\n\nwould he fish, court, walk and fight.\n\nSome time in rage a frame-breaker,\n\nspeech-maker, read the London correspondence.\n\nAnd with others come in the blue\n\nwithering light at day's edge\n\ndown the mill's shadow, some but six years\n\npicking cotton waste, always hungry.\n\nBrooding years after he'd ask\n\nif a man believing in silence should talk much.\n\nWent preaching, the book of black words\n\nin his back breeches' pocket.\n\nTill at evening his clogs\n\npounding the hillsides he's famous for\n\nhe's come to the praying hole.\n\nBehind him the gap in the rockface\n\nis the stone's mouth speaking through him.\n\nThe birds and the beck's noise\n\nand his people around him are one sound.\n\nThen with the voice that learned speaking\n\nover the groan of flywheels\n\nhe's urged his half-fed congregation\n\nup from the stones till over the magpie's screech\n\nand the jay's the woods\n\nfill with their shout _Hosannah_.\n\n# My father fading out\n\nEach time I recall him he's grown\n\nthinner and paler, _am I_\n\n_making myself clear_ he shouts\n\nfrom the hearthstone, already\n\nI see almost through him\n\nasleep at the fire, exhausted\n\nevening by evening, his crossed feet\n\npink and opaque at the open oven door.\n\nIf he slams out now it will be\n\nfainter and shake the house less,\n\nless curl to his lip for his bosses \u2013\n\nReggie Rat, Charlie Woods, Wallace Dixon.\n\nFor them he went topping and tailing\n\nbent through the frozen turnips,\n\nor stooking in summer pitched his fork\n\nhigh in the air in blind sudden anger.\n\nNow he fades out, the wireless\n\nplays him to sleep, he wakes, asks news,\n\nsees in the coals the black flag of a stranger,\n\ndozes again, then is gone completely.\n\n# Valley\n\nPale grass\n\na long flag\n\nstriped once by the river,\n\nthe one\n\nwandering blue star\n\nof the heron.\n\nIn the light's early silence\n\nthe farmers crank the old box Ford\n\nfull of chickens. The cock croaks,\n\nhe has counted his wives,\n\nsome are missing,\n\nplucked and stiffening\n\nunder the market awning. Nothing else\n\nbut a pheasant's stuttering,\n\na distant bell sound. I see\n\nin the starry river\n\nthe keel mark.\n\nTightened into the bank's\n\nwooded side under the steep\n\nhill's stone shadow\n\na Viking boat\n\nis still vanishing.\n\n# Childhood in the lowlands\n\nFoweles in the frith,\n\nFisses in the flod.\n\nAnd I mon wax wod:\n\nMulch sorw I walk with\n\nFor beste of bon and blod.\n\n_Hello_\n\n_hello_\n\ninto the mouthpiece\n\nover and over\n\n_is anyone there?_\n\nBut she would not speak\n\nto him again ever\n\nshe tells anyone but him.\n\nThat's it she's gone.\n\nHe visits his childhood: tight,\n\nwiry, a cable\n\nhung in its own weight. One cheek\n\nto the mountains,\n\nfixed on Ben Ledi's snowtip.\n\nOne cheek to the underground weeping,\n\ncoal smell of a coal town,\n\nimage of a man\n\npinned beneath beams, his father\n\nwriggling under the mountain.\n\nChoppy water, white horses on the firth,\n\nbut no fishing in the flood.\n\n# Sunk Island, that winter\n\nO westron wind when wilt thou blow\n\nAnd the small rain down shall rain\n\n_O that my love O that_\n\n_my love:_ the wind,\n\nthe reeds, the telephone wire\n\nand I, all singing.\n\nIt's late afternoon\n\nin a flat country,\n\nthe sea birds rise\n\nfar off and fall quietly.\n\nBut the sea goes away\n\nleaving these fields,\n\nthis tall yellow marsh grass\n\nand the small trees blown inland.\n\nAnd last winter the gale\n\nlifted the pigsty roof, the geese\n\nblew out to sea, the bell\n\non the dull swell of the Humber\n\nclanked through my dream\n\nof hills in my own land.\n\nPerhaps I am leaving,\n\na man stung by his woman's scolding.\n\nPerhaps nothing. Or drunk\n\ngoing home by the ditches,\n\nsinging, from a neighbour's house,\n\na man at the end of himself\n\nwhere there's only the sea\n\non the sea, each thing at a distance:\n\ndutch barn, brick letter-box,\n\nwall of the house I will sleep in.\n\n# Old postcards of the river\n\nView of the city with boats,\n\nsome rigged for a journey \u2013\n\nthe canal, in watercolour, 1830.\n\nWhere the poor stew nettles and fennel,\n\nall England affords them.\n\nBut these trees and sails\n\nin the wide space, a woman\n\nheaving a basket home on her shoulder\n\nlate in the daylight\n\nseem to belong there.\n\nIf my country is slowly\n\nlighting again,\n\nits villages\n\nopening their doors\n\nand the neighbours waving \u2013\n\nthat dream is soon over.\n\nIn the grey photograph\n\nthree who are\n\nrecently soldiers\n\ngrin from France\n\nwhere they died\n\nrifles aslant\n\nat a slow pace, shoulder to shoulder\n\nin perfect step, who\n\nfollowed the piper\n\nor huddled in mud\n\ndied in any case.\n\nWhat for won't go\n\non a postcard. Fishing\n\ndown the canal\n\non Sundays\n\nI find their initials\n\non stones\n\nby the lockgates\n\nstanding easy together\n\njust as they\n\nleft them.\n\nIn disbelief\n\nat this new thing\n\nthe camera, workmen\n\nfreeze in the street,\n\none raising a stick\n\nin suspicion, a boy\n\nmocking and pointing.\n\nBeside him a woman\n\ndark in the face\n\nas the sunless\n\nunderwing of a bird,\n\nstill turning away.\n\n# The swan\n\nIt happens, spring comes to the river,\n\ngrass freshens, the reeds remember the dry sound\n\nlast year's wind made amongst them.\n\nThese pollards, clubbed and splay-fingered,\n\nare the same willows of my childhood.\n\nThese are the same birds\n\nborn over and over, rising in the estuary.\n\nThen the swan flies, his wingbeat\n\nthrough air a slow heavy applause\n\nthat ceases, sighting the weir to turn there,\n\ntakes his precise self in one motion\n\ndown to the furrow he's cut in still water.\n\nThe wholeness of him, feather by feather.\n\nThe white sail of a ship\n\ngone long since to the horizon. Or the lance\n\nof a returning crusader. Or\n\na white banner bearing perhaps good news\n\nat last from the kingdom.\n\n# Playing field observations\n\nIn the light before rain\n\ncounting the hard little\n\nyellows of the dayseyes I went\n\ndown the sea-opened valley \u2013\n\na neat country it's said\n\nof parkland and flood plain\n\nsquared like the blind man's garden\n\nbetween the waters.\n\nSang goodbye to the elms,\n\nglimpsed by the canal\n\nblue smokey lift of a heron,\n\naccepting my birthday.\n\nHow the shadows move in\n\nat such news and are strange\n\nin the light. This feather\n\nleft for his marker my brother\n\nthe crow had dropped by the goalpost\n\nseems a dead man's finger\n\nkeeping his page\n\nin the unfinished biography.\n\n# The Tivoli Bar\n\nI look into the hole.\n\n_So this is where you live._\n\nMostly it's dark. When there's light\n\nI look at things: the worm,\n\nthe dungbeetle hoarding his muck.\n\nIn the dark I remember him.\n\nIn the dark I have to imagine.\n\nIt's the only town left \u2013\n\nstreets, people at tramstops,\n\nand the eyes of young women\n\nlooking downwards.\n\nIn the dark\n\nI roll out the words on my palms.\n\nIf I could spend them\n\nI would spend them wisely.\n\nI hope so. But I want\n\nthe quivering world that's in them\n\nto pass hand to hand\n\nbetween us.\n\n# Federico\n\nThey will come they will come.\n\nThey have been before.\n\nI watched them, from my hole\n\nunder the thornbush.\n\nThe soldier's boots\n\nwere ringing in the yard.\n\nNo one's here\n\nI told him.\n\nEach time they come\n\nI have to begin again.\n\nIf I don't remember, too bad.\n\nAnd if they don't believe me\n\nI'll say the truth anyway.\n\nWanting to shout wanting to say\n\ngo away go away.\n\nStop interfering with my silence.\n\nLet me write my poem.\n\nHe takes it. Later\n\nI see him squat by the wash house\n\nand clean himself on it.\n\nSo take it.\n\nPaper is scarce.\n\nI'm glad he finds purpose there.\n\nTake the poem. And if you\n\ncan use it\n\nuse it.\n\nWhat I mean is: leave off,\n\nI'm busy. What I want is\n\nto close the gap\n\nbetween writing the poem\n\nand a letter to a friend.\n\n# Maria the thief\n\nI stole the cup.\n\nI stole the water.\n\nSo take them.\n\nI confess everything.\n\nOn the other hand\n\nI may deny it.\n\nI stole the food, books, furniture,\n\nclothing and shoes.\n\nThough I paid cash\n\nI stole it.\n\nThough I worked for the money\n\nI stole the work.\n\nGive me what's mine,\n\nair clean as the mountain,\n\nthe pine smell,\n\nmy allotment of rain.\n\nGive me my portion.\n\n# Caesar Caesar\n\nSoldiers must try hard.\n\nThey overrun one country\n\nfinding the frontier\n\na thousand miles further\n\nstill needs defending.\n\nSuch a profession \u2013\n\nsoldiering.\n\nAnd for the police\n\nthere's always work.\n\nWhere does it go?\n\nAll the bootleather,\n\nsweat, curses, orders,\n\nthe lists\n\nof those to be shut of,\n\nthose who take and are taken,\n\nwatchers and watched.\n\nThey come to the same place:\n\nthe round cry\n\ndragging everything into itself.\n\n# Reports from the east\n\nDays coming away from each other,\n\nthreshed out.\n\nStripped to the bone. Butchered.\n\nThe bones pounded to black dust\n\ngold teeth are sieved off.\n\nTrains, marshes, ashes. Some\n\nrequest death, some walk into the wire,\n\none told to hang himself\n\ntook off his belt and did so.\n\nWhether you will,\n\nwhether the clocks shedding\n\nmoment across moment record it\n\npain\n\ncomes to be fed, all the cries\n\nto be uttered, misery's processions\n\nto be numbered.\n\nOr else\n\nlet there be singing, as at Janowska.\n\nA fiddle, a whole orchestra\n\nis given. We have to be thankful,\n\neven one mercy, a raindrop for instance.\n\n# To survive\n\nEach day the last,\n\neach a survivor. A shaft\n\nother days fall into.\n\nBooks, tables, lost objects\n\ncall back to us.\n\nI remember my razor's edge,\n\nthe lift of my good bed.\n\n_Mine_ I said _mine_ , doubting now\n\nwhether these fingers, these knees\n\nwould answer in my name.\n\nA man assembled from nothings,\n\nbones and tissues. He would eat,\n\nhe would swallow his name for nourishment.\n\nAt night the dark\n\nlooks out on itself, and the days pass,\n\na chain of black flowers.\n\n# Bowl\n\nA bowl of soup.\n\nA bowl of soup.\n\nIt is the hands\n\nmelded together, tip into tip.\n\nStains in the cracked enamel.\n\nIt is pure longing\n\nwhere the soul bunches up.\n\nPeelings and sawdust, a weak milk.\n\nCompelled to share\n\nshe cups the heat into herself.\n\nWhat the other takes\n\nshe measures in absences,\n\nfills herself\n\nin the warmth, in its lack.\n\n# Wants\n\nSuch effort to make ruins.\n\nThe city has emptied, footstep by footstep.\n\nGrandfathers searching through clothes,\n\ntrousers and shoes, emptying cupboards.\n\nThe voices have left\n\nand call in another place, anxiously.\n\nThey were neither fleeting nor wistful,\n\nthey struggled under the ban of the empire.\n\nIn my pocket on a torn piece of paper\n\nis a word for _goodbye_ in spidery writing.\n\nI want the voices to find each other.\n\nI want the parts of speech rising towards each other.\n\n# The veterans\n\nEach with his president's telegram.\n\nEach with his emblem, the grey bloody flag\n\nhe shows no one.\n\nThe medal the map the names\n\nof his bullet-raked brothers, notes\n\nof the book of delusions\n\nhe'll write now the war's done\n\nand the empire diminished. _We_\n\n_never gave it much thought_\n\nis said of atrocity, cameras\n\nnoting his face, the mouth\n\nthat says it's a mouth in a face\n\nthat says it knows better now.\n\nNow he's like everyone,\n\nsome days alone, sometimes anywhere,\n\nwith his woman who reads for him\n\nbooks from the vanishing country.\n\n# Peasant\n\nFlattening into the bank\n\nas his lord rides by: not a man,\n\nbut a root of the elm\n\ngrown round stones.\n\nIn the field carrying straw\n\nor straggling home beneath sticks\n\nin failed light\n\ntwo legs and a burden.\n\nLives in smoke, picks wheat\n\nfrom the grainpit cracks,\n\nlimps through the frozen ploughland\n\nturning an acre a day.\n\nDreams in flashes: rabbit\n\nsnared in the waste filched home\n\nin his jacket, pheasant's\n\nstuttering blur whose eggs he sucks clean.\n\nAnd the boy he was with the oxgoad\n\ntramped through the watermeads, first light\n\nfinding him still in that field\n\nbent and ailing.\n\nWater lifts off the land.\n\nWe are dancing.\n\nWe are not dancing.\n\nHe is a man, he is waving,\n\na speck in the falcon's round vision\n\nthat pins him dreaming\n\nhis master's cut throat,\n\nthe beating of ploughshares.\n\n# Duck at Haldon Ponds\n\nAt evening watches the duck\n\nslow feeding the waterline.\n\nPraises the duck. Such a fine\n\nwhite miracle breasting the mayfly.\n\nGreen of her tail feathers,\n\nspace of her neck doubled in water\n\npaddles off with my mind.\n\nDucks I have known.\n\nOld duck mates of mine\n\ninspecting the meeting of air and liquid.\n\nMake no mistake, duck.\n\nI'd like to eat you well cooked\n\none bell-battered Sunday in April.\n\nAnd I'd wear your gorgeous feathers in my hat,\n\nmake a soup of the bones\n\nand give your leftovers to the cat.\n\n# Fly\n\nI woke hearing a fly\n\ntouched again to its sound\n\npelted into the window\n\ntrying to leave\n\nfor what was it\n\n\u2013 something in sunlight that said\n\nto wake now. Beyond that\n\npulsed and repulsed buzz\n\nbetween two sheets of glass\n\na bird's one note\n\ncome back to the world brought me\n\nout of long sleep. Love,\n\nas you stir from your dream's\n\nuntrembling be still for me,\n\nlet me begin\n\nmy song for it sings moment\n\nto moment love of you.\n\n# Lake\n\nFreed now the lake turns\n\nbetween shores distantly\n\nheard from each other.\n\nWe walk by not on it, not\n\nchancing the ice\n\ndrifting apart from itself\n\nand lying like pond scum.\n\nA month back the lake\n\nI stood by spreading its bulk\n\ncracked whipped and cried\n\nand fought its bed: animals\n\nstirring, seeds pressing out\n\nfrom the milkweed's grip.\n\nI heard the ice shifting\n\ntight packed, it talked\n\nI tell you. You don't\n\nbelieve me perhaps.\n\n# Crocus\n\nLeaf, green spear with white\n\ndriven through, old trackway\n\nthe fair women went, trailing\n\ntheir coats. The flower\n\npurple folded\n\nand folding over such orange\n\nas burns deep in coals.\n\nNew risen, beating home\n\nahead of forsythia's\n\nsharp yellow fire.\n\nCrocus glints among leaf mulch,\n\ncornering spring, the yard's\n\npremonition of poppy shoots,\n\nmountain ash berry, little prints\n\nof weeping birch,\n\nleaf and eye. Crocus lifts.\n\nI have news for you.\n\n# From the southern river\n\nThe proper business of ageing men is to sit on gates.\n\nJOHN LYLE\n\nWriting in provinces\n\nfar from each other\n\nor any star:\n\n_greetings_.\n\nIf there's news\n\nI'll tell you\n\neverything changes,\n\nfor you also \u2013\n\nthe way maybe a train\n\nstops beside yours\n\nas you were not meant\n\nto stop either,\n\nhoots\n\nand moves on.\n\nAt first we can't tell\n\nwhich is moving\n\nbut the mind\n\ncomes back to the body.\n\nWhere someone is always\n\nstaring between empty sheds\n\nat the foxgloves\n\nand the elder bush.\n\n# Winter occasions\n\nYears clanking in buckets, more years\n\nsnuffling in ditches, danced at shearings\n\nand pig killings, my life in the country,\n\nmy life in the village, the owl blinks\n\nin the thatch, the fireback blackens.\n\nI was a girl, the sun flamed in a sky\n\nof thistles and hemlock shaken above me,\n\nI lay down close to the water.\n\nWinter in, winter out\n\nthe wind nags me. Now he's back\n\nfrom long absence, his boots\n\nat the scraper, a squire\n\noff walking the parish muttering\n\nhoofbeats on roads I've not travelled. In his sleep\n\nknives clatter, armies gather,\n\nstorms rake the upland, a girl\n\ngoes singing a love song over the watermeads\n\nor he's crying\n\n_so then I've lost you,_\n\n_in the old river the moon_\n\n_is still glittering._\n\nI had been\n\nall these years a stone to him, a hush\n\nin his city of streetcries, or a light\n\nhe'd snuffed once and would light again,\n\npleading he's sorry and such, head in a sling,\n\ndragging his deaths like a whale\n\nround with him. He's amazed\n\nthere's life in me, blood's thumped\n\nbreath and tongue to tell him\n\nhe's mocked with his art. And he'd thank\n\nmy long waiting to greet him,\n\nmy hand at the latch, glad and a fool\n\nwhen he comes home stomping his feet\n\nwith a comment I've wrinkled and thickened,\n\nbut it's years since I missed him.\n\nI was\n\ncontent and will be again glimpsing\n\nthrough trees the river's loop,\n\npoppy's glare, harebell weighed\n\non the wind's stir.\n\n_Celandine bleaches,_\n\n_the cold field's bleating winter_\n\n_but in age there's fire_\n\nhe announces, surprised again\n\nand again stares at his table\n\nand taking his pen starts up\n\nsome tale of a woman\n\nsixteen years a statue\n\nbecause of a husband's jealousy,\n\nand him wrong in the first place.\n\n# At the Western Beacon, the second of the songs of Urias\n\nAll this elaborate disguise.\n\nNo one's here\n\nanywhere under Orion\n\nand the new moon's cup of rain.\n\nLight divided over the moor\n\nin the fields of the bronze makers:\n\nsheep, bracken, ponies,\n\nstoney rainsodden furniture.\n\nWith a stone to break you.\n\nWith a stick's point\n\nrammed through the ribs. Then came\n\nfarmers and hunters, scraping for tin,\n\nsetting stones it's a warning to cross still.\n\nBack when the moon was the pale\n\nbanished wife of the sun\n\nin the lost tale of the arrowmaker's vision.\n\nAll their tools, bones,\n\nlegends and gods are one wash\n\nthrough the peat now.\n\nScoffed down a bird's share\n\nof porridge and bilberry. Snarled\n\namong scrawny cattle,\n\ndogs and their stink\n\ntrailing after. Then gone to the city\n\nwhose names mean water, a people\n\ncalling themselves _people of this land._\n\nAmong grey rocks\n\nI took her, her eye\n\nglimpsing a half county\n\nstopped at the ocean: blue sheen,\n\ntwo boats in the ancient distance\n\nwhere she is the sea and she dances.\n\n# Moir\u00e9 effect\n\nWhat was always the vision\n\nreaching for more of itself\n\nhad eluded me. How it\n\nnever included itself:\n\nthat we notice the high\n\nturn of the bird in sunlight,\n\nits grace\n\nstuns me out of all thinking.\n\nStood amazed at the barley,\n\norchestra of the oat plant.\n\nAnd came over me crossing the bridges\n\nsuch immanence things have:\n\npart of how the world thinks\n\nso through us the blank\n\nstuff of space knows itself.\n\n# Tristan Crazy\n\n**(1978)**\n\nI have leaped and thrown reeds and balanced\n\nsharpened twigs, I have lived on roots in a wood\n\nand I have held a queen in my arms.\n\n_La Folie Tristan_ (BERNE)\n\n# One for sorrow\n\nOn the ocean \u2013\n\nuseless to say I was drunk,\n\ncouldn't help it,\n\nuseless to say any thing \u2013\n\nthen I loved you.\n\nWeeds on the sea, the horizon\n\nadrift, waves' heave\n\nhoisting the spray's flags, sea\n\nloose & flinty, stone in its making.\n\nI fancy I see animals,\n\nbushes & rocks. In the motion\n\nwords I had seen\n\nthrashed into nothing\n\nthat nothing gives back.\n\nOnly clouds, one\n\nshaped like a raven. Sometimes\n\na skimmer, garbage picker,\n\nbird's wing lifting away from the lifting.\n\nI see everywhere the same\n\nbelled planet's edge.\n\nAnd love you.\n\n# Two for nobody\n\nHow he was king\n\nof these rocks\n\n& gorse. Oh\n\nhe told me.\n\nGranite country,\n\nheather stiff\n\nin the seawind\n\ndivided at Cornwall:\n\nhis kingdom. She\n\nwas a swallow\n\nbringing one strand\n\nof her swallow's hair.\n\nHis woman, part\n\nof his stoney possessions,\n\nah but love\n\nset her dancing.\n\nAnd the rest: how\n\nshe sneaked off\n\nto find me\n\nout by the elder tree,\n\nhow again & again\n\nin the two-backed\n\nbeast dance we went\n\ncrazy & careless,\n\nwere found, hounded,\n\nbeaten & branded.\n\n_Ah well_ shrug the citizens \u2013\n\nlies, guilt & old grief,\n\nbetrayal & such,\n\nan old song the wanderer\n\nsings for his bread\n\n& each time changes\n\nhe sings it. _Love love_\n\n_wherever love is_\n\n_changing its sheets_\n\n_come find me._\n\n# Three: tales of the hunter\n\nI crouched, hands & knees\n\nbeneath thornapple, mosquito\n\nseeding its eggs in my arm.\n\nAnd waited. What I caught\n\nI killed or brought\n\nstruggling home.\n\nWhen I found my enemy\n\nI cut him to pieces & went\n\nsinging & bloody by the rowans.\n\nBut you, love. Now shadows\n\ncast trees & I'm contrary,\n\nrain my fine weather.\n\nBy night I'm prowling\n\nyour moonlit flesh. You're all\n\nlegs, arms, owl cry\n\n& leaping, love, the cry\n\nin my throat some animal,\n\nits life in its cry.\n\nAnd I swim with the fish.\n\nI fly with the raven. I go\n\nwith the shuddering creatures\n\ninto their darkness.\n\n# Four, being a prayer to the western wind\n\nWithout you:\n\nthe moon's failed waters,\n\nlost wheats of the Sahara.\n\nA woman hides in these syllables.\n\nShe goes singing and dancing\n\nthrough fields of tall yellow to the sea.\n\nBut the pastures are an old grit in my teeth,\n\nthe eastern forests an ash and smoke.\n\nI pick among shrubs\n\nfor one leaf of you. On the sea\n\nor high in the treeless upland\n\nwhere I almost hear you\n\nthe wind whines to itself\n\n_be thou with me love_\n\n_the corn in its chaff_ , or where\n\nhave I heard it?\n\nShips, ports, wharves, men\n\nleaning on the cathedral stones,\n\nI've been everywhere talking to everyone,\n\nno one has seen you. In the snowy north,\n\nin Germany and on the Atlantic\n\namongst men who are gulls' feasts\n\nand the dreams of carrion it's your face\n\nI fail to find in mirrors and water.\n\nAsleep I see you\n\nwalking as once you were by the river,\n\nbut awake sleep has kept you,\n\nI'm miles away where I barely think\n\nhow your sounds are, and must come\n\nround the world's other side\n\nfinding again the same strangeness\n\nopens your face in the gates of the city,\n\nthe wanderer home in his bed again.\n\n# Five, which is here by the river\n\nWindless days reeds\n\ntall grasses\n\nmotionless\n\ncormorant a shoe\n\nopens his wings\n\nheron a stopped blue air\n\nkestrel a moment\n\nstanding in flight come out\n\nlove from wherever\n\nboats turned over\n\nlike the hands\n\nof sleepers come out\n\nfrom the waterbirds\n\nof the shadowy\n\nwaterclogged marshland\n\ncome see me here\n\nby the river but you\n\nwhere are you\n\namong these reflections\n\nthese lights do you see me\n\nthrow a stick in the water\n\noh then come out love\n\nand see me a face\n\nin the water\n\n# Six: the wife's complaint\n\nIt's for love\n\nthey told me\n\n& brought me\n\nacross the high sea.\n\nIn his rainy country\n\nof haunted plumbing\n\n& traffic\n\nnot a damn thing works.\n\nIf he's king\n\nof these fields\n\n& wants loving\n\nwhat if I'm bored\n\nas the moon\n\nwith itself,\n\ntired & bombarded,\n\na waterless ocean.\n\nWatching the ploughman\n\nleading a white\n\nribbon of birds\n\nto the world's rim\n\nI'm sick of it all,\n\nor I envy\n\nthe gull's\n\neasy lift\n\n& long to be\n\nlost as the larks\n\nin larksong\n\nover the moorland.\n\nThese my hands,\n\nfirst & last\n\nthose we love touch,\n\nthat in passage\n\nfrom hairline\n\nto heels\n\ncould make you forget\n\ntill in one\n\ngathered up fire you lose\n\neven your name,\n\nsight of my face,\n\nnumber you thought.\n\nSo then it's true\n\nwe're meaningless\n\nhere on the earth,\n\ntupping & dying \u2013\n\nsoiled sheets &\n\nnailbitten bafflement,\n\nhis feet that smell\n\nof old wood,\n\ncradling his head\n\ncrying love love me\n\ntill death\n\nfor through us\n\nnowhere is somewhere,\n\nsomeone is running\n\nhere in the space\n\notherwise empty.\n\nFor a husband maybe\n\nI'm rope, coiled\n\n& used, no doubt\n\nI'll be used again.\n\nFor another I can\n\nbe woman to man:\n\n_Tristan, Isolde,_\n\n_Isolde, Tristan._\n\n# Seven: when he can't sleep for thinking\n\nOther nights of muttering,\n\nknives scraping stones,\n\nwanting through grunts\n\n& half sleep to kill anyone.\n\nWon't where he can't bear\n\nfor its loss his possessing her,\n\nbeside her thinking who else\n\nhad called through her hair\n\nhis little death's loneliness,\n\nbeached on that shore\n\nhis mind ends, and she\n\nspent & howling.\n\nGossip, a thornbush. My bird,\n\nstay with me. Her voice\n\na blaze in his skull.\n\nIn his mind digs a pit\n\n& burns her, surrounds her\n\nwith razors, broods over\n\nfootprints & stains.\n\nLove makes some sing\n\n& shrinks some. Brings down\n\nhis fist & will own\n\nwhat he can't own in women.\n\nOr else raffle her, give her away\n\nat the street corner,\n\nthe prize in the lepers' race\n\nbut have done anyway, take off\n\n& damn her to hell, slam the door\n\nforever shut after him. She sleeps,\n\nin her pink flesh, beside him.\n\n# Eight. The singer\n\nNights when he is\n\npeering through mist\n\nat the ship breaking\n\ncoast & would be there.\n\nA flat song: the warrior\n\nscowling under the helmet,\n\na girl, her breasts\n\nof white china clay,\n\nnights on the wire\n\nwhere his body rotted,\n\nan example to all\n\nin those trenches.\n\nIn spite of the knife\n\nthe club the fire\n\nto burn him, the gun,\n\nhe would go back crazy\n\nwhere she's anyway\n\nforgotten him. He sings\n\nshow me the wind's seam\n\nor a lovelier woman.\n\nContinents, rivers.\n\nA vain young man\n\nis the singer, the\n\npeacock, singing\n\noh love oh love\n\na mire so muddy\n\nwho'd walk there?\n\n# Nine: Shorty's advice to the players\n\nIn the flinty upland\n\nof sheep & ravens\n\nthey dreamed\n\neach the other's vision: birds,\n\nthese flowers bursting\n\na thousand years back\n\ntramped in the battle's muck.\n\nForget the knights \u2013\n\na fist on a field of azure,\n\nhis lady, her feet\n\non the chained swans, not able\n\nto turn the stone cheek to his cheek & cry,\n\nhe would not, small\n\nin his armour,\n\ntender as mollusc,\n\nstone in the cathedral.\n\nHitched her skirt\n\non his lancepoint, laid her down \u2013\n\nnot first, last,\n\nnor long remembered. Went,\n\nbum, singer, a fool, the black\n\nfurious horseman, nothing worked out.\n\nHis death: full of briars,\n\na black sail a white sail he's glimpsed\n\nin the magpie's jittery flying.\n\nLittle brother\n\nshe won't ever come back now.\n\nGet used to it.\n\n# Ten: the tale unfinished\n\nAt the end there's no love\n\nwithout death comes along\n\nwith the wedding dress,\n\nin the ring on the bridegroom's\n\nmidnight finger; either way\n\nthere's death, bleak as that bird\n\nthat's king on his stonepile.\n\nSo I shrugged and loved you.\n\nYour face sings now in my head\n\nwhere without you I'm snail\n\ndragging his tongue across stone,\n\nI'm the bell that rings\n\nin its own windy space, I'm out\n\nwith the ageing light\n\nof the stars and as lonely.\n\nAnd we're not love, each\n\nas we each imagine, more lost\n\nin each other's distance\n\nwearing our separate flesh.\n\nOther times with the gift\n\nof your moving sometime with me\n\nI am out of all mind, and recall\n\nyour running all gooseflesh\n\ntowards me. As you ran\n\nI thought how you were\n\na message folded like prayer,\n\ndelivering itself.\n\n# Fun City Winter\n\n(1977)\n\n_For Annie for whom  \nthese were  \nlove poems perhaps_\n\n# A red carnation\n\nWinter in Fun City. The Laughing Sailor, the dodgems and the bingo boards sheeted down, spray flung over the harbour wall. I investigate the dike, the cliffs, Oldtown and the priory church, a great East Riding farmer's barn, or a merchant's notion of what church ought to be, its vault stacked with spent prayers. After some centuries the tithes and rents and rights of pannage and verdure amount to these same stones, I think, and shut the door on it. Each day I visit my mother in the hospital, I stay in her house and order its affairs under the eyes of her lodgers, the young policeman and the French assistante, who seem almost aware of their symbolic presences hovering in the background. Everyone here is old, retired, living by the sea, even the young, you remark, visiting. One day I make a detour to visit my father's grave, and lose myself among the brick semis. I cannot ask. Everyone I pass is old. I cannot ask them the way to the cemetery. I find my way at last, and on the grave I place a single red carnation. So this is he that raged and broke crockery all through my childhood, and on the morning of my wedding, years ago, stamped on the flower \u2013 a carnation \u2013 spitting _that to your buttonhole_. So this is he. \n\n# The town, a general description\n\nBoats, harbour swell, bone-cutting wind\n\noff the bay, and far inland\n\nnoise of the sea beating on stones.\n\nI sit under the nightstar writing my music.\n\nWinter's a cry in me\n\nthat I loved you, here in a country\n\nchildhood blurs down the telephone wire,\n\ndark with the deaths of friends, their news\n\ncoiled on the flat gull-hunted landscape.\n\n* *\n\nThe headland in dawn light\n\nwhitens. Boats fishing the bay mouth\n\nglitter, bird followed.\n\nBy Danes' Dike the larks\n\nthrew down song. A harebell glimpsed\n\nin the land wind was the pale stare\n\nmy grandfather grew, years at sea\n\nseeking this landfall, its waves\n\nfolding the first of the light\n\nwhere in death his eye\n\npearled as the eye of the caught fish\n\nglazes on land, the sheen off him.\n\n* *\n\nCenturies back they walked off the sea,\n\nsour and Danish, wanting\n\nthe green sea-glimpsed littoral,\n\nbattle-keen and bloody at the ebb mark of the bay.\n\nStill dour, in a tone they have\n\nof a slighted people, short\n\nunder the easterly. And whose history\n\nif anyone knew was to complain \u2013\n\nthe townsmen's daughters gang-raped\n\nunder the fish quay, and him\n\nwith his head stoved in\n\nstill haunting the foggy landing.\n\n* *\n\nI can believe a time my father\n\nsulked up and down furrows\n\ncursing his masters. Black his face was\n\non the white upland of the Wolds.\n\nBy Flamborough the leathery sea\n\ngutters again in my vision. Each day\n\nI visit and stare, calling it\n\n_grey tongue, bell clapper_.\n\nI write. I drink whisky.\n\nI loved a woman. I write\n\n_this shell shaped like an eye is a shell,_\n\n_this stone shaped like a heart is a stone._\n\n* *\n\nSea grey with fog, white\n\nwith my father's spent anger, frost\n\nnagging its offices, lugging his grudge\n\nhome through the evening. The place\n\nI come to bury my dead is at street's end\n\nthe old sea falling endlessly\n\ninto my childhood. And is all\n\nthat's flawed and stoney in me\n\nby these graves and this long water.\n\nWhere that time is a bird gone\n\nfrom its birdbones. Where I won't stay.\n\nWhere the sea wears out its stones.\n\n* *\n\nI return. The sunlight through amber\n\nis the bar at the Alpha Caf\u00e9.\n\nThe radio plays old dance records.\n\nI visit the pinball machines in Fun City.\n\nOn the late night box it's Renoir\n\nsinging: _bullets fixed bayonets_\n\n_the single shot of a pistol_\n\n_to bring down one man with a tin flute._\n\nTen o'clock watching the cars go by.\n\nIf we flew in each other's dreaming\n\nin my skull I was with you\n\nto whom these were love poems I guess.\n\n* *\n\nYou moved I saw covies of birds\n\nglide through the reeds. You sang\n\nI heard waves break. Your name\n\ncalled itself at a distance.\n\nYou with the sea strength.\n\nYou from the land of green ginger.\n\nYou in the wind in your dress\n\na flag with its shook sound.\n\nNow moving with ebb sounds\n\nmoving with tide change\n\nin the 5 a.m. river on sleep's\n\nsisterly arm you wake and break over me.\n\n# The stone gatherer\n\nMost days you see along the leftward curve of the bay slow figures in black treading the waterline, keeping their distances from each other. They are the stone gatherers, filling their pockets with smooth chalk pebbles, some mottled by seaweed, some blue or brown veined with ancient seepage, some holed through where in the chalk's softer places sucking creatures had dug down on the one leg of their lives beneath shells, and after them sandgrains had lodged and milled through, thrashed in the seawash. The stone gatherers take a few pebbles each day, and store them for neither purpose nor profit in their houses. Often enough their habit is a source of domestic irritation as the gatherer's obsession continues; it is a lifelong and silent activity. When a stone gatherer dies his collection is dumped, stealthily, and returned to the beach. A stone gatherer must collect his own, and only as a significant gift is a stone ever passed from one collector to another. They are solitaries. They rarely meet. They have little to say. Walking into the middle distance we see one of them, ponderous and dark, coming up the beach. Occasionally he turns to the water, staring over it as if he expected some solace from it. Occasionally he stoops to examine a stone or a shell or a bit of wave-smoothed glass. Occasionally he selects a stone. Nearer, in close-up, we see him holding such a stone upright on his flattened palm against the distant headland. Old holes cut through have broken it from a larger stone, and sea-turned it is a little figurine: a head, a body, limbs folded along itself, a hole through its middle: an embryo or a relic. Closer in we see between thumb and forefinger a little earth mother, and through its middle hollow the distance of bay and cliff and rising gulls, fading out.\n\n# By the northern sea, a farewell to one woman\n\nYour face, frame in a frame of itself\n\nin the train window, moved off\n\nand the northern sea fog swallowed you.\n\nI played a pretend violin\n\nin the train station quartet. In a Bogart movie\n\nI walked the length of the platform.\n\nIn my mind we went\n\nby separate roads up love's stoney mountain.\n\nThen at the sea's grey side\n\nI was running under the moments.\n\nIn each you were miles off\n\non the flat grain of the ploughland, half weary England\n\nbeaded with rain, white gulls\n\non the fenceposts.\n\nIn each then I wanted you\n\nas the yawning fish on the boatmen's slab\n\nmight say of the ocean. The want\n\nswam away into nothing,\n\nthe sea in its envelope.\n\nI'd have lived in the hollow of your shoulder.\n\nI'd have been an idea in your skull.\n\nI'd have read only the book of your name\n\nnever knowing what nights you looked out from.\n\nMy life turned on its mast in that town\n\nyears ago as that moment turned towards this.\n\nNow I no longer want.\n\nI recall only the North Sea chill\n\nmy voice becomes mist in.\n\n# Apocrypha from the Western Kingdom\n# 1 Six items heard in three locations in Leeds and Exeter\n\nAll I really wanted\n\nif you really want to know\n\nwas a bigger violin.\n\n*\n\nSo there was I\n\nI'd painted 24 pictures\n\nbut they hadn't given me a wall.\n\n*\n\nAnd anyway it's daft my being an Irishman\n\nnot knowing how to fish.\n\n*\n\nI'm late because\n\nthe motorway was leaking,\n\nso far you've shown\n\none grassblade of sympathy,\n\nso I'll tell you what I will do\n\nI won't shave.\n\n*\n\nI was in the hospital,\n\nI said don't bring anything,\n\nhe brought me gin, daffodils, bananas.\n\nI thought I'd never get out.\n\nOne day I'd die there in the rainy city\n\nhaving written my epitaph\n\nthree score and ten\n\nmy heart ten cents a dance\n\namong the small intrigues,\n\namongst the provincial incests.\n\n*\n\nOn the sign in the window\n\nat the bus station office\n\nin some northerly town\n\nseen in the news that night\n\non the TV in our front room\n\nit said\n\n_the next mystery tour_\n\n_will be to Rosedale._\n\n# 2 At the coll\u00e8ge des beaux arts Escanceaster six further items imagined\n\n25 years dedication to the virgin\n\nman and boy and never once\n\nhad anyone acknowledged it.\n\n*\n\nCan't you see I'm weary\n\nworking all day\n\nfor the last half hour\n\non my thesis the great work\n\nthe book of lost arrivals\n\nthe library of last resorts\n\na definitive history of alienations.\n\n*\n\nNot worried not moaning\n\nnot whingeing\n\nnot whimpering in the corner\n\ndemanding one last cigarette\n\none last whisky in the New Victoria\n\nonce again the fandango\n\nunder the glitter of the turning dancehall ball\n\ntill the musicians dismantle their instruments\n\ndriving off in a white VW\n\ncrying _nobody here is making me an egg sandwich_\n\n_so who am I?_\n\n_where am I going?_\n\n_what am I doing here?_\n\n*\n\nSchism, rebellion, grumblings\n\nover coffee, strange alliances,\n\nmanifestoes, knives in the dark,\n\nreligious upheavals, slander,\n\nfanatics under arms, chance,\n\npalace coups, gossip, non-\n\naggression treaties, cults,\n\nindependence movements, the wind\n\nweaving through the wheat,\n\nclient kingdoms, petty republics,\n\nnods to the blind man, winks,\n\nsigns under the table, flags,\n\nbeasts, bureaucrats, piles,\n\nforeign syndicalist ideas, \u2013\n\nall these bother the emperor.\n\n*\n\nSkin of my hands the colour of cut wood.\n\nSummer over before it began.\n\nWhistle at the heart's finish,\n\nbottom line at the end\n\nof the cardiograph's calligraphy.\n\n*\n\nOtherwise the wind is itself,\n\nthe birds are.\n\nIn the wide space\n\na woman heaving a basket\n\nhome on her shoulder.\n\n# 3 Surprised again beside the river\n\nAmong obscurities, gleanings\n\nof my life's junk and scribble: 'Boats\n\nthere'll be son, and small wading birds',\n\nbright swans, line of poplars\n\nfingering out the western sunlight,\n\nwindows guttering the last gold.\n\nThis is all one tale that tallies.\n\nThis is one history, all my life\n\nsame old lament for a lost country \u2013\n\nthe same music repeating gulls,\n\nreeds, willows, small waves\n\nslapping in the seawind, a landscape\n\nsuch as Isca the river's, the town\n\nbrisk with traffic, the treeland thriving,\n\nstreets rained on and Sunday\n\nin the western city I called home\n\nI abandoned. Where my heart knocked\n\nthinking _wave, wave, high salt crests_\n\n_I'm to cross again_. I'm a face\n\nnot seen any more, not waiting\n\nbetween trains any more, my absence\n\nno longer recalled on streets\n\nfalling steeply to the river crossing,\n\nancient trackway to the tide's head.\n\nMerchants and shipmen, dyers' huts\n\nnow timber shards in the damp flood level\n\nthe Saxons kept the Celts to,\n\nFrog Lane tanners, dealers in hide stink,\n\nboats that breasted the salt plains\n\nof the sea's pasture far from any land\n\ngathered in the basin, sails furled,\n\nso many birds resting on the long passage\n\nfrom anywhere to anywhere.\n\n_Isca_ the water: _uisque. Pisces_\n\nthe fish: place of fish settled\n\nby the Keltoi, the beaten Dumnonii\n\nbefore Vespasian built the road\n\nat the garrison's muddy footing,\n\nMithras scowling in the rock face,\n\nchorus of Dalmatian oaths,\n\ndog latin. More cries after,\n\nGermanic, bleak guttural Danish\n\nhacking out throats, breaking\n\nthe townwall and burning. The town\n\nclung on its hill, a queen's gift\n\nso they'll tell you, _semper fidelis_\n\nwhen the Conqueror had a man's eyes,\n\nat the West Gate peasant rebels\n\nstruggling in the open sewers,\n\ntravellers on the causeway\n\nof the never ending landscape.\n\nThen Dutch William. Plague,\n\ncholera, bread riots, ecclesiasts'\n\nvendettas, knives, women, money.\n\nLife to life I think I return there,\n\ncuckoo's call in spring\n\ndrags my heart out.\n\nNothing lasts, nothing changes,\n\nnothing's learned from the centuries\n\nbeyond the same brotherly betrayals,\n\nthe same wifely infidelities,\n\nsame defeats, same failures, same\n\njourney into exile, at the mind's edge\n\nlandscape carried on the long roads\n\nremembering red clay hills\n\nreared green and wheat again,\n\nthe townsmen's prospect, white barn\n\ndistant cresting the land's line\n\nunder the long wind off the Atlantic.\n\nDays are soon done. Sickness or age\n\nor the sharp edge of vengeance\n\nhave us at the end. The tale holds.\n\n# 4 Some unfinished movements\n\n_Whangleather_ he said. Stopped halfway out of the Volvo, one foot touching the pavement, her white face swimming his way in the half dark: _And what's that?_ she demanded to know next.\n\n_Whangleather_ he repeated, turning the ignition and stepping into the evening to tell her over the car's roof: _That's something that don't come apart in the rain the way you do_.\n\n*\n\n'The record office,\n\nhere or somewhere about' \u2013\n\na tall brisk man in a beard\n\nswinging the blackthorn\n\ngives the library trees\n\na swift dressing down.\n\n*\n\nI didna sleep all night\n\nI was throbbing\n\nI was bad bad bad.\n\nLong ago, a long way back,\n\nfar away from any place,\n\nthe very centre of the universe\n\nblowing a dandelion clock\n\nbeside the river for instance.\n\n*\n\nTakes his supper at the bar.\n\nTakes his wallet out to pay for it.\n\n_Opens it_ she thinks\n\n_like the Book of Common Prayer_.\n\nSets his knife fork plate\n\ndown in front of him, salt and pepper,\n\nmutters _and I hope it chokes you_.\n\n*\n\n_The Wages of Sin is Death_\n\nsaith the black spraypaint of the underpass.\n\n_The Wages of Sin are Death_\n\nit says underlined twice, underneath.\n\n*\n\nAs for that red rainy ploughland\n\nbeyond the town wall\n\ntwenty centuries distant\n\nthat must be the other world\n\nof the hawk's eye alert\n\nand the grass in its moment.\n\n# 5 Old business: the drowned bride\n\nSo you're back, your face\n\nrising whitely up through the reeds\n\nand the black bulk of you after.\n\nEloquent in your silence as ever.\n\nThe bell of your waterlogged body\n\ntolls on the slow turning river.\n\nAnd you won't come up from the weeds.\n\nAnd this time I won't come back for you.\n\nYou would pull me in after\n\nwhere you went down the rivermouth\n\nthrough the cat-tails gobbling codeine.\n\nNow you either go out in a new life\n\nor drift on in my watery sleep.\n\nSo you nudge me awake each day\n\nyou're the light's first bitter thought.\n\nYou refer to your death\n\nas _old business_ , your laugh\n\nlaughs on in my head.\n\nYou say how the garden flourishes,\n\nthe town's found new meat for gossip,\n\nand the children ask after me.\n\nYou say. The telephone rings,\n\nthe day begins, your voice arrives\n\nand divides the air and I hear you.\n\n# 6 A right curse on the enemy\n\nStill around I see, still drunk,\n\nstill barely upright singing _Lily of Laguna_ ,\n\nstill hanging by your shirt tail.\n\nEven though you're dead.\n\nI don't know how you do it Jimmie.\n\nI really don't. Shiftless. Lord Wistful.\n\nWe called you Alexander Impecunious,\n\nforever borrowing two quid till Friday.\n\nI've listened to your heart\n\nthat never spoke, felt no pulse\n\nthumping in the dead wrist\n\nwhere I placed lightly my finger.\n\nI've pronounced you deceased\n\nlate kicked the bucket shuffled off\n\ngone forgotten joined the elder brethren\n\nwith the great architect at last.\n\nI've held a clear mirror to your face,\n\nsent round a wreath, cancelled your subscription\n\nto the Society of All Mates Together,\n\nput your name in the obituaries.\n\nAnd I've assigned you to the past of verbs.\n\nYou with your skin the pallor of dead water.\n\nYou will not paint. You will not fish.\n\nYou will no longer love the salmon leaping.\n\nI've imagined you amongst the dead,\n\nhanding in your keys to the desk clerk,\n\nhanding in your name and loose change\n\nstill protesting you were innocent on Earth.\n\nNo one is. We lie to those we love,\n\nwe do not love them. Or else\n\nwe learn we cannot lie in love,\n\nwe cannot love ourselves or anyone.\n\nSo you're a man who cannot love himself.\n\nYou're a man selling salt to the sea.\n\nYou're a dead language and you its only speaker.\n\nYou're a joke in the museum of broken marriages.\n\nAnd you broke mine. This is my revenge.\n\nWhat else have I to do? I want\n\nto stand beside your grave and find\n\nsome little good to say of you.\n\nI'd like to feel compassion soon.\n\nI want the luxury of some suspicion\n\nI was wrong never to trust anyone since.\n\nI can't until you're dead. So die,\n\nold ghost, old misery,\n\nyou would have killed me anyway you could.\n\nYou betrayed me out of fear.\n\nYou tried very hard to destroy me.\n\nSo you were down, so you were beaten,\n\nyou were weeping in the bar-room,\n\nyou were skulking in the western wind\n\nstill crying for your childhood in the lowlands.\n\nOld fox.\n\nGot your tail in the water.\n\nNow you die at last.\n\nHere with this form of words. With these:\n\nI feed you to the rain.\n\nI sail your ashes down the wind.\n\nI fade your name among the grass.\n\nI think of you among the vanished.\n\n# The clearing\n#  The clearing\n\n*\n\nOff in woods\n\na field that was tilled\n\nisn't now: tall grass\n\ndecades deep, a caesura\n\nbirdsplit in the space\n\nwind makes at the middle of continents.\n\nMinnesota perhaps. Far enough,\n\nhis axe blazed the four corners,\n\nmaking his own space his.\n\nPloughed it. At its edge\n\nsighted his furrow on white birch\n\nin the elm dark, the wheat\n\nclimbed his sleep\n\ntensed as rigging.\n\nBy the stream. His face\n\nswims there, child again\n\nin the old speech.\n\nAs if any thing were finished,\n\nsummer gone, snow falling forever.\n\nThe magnolia stands\n\nin pink fallen petals, a girl\n\nshedding clothing.\n\nCrossed the field,\n\nsat by the water sighting\n\na boat come to shore \u2013\n\ncrossed masts caught in the hawk's span\n\nslid through his memory.\n\nBlue jay, kestrel a rag in air,\n\nthe pheasant's yell wakens him,\n\nrusty wheel through the bracken.\n\nFor him the wheel turned.\n\nFor him the corn the wind bowed\n\ngroaned in the millwheel,\n\nthen the bright stones lichened over.\n\nIn his ship on the pool\n\nsails of a child's puzzle\n\nassembling into a landscape.\n\nHe is standing again\n\nat the seaport weeping,\n\nthe ship crowding sail\n\nprowling over him.\n\n*\n\nWhere he ran,\n\nbare heels through cowclap.\n\nIn the pond scrubbed himself naked.\n\nShy, nervous,\n\nshe'd not take her knickers off,\n\nlay for him in the deep leaves.\n\nIt's not innocence\n\nthe fathers suffer from,\n\ncrouched in the birches, watching.\n\nThen all his life scowling,\n\ndarker, cursing the crushed thumb,\n\nland always resisting, forest\n\npushing in, pushed back\n\nhis share of winters. Years\n\ndistance lengthens down he recalls\n\nher white thighs, peach fur\n\nof her arms round him, pink moment\n\nof her breasts spring wakens\n\nyear by year in the magnolia.\n\nNo use now he worked, broke\n\nstone's weight dragging\n\nharrow and plough. That he got sons\n\nto farm after, fight,\n\ncurse him in snarls\n\nthey'd gotten from Vikings,\n\nthat their women toughened\n\nand won't take his handswipe,\n\nall means nothing. That the last\n\nof his kin died beyond lonely\n\namong byres and chickenshit,\n\nthe life grudged out of him\n\nmeans no more. Though I can't hear\n\ntheir immigrant speech, can't see\n\ntheir scowl from the house\n\nwanting me gone, there's some thickening\n\nof air I walk through.\n\nNo use to die broken. No use\n\nholding on to what suffering\n\nholds us.\n\nI am a cry among cries\n\nin the field where I dance.\n\n*\n\n_Hawk born from the wolf's mouth_\n\nAmong sumacs, grey men\n\npushing their young before them\n\ninto the clearing, goldenrod, milkweed,\n\nthe space always mine now.\n\nThere is the young grass\n\nshined by the wind, sun's broad light\n\nas it was in the field\n\nonce when I was wolf.\n\nSeeds passed, tumbling\n\ntheir ways to wherever, the air\n\nbringing smell of my brothers,\n\nstriking the howl in me.\n\nI ran, the leaf shadows on me.\n\nBird crossed me, its shadow\n\nswallowing the gnat's shadow,\n\nabove me the hawk's flight\n\nformed in the updraught. I ran\n\nthrough thin woods across water\n\nthe light trembled over,\n\nwolf again, running.\n\n*\n\n_Concerning the clearing_\n\nI carved faces in stumps. I set them to watch the clearing below the stream and pond. I set them at the corners where the man that farmed that field had stood watching his crops under the weather. That man was long dead, leaving his litter of chickenwire and bolts, a tip of tax demands and foreclosures and smashed furniture, the house as he had lived in it and died, gone to mildew, yellowed out. In the field he had cleared was one great stone he had never moved, a granite thumb. All his grown life he cursed it. He would stand on it, a man cut off by the tide, safe on his rock.\n\nAn immigrant, a Swede. A man breaking his fingers on stones he dragged off. In the dark house of stones: his woman, his sons, his daughter. A living somehow, farming the woods, turning the stream for dam and pond, lugging stones into walls. The thumbnail blackened and fell off. Cows mooned through the trees, huge and nun-like, breaking sticks, lowing before rain. Pigs, chickens, a turkey for Thanksgiving, a goose for Christmas. They were there perhaps two generations, their last efforts abandoned chicken coops, the barn fallen thick with briars, the space of a small kitchen garden, abandoned. Old iron implements shedding into rust, the soil faintly red, grainy flakes.\n\nUp Bjorgen's Road above the city by the nuns' house. The place is secret, mine despite the little red ribbons marking off the plots that will be houses, developments on the edge of town. A place of private rituals and the continuing presences of those who called it their own, a space amongst others I can open in my mind to walk there, to return, all my days, where my mind briefly cleared of all its luggage and the hawk turned sunward.\n\nA field of grass. A long slope the sumacs advance across. Through the elms the white glint of birches.\n\n*\n\nWater's quick tongue\n\nkeeping its skin\n\nof shaking branch, sky, reflection\n\nwaterbugs stride on, leaf floats.\n\nI am where I am some animal\n\nhunkering down in itself\n\nto drink at the stream and stare\n\nthe unbreakable silence down.\n\nWhere the birds settle \u2013\n\nwoodpecker's throb, dove's moan,\n\nthe cardinal's blood jet\n\nas it would be without me.\n\nTo be still, a grassblade\n\ndividing the wind, a monk hears it\n\nsteering his ship of the quiet,\n\nhis ear cupped to the stars,\n\nin the ringing anvil of space\n\na bird with the birds. Three there were\n\nat tree height driving the hawk off\n\nhis wings thrashing out sound\n\nnot part of him, not built\n\nto fly among crow nests but hungry,\n\nweary, wrong-muscled,\n\ngrey bird of my death\n\nfolding himself in the tree\n\na long moment above me hiding\n\ndemanding my silence, the watcher\n\nwatched. He stares now\n\nin my mind catching his breath\n\ninto me, as if he were my death.\n\nFlies again, driven out, crows\n\nand the sunlight after him.\n\n*\n\nElm, birch, evergreen\n\nabove snow's remnants, the young firs\n\nlost in spring, leaves\n\nclenched through frost, folding out.\n\nAmong birches, families of five\n\nsprung together, some lost\n\nand some winter broken, survivors\n\ngathered in old parchments, their skins'\n\nweathered alphabets, pitted bark\n\nof lost writing, lost marks,\n\na language left in the baggage trains,\n\nstolen from docksides.\n\nTell me it's so. We remember.\n\nTell me someone remembering us\n\nsitting out in the last woods\n\nwarms our old cheeks.\n\nIn water, in the greenness\n\nunder reflections I'm stolen away\n\nwaking years later among elm roots\n\nagain nodding to the ferns.\n\nAnd speak again. Or nothing.\n\nOr, children, holding the cup\n\ndrink from it, in a kingdom\n\nto which I was travelling.\n\n# FOX RUNNING\n\n**(1980)**\n\nwho could release a woman or dream there was a key\n\nTOM PICKARD, 'Window'\n\n#  Fox Running\n\nFox\n\nrunning\n\nloose in his sleek skin\n\nloose in his slick fur\n\nFox\n\nbetween lamp dark and daylight\n\nloping through the suburbs\n\nmiles bridges canals rails\n\nThrough the town littorals\n\nchicken runs long bricked over\n\nwild places put to the plough\n\nStreets keeping their tilt\n\nand curve of old lanes\n\nover Crouch Hill into Seven Sisters\n\nThrough Haringay Hornsey\n\nHighgate Holloway the cold\n\nwind of the subway tunnels\n\nOut under the sky Highbury\n\nHampstead to Paddington\n\namong the grey yellow bricks\n\nChimneys and flat house fronts\n\nhis London skyline, pencil\n\nof the Post Office Tower\n\nhis marker for Baker Street\n\nAlong the bottom line\n\nof Regent's Park for Camden\n\nhiding out along the waterway\n\nFox\n\nranging the city's inner spaces\n\nbeing scavenger of skips parks\n\nand desirable period residences\n\nFox wanting to be alongwind\n\namongst bracken his own shade\n\nthe breeze at his back\n\nOne eye sleeping, shut\n\non some chicken dream of wire\n\nand bloody feathers in his nostrils\n\nOne eye awake to his hunters\n\nand the slavering jaws\n\nof the hunting dogs, his brothers once\n\nBeing outlaw\n\nout classed out priced out manoeuvred\n\nhunger leashing him in to the city\n\nin the rattling milk bottle dawn\n\nBack of his mind brome blowing\n\nwind sifting the oak leaves\n\nback of a stone-littered silence\n\nBack of his fox skull\n\nmountain ash and the wide sky\n\nprinting his memory's tape\n\nIn at last from the wide\n\nimprobable country the townsmen\n\ngape at uncertain such space\n\never was for running: the fox\n\nAloof distant alert\n\nholed up between running\n\nin his red slash of fox body\n\nrunning from the emptied distance\n\nCrowded with townspill\n\nof building sites' muddy footings\n\nwhere will be flyover\n\nindustrial estate new bungalows\n\nYears ago long ago late he is\n\nskin of his name of his legend\n\nskin of his alias son of his alibi\n\nson of his tale told for children\n\nRunning into the tube maps\n\ninto the bus routes into the rails\n\nlearning the districts\n\nlearning connections and running\n\nInto the city\n\ndawn glimpsed and sometime sighted\n\nI've seen him running\n\nfrom Lancaster Gate to the Long Water\n\nPoor winded breath shortening\n\nand his thatch thins, wanderer\n\nRunning into his death\n\nand his death always with him\n\nRunning into the razor\n\nheart attack up his sleeve\n\nshotgun pepper in his backside\n\n_Fox writes:_\n\nFrom a small room writing small\n\nbetween the lines in the margins\n\non the one book left to me, _Vallejo_\n\nin spidery lines of joined up writing\n\nin case I shall need them\n\nall the words for _goodbye_\n\nBetween the image and the next\n\ninstant of the image the trace\n\non the retina: a man bouncing a ball.\n\nHe is naked, jerky, long ago\n\nhis handsome body fed the ground.\n\nSunlight on him then\n\nis the travelled light our star\n\nsows in the thin electron milk\n\nwhere will be galaxies.\n\nYour attention please. I shall offer\n\na small gob of advice: _listen_.\n\nListen to the sounds listen\n\nto the music listen to the fox.\n\nAnd look at the pictures: our man\n\nin the Victorian back yard\n\nopening his fist to throw the ball\n\nis a ripple of overlapped slides,\n\nstill frames of himself running silently\n\nup and down in his birthday suit.\n\nWhere we see him we never would have.\n\nIn black and white.\n\nIn the space we occupy. Here.\n\nCalled _persistence of vision_ ,\n\nthe image on the retina a space.\n\nCalled retinal memory: the ball\n\nthrough the white blur of rebound\n\nfalls to his hand closing round it\n\nall the years since:\n\na fuss of white dove feathers.\n\nBeginning again and again\n\nbeginning from what's broken.\n\nNights trying to slip under sleep's door\n\nunder the backwash of images:\n\nher voice, how he turned\n\nyears through the black mill of her hair.\n\nCame to this: nights on the stairs\n\nnot knocking on any door.\n\nHalf a morning round the phone box\n\nbefore picking up the black handle.\n\nGlad the line's busy, no one home.\n\nGlad the number's off the hook.\n\nAll the lines through Bristol out.\n\nFrom the number in his name no answer.\n\nOutside the winter city, Maida Vale\n\nglimpsed grainy pictures of the rain.\n\nWears his gasp and hunch of defeat,\n\nhis button saying _out to lunch._\n\nAt Paddington debating trains.\n\nIn Kilburn disorderly and drunk.\n\nHunting alone between the city north\n\nand the city south of the river.\n\nIn Brady's Tavern with a cashflow problem\n\nexchanging alcohol for coin of the realm.\n\nTwice around the Circle Line.\n\nAt Waterloo the last train north\n\nto Camden, scattered roads of bottles,\n\nVP and cider empties, upturned crates.\n\nHoled up with Baudelaire and Lorca.\n\nOn Sundays picking up exotic fruit\n\nalong the market side, selling\n\nhalf a dozen ties he's nicked.\n\nBack of Dingwalls where the lads\n\nwere selling junk. His mad and\n\nstaring eyes. His mouth\n\nrepeating how she was his sparrow.\n\nHow she was his woman, faithless\n\nas the wind turns anywhere, he'd been\n\nbetter bedded with the wind\n\nor wedded to the water.\n\nWinter and summer all he loved\n\nlied to him when he'd not\n\nhurt anyone would he. Such\n\nwere the gaps in his schedule.\n\nSuch were his night thoughts.\n\nOther nights he'd off himself,\n\nfall into the rail, take his last\n\nwhite skittering glimpse of England\n\ndown Beachy Head cliffs. Stain\n\nthe rocks. Feed the ravens.\n\nSuch was his nightly scenario,\n\nhis single movie of himself.\n\nHappens. Crash. The fall from grace\n\nblind drunk into the orchestra,\n\nthe bit where she sits peeling daisies\n\nsaying she loves him loves him not.\n\nSleepless. Nights the twenty years\n\nof loving her are all one string\n\nof beads on mother misery's rosary,\n\nand how she knew to put the boot in.\n\nAnd put the boot in. Lists his one last\n\nbroken wedding dish, his one last cry\n\nin any corner, his one last cigarette,\n\nunder the glittering dancehall ball\n\ntheir one last tango, one last fuck\n\nanywhere under the stars and how\n\nwhen his mouth said yes to her\n\nthere was his penis saying _no no no._\n\nHis single ticket to the city,\n\na room, nights howling in the shower,\n\nsleeping drunk inside the wardrobe,\n\ndreamless, pissing in the sink.\n\nAnd wakes to the same black anger.\n\nWakes to the same blank hunger.\n\nWakes to the same bleak search\n\nfor some fox warmth to his fox flesh.\n\nYears, tickets, trains. Mewling\n\nthe same bleached nothings\n\non the salt roads anywhere, fears\n\nhe'll live lonely, die alone\n\nin some white room in white linen\n\nwhere death's angel pulls the plug\n\nand if there's any last word of him\n\nonly she hears it: efficient, crisp,\n\nantiseptic, laying out his body,\n\ninforming his relations, turning up\n\nthe watch at her lapel noting\n\ntime of his departure.\n\nNo way.\n\nNo way a fox goes out, no way\n\na man who was fox, kept ignorant\n\nof what killed him, icy in the morgue,\n\nashes in the crematorium, words\n\nentered in the black form filed away\n\nbeside the red his birth was\n\nand between some forty years\n\nhis blood pumped out of him\n\nthe skylines that he crossed,\n\nhis memory of ferns and rivers,\n\ndistance, open country, city,\n\nwomen that he loved, songs he sang.\n\nBetter die quick, if fox\n\nat the heels of the hounds, if man\n\nat the razor of some loonie. Better live\n\nand if living running better run.\n\nAnd keep running. Marylebone,\n\nLisson Grove, Edgware Road to Kew\n\nto Wimbledon. Scattered sparks\n\nand windblown newsprint, coming out\n\nsurprised again beside the river,\n\nimages the city has, home\n\nthe subway's groan and slide of pipes\n\nand checking out of maps, his skull\n\nencountering the city, his body\n\nmoving with a certain grace,\n\nmoving with particular intelligence\n\nacross the city's interstices.\n\nAnd surviving through the rooms\n\nhis flesh joins other flesh\n\nand makes some heat. Among\n\nthe endless conversations, starts, stops,\n\nunfinished lives' biographies,\n\nfeints, gestures, cries, his life's\n\nplain furniture, a borrowed room\n\nin Camden to begin again from nothing.\n\nThoughts of a man around 40.\n\nNotes. Maps. Things missing.\n\nPeople that he loved his life ran with\n\nall gone now, gone forever.\n\nJust as they should be.\n\nAs they were meant to vanish\n\nbetween here and the last hillside.\n\nBetween this space\n\nand the next loneliness.\n\nBetween the image and the next\n\nclear instance of the image\n\nthe retina remembers:\n\na man bouncing a ball.\n\nRemembers how he was then\n\nFox\n\nrunning in his long blood anywhere\n\nearly morning out\n\ndown the stairwell\n\nsighting in the betting shop mirror\n\nrunning just like him\n\nwith his same fox cunning\n\nhis brother\n\nturning up his coat in rain\n\ndodging in the underground\n\ndown the iron stairs at Camden\n\nat King's Cross up and down the escalator\n\nup the iron stairs at Goodge Street\n\nfollowing the lights\n\nfollowing the signs\n\nrunning slow\n\nrunning quick\n\nin the stale winds trains shift\n\nthrough the underground veins\n\nof the city\n\nEarl's Court to Barbican\n\nby seven different routes\n\nblinking briefly in the light\n\nsniffing briefly in the air\n\ninvesting in the breweries\n\nhis last Isaac Newton portraits\n\nand never coming up all day\n\ncashing in his cash card\n\nripping up his cheque stubs\n\nwaiting for his giro\n\narguing his earnings related\n\nalways with the wrong form\n\nin the wrong office\n\non the wrong floor\n\nof the wrong building\n\nin the wrong part of town\n\nand anywhere and anyway\n\nwrong\n\nplain wrong\n\n_we're afraid_\n\n_Mister Fox_\n\n_you don't qualify_\n\n_for any sort of benefit_\n\nscreaming back\n\n_so you sign it_\n\n_you sign it Puffadder_\n\nrunning\n\nrunning\n\nup and down the moving staircase\n\nin and out the tunnels\n\nlonging for the girls\n\nsaying underneath they're all lovable\n\nbeing hetero and macho and lonely\n\nhis head full of underwear\n\nhis head full of skin\n\nwhen he sees\n\nin the opposite direction\n\nrunning just like him\n\nwith his own fox longing\n\nand his own fox cunning\n\nhimself\n\nhis face all surprise\n\nhis own foxy stare\n\ncarried off in the onrush\n\nin the opposite direction\n\nrunning with a wave\n\nwith a flickered recognition\n\nbeginning of a gesture\n\nrunning\n\nflying off on the train in the black\n\nand its wind all around him\n\nsniffing on the platform\n\nand no one to tell\n\nthat he's seen him\n\nFox\n\nhis double\n\nin the mirrors\n\nhis brother\n\nhimself\n\nwho'd anyway believe him\n\nwho'd anyway tell him\n\n_nay you're just pissed Jim_\n\nBetween the image and the image\n\nand the next motion of the image\n\nBetween the seer and the seen\n\nBetween the moment and the moment\n\nBetween the next and the next\n\nBetween denial and the fact\n\nBetween the running and the running\n\nComes the memory the space\n\nComes the man with the ball\n\nComes the one still space\n\nfor a brief time\n\nin the city\n\n_Fox writes:_\n\nTommy's space, crow nest\n\nup the stone spiral into the wind\n\nto the room at the house top.\n\nAmong plants and words I mellow out\n\nwatering the avocados Jascha your lady\n\nhas brought from their stones.\n\nAvocado, _aguacate, ahuacatl_ , testicle.\n\nAbove the rainy city peopled\n\nby late quick footsteps\n\nalong the park's night edge.\n\nMidnight. Clocks shedding\n\nat variable distance the several sounds\n\nof another night halving the planet\n\nis one fancy English way to say it:\n\nthe silence, discovering itself\n\nin what measures it at last\n\nbeyond failure, the black long ditch\n\nwelling with its dead with their mouths\n\nstill muttering their loves.\n\nI'm alone, I have slept, I wake\n\nfrom my own long wanting to die\n\neighteen months I can say that.\n\nIn my dream I put down the phone,\n\nI said _that was a long time ago_.\n\nI woke to the night's hard frost\n\nand the dark city sleeping around me.\n\nThe planet sailed on through the nowhere.\n\nIt was the beginning of the last two decades\n\nof the century called twenty, as reckoned\n\nby the Europeans, I being one\n\nof the northern hemisphere, this sector\n\nthe lights and the radio sounds\n\nseep into space from, chatter\n\nof our making some sense here.\n\nBy the park, where the nightjar is singing.\n\nThe voice breaking cover is mine,\n\nthe background hiss creation's\n\ncontinued explosion. All the rest\n\nbeing static on the tape and the airways,\n\nlate incoming plane from elsewhere,\n\ntraffic slowing to the Parkway.\n\nBetween the image and the next\n\nsure moment\n\nbetween the image and the next\n\nWhere I ease the dial station\n\nto station, anthem by anthem.\n\nMoscow. AFN. Stray voices\n\nthrough the all night small hours\n\non the short wave, cop lullaby,\n\nship to ship interception,\n\nquick blast of Securicor Cockney,\n\nstatic crackle, long music\n\nand two words repeated:\n\n_her hair, her hair, her hair,_\n\nsome patches of silence, some\n\nrapid reply to an unheard question,\n\ntooth decay projects in Africa\n\non _Voice of America_ , bulletin,\n\nbluegrass, Chrysler, Jesus\n\nthrough the late 3.00 a.m. shift\n\ntill first light shivers awake\n\none then two birds then the orchestra\n\nof wide awake bells and the wolves\n\nin the park begin howling for meat.\n\nAll night in the radio dark\n\nthe opinions arrive, urgent\n\nhooded versions of history. From Kiev\n\nHangchow long grain statistics,\n\nSofia in impeccable Oxford\n\nlisting tractor production 1946-49.\n\nMeat. Wheat. Sweaty feet.\n\nWho gets what. The continent\n\nradio sounds, neons, texts,\n\npools of light around tapedecks\n\nin studios high in the rain dark\n\nof the technicians, the announcers,\n\nvoices smooth with such facts\n\nonly the sleepless and I hear.\n\nThe image remains.\n\nAnd I think: supposing it's now,\n\nthis night the voices all stop.\n\nA flight of wild geese blips the radar\n\nand all the technologies die.\n\nGoodbye Newton Milton Socrates.\n\nAnd so simple. One man with migraine,\n\nloose signals in Prague,\n\ntaxi call signs in Cleveland,\n\nsome event in say Valparaiso\n\nor one more demand and no\n\nbackout, no manoeuvre, command\n\nbegins counting to zero\n\nand beyond into minus,\n\nflips the alert, or a\n\nsleepy technician goes crazy,\n\nfalls out with his girlfriend,\n\nslips with his razor\n\nand opens the circuits deep\n\nin the core of the mountains.\n\nThis that they're trained for.\n\nThis that they're paid for.\n\nThis the bullnosed politicians\n\ncadge votes for and all night\n\nthe radios sweetly reason around.\n\nThis that at age seven\n\nI heard in the long wireless roar\n\nof Hiroshima and prayed\n\nand ran down the garden\n\nsweet God let it not continue.\n\nFrom Acton to Angel a fireball,\n\nall cities gone:\n\n'An area bounded by Hackney\n\nand Greenwich and Fulham and Willesden,\n\nsome millions dead, houses in Bushey\n\nburst into flame.' For weeks\n\nwe're told nothing to fret for.\n\nWithin 72 hours all programmes\n\nswitch to light entertainment,\n\nbroken by bulletins.\n\nAnd the quote ends. Goodbye\n\nradio miracle, Marconi's device.\n\nEnd of message. Goodbye\n\nto the language that failed.\n\nGoodbye telephone nobody answered.\n\nGoodbye Victorian nude with a ball.\n\nGoodbye all trace on the memory.\n\nGoodbye to everyone in Wimbledon.\n\nGoodbye Fox, my scuttling double\n\ngone in the hot wind of particles.\n\nGoodbye _Areopagitica, Aeneid,_\n\nAssyrian Winged Genius, alphabets\n\nrunning from aleph to zero.\n\nGoodbye D\u00fcrer's vision, Blake's angels,\n\nTolstoy's anger, Shan State,\n\ntears of the Indians, _Malleus Maleficorum,_\n\nsearch for the Unified Field Theory,\n\nFibonacci Series, Newton's Tables,\n\nOccam's Razor, all gone\n\nin the same sharp withering rain.\n\nGoodbye republics of raw nerve,\n\ndisputed borders of meaning.\n\nGoodbye at last, universe\n\nthinking itself in our skulls.\n\nGoodbye love. Woman I loved.\n\n_Writing anywhere_ I said once.\n\nI had just met you. The sharp\n\nintake of breath was mine, the long\n\nunexpected and longed for tide\n\nwas you over me. Writing\n\non stones, on kerbs, on the mucky pavement,\n\nleaving your room at first light\n\nhearing the dawn an outrage of birds.\n\nI write or I die: that dramatic\n\nthat simple. I die anyway\n\nwhile my life is the fool that persists\n\nand is never in his folly any wiser.\n\nA daft occupation some say.\n\nSwinging my lamp whether it's Thursday\n\nor Spain. Somewhere in this\n\nsector of infinite distance I met you,\n\ngrey lady who gave me my fox name,\n\ndark lady who gave me my fox shape,\n\nrose lady who gave me my fox colour,\n\nmy long fox outline, my fox tongue.\n\nAs to _goodbye_ not much\n\nto be said for it.\n\nI survive\n\nin some core of you\n\nyou through my life are the gift of.\n\nOne eye shut on the dream\n\none eye open\n\nOne eye hunted\n\none eye hunter\n\nAloof alert out\n\nmoving abruptly\n\nbetween skylines\n\nAfloat adrift on the city\n\nsome images on the retina\n\nAwake\n\n_Fox writes:_\n\nonce upon a long time\n\nI was a good dog.\n\nI ran around town\n\nwith the other good dogs.\n\nBuried our bones.\n\nBrought home bacon.\n\nOn paynights drank\n\nBell's whisky with water,\n\nhome by the moon\n\nthrough the late night streets\n\nin a bad baritone singing\n\n_what a terrible thing_\n\n_is a pub with no beer_\n\ndown the long hill\n\nto the river. I was\n\nsuch a good dog\n\nsuch a bad dog\n\nwith the other dogs.\n\nNow I'm Fox. I run.\n\nI've left town.\n\nI run & I run.\n\nI come from a broken home\n\nand I broke it.\n\nDon't wait up for me\n\nBlackbird. Your name\n\nwas on mine\n\nlike a ring. I'm Fox.\n\nI run and run on\n\ndown the vanishing landscape.\n\nI've not paid the mortgage,\n\nI've not paid the bank,\n\nstamp tax or insurance,\n\nI'm a blur, I'm a blank\n\nand I'm never going home.\n\nI've cashed my ticket.\n\nAnd I've thrown my keys\n\non the railroad tracks.\n\nAnd I'm gone.\n\nAnd I'm Fox, running out.\n\n_Into holes under leaves across water._\n\nSo far on the hill\n\nand no running back to the treeline,\n\non in the open.\n\nFox: hidden in landscape,\n\nvisible on it. I run\n\nand my sleep is a dream of running.\n\nBetween that and waking\n\nI've glimpsed between fern\n\nand heron's wing the old life.\n\nNorth by south of Isca the river.\n\nDays were longer there. Even I\n\nmight have lived there.\n\nLike a dream of childhood,\n\nwillows and tall reeds.\n\nUnlikely as the middle ages,\n\nvillages before enclosure,\n\nbefore these towns I run\n\nhunting my crust in.\n\nWhere I fade on the tape,\n\nmy shadow with the other shadows\n\none more missing item.\n\nMy voice on the phone\n\ndimming out, my voice asking\n\n_are these words coming out of my mouth?_\n\namong streets and the mornings\n\nand all these stars\n\nis anyone\n\nwho at the end hears traffic,\n\nthe siren baying them home\n\non the brackish roads\n\non the far sides of towns, sodium\n\nand flyway, strange blue light\n\nthat flickers on the ambulance?\n\nOtherwise fast\n\nanomalous\n\na tube train through allotments\n\none morning out to Heathrow\n\nA man gone down the country\n\nturning out his tube tickets\n\ntrailing his names\n\ncancelling accounts\n\nforwarding addresses\n\nchanting underground underwear\n\nwindblown Wimbledon\n\nBarbican\n\nBarbie can't\n\nsend the Shah back\n\nShahn't\n\nout of his skull on\n\nlearning how to vanish\n\nhanging on the strap\n\nthinking on his feet\n\ncovering the distance\n\nlisting strange objects\n\ncarried on and off trains\n\noverhearing\n\ndollar\n\ndollar half\n\nbunch of flowers\n\n'Who's a big boy then?\n\nCooked his own supper?\n\nWashed his socks and underpants?'\n\nSo she let you down\n\npoor babba\n\nmy little patch of sunlight\n\nmaybe she was meant to\n\nClapham Common Sunday\n\n747 hanging in the sky\n\nsplit vision\n\ncaught connections\n\nrazor to the throat\n\nbloody carnival\n\nEaster in the city\n\nflute sound\n\ncutting through traffic\n\nhe dreams of elsewhere\n\nVictoria by Belgravia\n\ntravellers' cases\n\nscuffing the snowcem\n\nKentucky Fried Chicken boxes\n\nadrift among the residences\n\npied \u00e0 terre spacious flat\n\ncompany let tourists only\n\ndown past Justin de Blanc\n\nto the Prince of Wales\n\nold men talking about the war\n\nO walking in the gutter\n\nto avoid bad luck\n\nstepping round a ladder\n\nhe was flattened by a truck\n\ndidn't give a\n\nRadiation\n\nfades your genes\n\npagan raider\n\n'them breeding like rabbits\n\nwith the H bomb and all'\n\npeople knowing no one else\n\nthe sixties have gone\n\nbut the moustache stays\n\nI read the book\n\nyou saw the movie\n\nI saw the real one\n\nthe Disney version\n\ndick\n\nlick\n\nprick\n\ntongue\n\nNF skins\n\nclock end\n\nayatollah Thatcher\n\nkiss my willy\n\nif you're reading this\n\nMildred\n\nwe're through\n\nzipping up his fly\n\ntoday I'm crow\n\nadrift\n\nwingbeat on wingbeat\n\nsplit vision\n\nacross wet slates\n\nlopped plane trees\n\nhated somehow\n\nthe rainbird of Finsbury\n\nsomething in me\n\nalways loving\n\nsome part of you\n\nhonestly it's my round\n\nafter all they're only people\n\nif I'd been a woman\n\nI'd have lost my temper\n\nif I'd been a man\n\nI'd have lost my erection\n\nin Ferme Park Rd waiting for a bus\n\nwondering where\n\nin rain, brick, traffic\n\nskies above Islington\n\nblue\n\nburdened by their beauty\n\nblur of trees\n\nevents like birds\n\nmarking them\n\nby Angel tube\n\nthrough the crowd\n\nthrough the traffic\n\nthrough the flute music\n\ntwo buskers, a girl\n\nlike a dark linnet singing,\n\nher man fingering the air\n\nto music\n\nhow she danced to him\n\nher music\n\nplayed to him\n\nto no one else\n\nthrough the tunnels\n\ndusty light on service pipes\n\nslid quickly\n\nback of the brain\n\nUrban. Efficient. Articulate. And costly.\n\n'are you going to the circus?'\n\nclowns lions peanuts painted ladies\n\nOxford Piccadilly Cambridge\n\nsplit vision\n\npub of the same name in which\n\n'Honestly it's my round\n\nyou've got to be good to yourself\n\nthe electric's cut off\n\nwe can't pay the rent\n\ndouble malts all three Henry'\n\n'has he for whom you\n\nleft yours now gone?'\n\nhe'll never be a buttercup\n\nin God's shining garden\n\ngifts I'd give my enemy:\n\ngnawings at his brain's\n\nthin skirting\n\na telephone\n\nringing in his sleeve\n\nhe'll never reach\n\nfacefull of fingers\n\ndecently bunched Jim\n\nNapoleon's bad smell map of Egypt\n\nhanging on the strap\n\nsuch a vision of the street\n\nas the street may understand\n\ntake your chance at the bar\n\nalong with everyone, squire\n\nFox you say your name was?\n\nglancing on the stairs\n\nmy double\n\nhis double\n\nEdgware Road\n\nmotion of his arm\n\nat Paddington among the trains\n\ngrown up and riding double-decker buses\n\nall alone\n\ncurtain in the wind\n\nwoman calling\n\nsomeone home to supper\n\nnight\n\ndistant lights\n\nmoon riding clouds\n\nglimpsed twice\n\nhis double\n\none who moves like him\n\n_gave chase_\n\n_hot pursuit_\n\naround the Circle Line\n\ngone again down the tubes\n\nthe black\n\nfast city veins\n\nto Baker Street\n\nto Jubilee\n\nto Neasden\n\nwhere he died\n\neasily among the skins\n\nrazor to his throat\n\ndrowning in his blood\n\nall he ever saw was boots\n\nand the boots going in\n\nhunting down the trains\n\nchanging quickly\n\nfollowing the signs\n\nfollowing his shoulder\n\nrunning\n\nwhere he dies\n\nrunning to the razor\n\nopening the doors\n\nawash with blood\n\nwhere he dies again\n\nspring festival\n\nurban version\n\nlate century twenty\n\nfilm events become\n\nmoment as it happens\n\nunrecognisable\n\nswift battering\n\nof images\n\nacross the retina\n\nmy double\n\ndead\n\nmy carnage\n\ndead Fox\n\ndead Fox\n\ndead Fox\n\nBut I've seen him\n\nbetween birdlight and Lisson Grove\n\nbetween lampdark\n\nand the Long Water\n\nI've seen him\n\nhis file closed down the dole office\n\nhis last account cleared\n\nhis black form\n\nfiled with his red form\n\nand his last room cleared\n\nand his suitcase\n\nand his girl told\n\nand his wife told\n\nI've seen him\n\nbetween Camden and Chalk Farm\n\nslow\n\neasy\n\nwaiting for a bus\n\nmoving with a grace\n\nmoving with a certainty\n\nacross the city's face\n\n_One of our own_ they say\n\n_served his time_\n\n_Gone Away_ on all the envelopes\n\n'My brother thinks I'm dead\n\nbut my sisters know I'm alive'\n\nWord\n\nI want a word\n\na beginning word forming in its water bead\n\nI want a word forming fingers of itself\n\nin the belly of all language\n\nI want a word fusing in the first 4 seconds of the bang\n\nI want a word\n\nstriding in the air\n\nall the way to the coda\n\ngrowing up to be a real person\n\nliving where the grown-ups live\n\nwhere each letter is a life\n\nforming into meaning\n\nI want a word with a gull's lift\n\nand easy shadow\n\nI want a word with a bat's inaudible sound\n\nI want a word like a snail\n\nround and round the rim of a glass\n\nI want a word for these days these miles\n\nthese trains this distance\n\nthe wanderer covers aloof\n\non the star-glinting rails\n\nSurbiton Norbiton Sanderstead\n\nblue scatter of sparks\n\nsmokey embankment flowers\n\nownerless back lots of flats\n\nLangham Court Riverdale\n\nin Sledhurst and Streatham\n\nand Gipsy Hill sniffing\n\namongst the paper plates\n\nthe Wonderloaf wrapper detritus\n\nin Hammersmith sniffing the amyl\n\nwhere I lost sight\n\nlost my name lost my number\n\nmy ticket\n\nTo Morden to Putney to Wandsworth\n\nto Beckenham Junction\n\nto Stockwell to Battersea Park\n\nWhere I was anyone anywhere\n\non hands and knees\n\nwho would crawl to the horizon\n\nfinding someone to say _yes_ to\n\njust another face\n\njust another walking wounded\n\nstarry in the city in a dead space\n\nbetween Archway and Holloway\n\nin the valley of abandoned bedrooms\n\njust another bruised ego\n\njust another fox\n\nstepping out in the cool skinhead wind\n\ninto NF occupied country\n\nto Lambeth evicted boarded-up\n\nthrough Pakkibashers' Court\n\nthrough Martin Webster Gardens\n\nto Brick Lane to Bethnal Green\n\ndreaming London Fields and Hackney Downs\n\nspaces between other spaces\n\nstates or conditions of mind\n\na man in a yard bouncing a ball\n\nway down Thatcherland\n\npast the closed-down clinic\n\nand the short-staffed school\n\nsuch a vision of the street\n\npast the road where the bureaucrats live\n\nthrough Stepney and south of the river\n\nto Camberwell wary in traffic\n\nthrough which a sharp blast of dub sound\n\nto Brixton wall-eyed beside the Little Bit Ritzy\n\n_oh lady she's long way gone now_\n\n_in the hennaed rainbow of her hair_\n\n_you your own man now John_\n\n_step inside a minute_\n\nthrough the city Muggers Lane\n\nRape Alley\n\nhunting situations vacant and a room\n\ntoo old or overqualified\n\nor under experienced or plain can't drive\n\nLong ago now in the year zero\n\nunder the rule of Fatso\n\nwith my companion Alexander the Impecunious\n\ncalled Knifeback\n\ncalled Throatcutter\n\nJack Scratch\n\nwho betrayed me\n\nin the middle of my life\n\nback among the schisms and the alleys\n\nof the hostile villagers\n\nand the slow drawing of the map around Africa\n\nslow drawing of the noose\n\nslow sharpening of the knife\n\nback across the foggy moors\n\namong the stonecutters\n\namong the bands of the black-browed\n\nand their beaded women\n\nthere he set his watch\n\nto the exact hour of my defeat\n\nthat is finished now\n\nIf I want to I'll weep without apology\n\nIf I want to I'll laugh\n\nI'll sing with who will sing or sing alone\n\nI will be honest with who will be honest with me\n\nI want a word for a voice\n\ntrapped in the telephone\n\nheard only by the post office police\n\nlistening for keys\n\ndreaming of a key word listening\n\nfor drug words women words\n\nbomb words picket words\n\nwords like _immigrant conspiracy abortion_\n\nWhen all he was asking\n\nin his hardly daring voice\n\nwas do you have a room\n\ndo you have a job\n\nand how to get\n\nfrom Balham to Clapham\n\nwhere he's cowboy\n\ngrill chef\n\nbeerslinger\n\nchecker\n\nporter\n\ntypist\n\npunch operator\n\nthief\n\nstanding at the cashier's window\n\nhearing _oh we've written a book have we?_\n\nUnderneath the night sky.\n\nStar. Star. Star.\n\nI would pray were there any God to pray to\n\nI want the word\n\nfor the many lives he might have lived\n\nif he'd gotten off anywhere, Moorgate\n\nfor instance or Tooting\n\nin a single room or Dagenham\n\nat the end of a lousy marriage\n\nto a woman hissing in her sleep\n\nalongside him. When he cries\n\nin the onrush at Victoria\n\nand his cry comes out of him\n\ninto the world I want\n\nwhat his cry is: sharp\n\nAlways on the wrong train anywhere\n\nwith the outdated ticket\n\nin the wrong skin with his\n\nlong forgotten biography\n\nRolling up his last tobacco\n\nand it's midday and it's Monday\n\nand time to feel bad\n\nand it signifies nothing\n\njust another person on the line\n\nwhen he tips down his hat\n\nand sleeps and wakes knowing\n\nhe is called _only the protagonist_\n\nArrived by the wrong train\n\nto the wrong town hears\n\n_no she don't live here no more_\n\n_your kids grown up and gone_\n\n_heard she married again_\n\n_your mother died asking for you_\n\n_where you been and where you now_\n\nAt the last there were phone calls\n\nfrom people who didn't exist\n\nWord I want his word\n\nof the dotty professor\n\nof the salesman hating the product\n\nof the sleepy technician\n\nof the jobless\n\nof the fat man in first I want\n\nword uttered in defeat by the captain\n\nof a wandering band of chartered accountants\n\nword of the bad architects\n\nthe government of tax lawyers\n\nall the little stockholders\n\nvoting protection in a free economy\n\nturning back the clock\n\ndeciding what the country needs\n\nis a damned good war\n\nI want word of the tramp on Kingston bridge\n\ndreaming only a warm mug of tea\n\nI want word of the bloke\n\nwho leans over with a razor\n\nand slits the protagonist's throat\n\nand walks off scot free\n\nJust another of my feints\n\nJust another invention\n\nJust another of my lies\n\nJust another skin coming off\n\nSwitching trains in the train game\n\nplaying games with my name game\n\nmiddle-aged and seedy in rooms\n\nliving with a woman it was said\n\nin Eastbourne by the winter sea\n\nMen I knew years back\n\nwhen I was young and daft\n\ndelivering the _News of the World_\n\nround Pearson Park. Faces\n\nmentioning defeat saying\n\nbankruptcy desertion failure redundancy\n\nlost bottle. Their light\n\nthat had gone or never lit\n\nor they burned now on the lamp oil\n\nof necessity the pure oil\n\nof ageing euphoria the door\n\nheld half-shut on privacy\n\nsheet smells dusty odour\n\nout of second-hand couches\n\nrent due smell of woman\n\nglimpsed in the kitchen dark\n\nsome other dark pursued\n\nroom to room through suburbs\n\nin a slow terminal frenzy\n\ntheir last dance anywhere\n\nunder any glittering ball but they\n\nwhen they talked had not much to say\n\nSuch was Fox\n\nIn the technologies of terror\n\nOn his road to the terminal ward\n\nOn his way to the knife\n\nIn a taxi to the hospice\n\nIn the corner of the interrogation room\n\nReaching for his last drink in any bar anywhere\n\nSaying _to hell with everything_\n\nSleeping it off in some room\n\nhis night full of idetic images\n\nFox drawn to the life to the bone\n\nto the yellowing teeth the bristles\n\nat chin and cheek singing barearse\n\n_clap hands here comes Charlie_\n\nWith his word that was word\n\nof the unmasked betrayer\n\na beaten man knowing better\n\nand had he his time around\n\nbut it's too late now Valparaiso\n\n_no such thing as a free lunch_\n\nsings the radio\n\n_where's this highway go to?_\n\nhim and his egg sandwich\n\nhis suffering was only good for when he had to\n\nlike a wheel\n\nlike a wheel\n\nthat stops turning\n\nsmiles in death's little sad face\n\nhe speaks\n\nfrom the lengthening floor\n\nof his blood his conviction\n\n_not me not me Jack_\n\nhe speaks\n\nwith his word\n\nfrom the night's narrow places\n\nwith his moment\n\na man bides his breath for\n\nat the end forbears boastmaking\n\na wise man holds out\n\nhis enemies destroy themselves\n\nhe defeats them with words\n\nbrother shadow\n\nI greet you, goodbye\n\ngo well on your road\n\nleave the way open\n\nhe is anyone\n\nnaked under his clothes\n\nalone his moment\n\nanyone at all wandering back\n\nfrom the laundromat late Saturday noon\n\nclearing his throat\n\nspeaking again\n\nin the white room\n\nsweeping his hat off and asking\n\n_who all belongs to this blood then?_\n\n# [FROM  \nThe Poet Reclining](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n# Spartan communiqu\u00e9\n\nOver in this sector\n\nin the limitless nowhere\n\nsetting the mirrors\n\nfacing each other\n\nthe face shrunk\n\nto its eyeball\n\nits one act\n\nof looking and looking\n\nwe find coming between us\n\nourselves and our vision\n\nthat would otherwise be\n\nto infinity\n\nmerely our eyes\n\nonly our looking.\n\n# From the Vale of White Horse: some news\n\nAt some cost\n\nI achieved some detachment.\n\nFinding this distance\n\nhere in myself\n\nI first had to cross.\n\nSay I got out of the traffic.\n\nI was no longer even curious.\n\nI said bravely _no more bullshit_.\n\nIf I lost sight of myself\n\non the landscape smokey with towns\n\nthat barely matters now.\n\nNor do the years I marched\n\nin my bright brass buttons\n\nbehind the wrong flag.\n\nWe're each one of us\n\nseparate countries I think,\n\ntricky and wary as states.\n\nAnd the language fools us,\n\neach in the yammering skull\n\nwith our messages fading at the border.\n\nI've no complaint in the silence.\n\nI'm alone at last with the stars.\n\nI'm connected by voices and footprints.\n\nI've one eye on the distant foothills.\n\nMy news is as ever:\n\nit will not be the last of me.\n\n# Being the third song of Urias\n\nLives ago, years past generations\n\nperhaps nowhere I dreamed it:\n\nthe foggy ploughland of wind\n\nand hoofprints, my father\n\noff in the mist topping beats.\n\nWhere I was eight, I knew nothing,\n\nthe world a cold winter light\n\non half a dozen fields, then\n\nall the winking blether of stars.\n\nBefore like a fool I began\n\nexplaining the key in its lost locked box\n\nadding words to the words to the sum\n\nthat never works out.\n\nWhere I was\n\ndistracted again by the lapwing,\n\nthe damp morning air of my father's\n\ngregarious plainchant cursing\n\nall that his masters deserved\n\nand had paid for.\n\nSure I was\n\nthen for the world's mere being\n\nin the white rime on weeds\n\namong the wet hawthorn berries\n\nat the field's edge darkened by frost,\n\nand none of these damned words to say it.\n\nI began trailing out there in voices,\n\nfriends, women, my children,\n\nmy father's tetherless anger, some\n\nlike him who are dead who are\n\npart of the rain now.\n\n# In transit\n\n_(from Mari for Mick)_\n\nSome place a horse\n\nshines on the field. Some place the ants\n\ntrek the foothills of the grass.\n\nMaybe love comes and goes\n\nand maybe comes back, scrap of news\n\nfrom places we lived.\n\nOr it's too late for everything,\n\nchildhood and sunglaze\n\ngone from the river. And this\n\nis a grim little song, sister.\n\nAs we fly away from each other,\n\nunrepeatable, ordinary,\n\nyears away, miles later\n\nchewing love's bit of bread.\n\nOr we're free. That's\n\nwhat I wanted, always: to be.\n\nAmong the white horses.\n\nAmong the fields of yellow kale.\n\n# Hun\u00e9us the shoemaker\n\nHe was content all those years\n\ncarving his children from wood.\n\nTwo nails banged in for eyes\n\n_and you're done_ he told them.\n\nTwice wed he was, his first\n\nlost in childbed, six\n\nthat survived out of infancy.\n\nOne son he named _Walk in the Lord_ ,\n\nanother _Go Forth_. Taught them his trade\n\nthat they make provision.\n\nWorking late, kept by his lamp\n\nto prayer and close study.\n\nFrowning under the lintel.\n\nAll his life the same music,\n\npatching and stopping up draughts\n\nthrough sixty some winters.\n\nSo much to ask out loud for.\n\nThe dark space in his mind\n\nhe called God told him so:\n\nmend, shiver, make do when hungry,\n\nsuffer when must but make good.\n\nHe was content anyway, at nightfall\n\nhunting the wild birds of the river,\n\na man in his own space.\n\nOr so we believe. That he died\n\nblameless and lonely I'm sure of.\n\n# Operations undertaken at or near the surface\n\nMornings of long silence. I wake late\n\nto the wind and the grey light\n\nof winter coming. The milk\n\nstands cold and alone on the step.\n\nIn my dream you shook your dark hair\n\nand turned from me at last.\n\nI bring in the milk.\n\nYes you loved me for certain.\n\nI think of you. How at times\n\nthe world stopped in your hair\n\nwhere I cried my cry uselessly.\n\nI pour out the milk in the jug.\n\nYou betrayed me, having no choice\n\napparently. Did what you must.\n\nFor love of you I scattered my cries\n\nacross England. I make tea.\n\nI make it like everything slower these days,\n\nand consider my lack of compassion\n\nback when the world melted in you.\n\nI pour out the milk.\n\nNow your letters no longer arrive.\n\nYour regrets don't whiten the morning.\n\nWinter does that. And my fury.\n\nI pour it all out. I pour it away.\n\n# Shallow dreaming\n\nit scrambles time and seasons\n\nif it gets through to you\n\nJONI MITCHELL\n\nSitting in the bus station\n\n_where else mister?_ tuning the transistor\n\nthinking that lady waiting a good lay.\n\nWearing his snow white bandage\n\ndigital timepiece pentacle and earring\n\na silver razor blade to the throat.\n\nLater with the wires to his head\n\ncoasting the big bird from Seattle\n\nbeyond the Aleutians and the Circle\n\nor takes the long shift to Bear Island\n\nwaving to the Mig _only kidding man_\n\ndropping down the Murmansk approaches\n\nseeing the sky's edge turning south\n\nfuelwards to the Turkish bases\n\nover patchwork Europe and rest up.\n\n_That's one duty man_ over beer and smoke\n\nlater the same day _boy that was close_\n\nshooting pool all the world one rush\n\nthrough the skull one wing of geese\n\non the snowy wind of the prairie.\n\nBetween us and the stars only stars.\n\nSix miles down only clouds more miles\n\nover their shadows. The plane\n\nin the bare knuckle light of the sun\n\nmakes at times a rainbow under itself\n\nand the bright ring of colour goes with you\n\nin the radio silence. _It's a pain chief_\n\n_that I can tell you_. Nothing for hours\n\nover the Baltic probing the Polish margin\n\ntesting the Reds. Times out of mind\n\nI've watched them trying it out \u2013\n\nIlyushin or Bear or flock of wild birds\n\nhoming over such landscapes\n\nthat show in my scope still \u2013\n\nthe long shores of cold where the ocean\n\nbatters its freezing continents\n\nand if grass grows there it is chill\n\nrasping and stiff in the sea-brought winds\n\nat the tops of the world.\n\nThere the caribou come in spring.\n\nTheir hooves still thrash in the sea's ebb\n\nthrough the tales of the grandfathers.\n\nAll blips now. Data printout\n\nas to latitude and the old ice geometry.\n\n_I'd quit but what else?_ I see\n\nwhite sky on a white world, cities\n\nstubbed out, ash blown catty corner.\n\nI tell you I'd go on an acid tab singing\n\nglimpsing at last a pattern in the grids\n\nkissing goodbye all the ladies\n\non the planet's side flying in\n\nsliding under the radar yelling\n\n_this is a good day to die brothers_\n\n_nothing lasts only earth and the mountains._\n\n# Old movies\n\nIt is long ago in an old\n\nold movie, the print bleached,\n\nthe soundtrack scratchy and flat.\n\nThe actors wear suits and speak\n\nupper-class British, the workmen\n\nare always cheerful and loyal.\n\nThey smoke a lot, poised at windows,\n\ntheir knuckles folded to their faces.\n\nThey are all dead now. Overhead\n\nin the high auditorium since demolished\n\na moth flits in and out the projector beam.\n\nLint catches in the corners of the shutter.\n\nA film I saw years away in childhood,\n\nin rainy Ripon in the north of my life\n\nbefore the world showed me its backside.\n\nAt the station he waits 40 minutes.\n\nShe never arrives among the steam trains.\n\nThey never meet again this side\n\nof the last frame of the last reel\n\nbefore the movie runs off the sprockets.\n\nThey won't drink, sit to table, bear children\n\nor share one grain of wheat\n\nof all the world's wheatfields. Before stars\n\nblink out and all the silence starts\n\nher eyes won't be the last he looks into,\n\nher hands the last he falls through,\n\nhis voice won't be the last she hears.\n\nIn the grey blur of film the protagonist\n\nsmokes one last cigarette, loops the butt\n\noff the platform, claps hat on head\n\nand pitches his bag into the next train out,\n\na nomad pulling up his tent pegs,\n\nhis wanderer's reflection in a whisky glass.\n\nAnd he has no ticket. In the buffet car\n\nthe barman counts his change, he says\n\n_they come and go they never say their names._\n\nIt is another night of trains, blue light\n\nthat fades across the fields, a last crow\n\non a telephone wire and the movie's over.\n\n# Transcription of the crying woman\n\nI was making my sounds\n\nI was making them for everyone\n\nI was walking bird alert in pasture\n\nI was wingbeat labouring the easy air\n\nDid he expect no change in me\n\nwho was not one but many?\n\nIt took the two of us I told him\n\nthe drowning and the drowned\n\nI put on silk I put on lace\n\nI oiled my olive skin\n\nI was the mirror's glance\n\nas I was dressing for my lover\n\nAll through these woods I was\n\nbeating in the bird hunt\n\ntoo long I was alone\n\nand he where was he where?\n\nWhile I was hennaing my hair\n\nwhile I was in my mirror's silver\n\nwhile he was numbering the roads\n\nwhile he was calling up from Maida\n\nI took one lover then another\n\nI was buckling on my purple dress\n\nI was straightening out my seam\n\nI was still dreaming of the south\n\nI was the seal I was gazelle\n\nI went running by the strath\n\nI was tucking in my children\n\nI was sweetening their milk\n\nAnd I was running for the running\n\nI was the otter's skin\n\nacross my lover's skin\n\nI was infinity of cries\n\nI took him in my hands like prayer\n\nI took him in my mouth\n\nI took the wafer of him to my tongue\n\nI sucked the sweetness from him\n\nI took the salt I took the wine\n\nI was his nun I was his whore\n\nI was the gull pitched into wind\n\nI was a song spilled in the beams\n\nMy name was being called\n\nmy name was _bird on water_\n\nmy name was _spent and howling_\n\nmy name was _he is butchered_\n\nI was undressing for my lover\n\nI was pronouncing all my words for him\n\n_my shoe my clasp o my sweet moth_\n\nI was unravelling my tongue\n\nWhen I was fiddling with my button\n\nwhen I was picking out my comb\n\nwhen I was lacquering my nails\n\nhis death came beating on my air\n\nI was whirling in the thicket\n\nI was thrashing in the sea foam\n\nI was running in the scrubland\n\nI was falling down the mountain\n\nI was calling for my mother\n\nI was dressing for my lovers\n\nI was calling to my children\n\nI was crackling in my satin\n\nI was staring at his death's head\n\nI was remembering his hands\n\nI was encountering his blood\n\nI was alone forever then\n\nI was all Ivan's seven wives\n\nI was Sobakina meaning _canine_\n\nI was Nogaya meaning _naked_\n\nI was the fury in the light across my flesh\n\n# Planting aloes\n\n_(for Judi)_\n\nDays of random events,\n\nwaking with no plan,\n\nall the city mine to play in.\n\nAnd whatever else I do\n\nI'll be no damned richer\n\nby the evening. _Can't dance_\n\n_too wet to plough._\n\nCut myself shaving.\n\nUnsnarled the white kitchen.\n\nEmptied out the trash.\n\nFilled little red pots\n\nwith dark London soil,\n\nplanting the aloes\n\nmy mother gave me hours ago\n\nyesterday in Yorkshire.\n\nSo come live with us\n\nlittle green-sleeves.\n\nLike the throats of birds.\n\nA slow careful work\n\nthat's repetitive,\n\nmy mind drifting off\n\nhanging in the moment\n\nI'm tucking roots\n\namong muck's spaces.\n\nSounds of far traffic,\n\nblackbird, woman's nextdoor voice\n\nand rattle of a bowl.\n\nDog's yap. April light\n\nwarm across my shoulder.\n\nI am awake again, my life\n\nsuddenly its centre.\n\nYou I love\n\nwho taught me aloes heal.\n\nRed blossom through the suburbs.\n\nYellow blaze forsythia makes.\n\nSkies forever changing.\n\nWords forming into meaning.\n\nTake the aloes. Take from me\n\nof all my pages this love.\n\n# Mouth\n\nMouth of a soft shell\n\nI put my ear to hear the sea in you\n\nSighting eye of the sextant\n\nI put my own eye to read the constellations\n\nwhere are no stars no starcharts\n\nMercury\n\nmirror without glass\n\nscoop\n\nsickle\n\nshoe of the first step in Pavlova's dance\n\ntelephone to the sea's deep\n\nI put my mouth to hear the word in you\n\nI touch you with my tongue it is a prayer\n\nSibilant\n\nfirst mark first ideogram\n\nfirst aleph for all alphabets\n\nfirst futhark of the script of pagan raiders\n\nfirst winter count of zero zero zero\n\na language made of vowels only\n\nwords spoken into water\n\nLike a day of leaves in rainy wind\n\nlike the tongues of shoes\n\nlike the first plants come ashore\n\nlike a cabinet of drawers and secrets\n\nlike the flickered pages of a book\n\nlike the spaniel's ears\n\nlike the flaps of aviators' helmets\n\nlike the lips of horses\n\nlike the petals of magnolia flickering pink, white\n\nlike the blue of burning anis\n\nand the strange translucent brown\n\nbeneath the rose skin\n\nwhere your blood is hunting for the surfaces of light\n\nLike the fish mouth risen into air\n\nlike the moon's reflection stretched on water\n\nA chanterelle\n\na cedar chest\n\na cupboard stocked against a coming war\n\na cave of smuggled liquor\n\nogival arch where no madonna is\n\na box of soft cutlery\n\nthe flower's throat going back in you\n\nfar into the centre of all liquids\n\nWhere was my terror\n\nwhere my joy is\n\nwhere my anger is\n\nwhere my fear of the dark we come from\n\nand the dark we go into is\n\nLike a bird through a byre of the Saxons\n\nlike the swan's road on water\n\nlike the first stages on the long journey into Russia\n\nlike the tracks of fish\n\nlike the keel's shuck into waves' trough\n\nThe long afternote of a bell\n\nthe anemone\n\nsifting all the sea through its marrying ring\n\n# Tongue\n\nMy tongue is a flute\n\nfilling all the tunnels of the subway\n\nwith its flute sound\n\nMy tongue goes before me\n\n_My tongue_ says my tongue\n\nin the chatter of my quiet\n\nNo more a singer than the reeds\n\nmy tongue's a bird sound\n\na throstle\n\nsinging in the tree of memory\n\nMy tongue's a busker\n\nmuch interested in loose change\n\nbut my tongue plays anyway\n\nMy tongue has no stops\n\nMy tongue has no reed\n\nas a flute has none\n\nMy tongue goes rolling into words\n\nMy tongue goes running into language\n\nMy tongue goes rifling the alphabets\n\nhunting through vocabularies\n\nsaying _honey ant palanquin labial_\n\nMy tongue unlocks my word hoard\n\nMy tongue says I'm a fool to let it speak\n\nMy tongue is all the fortune that I have\n\nfor any of my children\n\nMy tongue's a daft errand boy\n\nrunning on ahead\n\nMy tongue's an old messenger\n\nforgetting what he came for\n\nTelling women that I love them\n\nSaying that I'll stay\n\nPromising _I'll pay I'll pay I'll pay_\n\nAnd when my tongue gets me shot\n\nmy tongue will ask for one last cigarette\n\ncompliment the squaddies on their turnout\n\norder _ready aim fire_\n\nand quote Lorca\n\nto the gunfire\n\nI'll never hear\n\n# The Ubi Sunt variations\n\n#### 1\n\nI shall account some lost things:\n\n_twelve songs for a missing flute._\n\nI have lost even their titles:\n\n_He returns from the frontier_\n\n_He finds his house deserted_\n\n_She writes from far away_\n\n_He despairs beside the river_\n\n#### 2\n\nIn some lost book I recall\n\nin a photograph taken Brighton Beach,\n\nLee Miller, Paul \u00c9luard, Eileen Agar, 1936.\n\nThe seawind blows in their faces.\n\nThey sit in deckchairs in the sunlight\n\nof the moment that contains them,\n\ngone the road of all moments.\n\n#### 3\n\nBones no bigger than a child's\n\nthat were the warrior's, the fierce\n\nman-killing frame of him\n\nmineral again, climbing the bog-cotton,\n\nrounding the sheep's horn,\n\nsinging down the flute singing\n\n_in the love of you I lost myself._\n\n#### 4\n\nIn the long lost weekend of my life\n\nwe gathered herbs she and I\n\nwith the full white moon in Orion.\n\nAnd all night crushed and blended,\n\nmortared, pestled, pinched\n\nfinger to thumb and scattered.\n\nBut who knows what that meant now?\n\n#### 5\n\nThey lied about the heart:\n\nthat it's a soft pink cushion\n\nsitting in the left wall of the chest.\n\nA lie I outlived. Time passed\n\nin the study of linoleum in basement rooms,\n\nan old slow war that fought itself\n\nover the long slope of my life.\n\n#### 6\n\nIn trunks packed in haste,\n\nrandomly, my lost books, notes,\n\nphotographs, lost again as they must be.\n\nThe wanderer resumes his journey.\n\nMakes do with what's to hand.\n\nThe air fills with banal words:\n\n_how I love you, we'll meet again._\n\n#### 7\n\nAnd each night in the dream's house\n\nthe hand was a hand waving _help_.\n\nSay I ran, say I was hunted\n\nditch after ditch, life after life,\n\na creature that slept by water\n\nand woke among cities, strangered\n\nand half way human. Say that.\n\n#### 8\n\nTraveller on the old road\n\nof the wind between towns,\n\nsay I endured.\n\nSinging _short of nowt we've got._\n\nSinging _not much but we eat it all._\n\nSinging _clap hands for Charlie._\n\nSinging _love this is my country._\n\n#### 9\n\nIn the capital as in the provinces:\n\ndisaffection and less work, scattered riots,\n\nthe imperial currency worth less and less.\n\nRebellion seethes in the suburbs.\n\nThe governors strengthen the police.\n\nDark clouds, no rain yet from the west.\n\nThe ugly prince marries the virgin.\n\n#### 10\n\nSet the fire up. Let there be drink\n\nfor these travellers. There was a time\n\nonce my brothers I was young\n\nand what lay till now ahead\n\nwas mist along a river, the kestrel\n\nin sunlight hung his moment\n\nover the tall reed beds running south.\n\n#### 11\n\nDear mother father aunt Jessie\n\nit is no picnic, it's France I think\n\nthere's no white tablecloths.\n\nWe're all that thinks in all the stars,\n\ninventing telephones and missiles.\n\nThen silence from the planet.\n\nNothing more. The hiss of radiation.\n\n#### 12\n\nHills blued with distance.\n\nNo goodbye. A little further\n\nwe begin to see the mountains.\n\nAnd the river's small beginnings.\n\nAnd the sea turning its only syllable.\n\nAnd the nights where no one sleeps.\n\nAnd the song that is the last.\n\n# The poet reclining\n\n_(after Chagall)_\n\nWhat still holds me,\n\nwhere I stretch in my skin\n\nat the day's edge:\n\na particular landscape,\n\nthe fence at the field's side,\n\nwhat my hat keeps the rain from.\n\nThe moment, once and once only,\n\nsufficient, taken on trust\n\nin the wheels of the watch.\n\nThe wind stirs the foxgrass.\n\nThe lapwing enters the thicket.\n\nWhere had the world gone?\n\nDid I invent it,\n\nmaking a fiction to keep off sleep\n\nfor fear I'd dream worse?\n\nSo I devised the grass\n\nand the raggety birch bark,\n\nthe spider's morning extrusions\n\nbeaded white with the mist.\n\nSo it was. When I snapped my fingers,\n\nwhen I turned, when I opened my eyes,\n\nwhen I clapped my hands and called out,\n\nmy voice came back empty.\n\nThe morning, the evening.\n\nEverything vanishes, generations\n\nfading into the grass.\n\nI lay down. I counted\n\nthe words she had written\n\nin barbed High Gothic script:\n\n_behind wire I can't live._\n\nThe wind took her words off.\n\nI lay down without sleeping.\n\nMine always the want\n\nto make more of what is,\n\nthe world from its nothings:\n\nthe assemblies of grass,\n\nfallen leaf ticking pavestone,\n\nwater drop forming and falling.\n\nOut of sight were old gates\n\nswinging in wind, far hiss\n\nof a highway of traffic.\n\nFurther off smokey towns\n\nwith their townsmen's scandals.\n\nCity glitter of gossip and money.\n\nIn the streets coffee smells\n\nand newly baked bread.\n\nI met train after train\n\nbut her train never arrived.\n\nI wrote _kleine Mutti_\n\n_so far you can't walk_\n\n_to the wire you can see it._\n\nI should forget such a place ever was.\n\nI should concern myself with the city,\n\nliving there and surviving.\n\nThat's enough. I should forget my thought\n\nthe best's gone and the rest gets darker.\n\nBut for my belief\n\nin the grass, that it is once\n\nand once it is\n\nit is forever.\n\nI hear it all still: sheep's bleat on the moor\n\nand the peewee's thin calls in the weeds.\n\nThe geese: I hear their cry in traffic,\n\nthe gate's squeal in brakes,\n\nin the high thunder of the planes overhead\n\nthe wind gunning through the pines.\n\nLong ago. A psychiatrist\n\ntold me not to listen to the wind\n\nbut the wind tells me not to listen to him.\n\nI'll be the one holding the forged winning ticket.\n\nI'll be the one with the devalued currency.\n\nI'll be at the airport with no flight anywhere.\n\nI'll be on the quayside in the bombed-out harbour\n\ndeciding once again to abandon my luggage.\n\nI'll be in the right and I'll be dead wrong again.\n\nLet this be the scald of remembered country.\n\nHere the river turns east.\n\nHere the geese fly over my grandfather's house.\n\nSoldiers march off between trees\n\ninto the dark elbow of the road's curve.\n\nThe gate's lost its sneck.\n\nTiles rain from the barn roof.\n\nTrees break in the gale, lightning divides some.\n\nThere will be sleet, then long winter.\n\nThere is a dotted line dividing the house from itself.\n\nIn the general's office this district is maps.\n\nIn the war college the cowshed an objective.\n\nThere is a red pin where the pig's snout roots.\n\nTank radios chatter in the fir trees.\n\nThere is a bullet-hole where the horse crops.\n\nHere the rockets fall and the fallout\n\nobliterates the grass and the old field divisions.\n\nHe lies in the paddock.\n\nIt is mid summer.\n\nNot a leaf has yet fallen\n\nbut the sky changes towards day's end.\n\nHe dreams the dark evergreen,\n\nthe resins in the calendars of wood.\n\nWaking, the byre and the brown horse\n\nwill again surprise him.\n\n# The night music\n\nLong notes of a late instrument\n\ndrawn out across the balconies.\n\nThe stairwells newly painted.\n\nThe windows open for the night air.\n\nBy day small cage birds\n\nhung over steep streets\n\ndropping thin weepy notes.\n\nThe sadness of the bars.\n\nTheir air that's thickened with hashish.\n\nBy night there is the distance\n\nlike a blanket and the heavy air,\n\na man's breath pared along a reed\n\nplayed late and to no purpose.\n\nAcross the streets in moonlight\n\nthe music fading off into a nowhere\n\nmade of dark and dog yelps\n\nbattling for the suburbs. It is\n\nanother night, another country\n\nin another lost city where I scribbled\n\n_if I die leave the way open._\n\nAll my years one bullet\n\ntravelled from the mined-out minerals\n\nthrough assembly lines until it found me.\n\nAt the end I never saw it.\n\nSo goodbye my heart, my name.\n\nThat was long ago,\n\na life that was or would be.\n\nIt finished somewhere halfway.\n\nMoment by moment it sheds\n\nmore of itself. I move away\n\nin a new name with a new biography.\n\nThis is the next world already.\n\nEverything shines much as before.\n\nNothing has changed, even I.\n\n# Fox in October\n\nHe forgave the grass its persistence.\n\nHe forgave the sky its blue indifference,\n\nno longer angry with the high wintry cirrus.\n\nHorizon to horizon across prairies,\n\noceans, towns and villages the planet\n\nspun day in day out through sunlight\n\ninto dark again, century by century\n\nof rainy violence what was the sky\n\nbut a great yawn\n\nwherever he was on the Earth\n\nin any of its histories,\n\nsmall in all his armour.\n\nHe forgave it. Were there a god\n\namong the rafts of stars\n\nhe must be bored by now or had to be joking.\n\nHis eye to Herschel's telescope,\n\nhis ear to the radio noise\n\nout at the last edge of the little we know,\n\nin the dark of the planetarium\n\nor in the pavilion at Kew\n\nstaring up into the points of light\n\nhe saw himself.\n\nHe was merely a protagonist,\n\nhis bag of words across his shoulder.\n\nHe forgave that.\n\nHe forgave the brown leaves.\n\nHe forgave the pigeons their dullness.\n\nHe forgave childhood its passing.\n\nHe forgave the left side of his brain.\n\nHe forgave his enemies.\n\nHe forgave his friends.\n\nHe forgave himself.\n\nHe forgave his betrayals.\n\nHe survived his own foolishness.\n\nSome he'd damaged he hoped survived him.\n\nWind clattered the dropped leaves\n\nacross the afternoon park,\n\nthe long sunlight guttered,\n\nblackbird with traffic.\n\nHe forgave his mother her growing older,\n\nwiser, braver. He forgave\n\nhis father his death after decades of meaningless fury,\n\na flint pitched at the sheer injustice\n\nof his bosses. And everyone else.\n\nIt was hard on the Earth.\n\nHe forgave everyone that.\n\nSome that had almost broken him\n\nhe supposed he'd forgive. He did not forgive\n\nin the name of anyone else nor the years\n\nspent wasted and gone asking\n\nwere some evil or just daft,\n\neither way meaning the same word _trouble_.\n\nHe forgave his children\n\nmiles years stars falling away\n\nsince his abandoning them.\n\nHe forgave their forgiving him, loving him.\n\nHe forgave even her.\n\nHe forgave love its almost ruining him.\n\nHe forgave its illusion.\n\nHe forgave himself that.\n\nIn a mood to forgive all,\n\nmake his peace, live his life now\n\nwith the woman he loved who loved him\n\nwithout need of forgiveness.\n\nThose we properly love travel with us\n\nsome way down time in the distance\n\nthe stars scatter their light\n\nparticle by particle forming new dust,\n\nnew tides in new galaxies,\n\nperhaps for no reason.\n\nThey don't give up.\n\nHowever many tries it takes.\n\nHowever many lives it takes.\n\nHe concluded, one day in October,\n\nat the beginning of an early winter,\n\nsunlight sheer between the plane trees\n\nat Crouch End, in his cold northern country.\n\n# [FROM  \nBURNED BOOKS](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(1981)**\n**Burned books**\n\n# _Recitation at the burned books:_\n\ntaking a handful\n\nof rainy ashes\n\ncrimped half burned\n\npaper into his fist\n\nwhat was some tale\n\nof fair women or\n\ntinker song how\n\nQueen Miracle was\n\nwith the stable lads\n\nhe's caught sight\n\nof hawthorn hedge\n\ndrizzle & honeysuckle\n\nasking what chance\n\nof nirvana for this\n\nwet rubbishy fistful\n\nand longs to be\n\nmerely a grassblade\n\nthe singular stare\n\nof the speedwell\n\nmaybe a reed flecked\n\nby the reeds\n\nhis brothers\n\n# _San Quixote of the cinders:_\n\nwhat was salvaged\n\n& all but survived\n\nruin. Was sent\n\nto the binder expert\n\nin calfskin & vellum,\n\nrestorer of margins \u2013\n\ngood man with a pastebrush\n\nclicking his teeth\n\nat the occasional\n\nlacuna, gap,\n\nhiatus.\n\nA beam\n\nfallen lengthwise smouldering\n\nits fire's black terrain\n\nof collapsing\n\nlynchstrips & plate armour\n\nmaps of some western states\n\nhas inwardly marred\n\na good chapter or two, the\n\nlast uncountable pages\n\nwill always be missing.\n\nWe have then\n\nsome tale all unfinished\n\nof the knight gone crazy\n\nin barber's basin\n\nhelmet & paper shield\n\ndragging his boots\n\nfrom one rock to another.\n\nA pity. And yet\n\nwatching the sea slide\n\nin on the beachstones\n\nunder the sky's plump\n\nindifference, how\n\nwith each swell it returns\n\nto itself, now\n\nI'm not sure\n\nI'd ever have read it.\n\n# _Some notes on Perdu:_\n\nPoet.\n\nPresident of the Republic.\n\nMade use of his first term\n\nto prolong the second.\n\nFounded the library\n\nof gutted works.\n\nHis memorial.\n\nSelf-styled _Jacko, King_\n\n_of All The Birds._\n\nAlchemist turning gold\n\ninto lead. Maker of\n\nscarecrows. His mark\n\na black circle giving off\n\ndarkness. He recalls\n\nthe people hissed _Crowjack_\n\n_Crowjack_ , his name\n\non the itchy boulevards\n\nof the city as they burned\n\nhis effigy and with him\n\nall the books by him\n\ncollected from the ancient\n\nkingdom, each one\n\nin one place stamped\n\nwith his spidery logo.\n\nProclaimed _God is an ant_\n\n_but which one_. Patented\n\nwheel & fire since\n\nno one had. Was\n\n'a gentle fool' & spent\n\nyears writing the longest\n\nsentence in Christendom.\n\nForced from office\n\nsome held him as others\n\nburned down the library.\n\nOr was it he in pique\n\nfired it with petrol bombs?\n\nA question for history,\n\nand who writes it.\n\nEither way it burned.\n\nHe picks up the pieces.\n\n#  _Lost letter to Didot:_\n\nso they have\n\ndone in what you\n\nfor years carefully\n\nbrought in my love\n\n& nourished:\n\nbooks, waifs.\n\nHow you dusted\n\n& catalogued while I\n\ntried to catch you\n\nup ladders & once\n\non the open spread\n\nof the _American_\n\n_Heritage Dictionary_\n\nwith _nighthawk_\n\n_night heron &_\n\n_night blooming cereus_\n\nunder your backside\n\nhad you at last.\n\nYou found the floor\n\ngritty & fearful\n\nof visitors smoothed\n\nout the pleated skirt\n\n& must go\n\nfor some other thing\n\nswinging your hips\n\nto the tune of that\n\nSpanish song (end shelf\n\ntop row big greying\n\nvolume with pictures\n\nof mountains & Arabs)\n\nlight years ago.\n\n#  _A survivor:_\n\nSo the one book\n\nthat was all Leofric's\n\nDonation survives,\n\nchopped at by drunks\n\nslopping boozy cupmarks\n\nto be opened, spread\n\nto the fingers'\n\nhandsbreadth following\n\nscript into mouth speech\n\nwhere some monk had\n\nmarked up the page sighting\n\nhis pen as the ploughman\n\nsights on the hawthorn\n\n& mutters his song to himself.\n\nThe exile puts out,\n\n_storms break on the stone hillside_\n\n_seabirds broad out their feathers_\n\nthrough these vowels\n\nthat reach us thinking\n\nhow come it's so late so early?\n\n# _Fragment: memo to Milto:_\n\nhow it was for us\n\nnewly recruited\n\nsubalterns young\n\nin the President's service,\n\nfar away, days & nights\n\non the sea, in the Americas,\n\nso the tale goes.\n\nWho sang _o\u00f9 o\u00f9_\n\n_est Perdu_ in another\n\nof his damned toasts.\n\nLong ago before both\n\nearned promotion upriver\n\nto fresh woods, never again\n\nto crumple together\n\nour dixiecups over some joke\n\non the hierarchy\n\nof Albert the Fat. Now\n\nI think how is it\n\nfor you in wherever,\n\n_hung ill sustained_\n\n_above slippery rock_\n\nas the long poet has it.\n\nDo you still keep\n\nsuch perfect balance sheets\n\nand turning in sweetly\n\ndrunk from your labours\n\nis there perhaps\n\nat twilight a blackbird\n\nexploding the same pulsed\n\nriveting cry I hear\n\nnow off in the hedgeback\n\nand is that sufficient?\n\n# _Nicholson's advice:_\n\n35 years\n\ndrinking Guinness\n\nman & boy & never once\n\ntold a lie.\n\nLearned the hard way, son,\n\nin Korea\n\nwhere embellishing beggared description,\n\nanyway a man\n\ngot shot for it. Before that\n\nwith Stalin I couldn't lie\n\n& Siberia froze up the brag\n\nin a man's teeth.\n\nIn the two years I spent\n\nin Yenan with Mao\n\noften he said to me, son,\n\ndon't lie to those people\n\nwithin you, they'll\n\nfind out.\n\nSo I don't.\n\n# _Hunter's piece:_\n\non the doorstep dancing\n\nwith mouth harp\n\n& bourbon bottle\n\nto welcome us\n\nchugging home late\n\nstoned & weary\n\nall through, bones,\n\nstumbling in\n\ncaught the screen door\n\nsaying _sh_ to the cat\n\nwhen quiet & naked\n\nready for sleep\n\nthe wife opens her one\n\nowl of an eye\n\nin the next day's dark\n\nsays _You're late._\n\n_You're drunk._\n\n_You're in the wrong house._\n\n# _The discovery of metal:_\n\nLittle tears\n\nleaking from stones\n\nof the stoney earth\n\nour mother\n\nkeeping the hard shape\n\nof crevice & stamped\n\nburnt white firebed\n\nthey settle\n\nam I\n\ntired of this long\n\npanting for meat\n\n& cries of my brothers\n\npicking these different\n\npebbles the heat\n\nruns off\n\ngrainy & knuckled\n\nthe first or the last\n\nto see how cunningly\n\nrun this stonemelt\n\nmakes tool or weapon\n\n& not see how again\n\nfor dawdling here with my\n\ndaft notions I may\n\nbe kicked seneseless?\n\n#  _From Belmont, a ghetto song:_\n\nyou hear the silence now\n\nover the tumbled pits?\n\nThat's what was promised.\n\nOn the wall a child's scrawl:\n\n_I hate me._\n\nNo light on the stairs,\n\ncabbage stew. For this I came home\n\nwondering why.\n\nThe roaches feed well:\n\ndust, wallpaper, plaster.\n\nThey never complain\n\nto whom nothing is promised.\n\n#  _From the plain:_\n\nAnd if one day I open my mouth\n\nfinding nothing\n\nnot vacancy even\n\nlooking out of my head\n\nthere's no tree no fields\n\neasy in sunlight flatness\n\nthe glacier's scouring\n\nstones and these rocks.\n\nthrown behind winds what became\n\nof the mountains\n\nas this numberless grass\n\nfattens?\n\n# _From the book of changes:_\n\nCould have gone\n\nfishing or some other way\n\nto waste time\n\n& grow wiser perhaps.\n\nAll day\n\nthrowing the tall\n\ncoppery yarrow stalks\n\nasking the book\n\nwhose reedy voices\n\nsurface & drift sometimes\n\nswamped by the river's\n\nonrush: battles\n\nwithout names any more\n\nplots cries old wounds\n\npicked clean & at nightfall\n\nthe scavenger people\n\nsnatching off keepsakes\n\n& coins no longer in use\n\nnow the empire\n\npicked up from dust\n\nin the mares' hooves\n\nhas closed for the last time\n\nits book of changes.\n\nIn pleasure the people\n\nforget how hard is\n\npulling on ropes,\n\nforget risk & dance\n\ndrunk through the cherry trees.\n\nI shall encourage\n\nthe conversation of friends\n\n& though restless\n\n& staring across\n\nthis country of wars\n\n& old poverty you\n\nmay be sure\n\nI'm still listening.\n\n# _A note to his landlady:_\n\nwhat was the\n\ngerm of The Work lost\n\nin the rushing\n\nof fields, poles, stars.\n\nIn your racket\n\nlady clattering\n\nthe steamy lids in your\n\nsmothering basement\n\nfloor grey with fagash\n\ncat moult & you\n\nyelling _rent rent_\n\nin a crimped brown\n\ncardigan clutching\n\na letter perhaps from\n\nthe abandoned husband.\n\nI was trying\n\nto tell you despite\n\nmy dislike of explaining\n\nhow what I do\n\nthat pays so slowly\n\nconcerns\n\nthe difficult matter\n\nof silence & how\n\nto prolong it.\n\n# _Towards a coda:_\n\nnow they had\n\nsacked the great library,\n\nnever another\n\ncollected works of AZ\n\nor the measuring flood\n\nof the Canto Triste,\n\nno one may ever again\n\ncurl up with a book.\n\nI am in the ashy silence\n\nhearing again the groan\n\nof timber & burst\n\nof waxed leather bindings\n\nof pages & glimpse\n\nat the burn's edge\n\ncrowding & hooded\n\nthe foxgloves.\n\nAnd think\n\nas I think I see them\n\nhow might they\n\never be lonely?\n\n# _Perdu: his last appearance in history:_\n\nso much nuts then\n\nto the zeitgeist & minutes\n\nof kitchen conferences\n\nall down the ages.\n\nI consign my books\n\nto the fires of the people\n\n& will speak & will speak\n\nif no one listens\n\nor whether or not\n\nif they heard all\n\nthey might hear is\n\nhow lonely it is.\n\nBurned out in Washington,\n\nbombed out in Shankhill.\n\nIt all burns o my brothers\n\nall but a few words\n\nwe've sent off the planet\n\nin our famous address\n\nto the nowhere.\n\nI would be content\n\nto get one word through\n\nas I hone & seal them\n\nto open their boxes\n\n& live in some other place\n\nstarting bank accounts\n\npassports, party cards,\n\ngoing down to the postbox,\n\ngetting sick, screaming.\n\nBut just one thing\n\nbefore I go back\n\nto the ribbed ancient life\n\nof the ferns let me\n\nhear you sometimes\n\nas often your journey\n\npermits it\n\nlaughing.\n\n# [FROM  \nABEL BAKER CHARLIE DELTA](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n(1981)\n**Abel Baker Charlie Delta**\n\n# _the pussy willow song_\n\ncourse it were different\n\nwhen I was a dog\n\nbristol to china\n\ntwice every weekday\n\nno weather at all then\n\nfish chips ten woods\n\npictures bus fare\n\nchange from a monkey\n\nand little lambs wore underpants\n\nwhere that seagull stands\n\nstood the sailor's return\n\nI used to frequent\n\nmany a moonlight\n\nwith the old ukulele\n\nmet my missus in the bar\n\nslim as a whisper\n\n16 years ago\n\nwhere all the money that I spent\n\nI spent on friends of yours\n\n& all of this was pussy willow\n\nas far as you could fly\n\n# _without lime that is_\n\nme here\n\nher in the lounge\n\nhe comes in exits left\n\ncrippled with the dandruff\n\nresting the lung\n\nweak in the whinge\n\nfits of forgetfulness\n\npermanent ridge\n\napproaching high pressure\n\nheart attack up his sleeve\n\nthat again\n\nonly here colouring my breath\n\nonce around the town\n\nwhite lion malt shovel\n\nring o'bells artillery\n\neagle prospect of whitby\n\nwelcome the case is altered\n\nend up always the valiant soldier\n\nbloody all plastic\n\nbelting out the white cliffs of dover\n\npiano man's song\n\nlast one's on me\n\n# _abel baker ashore_\n\ndom polski captive nation society\n\ntaxi to listerhills social\n\ntrain bus home to the queen's arms\n\nleeds & bradford up for sale I see\n\nnorth sea crated & packed\n\nsays jolly jack the sailor\n\nmixed my fanta with cocacola\n\n_muy valparaiso_\n\nnear blew me apart\n\nif I'm going I'm gone\n\nall I can do I said\n\nall I can do make a splash\n\n#  _supposing it's friday_\n\nI'm dancing with beer on my flies\n\nnow you're gone it grows dark\n\nlittle miss nemesis\n\nof the six peacock feathers\n\no the malady lingers\n\nyou've left me\n\nmy bird my brown lady\n\nother roads other strangers\n\n# _his appearance in the white hart_\n\nnice place\n\nwhen you don't have to be here\n\ntakes a window seat\n\npot of coffee for three\n\nhere among the rich invisibles\n\ncopyholders of budleigh salterton\n\nso how are the chintzy-schmalzies\n\nmiddle management mummy\n\ncheltenham the doberman-pinschers\n\nnot in front of the cod roe cyril\n\nremember we're english\n\nhundreds of ways to complain\n\nwe repeat ourselves\n\nwe repeat ourselves\n\nsuffering is so good for one\n\ntry the lemon sole darling\n\noff he goes in his porsche\n\n#  _remember young squire_\n\ncollege we called him\n\neveryone dipped to\n\neven the hatless\n\nbit of bully nose in air\n\nno time anyone soonest\n\nwomen strangers seen off\n\nremember gardener white hair\n\ncocked _yes sir yes sir_\n\nback step into cold frame\n\nlaugh\n\nshould be dry for town show\n\nlast saturday august\n\n_remember_ he say _now lads_\n\n_best trust tories_\n\n_agricultural interest_\n\n_all gaujos together_\n\no you remember he came\n\nthat day it was raining\n\nmake it a double jeff\n\nwe were camped in quarry\n\nkicked off shithouse roof\n\none there yourself charlie\n\nnext day joined up\n\nkilled operations off crete\n\n# _now there's a subject_\n\nthursday they fetched her\n\nin the wee wooden box\n\nput her in front there\n\ndon't think much of mr death\n\njoe that just went\n\nlike your last cigarette\n\nturned his face to the wall\n\nfell at his post\n\nsame stool in the abbotsford\n\nin harness as they say\n\nshuffled off\n\nto join the elder brethren\n\nhappens in the head\n\nall him her & me\n\nthis cold wifeless world\n\nlay my hands to her breasts\n\nshe minded no more\n\nthan ever she minded\n\nso once again round the floor\n\nwith the glittering ball\n\none more round there guvnor\n\nwe won't go home at all\n\n# _and as for you lot_\n\ntrick or two I could tell\n\ntale or two you should know\n\nyoung buggers like you\n\nI was out in the marshes\n\nrifle & sidepack sten\n\nmortar small arms emergency ration\n\n56 isle of dogs\n\nrussian airborne division\n\nyou wouldn't know\n\nI'd like to forget\n\nlucky for you the bolsheviks\n\nwere only after me\n\nambush landmine tanktrap\n\nackack double line trenches\n\nimprovised nuclear device\n\nsoon had them cornered\n\non my own all alone\n\nsolo mio all on my tod\n\nsome thanks I get for it\n\nnot a drink young bastards\n\ntake a look at this headwound\n\nthat's amnesia son\n\n# _charlie delta adrift_\n\nright then lads\n\nback from winter sleep\n\nnext question\n\nwho bashed the bishop?\n\nhow many trees in italy?\n\ndoes the pope live in a big house?\n\nsome of us were wondering\n\nabout some of you\n\nmidlander irish shiksa\n\ngentile scouse of barbados\n\nwelsh geordie bangladeshi\n\nbrummie pakistani cockney\n\nfish & chipper cantonese\n\ngaujo jew jock wasichi\n\no screw the national front\n\nthe little brain cells\n\nwinking out all over europe\n\nor have I lost it again\n\nmy old invisible thread\n\nknocking out the epic sonnets\n\nthis is the joined-up writing\n\nan it's a union job jimmie\n\n30 quid an Ah'll speke clerely\n\notherwise I'll mumble mumble mumble\n\n# _sight of the enemy_\n\nnot from you mister\n\n_ah'll hew ma ane_\n\ngreat big wee malignancy\n\nmr bouncing cheque\n\nmate of mine once\n\nscrewed my missus\n\ncausing me to roam\n\nhe'll never be a buttercup\n\nin god's big shining garden\n\nmy only ambition was\n\npiss on his grave\n\nnow he's dead\n\ncan't be bothered\n\n#  _then there's my publications_\n\n_surgical blades & handles_\n\n_young wives praying_\n\n_tripping for cripples_\n\nall written in haste\n\nfor money & fame\n\nno I've no real ambition\n\n# _nice one_\n\nknock at the door\n\n_can I come in?_\n\nbloke four feet high\n\nI'm your paranoia\n\n_I thought heyup_\n\ngot a licence chummy\n\n_you're joking_ he said\n\n_examine the fitments_\n\n_counting the forks_\n\n_routine visit_\n\n_countrywide survey_\n\n_government programme_\n\n_national importance_\n\n_double glazing inspection_\n\n_stand aside chief_\n\nhis brothers & sisters\n\nuncles & cousins\n\nup in & all over\n\nhadn't expected\n\nno drink in the house\n\nif only I'd known\n\ncould have dusted\n\npapered the dog\n\nunplugged the piano\n\ncurried the biscuits\n\nforgotten amnesia\n\nvacuumed the fridge\n\nhidden my large supply\n\nbest jamaican euphoria\n\nbut that's it pal\n\nI'm botany bound\n\non the good ship blue\n\nand it's too late now\n\ncalifornia\n\n#  _where francis drake did drink_\n\n_'next to mine owne shippe_\n\n_I doe most love that shippe_\n\n_in st martin's lane exon'_\n\nhe do say\n\nhad to put he out didn Oi\n\ncustomers upset\n\nall the half-pint bandits\n\nof the half-timbered interiors\n\nyoung accountants grockles\n\ndecent clientele\n\nand he's language\n\nspittin on the floor he was\n\nsix month on the water\n\nfish stink & tar\n\nwore a dirty great sticker\n\ntwo three knives\n\ncouldn be havin that\n\nbrewery at my back\n\ncall a jam sandwich\n\nput he on the plymouth train\n\ngropin all the spanish au pairs\n\nand completely upsettin nigel\n\n#  _the one you got three days for in achiltibue_\n\ngoes into the pub with his elephant\n\nevening reginald\n\ndrink for these travellers\n\ncoin of the realm to invest\n\nso the barman gives him a glass\n\nin walks little pierre with his duck\n\nagin says the highlander\n\nagin or Ah sleece yer heed off\n\nand the little old lady recited\n\ndedah dedah dedah dedah\n\na pound each to look at the swans\n\nthe kerry man did say\n\nso the colonel takes his bet\n\nthe curate opens the window\n\nthe postman does it again\n\nand the actress says to the gardener\n\nand the salesman says to the farmer\n\ntwo aspirin and a wire brush at 6\n\nthree bananas and a mars bar\n\ndollar dollar half bunch o' flowers\n\nbut he never found out the greensleeves method\n\nshe gives him his shirt & says\n\nthis time you hold the pigeon\n\nthe milky bars are on you kid\n\n#  _charlie growing old_\n\nmanwalked in to a bar\n\nitwasan ironbar\n\ni say any vac an cies\n\nex per ienc ed drink er\n\nyears faith ful ser vice\n\nref eren ces sup p lied\n\nall lead ing landlords\n\nownwords made up\n\nsmall glass sau ter nes\n\nfive pounds till friday\n\nthus the way of exile\n\negg and sandwich rd\n\nempty stom ach blues\n\nsqueeze a half in tom\n\nseven bells aqua pura\n\none of old ex hibition\n\na wooden leg woman\n\none lady with a lamp\n\none iron duke & one\n\ndiscoverer of gravity\n\nsilly songs of spring\n\nwhere beth they now\n\nfifty shilling tailor\n\nubiubiubiubiubi sunt\n\n#  _no reply to that_\n\naye an there is\n\nanother world\n\nmister rimbaud\n\nan it's this yin jimma\n\nsaith the barman\n\nye don't have to gan\n\nsomeplace else\n\nstill ye canna stay here\n\n# _and finally_\n\nold mates of mine\n\nbroom reid & harris\n\ntimothy white & taylor\n\nfreeman hardy & willis\n\nput a few away together\n\nstopped a few going bad\n\nmonkhouse & glasscock\n\nwhere are they now?\n\nsluggett & pow butcher\n\njust an ordinary person\n\nwho'd have thought three legs\n\nnot a man of them\n\nfor the brilliantine\n\noil & vinegar two of chips\n\nevery one a gold watch\n\nfour acres & a cow\n\nall gone for a burton\n\nbristol & further west\n\nin the weaver to wearer raincoats\n\n& the marks & spencers vests\n\n# [FROM  \nTERRA](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(1986)**\n\n# Hawkwood\n\n**SIR JOHN HAWKWOOD** , _miles anglicus_ , 1320-1394: Born near Colchester in Essex, the younger son of a rich tanner who owned the manor of Sible Hedingham, Sir John Hawkwood died a citizen and freeman of Florence, where Uccello's equestrian fresco portrays him in the Duomo. He was, said Froissart, _a poor knight owning nothing but his spurs_ , though he came to possess estates in the Romagna and Tuscany. A classic example of the younger son without inheritance who goes for a soldier, Hawkwood fought at Cr\u00e9cy and Poitiers, where he was knighted, early in the long English depredations in France of what was not yet called the Hundred Years' War.\n\nUnder the Black Prince, Hawkwood learned the tactics he was later to employ in Italy: mobility, forward intelligence and knowledge of the terrain, the devastating use of the longbow (a good bowman fired six shafts a minute, the sixth in the air before the first found its target), and the dismounting of the lance, transforming the cavalry weapon of the mounted knight and squire into a two-man infantry weapon, a third man holding the horses for swift pursuit or withdrawal.\n\nIn 1360 the Treaty of Bretigny suspended hostilities between England and France, the armies were paid off in the field, and the free companies turned to plunder. Sixty thousand of these _routiers_ went down the Rh\u00f4ne to Avignon _to visit the Pope and have some of his money_. They were known as _skinners_. Gascons, Bretons, Burgundians, Germans, Scots, Irish, Dutch, Flemings, Welsh, Cornish, French and English, they were _those villains commonly called English, who wasted all the country without cause, and robbed without sparing all that ever they could get, and violated and defiled women, old and young, and slew men, women and children without mercy_. After their passing, it was said, _the forests came back_.\n\nHawkwood was amongst them, and appears in Italy in 1364 as the elected captain of the White Company, so called for the brightness of their armour, fighting for Pisa against Florence. Like most campaigns it was short: the Florentines bought off most of the Pisan mercenaries, including the bulk of Hawkwood's men, and the White Company disintegrated. Hawkwood himself would not be bribed to ignore his contract. He was, by all accounts, very particular on this principle.\n\nOver the next 30 years Hawkwood was a mercenary and fought variously as a condottiere, a contractor providing his own forces for one side or another amongst the Pisans, the Milanese, the Papal States, Padua, Naples, and Florence. For the latter half of this period he was on contract to Florence, while free to undertake other commissions.\n\nMany of his victories were gained by stealth and deception; he was as adept at avoiding conflict as at entering it, as efficient in the timely withdrawal as in advance or ambush. His reputation in an age of cruel men was said to be brave, fair, merciful and honest in his dealings, and little of the wealth that came his way stayed with him. His reputation rested on his military skill and on his principle that a contract was a contract.\n\nIn 1376 while in the employ of the Papal States and under the orders of Robert of Geneva, Papal Legate in Rome and later Clement VII, first of the Anti-Popes, Hawkwood was instructed to _administer justice_ on the city of Cesena. Asked for clarification, the representative of Christ's representative on Earth replied he wanted _sangue et sangue: blood and more blood_. Whether in fulfilment of his contract ('obeying orders'), or whether as a means of paying his men in loot what his paymaster stood in arrears of, or whether had he refused his men would merely have elected a new commander, Hawkwood obeyed. The citizens having first been persuaded to surrender their arms, for three days the people of Cesena were systematically slaughtered, the town looted, and what could not be carried off destroyed.\n\nIn our terms, Hawkwood was a war criminal, responsible for an atrocity. Shortly thereafter he left papal service and began his long association with Florence.\n\nHe was twice married, the second time to Donnina, one of the many offspring of Bernabo Visconti. For some years he lived the life of a country squire such as he might have lived in Essex, though at the age of 70 he was still campaigning.\n\nIn 1387, fighting for Padua against Verona, he scored a decisive victory at Castagnaro, and in 1389 he undertook a forced march from Naples when summoned back to Florence. When he died in 1394 he was buried not in the tomb prepared for him in Florence and subsequently memorialised by Uccello, but at the request of Richard II in Sible Hedingham, the village where he was born, in a grave that has now been lost.\n\n*\n\nSeated, a man with the tools of his trade,\n\nsolitary in the company of weapons,\n\nalways the warrior, apart,\n\netched into metal in a moment of brooding.\n\nMostly he sleeps sound till first light,\n\nby day lives the life of his time:\n\nfighting to live he will fight\n\nfor cash money or credit. Or not fight.\n\nAt his ease when he may be,\n\nwho can never go home now,\n\nhis landscape the blunt northerly speech\n\nglimpsed through the window to his left\n\nwhere the hills are already going to sleep,\n\nthe road hatched away into more shadow\n\nalways closing round him. In the foreground\n\na single candle he has lit against the night.\n\n*\n\nMesser Giovanni condottiere\n\nI thinke this worlde a boke\n\nand wolde rede it\n\nturning back the pages\n\nchapter by century\n\ninto the distant background\n\nwhere all that's certain now\n\nhas already happened \u2013\n\nan argument for lawyers,\n\neach day's skin\n\nstitched to another day's drum,\n\nanother season of wheat,\n\nanother year of tramped corpses,\n\nsome words falling away\n\nfor instance _brother, victim_.\n\n*\n\nWho knows what any of it was now?\n\nI move between the dead and the dead,\n\nalways erudite and fractious,\n\nin their different speech the same:\n\nthe same dangerous commonwealth, men\n\ntotting up loot, stacked heads,\n\nthe harvest of scrap metal\n\nat the engagement's end, some thrush\n\npuncturing the heavy noon air.\n\nThereafter come the keening women,\n\ngulls to pick out eyes,\n\nthe broken citizenry in halters.\n\nA long tale the same again sir\n\nrepeating itself _o misere misere_ ,\n\nburning what we could not steal.\n\n*\n\nIn truth sirs\n\nI merely disable myself\n\nin this condotta with words,\n\nso many flags\n\nunder conflicting allegiance,\n\nmeanings that dodge\n\nacross factions and borders,\n\nlights over the marshland,\n\nsmoke or the shiftings of water.\n\nMen's speech is all cunning,\n\nbragging and grief.\n\nWe must make some agreement.\n\nAnd honour it,\n\nclause by condition,\n\ndown to the letter.\n\n*\n\nAt the eye of all shadow\n\nif I sleep by the tallow's grace\n\nI sleep wretchedly. My heart\n\nflies out of my mouth and away.\n\nShe is perched singing all alone\n\nin the plane trees by the river,\n\nall thought of this quick planet\n\nsweet even in war snuffed out.\n\nOne wall of fire sweeps the vineyards.\n\nAll men are with women instantly angels\n\nvapoured in swift rising air,\n\ntheir bodies shriven in sharp metal.\n\nThis is my skull's dream. Meanwhile\n\nmy heart stretches wings over woods\n\nsinging out of our childhood once\n\nin the abrupt speech of my own land.\n\n*\n\nAnd this I do is my dreamwork\n\nlate and unwilling, the watch\n\nposted alert, rattle of irons,\n\nlong death cry of some creature\n\ncaught in the hedgeback alone, stars\n\nand the moon's pale face over all.\n\nMy heart goes away, flying north\n\nto the snowy passes she will die in.\n\nNight by night she is fainter,\n\nfurther and colder, her voice\n\nin the star maze at the far range\n\nof my hearing.\n\nWhere I\n\nworking late and close to the page\n\ndraw up the sketch for a medallion:\n\nmy heart between a falcon's claws,\n\nmy name _Acuto_ and the versant writ\n\n_What am I but a vicious labourer,_\n\n_the iron grub that kills for pay?_\n\n_What I am now so you will be._\n\n_What you are now so I once was._\n\n*\n\nAwake and sweating in my flesh,\n\nmy heart gone off without my leave\n\nperhaps for better pay elsewhere.\n\nOr she must beg her way\n\nthrough warring neighbourhoods alone,\n\nand like me sell her only skin.\n\nOr limp a penitent to Rome\n\nwhose bishop is one of two great lechers\n\nand I but one of his butchers.\n\nBetween the birthstool and the planks.\n\nBetween the slippery dialects:\n\n_Auti, Auguto, Giovanni Awkward_\n\n_sharpen your good blade, shine_\n\n_in your beaten armour, get horse_\n\n_and a good ship ready and go home._\n\n*\n\nI am a blank slate on which is set\n\n_menace_ and _oblivion_. I sit\n\nwitness to the witch's wick\n\nstudied in the candle's hiss.\n\nI make war because there is no work in England\n\nand profit from necessity.\n\nI who have privatised war,\n\nI have made of my life great industry.\n\nThese cities made of fluencies\n\nand money, rich hinterlands\n\nstood into wheat, the ripe grapes\n\nbell and split their juices:\n\nall mine now. I who reap stones\n\nfrom a seedcorn of ashes,\n\nI who grind out the future\n\nbetween millstone and millstone address you.\n\n*\n\nYou who live between knife and cut\n\nand hone the blade, dragging wood\n\nacross a muddy evening home,\n\nanother day with nowt to show.\n\nYou will come to the harvest of swords\n\nthe same. You who nurse the heart\n\nin its ladle of blood and sing\n\nlullabies to the love you lost, you also\n\nto the pit's rim, tar hissing and the devils\n\ndelighting in your misery, all fire\n\nsuddenly upon you, the preliminary routine\n\nof rape and mutilation done, they will kill you.\n\nYour moment in the sunlight will be over,\n\nthe sparrow fleeting at the yard end,\n\nsome field you walked beside the river\n\nbetween the willows and the ripened wheat.\n\n*\n\nI mark the changes: _none_ and _none_.\n\nSome day between some years of peace\n\nwe hear fighting break out in the valley\n\nand the unending warfare comes home.\n\nA river known by many names: _The War_\n\nor _The Rocking Horse Expedition,_\n\n_The Campaign of the Seven Brown Loaves,_\n\nit is the same miserable waterway\n\nwe dream the river that will drown us.\n\nThey say dreaming is to forget,\n\nin which case I have forgot much.\n\nMy dreams show clear them I killed \u2013\n\nin a three-day butchery at Cesena\n\na nun I halved from neck to waist\n\nfrom worse between squabbling soldiers.\n\nI, Giovanni Haukkuode, did this.\n\n*\n\nWho might have been anyone,\n\na tanner yellow with the lifelong stink\n\nof burning dog muck, a pilgrim\n\nlimping to Jerusalem and back.\n\nI might have lived my days\n\nin some slope of the hills,\n\na man reckoning fleece,\n\nhides for the Lowlands, wineskins.\n\nI am a man becoming an emblem,\n\ninscribing the book of his name\n\nwho must shift across ploughlands\n\nbecause no one will have him at home.\n\nI chart the cries of other sleepers:\n\none a fat drunk cherub must have _sangue sangue_ ,\n\nanother has designed an engine\n\nto flatten cities and will use it.\n\nAnother weeps he is the King of France\n\nand mad and made of clear glass\n\nand will break. His cry\n\na wounded man's, a pierced bird's.\n\n*\n\nSome nights the blood rush at my temple\n\nhammers _you will die you will die_.\n\nI see white images of the ditch\n\nat Castagnaro heaving maggots.\n\nPink and fleshly, they are cribs\n\nof black flies everywhere in Europe,\n\nthe arrow shower, the lance thicket,\n\nnails of the cross everyone walks with.\n\nMy enemy sends a caged fox for taunt.\n\nI let him go. I take hawk and horse\n\nand ride to inspect the fortifications.\n\nLater I will rally all with my cry\n\n_Carne Carne_ , given to the meatwork.\n\nAnd where's my heart? Friend,\n\nI dream she is in a far country,\n\nher message fading as it finds me.\n\n*\n\nPersistent as the rust in unused iron,\n\nfrom The Serene Republic of Slaughtered Innocents\n\nand The Most Royal Kingdom of Branded Thieves\n\nmy heart sends greetings.\n\nMy heart sends coin to pay for all,\n\nmeat and the red sleepy wine of Genoa,\n\nbed and a fresh horse at sunrise:\n\n_Signor sithee take cash_\n\n_in fair dealing or have none._\n\nI have made a proposal to my heart\n\nthat if she will come back to me\n\nI will declare war over and go home.\n\nIt will be a long night's parley.\n\nIn short she writes I cease delight\n\nin fighting, end my part first, withdraw\n\ninto the country but I can't see how.\n\nHow may a man lay down his weapons\n\nbefore others who envy him?\n\nMerely for living I have enemies.\n\nUseless to say I made them so.\n\nAnd there it ends: in failure.\n\nMy heart won't come back now.\n\nI draw the long wine from its leather.\n\nI see the long night to its close.\n\n*\n\nBecause of my kind nothing.\n\nIssuant of me the long war\n\ncenturied and worse weaponed\n\nthan any wedge of longbow.\n\nAnd finis. These cities\n\nkindling to one furnace,\n\none tangle of astronomies,\n\none burn across the campagna.\n\nGoodbye my heart. We fade\n\nin different directions.\n\nThere will be less and less\n\nwe ever shared: the woods,\n\nthe distant terrafirma,\n\nthe cypress and the silver olive,\n\nblue sky, white cattle,\n\nmeasured out in fire,\n\nall counted out in one\n\nand time since Adam ashes\n\nin the time it takes to read\n\nand in the time it takes to tell.\n\n*\n\nIt has already happened, the flash\n\nwinked out its message to the other stars,\n\nthe ink burned in the engraving, such record\n\nas survived now in dispute.\n\nAlready pain has eaten through the page,\n\nso many words gone into air\n\nand we no longer here who dream\n\nover and over the whistle at the finish.\n\nSuch is my bookwork: a contagion\n\nof shadows, maps of warring neighbours,\n\nborder posts shifting in the candle flare,\n\nwhite fire and the nothing I foresee:\n\nthe centuries of hate bloom there,\n\nthe paper in your hands is ash.\n\nSo goodbye to the voices in the alley.\n\nSo goodbye to the spiders in the wall.\n\n*\n\nSo now I must step smartly\n\nyet with long circumspection\n\nthrough the last of the landscape\n\nbefore the century collapses:\n\na tangle of cut limbs\n\nburning on some bloody hill\n\nwhere all ends in carnage\n\nand pray God I've an advantage.\n\nPray I've taken the measure right\n\nof the land's lie in my favour\n\nand last in my skull as I die there\n\nsome mapwork of hedge and ditches.\n\nI cheat none but a worse death\n\nin some ratslicked dungeon\n\nor dropped in the pesthole,\n\ndeath's shilling in my armpit.\n\n*\n\nI shut the devils in their book,\n\nI set the hellfire back into its star.\n\nI plan to cross the littoral in good order,\n\nswiftly and without my enemy knowing.\n\nBetween daybreak and candle sput,\n\na first blue light around the poplars,\n\nbetween nightingale and cockcrow\n\ndreaming I'm awake I dream my heart's dream.\n\nAnd there we fly, in air sharp after rain\n\nto evening water, two birds anywhere\n\nacross fields, the landscape pieced away\n\nlike the dropped jackets of soldiers.\n\nAnd the wars over, the harvests\n\ntaken in order, history a meaculpa\n\nnot much happens, the images\n\nof troops and weapons fading in the stone.\n\n*\n\nThereafter little to report:\n\nthe business of good women,\n\ntradesmen sleeping on their takings,\n\nflags fading in cathedrals,\n\nfarmers and journeymen along the road\n\nof the never ending landscape,\n\nthe continent at peace their country,\n\nits government a distant rumour.\n\nIn the text known as _Where I failed_ ,\n\nin the addendum _But we tried_ ,\n\ndirections to this place are fanciful,\n\nthe maps white terra incognita, or lost.\n\nEtcetera etcetera. The ways of men\n\nare combative, each locked in his defence,\n\nhis territory forever in himself\n\nhe carries in dispute, less space\n\nthan this the candle lit, a thing\n\nno larger than his name he calls\n\nhis own true sovereign republic \u2013\n\non the move, sharp, tough, and hungry.\n\n*\n\nMy heart's caught in a thicket.\n\nShe has forgot to fly\n\nand plays the lapwing's game.\n\nI see her falling far away\n\nin thorny quickset, bleeding\n\nat the hands of strangers,\n\nlike me fading in the other lives.\n\nSoon little will be known of us,\n\nshe with her dream of peace,\n\nI hearing _blood more blood_ in my ears,\n\nstill hunting for what bird\n\nshe's taken for her shape now.\n\nThere will be two seasons \u2013\n\nwar then long winter.\n\nThere the tale ends.\n\nI shall leave this place,\n\nfor choice without wailing\n\nor fuss in the Italian manner.\n\n*\n\nSay of me if you can: a man\n\nthat kept his word at any cost,\n\ntrusted nothing less.\n\nGoodbye England, _that nest of singing birds,_\n\ntall ladders of the hearth smoke\n\nclimbing on the valley air.\n\nSomewhere's an end to it,\n\nthe landscape leaning skyward,\n\nthe slow oncoming to the sea's edge.\n\nAnd then the last page turned,\n\nthe candle finger thumbed into a smut,\n\nthe book shut and I tell no more.\n\n# Colden Valley\n\nNorth I'm convinced of it: childhood's over,\n\nin the narrow valley in the mist the frost\n\nis silver in the veins and edge of leaves,\n\nand last year's briar's coppered into stone.\n\nThen more stone dragged to quarter fields\n\nin which the miserable lives of beasts in winter\n\nwhiten into breath. The valley pulls \u2013\n\npoor pasture, poorer footage, water falling.\n\nAnd all its children gone through millyards\n\ninto stone they chiselled _Billy, Emma, Jack_ ,\n\nand gave their dates and shut the ground\n\nin work and prayer. Or they are almost here,\n\ntheir short days closing in an owl's hoot,\n\ncrows labouring over woods, along the road\n\na footstep always just about to fall\n\nand all their voices just about to start.\n\n# Roads in the north between two seas\n\nAs ever, the straight track between trees\n\nreceding out of the eye of the painting\n\ninto brown distance, water, a haze\n\nalready forming on the vague hills, sky.\n\nI am again in my own true country\n\nthat surely existed, a map in a drawer,\n\na postcard, a print in a seafront caf\u00e9,\n\na place it has always just stopped raining.\n\nThe macadam shines, two bands of emerald\n\nare kerbside grass, trees in the wind\n\nand the afternoon sunlight's arrival\n\ndown the prim brickwork of the avenue.\n\nSo much childhood: the sun's raw eye,\n\nthe northern sea grey and unlovable,\n\nthe swift constellations of birds\n\nover the bayline, like silk's shine.\n\nLike salt scattered across tables.\n\nLike the Pleiades, some place we'll not go\n\npast the flightpath of the terns,\n\nthe cold salt aching down the easterly.\n\nSalt. Stiffens locks, the keys\n\njam in the doors, doors in their jambs,\n\nthe windows in the windworked shutters,\n\nthe widows stiffening in easy chairs.\n\nClear again is one moment, as to detail\n\nprecise in my imprecise memory, it begins\n\nthis long tale I am telling myself\n\nas to why and who am I on this road.\n\nI am six, I am getting in wood,\n\nit is evening in winter, the ice\n\nplates the horsetrough, in my hands\n\nthe sticks in the woodpile are frozen.\n\nOn the third step of the mounting block\n\nthere's a white milk can, waiting,\n\nthe air round and the winter stone\n\nwear off the milk's heat: _the moment_.\n\nWe will die, all: my father, mother,\n\nsuch kin and such friends as all love\n\nand the world lends, and I\n\nno exception fall out of knowing.\n\nIt was death looked at me then\n\nin the white shadow in kindling,\n\na dark brief face in the ice,\n\nthe cold closing my fingers.\n\nI broke sticks. The sun lay\n\nover field frost. The farm clanked,\n\nhumming milk, moaning complaint,\n\nlong ago, its moment comes back now.\n\nI am again under Orion, the moon again,\n\nby the sea that returns everything lost\n\nin the tide's rope tangled up, the birds\n\nat the watery limits of the English.\n\nI'm the sea gone sour, going radioactive,\n\nbetimes touchy as anti-matter, untouchable\n\nin the north, I go down hissing\n\n_leukaemia_ between the lovers' sheets, _the blood_\n\n_will wither in its artery, the sperm_\n\n_shudder in the egg, the marrowbone,_\n\n_the molecule unwind within the heart, the brain_\n\n_stare into nothing and be dumb._\n\nThis is not a melody nor a tale told for children.\n\nThis is not a telegram to the poets in Minneapolis.\n\nThis is not an answer nor a question.\n\nThis is not a message. This is not a song.\n\nNow we are travelling into Cumbria, the road\n\nrunning out to water down the lost peninsula.\n\nNow I am far away recalling winter and the fog\n\nacross another country, continent, biography.\n\nWhen what I think to say is that we're done,\n\nwhere everywhere is in the crosshairs,\n\neverywhere is targeted, we are the printout,\n\nwe are the coded blips, we are the software.\n\n'Filled with longing, capable of grief.'\n\nTough luck Susie Rainbow fare thee well.\n\nShe got the hero not the message, hostage\n\nof a government that failed, my friends\n\nthis may be all too long a night along the road,\n\nand I begin again. Again. I who left\n\neverything behind I have forgotten nothing,\n\nso it appears. With our desire we continue.\n\nGrabbing any end of rope, we might be anywhere\n\nor anyone under the blue star of evening\n\nspreading out our maps, we might be\n\nyou and I my love and love each other.\n\nA white sheet perhaps, the glance of shirts\n\nacross the winds of March, a glimpse\n\nof washing in the gale in next door's yard,\n\nthe kitchen window staring into nothing \u2013\n\nsoil, these fingers and these tongues\n\nthe crocus and the snowdrop put through frost,\n\na cat's dance through the cold we hoped\n\nwould grow to summer, last the flash\n\nacross the wind-whipped shrubbery,\n\nthe shed in fire, the glare that wastes us\n\nwith its glance, the crack of sheets\n\nin wind, their sudden whiteness.\n\n# Commercial break: RSK Porsche\n\nThis is the dream: such distance\n\nthe oncoming wind is brother to,\n\nlong silk of the highway spun off\n\nbetween the shoulders of the roadside.\n\nAll day the singing in tall weeds,\n\nthe grasshopper's confession, the birds\n\nremembering their plainchant, reciting\n\n_little bread no cheese_ and the nine times table.\n\nSome dawn the mist blows free, some\n\nafternoon of dusty sunlight, the soundtrack\n\na far falling of a river over stones\n\nMozart's ear might have listened to.\n\nWest through willow country, villages\n\nof woodsmoke sleeping in the valley,\n\nor on the causeway through the lowlands\n\nbeneath the high white music of the larks.\n\nOr anywhere. Across the upland,\n\nsunset shimmering the treeline, gone\n\nacross the cobbles of the market,\n\nthe tall road only halfway to forever.\n\n# Communiqu\u00e9 from desk 19\n\n_One_ we've dissolved our office,\n\nscrambled the files, regrouped,\n\nour propaganda no longer exists\n\nin which to deny _Two_ the war's lost,\n\nthe phone book the new roll of honour,\n\nit's not true we were beaten nor\n\n_Three_ we're dead meat now\n\nin the deep stale air of the bunker,\n\nour voices taping instructions:\n\n_What to do when the current runs out,_\n\n_What to do with the blood_ , the world\n\ntaken down like a line of washing,\n\nfull stop. We're not here,\n\nwe're all moving on, some at work\n\non the new speech, the others\n\nplanning the deployments,\n\ncounting the syringes, the blankets,\n\nthe new ways to be nothing at all.\n\n# Lilith\n\nSome far country she speaks from,\n\nshe was born there, can never go back\n\nnor will where she lost.\n\n_Everything_. The earth rippled\n\n_waves of the sea_ she tells.\n\nThen soldiers, beat her and used her,\n\nburned her house, broke everything.\n\nHer man broken, her children, how\n\nto get out then, _the airport broken,_\n\n_the ships._ Suddenly again\n\nthe interrupted carpentry, the wheat,\n\nthe young trees and the apple\n\nstopped in the blossom. Her complaint.\n\n# Het achterhuis\n\nA glimpse: at the high window her face\n\na moment at a corner of the blind,\n\nthe frost forming its flower, in the garden\n\nall the winter leaves so much leather,\n\nso many tongues, scraps of old gossip.\n\nFor so little you can die: the price\n\non a second-hand coat, a finger ring,\n\nthe brown shoes in the cupboard, the mirror\n\nwhere your mother powders her face.\n\nFor these you will be taken.\n\nMice on the stairs, grey packets of dust.\n\nThe ice making its maps out of water.\n\nOn the square stones of the Prinsensgracht\n\nsoldiers' boots tapping _links rechts links_.\n\nIn its season the chestnut's sudden blossom.\n\n# Letters from a lost uncle\n\nPostcard of Chicago streets,\n\none blurred brown figure ringed in ink,\n\nthen written on the back _it's me now_.\n\nWherever he was then. He drifted west\n\nalong the railroad ties, went north\n\nto work the dams, south to the rigs,\n\nthrough Germany and the lowlands, spoke of Alaska\n\nand the deserts of Arabia, he'd seen\n\nmore gold than all God's grains of sand.\n\nBut no one's heard in years, he may be dead\n\nor changed, all memory of a life\n\nhe sometime lived blinked out like stars.\n\nAnd all his laughter stopped, the voice\n\nthat rounded out in bitter beer\n\nbroke forth in _Crimond_. Where\n\ndoes it go, that presence in the air,\n\nbrightness of a man that sang,\n\na breath that answered in his name.\n\n# Bogart in the dumb waiter\n\n_(after Dashiell Hammett)_\n\nThis is genuine coin of the realm.\n\nA dollar of this buys ten of talk.\n\nThe cheaper the crook the gaudier the patter.\n\nI'll see you at the inquest maybe.\n\nI'm a reasonable man. I don't mind\n\na reasonable amount of trouble.\n\nAll I've got to do is stand still\n\nand they'll be swarming all over me.\n\nMore than idle curiosity prompts my question:\n\nhow'd you like to turn my chops over?\n\nYes. I'm tired of lying, tired of lies,\n\nof not knowing what the truth is.\n\nSo listen carefully here's the plot:\n\nthe grieving widow walks on, grieves,\n\nwalks off again still grieving.\n\nYou want to hang around you'll be polite.\n\nYou get loose teeth talking like that.\n\nYou're taking the fall, precious.\n\nIf you're a good girl they'll give you life.\n\nIf they hang you I'll always remember you.\n\nThe shortest farewell's best: adieu.\n\nHere's to plain speaking and clear understanding.\n\nI distrust a close-mouthed man. I'm a man\n\nwho likes talking to a man who likes to talk.\n\n# Three from the freak house\n\n## **1 _The Tattooed Woman_**\n\nOn each arm a blue snake wrist to shoulder,\n\njaws apart, the long flicker of tongues\n\nforked to each nipple, one lettered _mild_ ,\n\nthe other _bitter_. She's my snake lady,\n\nthe anaconda circling her waist, the cobra\n\nrippling her belly, her neck a rattler,\n\neach thigh a garter snake, her crotch a pit,\n\na snakey river many men have failed and fallen in.\n\nOn one rear cheek the anchor of the wandering sailor,\n\nthe other wears the lucky horseshoe of the landsman.\n\nAbove a skull a scroll spells out _forever love_\n\nbelow a name scratched out she can't recall now.\n\n## **2 _Tiger Lill_**\n\nYou won't remember me. I'm the one that tupped\n\nin the wall in the brass bed in the next room\n\nof your father's dream the night he sired you.\n\nNot that your mother knew. No wonder you're stunted.\n\nIn my time I've fucked under flags of all nations\n\nand all for the love of it, banging the bedsprings\n\nfrom Cairo to Cardiff. I'm the same good whore\n\nin every man's port, in a window in Amsterdam\n\nwhere I sit behind glass in my credit card fur,\n\nin my black suspenders and tigerskin chair.\n\nAnd I show them my tongue. I show them my eyes\n\nand my lilypad skin. And I purr.\n\n## **3 _Tom Peeper_ **\n\nMy name's Tom Peeper, I live in Gropecunte Lane\n\namong the other animals. Under this woolly cap\n\nI'm entirely made up of the private parts of lovers\n\nbusy at each others' bodies in the ferns.\n\nI'm a mixed bag of tits mouths cocks cunts\n\nand little boy bums, I'm a sandwich of meat in meat\n\nand I dream every night of the gold skins of women\n\nnaked among leaves with nipples like diamonds.\n\nAs for you. You never see me under the briars\n\nin my charity shop cast-off hush puppy shoes.\n\nYou're too busy. You come with a bird's fierce cry\n\nin woods where the lovers are both one beast now.\n\n# Hatred of barbers\n\nImagine being anyone, a barber\n\nfor instance honing his razors,\n\nshaking the tall white sheet\n\nfrom its corners and sweeping.\n\nAll clippings and small talk,\n\na deft stroke from Saturday's game,\n\nhow weather is, how money,\n\nthe punchlines of six jokes.\n\nHis contempt, his power\n\nto make any man ridiculous\n\nin a glitter of scissors and mirrors,\n\none arm a brush then a hand:\n\n_You want anything Guv \u2013_\n\n_blades, rubbers, a change_\n\n(wink nudge) _is a rest._\n\nAnd then:\n\n_When he gets there_\n\n_When he kneels in the Sistine Chapel_\n\n_with his missus for the blessing_\n\n_on 20 years wedded bliss God's bailiff_\n\n_the Pope says_\n\n_So who cuts your hair John?_\n\n# The ballad of Eddie Linden at Earl's Court\n\nWhen last I saw ye brother\n\nyou were falling on your face\n\nas one copper then another\n\nheld you fast in his embrace.\n\nWe were halfway down the road,\n\nwe were halfway going home,\n\nwe were strangers in a crowd,\n\nsome of them in uniform.\n\nThough none of us were virgins\n\nand few of us were straight,\n\nthe constable and sergeant\n\nhad your number from the start.\n\nAnd before the bust was through\n\nand the punchup yet to come,\n\ntwo gentlemen in blue\n\ndeclared they'd have your bum.\n\n_Send in backup_ cried the jack\n\nin his jacket radio.\n\n_A hostile crowd is at my back_\n\n_and they bid me let him go._\n\nAnd all in just a second,\n\nin the space it takes to tell,\n\nthey came as they were beckoned\n\nwith the funny squad as well.\n\nWe were rapidly outnumbered,\n\noh the shame it is to think,\n\nif we lingered we'd be lumbered\n\nand we'd all be in the clink.\n\nThere was filth upon the street\n\nand it took you for a ride.\n\nYou were just their kind of meat,\n\nthey were never on your side.\n\nYou were buggered from the off,\n\nyou were always on their books.\n\nThey never liked your stuff\n\nnor cared much for your looks.\n\nSo they beat you black and blue\n\nwhen the brown stuff hit the fan.\n\nYou were falling off the waggon\n\nwhen they threw you in the van.\n\n# The London Poems\n\n## **_After Mr Mayhew's visit_**\n\nSo now the Victorians are all in heaven,\n\nMiss Routledge and the young conservatives\n\nchatting with the vicar, visiting again\n\nthe home for incurables who never die.\n\nThe old damp soaks through the wallpaper,\n\nthere's servant trouble, the cook\n\nfighting drunk at the sherry, and Edith\n\ncoughing and consumptive, fainting away.\n\nOnly this time it never ends: the master\n\ncontinually remarking how the weather bites cold,\n\nthe brandy flask stands empty, and the poor\n\nare pushing to the windows like the fog.\n\n## **_Encounter at St Martin's_**\n\nI tell a wanderer's tale, the same\n\nI began long ago, a boy in a barn,\n\nI am always lost in it. The place\n\nis always strange to me. In my pocket\n\nthe wrong money or none, the wrong paper,\n\nmaps of another town, the phrase book\n\nfor yesterday's language, just a ticket\n\nto the next station, and my instructions.\n\nIn the lobby of the Banco Bilbao\n\na dark woman will slip me a key, a package,\n\nthe name of a hotel, a numbered account,\n\nthe first letters of an unknown alphabet.\n\n## _The meridian at Greenwich_\n\nWe find the river again, the ferry\n\nsouth over the great water, on the shore\n\nyou read _Take Courage_ and you're not joking.\n\nIn my fear the city, the blue misty planet\n\nvanishes, a curtain ripped away\n\nand nothing in back but fire, the river\n\nand the busy roadway rolled aside\n\nin our bad dreams from nights we don't sleep.\n\nAnd no one to remember. No messages\n\npassed late at night across borders, by hand,\n\nby word of mouth, we who are lost together\n\ntelling tales the prisoner spins the jailer.\n\n## _Movies after midnight_\n\nFrom Canning Town to Woolwich\n\nthe tall cranes rust. The pub's shut\n\nand the lift's out in the towerblock,\n\neverything you see is up for sale.\n\nBut there's a night movie: the well fed\n\nsoldiery with fancy weapons come\n\nto stutter out the liberators'\n\nbrief philosophy: _up yours Commie._\n\nEven the prime numbers are giving up,\n\nall the best words have moved to Surrey\n\nand we have just a few at discount now\n\nto make farewells that vanish with us.\n\n## _In Silvertown, chasing the dragon_\n\nThe police are called _Syncromesh_\n\nwailing desolations on the flyover\n\nplaying the two tone music. Greetings\n\nand goodnight from the kingdom.\n\nWhose government is known as _sh_ ,\n\nthey own the miles of wire, the acids\n\nthat devour forests and white words out,\n\nand they are listening in the telephone.\n\nBut we are all going away now\n\ninto some other dimension, we speak\n\na mirror speech there and count differently\n\nand no one stands for the Queen any more.\n\n## _Beyond hope and the Lea River_\n\n'She's five foot four and falling.\n\nEither you come get her right now\n\nor let her sleep it off in here\n\nand we charge her in the morning.'\n\nMy friend Napoleon visits Farina's Caf\u00e9.\n\nThere is no message. He meets no one.\n\nIt is mysterious because there is no mystery\n\nbut Napoleon is now in the house of numbers.\n\nWe are entering the capital of a lesser empire\n\nwhere the plans of our masters surface betimes \u2013\n\npins on a map at the Ministry of Natural Calamities,\n\nand the statistics like crisp new folding money.\n\n## _Clipper service_\n\nIn black and white the Isle of Dogs,\n\nslow workless docklands going cheap,\n\nthe great outworks of power stations.\n\nI'm living on two eggs and no bacon\n\nhere beside the river, smokey as ever,\n\namong strangers. Ships there were son,\n\nand lascars, then as now the afternoon\n\nbrought sulphur on the wind and no comfort.\n\nNow the natives are proud and scattered\n\nand lonely in the high rises, living\n\nas they always lived: thieving or work\n\nwhen there's work. There's none now.\n\n## _Message on the machine_\n\nYour protagonist is not at home just now.\n\nHe's out, a one-way window in his head\n\nwith everything coming in fast across the city\n\nand always an alarm bell ringing in the buildings,\n\na jammed horn streets away, the town winds\n\nlifting documents along the Broadway,\n\nalong Commercial Road a signboard\n\nbanging in the night reads _Smack_\n\n_Disposal Systems_ , he fears skinheads\n\nin the drains and angels in the elevator\n\nand the number 5 bus will never come now.\n\nAfter the tone leave a brief message.\n\n## _Unfinished portrait_\n\nToday I'm Red Rover, late the Queen's\n\nOwn Leicester Square Irregulars, DSO\n\nand several bars, ageing in my trades.\n\nToday I'm doing double glazing duty,\n\nI'm on the weather watch, especially\n\nfor the Greek girls in Minnie Mouse shoes,\n\nI'm with the CIA, I need a fix, say friend\n\nhow came we through the middle ages without whisky?\n\nHenceforth I shall speak basic and fortran.\n\nI'll say _excuse me sir I don't have a dog to walk_.\n\nI'm primed, armed, fused, and now I'll tick\n\ntill I go off. Think of me as a deterrent.\n\n## _Out West_\n\nHere is the moment holding its belly:\n\nwater swills from a main an iridescence\n\nof spilled oil, the broken street\n\nand scattered _this is raw human meat_.\n\nYour man now is the frightened rabbit\n\nfixed in the oncoming traffic, headlights\n\nswirling the wet, the bleared music\n\nof the squad cars and ambulance.\n\nCaught in the shutter, run off\n\nin the final editions: _you bastards you_ ,\n\nand last in his last glimpse the rope\n\nmade of the hot blood spilling from his head.\n\n## _Leaving the Angel_\n\nThis far the trains are still running,\n\nthe night still awake. Then you're gone,\n\nangry with me, late and lost in the city.\n\nLove, our two furies will wreck us\n\nblazing in the black space between.\n\nI meet the man with seven omens there,\n\nthe one who sharpens knives and sings\n\nin neon light _I put an edge to an edge._\n\nAnd I've encountered some river\n\nof grieving in myself and drown in it,\n\nliving some days a half life on the stairs\n\ndefining _lonely_ by not being there.\n\n## _At the Barbican_\n\n_Oh men_ she says, and means\n\ntheir rigmarole, half truths\n\nmuttered half drunk on the home stretch.\n\nThere's always one man boasting in a bar\n\nrecalling how we slew the enemy\n\nat Agincourt or in the far Malvinas\n\nor spoke with Homer \u2013 still a boy\n\nwith others in the woods inventing stories \u2013\n\nchanged, misremembered, _lies most of it_ ,\n\nstill bawling on the doorstep for his shilling,\n\nbragging all the lives his conker has,\n\nridiculous, in short pants.\n\n## _The talk at the big house_\n\nBy nightfall when they hope no one's looking\n\nthe paramilitaries are out shifting fences\n\ndressed in each others' uniforms. As intended\n\nthe signal from the government in exile\n\nis opened by the wrong hands, so much lost\n\nin the foreign tongue, so much of meaning\n\nis a border always shifting in dispute.\n\nNo one gives an inch. No one affords it.\n\nThen war, then peace, then normalisation.\n\nThe other side sends fraternal greetings.\n\nThe dissidents are hosed down hour on hour,\n\nthe guitar player's fingers smashed by rifle butts.\n\n## _Dosser_\n\n_I am_ says he _an exploited human being_ ,\n\nhalf brother to these men at Charing Cross\n\nsleeping in their cardboard apartments,\n\nfighting in a line at dawn for work\n\nif there's work scrubbing in the entrails\n\nof the Ritz, and every man jack of them\n\nupholds the free flow of market forces,\n\nweary with his tale of dull misfortune.\n\nI own two wrong shoes and a tartan blanket,\n\na spoon, a pencil, and my famous collection\n\nmiscellaneous plastic bags, my bequest\n\nin lieu of taxes to the nation that bore me.\n\n## _Slow dancer's epitaph_\n\nHe was the black boy skating in the cars,\n\nsome city music on the headphones,\n\nor at the video game, there being no other work.\n\nHe went to sea. He didn't want to die.\n\nAnd on the radio that day a song of Souvla \u2013\n\n_so long ago the bright lads sailed_ ,\n\ngood men and ships blown in the water.\n\nBut he would go. I didn't father sons for this.\n\nSoon he was hunting down the radar,\n\ntargeting the bloodbeat. By then\n\nthere was no other work for him,\n\nno dance but shitting when the missile hit.\n\n## _The house of the androgynes_\n\nWe are invited. We're offered\n\ntea or whisky, cushions, incense.\n\nTheir room is hung with damasks, shawls,\n\ntall bowls of flowers, peacock feathers.\n\nIn love they have the music of each other,\n\ntheir topics and a place they go in Portugal.\n\nLater they promise indoor games: _the parcel,_\n\n_kiss the postman, chop your candle off_.\n\nAll's softness and ambivalence, the air\n\nbreathy as recent sex. We say how like one\n\nthe other is as if two mirrors but which wife,\n\nwhich husband, that we never figure out.\n\n## _Of things past_\n\nI know they're never coming back now \u2013\n\nMalice Aforethought and Gay Abandon,\n\nSister Alabama of the Amateur Latin Americans\n\nshedding her shoes for the compulsory dancing.\n\nIt's Sunday and World War Two on four channels.\n\nIt's the fifth day of Christmas at a sick friend's.\n\nI'm out giving my credentials an airing\n\nand my provincial's contempt for the provinces \u2013\n\nlittle towns where there's no dancing.\n\nI remember the 60s. In another life\n\nwe would be lovers living in the suburbs\n\nmaking fickyfick and many bambinos.\n\n## _Tube talk_\n\nShe tells him her dream, she arrives\n\nwith a suitcase full of her poems\n\nshe's not written yet, her initials\n\nin cursive tooled in the leather.\n\nIt's a wide-angle lens. If you had\n\ntwo chops you'd end up with two bones.\n\nAnd the young barrister's speech _Sir_\n\n_I address myself last to the window._\n\nWhen the open society closed I was drunk\n\nyour majesty. Now what I hear is random,\n\nnames back in use like _The Titanic_ ,\n\nthe heavy rhythm of the snatch squads.\n\n## _Nobody's apartment_\n\nIn the next place of the dream a voice\n\nis beginning to whisper loud in the late\n\nflicker of a TV nobody's watching:\n\n_razors available on request._\n\nNobody lives here. No one at all\n\nremembers the next war. The buildings\n\nwhine in their own way their own adventures:\n\n_such a good building such a nice space._\n\nAnd the pipes sing and the telephone rings\n\nand the fridge tunes in its only song\n\nabout rented spaces and borrowed tuxedos,\n\nbut nobody's here that will fix me a drink.\n\n## _Your friend the drifter_\n\nToo many years up and down the world\n\nchasing some light that goes out.\n\nShe's always moved, the job turns out\n\nto be some people talking in a train.\n\nSome work up cures for new diseases,\n\nsome we never see decode our traffic.\n\nOthers are mapping the new dictatorships,\n\nothers the movies they will make of them.\n\nBut all night long I have been underwater\n\nmining the harbours off Nicaragua,\n\nI need a place to dress up in my uniform.\n\nI have a deal for you. I'm your imaginary friend.\n\n## _Talking with God_\n\nFirst the productivity agreement,\n\nthe vote of confidence, the loyalty oath,\n\nthen the standing ovation to mediocrity,\n\nand still the powers that be are peevish.\n\nWhat lies in the muddy bottom of the well:\n\ncurses rolled up in lead, fixed in a nail,\n\npetty grudges and greedy prayers to be rich\n\nor richer, the clenched fists of revenge.\n\nAnd the words _How I rejoice in my enemies._\n\n_You who gave out my secret, beware,_\n\naddressed to Minerva the owl\n\nand for her eyes only, as if she were looking.\n\n## _The window of vulnerability_\n\nSure today it could come in a fast plane\n\nnamed perhaps for the pilot's mother,\n\nthe city ends in a smear in the road\n\nand that in a child's shoe. No one\n\nwill say aboard the Missouri _all these_\n\n_proceedings are now closed_ , by nightfall\n\nhours beyond zero no one remarks\n\n_it was grey, it had no beauty at all._\n\nNow what to do with these postal districts\n\ndrifting downwind? It would be\n\nroutine enough on the autopilot,\n\nflying home till there's no home to fly to.\n\n## _A bad day at HQ_\n\nToday's not good. We are enduring\n\n_une abaissement du niveau mental_. Next door\n\nbanging on the wall all night and now\n\neveryone is looking, sliding in and out\n\nthe flat mercury of mirrors. We are perhaps\n\nthe last citizens of an imaginary country\n\nhired to destabilise the client kingdoms,\n\nwrite the royal speech at Christmas,\n\nbroadcast to the disabled nations\n\nand vanish on a cruise to oblivion. Friend\n\nwe need a space, we need a stretch of air,\n\nmost urgently we need another walk in the woods.\n\n## _Drinking at Dirty Dick's_\n\nTruth is I'm a prince among princes\n\nwith my own bit of a dukedom hereabouts\n\nbut my betters keep saying I'm a lizard,\n\na common reptile that understands nothing.\n\nAnd I love the young princess, the way\n\nshe steps from the helicopter to bless\n\nwith her smile the disabled children\n\nand cut the ribbon on the new hypermarket.\n\nOtherwise my life is bad Dante, brown rice\n\nor acupuncture, or waiting in the takeaway\n\nfor an order of dropped duck and noodles,\n\nplaying _Defend Cities_ till it kills me.\n\n## _The soldier's tale_\n\nWhat hit him was the pain, his hip\n\nblown clean way they said, his bearers\n\nargued in two foreign tongues which army\n\nowned the blanket he lay bloody in.\n\nThen he was going home. Someone\n\nhad put five Woodbines to his chest\n\nand that was all his medal. The wife\n\nwas blitzed and took off with a fancy man.\n\nHe writes, _she was another beach_\n\n_where all my efforts were in vain._\n\nThe inscription on the back reads\n\n_the dead piled on the sea stones._\n\n## _A case of medals_\n\nYou find me sir, eleven of the a.m.\n\nof a weekday drinking by myself good malt\n\nwith indifferent barley. I love a woman\n\nbut she's gone into another time zone.\n\nI own a case of medals like a spicerack,\n\nmy days so many stars and wars there\n\nwith my dicky soldier's heart. I was a runner,\n\na disaster looking for a place to happen.\n\nI've quit that. Somewhere the running\n\nand the putting on of masks must end,\n\nthe tale turned dull and cloudy April\n\nin the city, or will spring never come?\n\n## _Absolutely no selling_\n\n_I don't work_ she says on the top deck\n\nin machine talk in a little girl voice,\n\na tape announcing the fault in itself\n\nthey say there's no cure for, over and over.\n\nI could pack shelves in the supermarket.\n\nI could calibrate the ages of the rain.\n\nI could say again again _I can I know_\n\n_I know I can_ like the little red engine.\n\nIt comes to this: we will be happy,\n\nwe will laugh, we will be loved\n\nsome place we never come to, what we want\n\nwe will not have, and so goodnight prince.\n\n## _The Botanic Garden Oath_\n\nEach of us, each with a tale to tell,\n\neach one starring in the scenario called _me_ ,\n\nsad for all the little of our lives\n\nand all the short days of our loving.\n\nBut today I leave that out and take a train.\n\nI've joined the Rupert Bear School of Poetry\n\nand I'll not say anything controversial.\n\nHere there's peace, the traffic tuned to a blur\n\nand only the flightpath of the great planes\n\nto disturb this fuchsia magellanica.\n\nEspecially I love the tropical conservatories,\n\ntheir great ferns and the hot air full as sex.\n\n## _Not talking on the Circle Line_\n\nLet's take a slow dance on a fast train,\n\nthee and I love, since all the news\n\nis bad news, and now the radio\n\nis yelling _gas gas_ , and still the heart\n\ndelivers its message: _get on with it._\n\nMaybe I can work on the nuclear facility\n\nor maybe I'll just wander off like Lao-tse\n\nand disappear beyond the western frontier.\n\nOr you and I could slip out anywhere,\n\ntake a walk around the park, a cup of coffee,\n\nstart the peace talks up again\n\nand take the next train out of this place.\n\n## _Person to person transatlantic_\n\nYou're away, gone over the heavy sea\n\nand _I miss you_ is everything I say.\n\nI say it _oh I love you_ down the telephone,\n\nthe electronic chatter in the deep\n\nsea cables at the bottom of the heart,\n\nI bounce _I love you_ off the satellite\n\nand let the listeners in the circuits\n\nmake what they can of it, a code we know\n\nfor _I would take the world's end with you,_\n\n_we may have to, we know the state_\n\n_conspires to kill us. Give us peace and to eat._\n\n_We hear it in the wires, the radio, the music._\n\n# The John poems\n\n#### I\n\nAnd so: the cannons, the fountains, the fireworks,\n\nthe oratorio and the aerial display by the Red Arrows \u2013\n\n_so educational, so good for the children_ \u2013 and last\n\nthe dawn chorus of the orchestra and the curtains:\n\nhere I am centre stage with a name like John\n\nand hardly a damn thing to say for myself: merely\n\nI am the man that can never spell straight,\n\nthe envoy of a country that won't negotiate.\n\n#### II\n\nI wake, I make my first tea in all the world,\n\nsurprised the downstairs and the kettle, three\n\ngreen bottles on the windowsill are present\n\nand correct, not vaporised in sleep,\n\nthe sirens weeping through the short night's\n\nmany possibilities: a line crossed, a wire\n\nsinging in the radar triggering the rockets.\n\nI am awake, the blackbird's song against the sky.\n\n#### III\n\nI have been walking my domains, where everything\n\nand nothing much has changed. I have been here before.\n\nI have a photograph of who I was then, standing\n\nill at ease in a borrowed suit of clothes\n\nin the room of bleached light, one workman's hand\n\nacross the chairback, the other halfway to his waistcoat,\n\nthe silver Albert and medallion on whose clasp\n\nthere is no timepiece, but only I know that.\n\n#### IV\n\nMost of us with little, a christening spoon\n\nor on the wall a souvenir of some daft war\n\nour grandfathers had died in, before the sperm\n\nhoming on the egg on a 48-hour pass from Boulogne\n\nburst all their passion through us to our children,\n\nhere in the rainy kingdom, in the long peace\n\nfought for in another country. For my inheritance\n\nI had a pair of copper cufflinks, now my son's.\n\n#### V\n\nI have examined the leader's brain with my nightprobe\n\nfinding not much but fear of God and strong language,\n\nrandom events I have no vision or power to read.\n\nWe are got ready for war again it seems, the hiss\n\nof air released again from the dead, and the band\n\ngoing down with the ship playing _Abide with Me_.\n\nI'm jumpy when the allies practise mass graves,\n\nor when a truck goes by that says _the real thing_.\n\n#### VI\n\nListen. Everything is still as a Dutch painting,\n\nforever Sunday. I'm a man clearing space round himself,\n\none hand signalling the gods, the other a gardener\n\nof balm and sweet savoury, living my secret biography,\n\nmy name and a self-addressed, stamped envelope\n\nby return of post: John with his book of anyone,\n\nhis bell and light, his exit left, his tall tale\n\nas to our masters' thinking and where grow weeds.\n\n#### VII\n\nThis moment now someone is mining the waterway,\n\nclosing a frontier, someone is arming the missile,\n\nsomeone makes love, makes a profit, an objective analysis,\n\nsomeone is torturing someone with telephone wire,\n\nsomeone is listening, _this is routine_ someone says.\n\nThe women join hands at the chainlink fencing,\n\nthe convoys the colour of gangrene sneak out at night,\n\nthe microwaves weeping out messages we can't read.\n\n#### VIII\n\nThe president is in his rose garden, I in mine.\n\nAll afternoon discussing Armageddon with the evangelist,\n\nhe's thinking _dammit time to open the good book_\n\n_and strike first_ , the work of a moment meanwhile\n\nto admire the fuchsia coxinia, the lawn, the tea rose\n\nopening itself, the white blaze of the magnolia.\n\nHere in the same moment it's dusk, my love and I\n\nplant marigolds, alyssum and night scented stock.\n\n#### IX\n\nWe talk of another rose garden, by the long shore\n\nyou call home. Your mother, call her the rose lady,\n\ngrows blue flowers there, the shade her eyes\n\nand the seas possess. _I have the truth_ you say\n\n_but where the hell's my purse?_ Tonight we drink,\n\nwe may weep over the floor if we want to. Always\n\nthe low itch in the skull to give up, to forget,\n\ngo crazy and keep running till the heart bursts.\n\n#### X\n\nAlways on the shore of great events, almost a witness,\n\nor are we merely a reserve set well apart\n\nin some cupboard in the suburbs working out\n\nour dangerous purposes, here at the finish.\n\nCaught in the playback I'm the man with _Time Out_\n\nwalking the square the moment the other world's\n\nambassador opens up with a machine gun: that man.\n\nI'm the missing witness. And they never ask.\n\n#### XI\n\nThe nights end in cat fights and backyard wars,\n\nbad dreams and between a little night music perhaps,\n\na little work experience. East of the city\n\nthe missions are still preaching boxing for boys\n\nand the evils of drink. West at Kew the mandrakes\n\nin their glass mausoleums form my last exhibit,\n\nlast offspring of the city's hanged men, last blip\n\nacross the cardiogram across the city's narrative.\n\n#### XII\n\nThat's it then officer I'm John with my invisible.\n\nI keep changing my name to fox the government.\n\nI'm John with my music plain speech down at heel\n\nmaking a muzak of everything, the ice cream bell\n\nand the roar of the crowd risen up, and the sea\n\non the beach stones that are all wearing white\n\nfor the evening. Officer, I'm one among others,\n\nevery day we are more and we're all called John.\n\n# Ignore previous telegram\n\n## _The Olympic Year_\n\nShe was a dancer and I loved her once,\n\nperhaps again. I was loyal as the London plane tree.\n\nI simply thought of her to save a phone call.\n\nHe was another runner in the relay sprint,\n\nthe wind behind him twice the legal limit,\n\na new breed with an edge running from the front.\n\nHow many broken records and a medal, secret letters\n\nfrom the unknown Tasmanian in the shot-put?\n\nLet's say a normal sort of life, _o solo mio_\n\non the ice cream vans when all the war breaks out.\n\n## _Aggie's advice_\n\nYou don't have to insist on being yourself.\n\nNever make decisions on the road.\n\nNever put your papers on the table.\n\nAnd never count your money in the wind.\n\n## _The actor_\n\nI'll close the window he said over the telephone.\n\nSomeone may hear us. Ignore my previous telegram.\n\nI've played Lear in Hamlet and the fool in the Royal George,\n\nI've played Departure, Rumour, Exit, Jack the Lad\n\nand the buffet car from Paddington to Penzance,\n\nthe lodgings always filthy and the trains late,\n\nstuffy and over full from Clacton to far Wigan's shore,\n\nthe whisky in the taproom always watered down.\n\nI never had an encore, never saw a proper script.\n\nFrom the tyranny of everyone sweet Mother defend us.\n\n## _Eva's story_\n\nThe other woman with the other man.\n\nThe kind of man that bites the bullet that feeds him.\n\nThe kind of woman keeps her orgasms under her breath.\n\nHim saying _I can be a behaviourist if I want to_.\n\nHers the kind of cake he can't eat all of anyway.\n\nHim with a wife and a wedding ring and a pussycat.\n\nShe in a portrait of wind in a white straw hat.\n\nHe with nowhere to go, no one to go there with.\n\nShe with no one to show it to, nothing to sing.\n\nHe was an actor she said, asked to stay a while.\n\nJust a couple of boxes, a trunk. Six years ago.\n\n## _Autumn with full summer_\n\nHe's from the department of offers she can't refuse.\n\nThe plot is the same as ever: need of privacy,\n\nlove of solitude, fear of loneliness. The locale\n\ncontemporary London or Truth or Consequences New Mexico.\n\nShe knows he's gone beyond his shelf life.\n\nWay past his due-by date. Mother knows it.\n\n## _Old Westerns_\n\nSo tell me what use is a stagecoach to an Indian?\n\nMy money's on the pony express getting to Laredo.\n\nDoes it have a zipper, does it have enough pockets?\n\nCan you take it home and make a lamp out of it?\n\nHe's stuck with the myth of wandering herdsmen,\n\nmoving by stars between pastures and women.\n\nSummer in another country. In the mountains.\n\nI guess it killed him. How would he know?\n\n## _How to get a job_\n\nBe prepared to work hard the first million years or so\n\nbanging about by the buildings asking _what's this for?_\n\nExpect little pay and overcrowded conditions.\n\nYou should have been born clever.\n\nYou should have been born rich.\n\nYou should have been born in Saffron Walden.\n\nYou should have worked in school and considered\n\nthe example of the future Sir Robert Maxwell.\n\nIf you get an interview don't sniff any glue.\n\nYou will be offered less than the whole ten pence.\n\nAnd wear a tie.\n\n## _Two parts haiku_\n\nThis was my first love:\n\nthe numerous wind through grass.\n\n## _The Russians_\n\nIgnore all previous. We are totally surrounded\n\nby dark shaggy bears, mad drunk on honey and vodka.\n\n## _The program_\n\nIgnore previous couplet. Recode. Reprogram.\n\nReenter at line 69. Enter: _I'll be myself_.\n\nI get in trouble being anyone else.\n\n## _At the rostrum_\n\nIf you speak up what to say but everything?\n\nYou will have a medal stitched to your chest.\n\nYou will be called a hero of the silent republic.\n\nYou'll be its spokesman brought home in a glass coffin,\n\ngiven a state funeral and a very fancy motorcade.\n\nBetter sit close to the wall o mi amigo,\n\ndealing the cards tight to the chest as they say,\n\nhanging on to the hat and the pistols well oiled,\n\na silver .45 bullet clenched between my teeth,\n\nwhat passes for a smile the bitten leather of my lips.\n\n## _The 1984 Tour of Britain_\n\nMiners hunted down the corn by the mounted division.\n\nSad poverty's lament around the garden festival.\n\nThere's work in nuclear construction and security.\n\nAnd yet much bitterness in the land of the butter mountain.\n\nSad junketing around the wine lakes. And here\n\nthe missiles we can't see move in their circles\n\non a page deleted in the interest of national security\n\nwhile we were standing round in groups of one or less.\n\nBut we shall build Jerusalem. Well worth a visit.\n\n## _Visiting Americans_\n\nSo the other side dropped out of the guessing games.\n\nOur runners compete best in non-anabolic steroid events.\n\nJust the athletic urine samples are a security headache.\n\nI'm aware none of this means anything or just more guns.\n\nI guess I'm a cynic. What use is this program?\n\nThat of itself proves nothing like smoking and cancer.\n\nI was born in California but left no forwarding address.\n\nIf she marries him he'll be a non resident alien spouse.\n\nShe just loves London, spent the whole two weeks in Harrods.\n\nSurely money's not the problem. Doesn't everyone?\n\nThink I'll make me some money John, a whole piece of it.\n\nGo live in New Mexico in maybe Truth or Consequences,\n\neat peyote and breed me some ponies.\n\nDid you ever fuck a horse, John?\n\n## _The previous telegram_\n\nShe's gone at last leaving her honey musk\n\nin the white room of their athletics, and no\n\nforward address, no final note, no valediction.\n\nI find her white straw hat with no ribbon,\n\nsome stray hair of her head, one blue shoe.\n\nOn my breath the mint of adultery, on my mind\n\nthe total recall of her skills on me. I send\n\nc\/o the wind two red roses and a telegram:\n\n_If you vanish I'll appear. If you go away_\n\n_I'll materialise one sunrise on your doorstep,_\n\n_I'll find you in your sleep. Across a square_\n\n_my face will be familiar in some city, country_\n\n_in whichever life, a voice a mouth you will recall._\n\n_There will be partings but no end to this._\n\n## _Message from the Basque country_\n\nGive yourself the benefit of the doubt: nuclear power\n\nis killing you. We have no crock to brew it in,\n\nno bucket to contain the power of the sun.\n\nWhat we get's more wire and chainlink fence,\n\nanother 32 varieties of police, more secrets,\n\nmore prisons and more central government \u2013\n\nand less and less the wild country to go to,\n\nless and less the seas and rivers.\n\nAnd there is nowhere for the waste.\n\nDaft as a brush, Mother says.\n\n## _The black report_\n\nIgnore previous telegrammed emotional outburst.\n\nThat of itself proves nothing like leukaemia.\n\nYears of copious enquiry will vindicate my words.\n\nI'm the Minister for St Elmo's Fire and I repeat\n\nignore previous unsupported bias. The government says\n\nit's OK the rain isn't eating the forest. We think\n\nsome topsoil may remain and some of us survive\n\noccasional nuclear holocaust. These matters sub judice\n\nnational security subject of course to a D notice\n\nand the usual 30-year rule, the files deep in the mountains,\n\nthe long tapes whispering in the nightwebs, all safe\n\nin the hands of our allies the white male Anglo-Saxon\n\nprotestants of North America, some already born again.\n\nEnd of announcement. Perhaps later in the day\n\nthere will be a recital of _o solo mio_ on the bicycle bell,\n\nto be followed by the Didcot Sinfonietta of massed sirens\n\nplaying _Bye-bye blackbird_ for barbed wire and geiger counter.\n\nThere will be scattered outbursts of caesium and strontium,\n\nshowers of alpha gamma beta followed by a very bad smell,\n\nscattered backgrounds where loving anyone may be difficult.\n\nIt's OK the language isn't really a disease like Windscale.\n\nIn any case the place is called Cellophane or Sellafield.\n\nThey make only spare parts there and routine replacements\n\nfor several of the bad dreams you've been having.\n\n## _Bonnie over the ocean_\n\nEn route from elsewhere with some rare diseases.\n\nShe's a very sick puppy and ought to be in quarantine\n\nbut nothing stops the peace train or the pony express.\n\nOh they know what it is she says.\n\nExcept they never heard of it and gave the Latin name.\n\nThere is no cure, no treatment and no charge.\n\nOn exotica you get no better price per pound, Bonnie.\n\nI say you're not guilty of anything but love.\n\nYou don't have to take the medicine.\n\n## _Conditions in the west_\n\nIt is the first condemned building in North America,\n\na bar on Third Avenue, lunch. Ignore stage direction.\n\nIf you got an imagination it's the ham and barley soup\n\nyou want we don't have. This guy came in I said Mother\n\nhe's either a very good customer or an asshole.\n\nSo maybe he did coach the San Diego Graverobbers,\n\nQuasimodo for quarterback, Quetzalcoatl running back.\n\nAnyway I was right. He is an asshole. _To the bank_\n\n_to the bank to the bank_ the tall man with the stetson\n\nis singing his winnings on the pony expressway.\n\nYou think those Indians wanted that stagecoach?\n\nCheck the zipper on this whisky, check the pockets,\n\ncheck can you take the bottle home, make love to it,\n\nwill it sing, will it write a sonnet, will it fly,\n\nwill it stack the storm windows in the basement,\n\ncut the lawn, clear the bitter snow in winter,\n\nwill it keep you warm in age and will it last?\n\nThere's a thing to own a sweater outlasts the girl\n\nthat knitted it oh years ago and do you know her name?\n\nEvery Tuesday I get even. Today is Tuesday.\n\nFor a living I design meats. This ham & barley soup\n\nMother makes. She knits it underwater, naked,\n\nsinging _Oh Susanna_ weeping for the world we inhabit.\n\nThe Russians are right: stay drunk. I've come to think\n\nthe tall guy lives a sheltered life under the hat\n\nbut then I never saw the movie. Next thing I know\n\nhis wife's calling on the phone from New Hope Pennsylvania\n\n_shitface come cut my grass or I'll disable you_.\n\nThere's no reply but I keep knocking on the third drink.\n\nWhat can you say to _Mein Vater war in der SS_?\n\nSo what it's the Olympics with only half a medal?\n\nWhen does the stagecoach event happen? With Mother\n\nyou could have your cake and eat it but you can't.\n\nAnd then this crazy killer with a car, the creep\n\nshoots out McDonald's and wanders off the porch\n\nwith a cool can of beer in his fist. And this:\n\nthis is Mother's soup the 23rd today and you know what\n\nit's like the 23rd psalm it just ain't hot enough,\n\nit ain't like Mother.\n\nShe checks her waitress pad,\n\ntakes down the order, stares beyond the window\n\npast the bar strip's neon signature of city skyline,\n\nManhattan deep in elevator shafts, the haze\n\nof traffic-darkened air, the splutter in the airwaves,\n\nperipheries of speech turned advertising copy,\n\nthe wordy trains a babylon of territories and codes\n\nthat make the fast train anyplace, the women\n\non the sidewalk minding their own sweet business \u2013\n\n_and speaking of the valley of the shadow_ Mother says\n\nand gets the soup. West of her is heartbreak country.\n\nFifty states of paranoia. _And that_ the barman says\n\n_is a sign of good health round here_. I'd say the map's\n\nunreadable but I'm a stranger in these parts, a man\n\nunder his hat moving his shoulders in embarrassment\n\nand looking tough among the towers of speech. I'd say\n\nthe trains and scribble in the subway. I'd say\n\nbetween the whisky sours and ham and barley soup\n\nthe language is on fire, shot, taken out, erased\n\nwith extreme prejudice, irradiated, burned away.\n\nI'd say the stagecoach. I'd say the previous telegram.\n\nI'd say the elevators or the wailing chasm of the city.\n\nI'd say the sirens. I'd say I'm out of signs\n\nand running from the front when all communication cuts.\n\n## _Nielsen's visit_\n\nMeanwhile in London Nielsen comes to call.\n\nOn the river bank a boot a bottle a wine bucket.\n\nOld brown sails in the seawind by the Prospect of Whitby.\n\nIn another life Nielsen we were mates thumped drunk here,\n\nand woke together in the Queen's Navee.\n\nYou want to know what Ezra Pound said to me?\n\nHe said _Thankyou_ and walked off in the railway dark\n\nof another black Italian night in his cape and cane.\n\nPound. Proud. From Wabash College. Weary.\n\n## _Living with the boss_\n\nDon't tell me objects don't have feelings.\n\nThey resent our intelligence and fall down.\n\nTelephones and police never when you need them.\n\nHow did it get way past midnight without my noticing?\n\nIt's enough having to remember all day who I am,\n\nhow important, my number, my callsign, my cues,\n\nwhere I keep the suicide pills and the silver bullet.\n\nAm I or am I not the President of the United Shirts?\n\nDid I accept this part? I have to call my agent.\n\nI have to remember all this only to forget it\n\nnight after night with Nancy, and no let-up.\n\n## _The space salesman_\n\nHe's wearing a grey suit and not at all like Richard,\n\nand he wants to talk to you dear. In confidence.\n\nHe says he's from the New Church of the Holy Loft Insulations\n\nconducting a survey for the University of Double Glazing,\n\nand this joke's wearing thin. He dines out\n\non his famous namesake and he's famous for it. I hear\n\nher say oh years from now I was depressed my time there.\n\nI guess I loved him. But there was never anyone at home.\n\n## _Snobby Roberts' message_\n\nYou're wrong she says. You'll do it my way.\n\nI'm the head girl and all this democratic stuff\n\nis for the firing squad and a short sharp shock\n\nat the back of the gym with a rubber truncheon.\n\nNo cure. No treatment. No natural justice.\n\nWe have a business to run here. Sell everything.\n\nGive the miners a stiff course in how to sink.\n\nThe prefects will know what to do with their hockeysticks.\n\nI think she's never been lived in, Mother says.\n\n## _Remembering the Fifties_\n\nSo there I was with an open heart and a closed mind,\n\nin love with the dancer. So where are you now,\n\nthe brown Armenian from the house of women?\n\nI barely knew what language to tremble in.\n\nI was in love suddenly with Italy, with Venice,\n\nher many masks and silks and lace, her musks\n\nand all her yellow birds singing in the water city.\n\n_A city against nature_ Chateaubriand called her.\n\nI too danced and sang, a silver weathercock\n\nstrutting the Riva where I spoke with Benveniste's doppel\n\nand went about sniffing the insides of tombs.\n\nA normal sort of day, a typical existence\n\neating mayonnaise and pickles, the sweet red wine\n\nuncocked an hour before dinner, and a fine view\n\nacross water to Our Lady of the Perpetual Erection.\n\nI heard women calling from windows _Droppa your breeches,_\n\nthe sign across the waterway translating _Two Men Pissed here,_\n\nand on the gramophone the voice of Signor Primatur Seniliti\n\nwhen war broke out and ended all at once.\n\n## _Graffiti in the hall of athletes_\n\n'Rajid Patel is a puff.' That gets everyone.\n\nGood boys, all educated. All good clean girls\n\nin clean white sheets. But no reward for being good\n\nand I was never any good at being bad.\n\nI fuck and sign her, cross the _t_ and dot the _i_ ,\n\nand dream the fat rain singing in the applemint.\n\n## _Long distances_\n\nHer man's away beyond the mountains,\n\nalways moving with the herd. But he visits,\n\nsends money, word of himself in other travellers.\n\nSome of whom love her also. And she them.\n\n## _The relay runner_\n\nDelete _rain_. Delete _applemint_. Delete _f*ck_.\n\nI have to get in touch with my controller.\n\nI have to plug myself back into the electricity.\n\nI have to check in with my Earth Station.\n\nHe is running, he is running, the faces of the crowd\n\nlike water scattered in the sun, all eloquence\n\na blur across the wind in the distant city of the angels,\n\nthe fiefdoms of the Barreras and the White Fence Gang.\n\nHe's pumped with cortisone and anti-inflammatory.\n\nThis boy needs rest and more rest sing the airwaves.\n\nHe hands the baton on. Dark lady of the sonnet,\n\nby now you will have guessed: all we ever do is gesture.\n\n## _Disco dancing in Streatham_\n\nAh sweet land of green money. Such a life\n\nput together of posters and signs, gestures,\n\nimages in the TV flicker of another continent,\n\nanother decade, stars of stage and screen,\n\ncharacters in movies, all good consumers,\n\nloyal citizens in borrowed dialogue\n\nand borrowed clothes bearing urgent news\n\nas to what's on and who's wearing it\n\nin languages that don't compute.\n\nReasons why they met, reasons why they parted,\n\nnever reasons why they were together.\n\n## _To exorcise a blackbird_\n\nYou say OK blackbird that's far enough.\n\nYou say OK I'll give you the plot but the treaty's off.\n\nYou say you missed the point lady. The butler did it,\n\nor the barman with the ham and barley soup.\n\nYou missed the joke about the stagecoach.\n\nYou remember the retired schoolmistress?\n\nYou remember the deserted cottage on the estate?\n\nYou remember the laird back wounded and blind from the war?\n\nHe fathered her a child and called her _princess_\n\nonce in his terrible dark, perhaps again. That child\n\nbecame the priest in the black cummerbund and dog collar,\n\nclicking his lilywhite fingers whistling sanfairyann\n\nat the end of the performance but you never got it.\n\nI've had it with your Olympics. You wore the medal out.\n\nIgnore previous marriage. Ignore telegram.\n\nThere will be no midnight release from the tower\n\nwhere the virgin sleeps unkissed. These days\n\nshe's working a funfair sideshow on a block of ice\n\nalways melting. Stay off my territory blackbird.\n\n## _Gone for gold_\n\nFaithless. Alone and fatherless, a long starry highway.\n\nHere's John again with his chat in and out of uniform\n\nserving with the blood and guts brigade, cocky,\n\nfly and unreliable. Don't depend on him, Sunshine.\n\nHe'll do a runner, change his name, reappear\n\nin Stratford Langthorne living with another woman\n\nas McGinty, Bartollini, Juan Day Sam the noodlevendor\n\nselling 32 kinds of ice cream and home improvements.\n\n## _Suburb city_\n\nMen tidying Sundays in their backyard sheds,\n\nthe nails and screws assorted in their boxes,\n\nthe hooks and fishing flies laid up for winter,\n\nall the windfalls picked, the soil turned over.\n\nThe things women put up with from men and stay sane,\n\nenthusiastic even. She imagines his private parts\n\nand walks into the nettles. She keeps going back\n\nto the source of the inflammation.\n\nMaybe she can get a discount on her next life.\n\nHe frames her photograph and all his thought of her\n\ntwisted into loops of picture wire with pliers,\n\nhung in any of the last rooms he will rent.\n\n## _Departure's speech_\n\nWords like rain in the applemint. In my trade\n\nI'm a journeyman living the life of waste nothing,\n\nodds picked in skips, scraps my dead father kept,\n\nall the words I can steal so look out for yourself,\n\nmy sisters, my brothers. I'm Thief, Joker, Twister,\n\nDeparture the weathergrained theatrical beached\n\nat the Colony more often than not weeping in whisky\n\nmuttering _stagecoach, vulva, rain in the applemint_ ,\n\nanarchist-in-waiting to the republic of survival.\n\nFor instance I might say _dry white Chablis pray_\n\nand the barmaid reply _we've only dry roasted_.\n\nThey were led out in groups of five by the interpreter\n\nacross St James' Square. An ordinary sort of weather,\n\nthe usual sort of planet. Sir Officer Your Honour\n\nI worked hard and drank only in _The Onlie Running Footman_ ,\n\nhe that cries the road clear before Their Lordships,\n\nand takes the brickbats, sods, clods, sundry turds.\n\nNow it seems I'm in trouble and nothing makes sense.\n\nI've a severe condition of the gyratory system,\n\nmy inner ring road's clogged, I have flyover,\n\nunderpass, roundabout and Blackwall Tunnel.\n\nI've been hammered in Hammersmith and Battersea,\n\nI'm Tooting and Barking and Ealing and Southend,\n\nI've Epping and Ongar head to foot, White City\n\nand Parsons Green and probably terminal Shoeburyness.\n\nI'm a sick puppy going home on the 12.15 to sleep.\n\nFor 30 pence you get at least one sort of cheese.\n\nI'm a stone too light for its weight and full of holes.\n\nI'm on the blink and fading fast. In the French\n\nI thought I saw Chicago but I think he's dead now.\n\nI closed the window on the telephone just in case.\n\nI am become the destroyer of worlds Vishnu himself said.\n\nFor the loss of one day one thousand years regret.\n\nBy the omission of a letter, the variation of a constant.\n\nIn a sense we're all dead already Milton Keynes says.\n\nAnd in another we begin every one by crawling.\n\nThank Christ I've recovered my deadly composure,\n\nfound my thread again, forgotten my euphoria.\n\nI'm just a normal sort of crackpot. Do ignore me.\n\nThrow me out if I snore, if I bore or offend\n\nor raise two fingers to the photograph of T.S. Eliot.\n\nI've been all over England, to Scotland and Penzance,\n\nI died in the Winter Gardens when I saw the ladies dance\n\n(\u2013 and pray to think they will dance for me again).\n\nI made a mistake the first time around and settled\n\nfor a pair of tits. Her body. Designed I thought\n\nto make men mad, but she's actually her own business\n\ntaking the late air along the Broadway. _Pig_.\n\nWhat use is a stagecoat to an Indian in any case?\n\nWho played the Bartender, and who took Mother's part?\n\nSo now you're all here ignore all previous telegrams.\n\nDelete _applemint_. Delete _cruise missile_ ,\n\ndelete _Brook Street Girl_ , delete _one blue shoe_ ,\n\ndelete _and oh the runny honey of her labia_.\n\nAnd cut the sexy stuff. Pretty soon now\n\nI shall deliver my treatise _Language as the Management_\n\n_of Sexuality_ , bored as ever with my Ph.D notes.\n\nTruth is I'm a Wally with a Walkman listening to tapes\n\nof his own voice in the subway, metro, underground,\n\ntube. Once upon a time this was a live performance.\n\nOnce I was a puppy, a young poetrie apprentice\n\nin the school of Whingeing Willy's blighted adolescence.\n\nNow I get snotty letters from the likes of Anthony Thwaite,\n\nmy line is overextended. Is there no end to this?\n\nWill no one switch me off, unplug me at the wall,\n\ndisconnect the supply or seal me in a vacuum flask?\n\nWill no one tow me out to sea and sink me at night,\n\nshoot me into space or the pony out from under?\n\nI'm probably the ideal consumer. A million dollars\n\nand a piano don't speak to each other at all\n\nQuincy Jones says. I'm caught in the rain's graph.\n\nI'm riddled with statistics, toxic, overtaxed,\n\noverloaded, I've barely enough bytes for the program.\n\nI'm contaminated and there's no discount, no treatment,\n\nno Latin for it and no charge. Will the planet\n\nrecover from our wounds? Will the pony rider\n\nmake it to Las Cruces? Will Ronnie Armageddon\n\nswat the planet flat and go to heaven in a sheet\n\nand all the believers meet in the rapture?\n\nSend now for catalogue. It's in the standard.\n\nSee it in the mirror in the news in the times\n\nthat's fit to print. Tune this channel next week\n\nto the same exacting performance. In the privacy\n\nand comfort of your own home blow your own head off.\n\nTelegram your representative urgent soonest express.\n\nIf not the world save Venice, mother of poets.\n\nFor sure there's trouble in my mill. Surely\n\nthe government can do something. I'm lost\n\nin all this complex electronic weaponry to defend me.\n\nWhat if anything at all goes off, the wrong goose\n\nin the wrong radar in whatever management of error?\n\nMay I enquire the name of this place, strange,\n\ndangerous, the centre we suppose of what is known\n\nof spacetime, on every side the anxious citizens\n\neach with his and her different map of the district.\n\nTill now I was content, my voice singing me to sleep.\n\nWe need peace Mr President, and quiet conversations.\n\nAnd for vegetables a patch of good land Mr Chairman,\n\nif the soil be workable, the ground cover sufficient,\n\nthe radiation in retreat, the sniper fire fading,\n\nthe depredations of the mercenary bands less and less\n\ntill year by year we reinvent the wheat, the spinning jenny,\n\nthe working of the differential gear and the sonnet.\n\nI fear the program ends abruptly, one day the stereo\n\nplaying _o solo mio_ in the city where the other woman\n\nwith the other man is waiting for the right bus\n\nat the wrong stop when farewell all the rain:\n\nthe rider never makes it with the message, the words\n\nroll off the page's edge like lemmings to the sea,\n\nthe marathon goes on forever with these jogging men\n\nsomehow puffing through the long nuclear winter.\n\nHow shall I find you in your sleep to whisper\n\nthere would otherwise be partings but no end?\n\nYour eyes are soon enough, love. Ask what song\n\nMother sang us all to sleep with. Speak again\n\nas Lear spoke and the dead in Homer, called again\n\nbeyond the ditch's lip to be an upright bag of blood.\n\n# [FROM  \nWORMWOOD](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(1987)**\n\n# For Nicki in December\n\nI walked by the sea,\n\nfor the last time by this sea.\n\n_Give up your dead_ I said.\n\nNo dead came ashore on the white\n\nlines of water, by the white stones.\n\nNot the knife that cuts\n\nbut the hand holding the knife.\n\nNot the sea but its element\n\n\u2013 hostile, bearing no ill will \u2013\n\ndrowns us, she said.\n\nI walked a long time.\n\nNo dead came ashore.\n\n_Mine are the cleanest dead_\n\n_she said_\n\nshe said.\n\n# Airport silences\n\nOn the eighth day whiteout, the 747s\n\nghost vague and mist drenched\n\nand like us grounded. _Fog_ they say.\n\n_Announcements will be announced._\n\nSo much promise in departure.\n\nSo little comfort in promise.\n\nA drink, friend, let's talk\n\nin the last of this currency\n\nminted from courage and silence,\n\nlet's talk about weather.\n\n# From my American period\n\nPoint is friend, you & I\n\nwe don't go much further together.\n\nEither the whisky dislikes us\n\nor we smoke different brands.\n\nAnd the landscape's brutal, repetitious,\n\nwith no deposit on the empties.\n\nOr maybe just my horse\n\ndon't like your horse.\n\n# Fun City encore\n\nOn the headland wind and the wide sea,\n\nas above: boat distant, gulls, sky,\n\nbeaded spray on the leaves of the grass,\n\nat my feet its wild stitchery.\n\nAnd these old graves, stones\n\nwind has scribbled the names from:\n\nMessrs Grimgrind and Whingeon\n\nstill bleating their unpaid accounts.\n\nThereafter the relatives.\n\nThey moan like the North Sea wind,\n\ngenerations that shoulder complaint\n\non and on in the grey sea weather.\n\nBut the battery's flat at last\n\nin the plastic parrot by the amusements,\n\nand the bingo caller's throat's been cut\n\nat the pier's end. At long last.\n\n# The rope\n\nAway in some northerly distance\n\nremote province a far interior\n\nmy heart's royal ancient republic\n\nhunched across thin upland wind\n\nchilly fields rainy sky that darkens\n\ninking the rolling table of moorland\n\ndrum tight to such effort\n\na man folding a fist of himself\n\ndrags his rope through rain-heavy bracken\n\nin case he may need it:\n\ncable he coils out of himself\n\ninto more distance he's crossed.\n\nSuch a length of hawser that man I was\n\nstoney pasture his cold country\n\nover the treeline of linnet sound\n\nwindy holdings nailed to the ridges\n\nhard bitter soils black as a raven\n\nstones set to keep track of stars\n\nhe considers _for no particular purpose_\n\nhim with his rope he drags after\n\nin case he finds use for it\n\nwhen he can't even hang himself\n\nnot with the braid of his blood\n\nnot with the skin he was born in\n\nnor the long skin he will die in\n\nnor the blue coil of the umbilical\n\nconnecting him to anyone who ever loved him.\n\n*\n\nWhoever I was once\n\na boy that began tangling string\n\nI was never innocent from the start\n\neveryone my toy everyone my tuppence.\n\nThis phase lasted far too long.\n\nFists knives a black metalleta\n\nthe ink green eyes of the Guardia Civil\n\nin the iron city of Bilbao convinced me.\n\nWe are real as the rain and die\n\nwe are as brief we are what hungers\n\nwondering at the stars each one\n\nthe nail sharp eye of the universe.\n\nWhere is one great tatter of string\n\nall my days have become unravelling\n\nor more ravelling. I take one thread\n\nit runs back in the same labyrinth.\n\nBack into the museum of marriages\n\nalong the clogged thread of weddings\n\nshe and I each other's business\n\neach the other's final telegram.\n\nEach other's audience each other's movie\n\nwho might have been anyone at all\n\nwanderers in the city with everyone\n\na separate event more often lonely.\n\nNow if it ever comes out this string\n\nit is the bare light shedding back\n\noff stars spreading into separate distance\n\nand the long rope ends in a noose.\n\nA seawrack of ropes snagged up\n\nlines grafted with other lines\n\nthe last a drowned sailor held\n\nas the wave shocked breath out of him.\n\nNothing now but faulty connections\n\nthe deep ocean cable burned out\n\nthe continents no more in touch\n\nthan she I was wifed with and I were.\n\n*\n\nI am awake who was asleep and dreaming\n\nthe dark water he will drown in,\n\nthe rope that will hang him at last.\n\nIn a 3 a.m. city of clocks, the traffic's\n\nhorizon note or the first sleepy bird cries\n\nor a scream woke me that might be my own.\n\nI had dreamed ships rigged on the winds,\n\nthe last ropes slipped from the quays\n\ndown the long stones of my imagining.\n\nAnd I falling with them, the light\n\nthe good star makes thinned underwater,\n\nthe coiled sea tightened till it woke me.\n\nAt the rope's end there's no rope.\n\nI'm falling away with my hands burning\n\ninto a world at the world's end.\n\nWhere the black nib dribbles its ink\n\ndown the casualty lists, the transistor\n\nwhispering news from all the warfronts.\n\nI am where I feared where the ocean\n\nhas washed us all ashore, I am\n\nwith others at the end of things, goodbye.\n\nAnd mine is a black song brothers,\n\na book of the many bladed rain\n\nbut the long rope comes out here.\n\nWhere I open the buttons of my shirt,\n\nwhere I keep the black rainbow\n\ntattooed over the space of my heart.\n\n# Serbian letters\n\n#### I\n\nI'm back from wherever: highways\n\ntwisted through mountains, the road\n\nof the armies, the caravan trail\n\ndown to Istanbul dumping flotsam\n\nand camel dung. There the river\n\nsent me one dark caress, one glimpse\n\nof a woman's white face and her hands\n\nthrough leaves and the rain. Again,\n\nwe're surprised each time by autumn,\n\nthe trees shedding their ribbons,\n\nrainy flags of the corn fodder,\n\nupright fist of some fortress\n\nraised in the mist. _In the mountains_\n\n_a small dark people_ , I read now\n\nin my notes, in my mind the rain\n\nstill falling, the patriarch saying\n\n_look what our fathers have done_.\n\n#### II\n\nSo then I got lost explaining\n\nhow I got lost, I would be all day\n\nwriting my message to myself,\n\nI with a thirst no drink slakes\n\nin the dark city. _Nema problema_.\n\nWe were having literary evenings,\n\ndiscussions followed by general\n\nfuckings, speakings in tongues,\n\nmoments of silence, brain damage.\n\nSo how are you my brother,\n\nwe meet in a dangerous season,\n\nmy sister? I recall how we peered\n\nthrough the bars of cyrillic\n\nto find water, finding you\n\npeering back: through the bars\n\nof the alphabets, through the bars\n\nof Belgrade singing _Jerusalem_.\n\n#### III\n\nOn the seventh day of singing,\n\non the sixth day of laughing,\n\na man fell from the fifth floor\n\ndead at my feet in a sheet\n\nbut his last breath blew through me\n\nwith all the bad air of the city.\n\nThis was the last day. He jumped\n\ndown the air with our voices\n\nlast to next door in his skull,\n\nnow I bear him a little way on.\n\nThe rest was parts put together,\n\ndrinking toasts, declaring stop\n\nhunger stop war stop bomb _stop_\n\n_to the actors without shadows_ ,\n\nthe smooth-suited, the well-fed.\n\nMiodrag or Pedrag, he jumped\n\ndown the world's well. Share him.\n\n#### IV\n\nBear with me brother once more\n\nthe long ride to Novi Pazar,\n\nthe white sheets of the mists,\n\nthe rough landscapes of grief:\n\nwild Illyria, scree black, scrub\n\nred with autumn, heaped windfalls,\n\nblack fruit, black flowers\n\nof the mountain. We remember:\n\nthe halftrucks fallen in,\n\ntroops, bullets, those taken\n\nto be lettered in stones,\n\nnames that never give in: _Adam,_\n\n_Jordan, Stepan_. We'll pull wild\n\nmountain thyme, we'll be half goat\n\nhalf singing in the tall air,\n\nyour words through our mouths,\n\nour mouth's through your words.\n\n#### V\n\nThere was the error: the telephone\n\nsinging in a locked room. There\n\nwhere I was standing on my hands,\n\nwords squealing under my bootsoles.\n\nThere was the world in a mirror,\n\nthe words upside down, the lettering\n\nbars of light in the darkness. We\n\nhave no proper study of failure,\n\nwe merely grow used to it. There\n\nin the dark town of minarets\n\nwhere the lists were reversed,\n\nthe dead counted living, the missing\n\nlisted as dead with the quick.\n\nAnd worse nightmare: the glass\n\nsaid _cut_ , the window said _jump_.\n\nI'm alive to deny it. There, sister,\n\nmy last encounter with darkness.\n\n#### VI\n\nMaybe somebody lost the key,\n\nmaybe it's world war three.\n\nThese were our _Balkan Nights,_\n\n_Balkan Time_. We were having\n\nRomania said _A Scotch Affair_ ,\n\ndrunk again, where we'll all\n\ngo together. The Poles smoked,\n\nthe Russians were circumspect,\n\nthe Czechs quietly intelligent.\n\nWe spoke of the neurosurgeon,\n\nan open-minded man, we think\n\nthat's a beginning, him sitting\n\non the bus with a knife in him.\n\nTell the president I'm gun-shy,\n\ntell the Greeks I surrender.\n\nAnd turn off the camera, whose\n\nmovie is this we're appearing in?\n\n#### VII\n\nThis for the Greeks and my sisters:\n\nwhy should you ever forgive us \u2013\n\nmy countrymen, cousins, uncles,\n\nmy brothers the conscripts firing\n\ninto the square, so many we left\n\nsmashed on the stones in the red\n\nred ropes of an autumn of blood.\n\nSo soon all we recall in the blur\n\nof roadsides is so many trees\n\nthat were squabbles of starlings,\n\nwindy leaves at the year's last.\n\nSo long in the moon's shadow,\n\nnow it's too late. In my own\n\nchilly northern country the gates\n\nslither shut in the prison house.\n\nSo let's dance. So let's sing.\n\nLet's be one tribe made of many.\n\n#### VIII\n\nHome again in the enterprise zone.\n\nAm I looking down a telescope\n\nor is it the barrel of a gun\n\nor a rolled sheet of paper this\n\nletter is written on? Innocence\n\nI've some remembrance of, some yarn\n\nthe slow wind tells itself\n\namong birches. I light a candle\n\nfor Miodrag or Pedrag, you also.\n\nNow there's small lights burning\n\neast west, in distant cities\n\nwhere the desklamps hood the paper,\n\nthe words come, letter by letter:\n\n_peace and to eat_. So who cares\n\nwhat the birds call themselves\n\nor what the grass sings? I'm well,\n\nfriend, trusting this finds you so.\n\n# A theme of razors\n\n#### 1\n\nOne cut and the blood rings:\n\nRoland's horn running in the mountains,\n\nthe dark Vascos inching rocks to ambush\n\nmanoeuvre through the deadfalls.\n\nSome nights the clock's hand will not sleep,\n\nnight rides her cargo out at anchor\n\non the tide's approaches, and the blood\n\nis thumping out its message to the pillow:\n\n_you will die, your heart_\n\n_imploding like a busted TV._\n\nYou hear the static in the phone.\n\nThe drum of waves ashore.\n\nThe ticking out of every grain of sand.\n\nThe itch inside the instrument.\n\nThere's wanting to be done, to cut\n\nthe singer from his song.\n\nAnd there's desire. Along an edge\n\nwe are to act the moment as the last,\n\nreporting from the frontier of the self\n\nall present and correct a tale to tell \u2013\n\nthe rambling message of ourselves,\n\nthe target of our swift arithmetic.\n\nWhere at the line's end will be death,\n\nthe swiftest answer to the shortest prayer\n\nwith a daft sense of humour and bad grammar\n\nrepeating himself _death death_.\n\nAnd all the bloody mess to think about,\n\nthe insurance and the weeping,\n\nthe fact the sentence came to nothing,\n\neven those we loved were strangers.\n\n#### 2\n\nTherefore I shall befriend the razor\n\nstolen from the rare book room in Ohio,\n\nsharp as intelligence that never learns,\n\nkeen and as I am quick to the thiefwork.\n\nObserve his grace that fits the hand,\n\nthe curve of finger grip and shaft,\n\nthe steel arc of a wing to nowhere,\n\nand all his speech a single syllable.\n\nI fear the blood. I fear the moon\n\nbruised in all the sea for his ego.\n\nI fear the man I meet at morning\n\nin the mirror's frame, as he fears me.\n\nHis eyes that meet me in the glass,\n\nwhat do they know? I glimpse him\n\nin the blade's glance, so carefully\n\nhis other hand shaves his Adam's apple.\n\nHis eyes catch mine but nothing's said.\n\nSome days we hold the razor well apart\n\nand stare each other eye to eye a time\n\nbut what we know we know and cannot say.\n\nWe shrug. That moment's all we share\n\nalong the sharp edge of reflection,\n\na pair of borrowed blades who meet\n\nto carve our separate faces from the air.\n\nThe final blessing on the suicides.\n\nThe sickle at his ancient labour\n\ncutting through the blood the air's\n\nimmediately filled with and the light gone.\n\nI clean the cut. I stop the blood\n\nand wipe my blue-eyed double's face.\n\nI fold the blade back in the shaft. I put\n\nthe shaft back in the box still priced $2.00.\n\n# The wanderer Yakob\n\nThree things always threaten a man's peace\n\nand one before the end overthrows his mind:\n\nillness or age or the edge of vengeance.\n\nTHE SEAFARER\n\n_Yakob_ she sings, _Yakob_ : his name\n\nin her mouth in the new tongue\n\nshe knows now she knows him:\n\nthe dreamer, the wanderer, Yakob.\n\n_All this life_ he complains\n\n_searching for wells_. He's away\n\nshepherding across the mountains\n\ninto Andalusia, all summer long.\n\nDriven by necessity, happenstance\n\none way, heartsease another,\n\nalways at adversity's far edge,\n\ngone into everything he's scared of.\n\n*\n\nTorn apart, as were the valleys\n\nto be the way they are. Thereafter\n\neverywhere he looks it is her face,\n\nher hands that meet across his flesh.\n\nWhat's given them before the ground?\n\nHe finds the prickly pear's legacy\n\nmonths after, its spines invisible\n\nin his skin. She is a photograph.\n\nThey are as always: scarred, flawless,\n\nstained by each other, a sketch\n\none moment makes in the next\n\nin other zones the heart has.\n\n*\n\nEither he bad mouth misfortune\n\nor whinge or sing supper, laugh\n\nor clap hands for Charlie, dancing\n\nto the flute's quick currency.\n\nLet him begin with nothing much.\n\nRelatively harmless he will end\n\nrelatively legless, his piss\n\na glitter dancing on a stone.\n\nSo far away he's vanishing, drunk\n\nknocking at her dream's door,\n\nhis echo smothered in the canyon,\n\non its rim his speck of shadow.\n\n*\n\nHe will be back he writes her,\n\nover the border, stepping\n\nthe Earth's meridians, gypsy,\n\nhorseman turned trader.\n\nMaster of tarmac, his shotgun\n\nunder his shoulder. Thief.\n\nWith a skin or two to sell,\n\nNavajo rings, combs, watches.\n\nAnd a coat worn but the once.\n\n_In men's nature_ he writes her\n\n_hunting with dogs or herding_\n\n_lowland to upland, moving._\n\n*\n\nA gambling man, dice and a fancy\n\nItalian deck in his waistcoat.\n\nA salesman with his patents,\n\nsurvivor on his silver tongue.\n\nComic. Piano player. Drifter\n\nwith the railroads, poacher\n\nof other men's work and women,\n\non the moon's tack, a migrant.\n\nOr takes to the sea's roads,\n\na carpenter, bright tools\n\nin a box made him shipman\n\ntwice round the world's rim.\n\n*\n\nBusker to the subway come winter,\n\nwild geese or Cape May. Mechanic,\n\nmercenary, preacher, poet\n\nor magician, all come sweet April\n\nattend the spring wind's message\n\nwarm on cheeks: _Thanne longen_\n\n_folk to goon_ , the pale forsythia\n\nyellowing the landscape.\n\nMoir\u00e9 of railings again. Water\n\nwillowed, still, aloof in motion,\n\ntownspeople shimmer on a bridge,\n\nthe high jets cutting X on all.\n\n*\n\nWar's ruckus took off many.\n\nSome a bird bore, born again\n\nto a season of Jesus, in fear\n\nas he is for the night coming.\n\nOthers mad or went wasted,\n\nsome glimpsed in the mirrors\n\nin the cold country of cocaine,\n\none he knew flew from a window.\n\nDeath's usual doings. _The dead_\n\n_knowing nothing but through us_\n\n_always inviting us in. I_\n\n_who am crazy sing in their faces._\n\n*\n\nYakob in the desert: the sun\n\nstriking its single note, all day\n\nthe Panzers crisscross tracks.\n\nThereafter rheum and the prickly heat.\n\nThereafter a new name and a gammy leg.\n\nNo man endures distance unchanged.\n\nIn his sleep grey columns of smoke\n\nadvance along the night wing.\n\nFighting thunder and cactus.\n\nHe recalls: a following wind\n\nand fair weather. Writes her name\n\nin the tall sand's side: _Rachel_.\n\n*\n\nYakob wakes in the city, Chicago\n\ntraffic or Moon Township, counts\n\n_bird, water, metal,_ his trades\n\nalways taking him town after town.\n\nIn the neon her name blinks,\n\nin the glimpsed passing of graves,\n\namong trucksides and storefronts,\n\na chain round the vagabond's wrist.\n\nBeauty a feather, the lark's life\n\nindecipherable. The road to Wide Ruin\n\nwet without rain, dark without night,\n\nand all the AM stations fading out.\n\n*\n\nSo each day his gob's given\n\ngrievance's assonance, chant\n\nto complaint's counterpoint:\n\ntribulations of marriage and money.\n\nYears blunt and brief, beyond\n\nworse uncertainty, his mind\n\nin its narrowing margin remarks\n\nin his time stars haven't moved.\n\nYet makes him some song of it.\n\nShapes it for telling. The blues\n\nand the dark colours his cries\n\namong towns he is travelling.\n\n*\n\nWhiteness scribbles his scalp,\n\nwinters enter his face, a map\n\nto the freeways, the bone\n\nin his breast burns homeward.\n\nThe continents clutter, fenced\n\nfrom the border to Santa F\u00e9,\n\nand all the Spanish coasts\n\nhazy with condos and hi-rise.\n\nIf home there be and his name\n\nstill known there. If his eyes\n\nlong staring at bulkhead\n\nand sea bile be not star blind.\n\n*\n\nYakob on the home stretch,\n\ndreaming warm grey bread, his name\n\nalong the wind in women's songs\n\nimagines places of arrival, home.\n\nTales there'd be told there\n\nby lamplight and the dark rioja,\n\na wineglass franking the table,\n\nthe wind's twist to the chimney.\n\nWishes, horses, stables, bolts.\n\nThere's no home but the roads,\n\nsmokey longings for the distance,\n\nstones that curve along the canyon.\n\n# As it happens\n\nThis Prison is a House of Care\n\nA Grave for Man Alive\n\nA Touch Stone to Thee Friend\n\nNo Place for Man to Thrive\n\nINSCRIPTION, YORK COUNTY JAIL, DATED 1820\n\n## _On the swings_\n\nto the far fall of my own weight\n\nthat carries me there, east, west,\n\nover the city between the prison\n\nand the place I come from, go to:\n\neither's a moment pausing itself\n\non a rope's end, all of me there for it.\n\nThen home watching TV: _don't make_\n\n_damn all of a difference_ the boy says\n\nto the camera _in nick or not._\n\n_All this here_ as the lens eye pans\n\nbleak cements of the buildings,\n\nthe units opened once by a princess \u2013\n\n_All this is prison_. Myself I want\n\nto be me and be useful and not be\n\nwhere I'm somebody's social problem\n\nand time's the whole sentence.\n\n## _Wormwood_\n\nAll other wormwoods, the nearer they approach in taste to pleasant and palatable, they are so much the worse, for they are weaker, their use requires so much longer time, larger doses, and yet less success follows.\n\nNICHOLAS CULPEPER\n\nDown and more down. Down the ladders and down the snakes and never passing _Go_ , never winning the state lottery nor so much as the Christmas raffle, never throwing double six, never dreaming of the winner in the 2.30 at Cheltenham, never finding sixpence in the plum pudding. There was never any luck that was good. And so down the steps in chains and down the stairs in cuffs, and backwards down the up escalator shackled to the jailer, and at last in a bodybag down the well under the cellar under the basement under the crypt under the undercroft and still some down to go.\n\nSo here I am, drinking the green absinthe of my wounds, weary from descent, from falling, drinking to get drunk. Enough of it and I'll be crazy and forget everything, I'll be wide open and talking aloud to myself or anyone or no one about the yellow dust, the ragged leaves, the palest green, the serotonin.\n\nI dreamed you were not who I thought. You were at the airport opening your passport to another identity, a name I was not familiar with: _Jessica. Jessica Snow_. You were who you were before I knew you; you were who you are without me; you were who you are anyway. Your look said _But I am always Jessica. Always have been. Always will be._ You were leaving, going home to your own country one way without thought of return to answer old letters and the questions of old lovers, to look through shoes and coats still hanging in the closets, mementos in drawers. You were a stranger in my life, I in yours: someone I never knew on a long vacation under another name, the one I knew you by. You were a country only visiting mine in another country I only visited with you.\n\n_Artemesia absinthum: yard high and wildly divided_. Green ginger. Curer of worms and quinsy and the bites of rats and mice, vile and bitter, beauty's name for solace. Opaque, iced, sweetened through silver, I drink to her, to Artemis, _destitute of delight_.\n\n## _For the lost boys, sleepless:_\n\nThe usual sniggering on the stairs,\n\nand from the night park the shrill\n\npeacock scream might be rape or mankilling,\n\npierced rat or some tortured innocent.\n\nNo one calls the cops. I don't.\n\nThe night somehow goes on, whatever riddle\n\nthe owl alone in wet rainy leaves\n\nknows the answer to. I don't,\n\ndon't sleep or awake each night dream\n\nthe same black, the same trains\n\nmade up in the yards, last word\n\nof a late argument, the door slammed\n\n## _in the house of green ginger_\n\nwhere I'm banged up inside as if dreaming\n\nthe dream shut tight and I never get out.\n\nSo wide was my journey.\n\nIn the dark yellow hive I'm in with the bees\n\nwhere the last man out was a spy for Russia\n\ndreaming of wings on the fourth iron walkway\n\nof D Wing: cell by cell in its socket,\n\nthe bolts home early, the smug keys\n\nsleeping it off, the late shift at the spyhole\n\ncounts each man alone, and there's no honey.\n\nIn my room as it happens I've a view\n\neast over wire and the wind and the wall\n\nto the nurse's home and the city beyond \u2013\n\n## _the remembered city_\n\nCamberwell Clerkenwell Muswell a haze,\n\nglassy steel etched on tile was the city,\n\nits traffic clear over to Canning Town\n\nwhere I don't want to go as it happens\n\nby wheel or by water. Wind blows there\n\nthrough the towers, the spraycan sneers\n\n_this is white man's land_ and the shadow\n\non scrapyards is soon rain, it's forever\n\nthe mean meridian of Greenwich, coming in\n\noff the flyover to Rathbone and Silvertown:\n\nall the lost boys hunched on their knives \u2013\n\nthe Posse, the Firm, the Little Silver Snipers\n\n## _in the flats, flat voices_\n\nbetwixt traffic and trains, boats on the tide,\n\ndog grunts and the midnight rain between blocks \u2013\n\nupright streets as it happens, the lift shrieks\n\nat the 17th floor in the airshaft\n\nthe wind hunts ruins to howl through,\n\nthe doors open on blue video voices.\n\nYou hear glass split, long clatter of heels\n\non the stairwell, a man's shout and a slam\n\nall the way to the street where a car\n\ncoughs like a baby.\n\nLater you hear\n\nthrough the breezeblock _it's not her_\n\n_car as it happens, it's not his baby._\n\n## _Elsewhere, the same night:_\n\n'You in there. Beast on the wing.\n\nYou're not my brother.\n\nNot since you buggered my sister\n\nchopped up my mother and stole\n\nall my father's blessing,\n\ndressed in another animal's skin.\n\nYou bastard. Go sleep in the desert\n\nwith a stone for your pillow\n\nand dream if you will your dream\n\nof a shining ladder of angels.\n\nJacob. Given a blade and a half oz,\n\nI'll kill you.'\n\n## _As it happens_\n\nthe lost boys are playing their music,\n\none with a flute one a knife one a pistol,\n\nkeeping rhythm in the dark flexing muscles,\n\nsome like the dead in their stone jackets,\n\nall serving time in the orchestra's beat\n\nto the unfinished murderous music of men\n\nso far below salt. Time is what it is.\n\nAs for me I was making the myth of myself\n\nI'd come to prefer in the authorised version\n\nfair copy and carbons security cleared\n\nwith the censor's approval, years ago\n\nwith my mates on the Bendy Rd when the world said\n\n_do this for me daddy_\n\n_I love you_\n\n_you owe me_\n\n## _you owe me_\n\nas it happens it happens I forgot myself,\n\nwhat I knew of distance receding away\n\ninto more of itself to Cyprus and Woolwich.\n\nSome feeling is too much already I think,\n\nso much we can feel belongs to the gods\n\nwho are sulking, thin water our prayers\n\nthrough their hands, what with the river's tale\n\nand my shadow there small by my father's.\n\nSo much for childhood: grey boulders\n\nthe dale's length, the rainbow's high arc\n\nand the river's fast speech that runs\n\nthrough my life now. That was no dream\n\n## _it happens_\n\nnor am I awake nor am I asleep now\n\nin the walled city, the boy in me still\n\nbawling for love, and in me the animal\n\nprowling, and the shadow of my shadow,\n\nand the man I am sometimes a glimpse of\n\nalmost half human again, so where am I?\n\nWhere on the road was I distracted again\n\nno doubt by love when whatever was hunting\n\nthrough her eyes met in mine what I hunted\n\nthen down the landscape, the small firs\n\nthinning off to the valley, the flaw\n\nin the rocky distance far snow on Mt Taylor?\n\n## _Talking with the censor_\n\nIn me someone believes the tale I tell\n\nto distract from the night's terror:\n\ndiversions, dreams I don't wake from.\n\n'I want some place to be I'm not a problem.'\n\nLove forgive me I speak of dark things,\n\nmen's shabby concerns as to women,\n\nthrough the sad nights of the masturbators,\n\nthe fist always closed on the self.\n\nSome days I meet monsters, men I encounter\n\nin the house of green ginger, in myself\n\nas it happens, drawn up or caught short\n\nwith my father's lost knife in my hand.\n\n## _My father with two knives_\n\nOne he found shining in a furrow,\n\nred amber, bright German steel\n\nfallen from the sky, a blade grooved\n\nto thread air in a man's blood.\n\nIn a cold white room I recall him\n\nstaring that knife down all Sunday,\n\nhis one thought to be done, and I,\n\neight, at the curtain's lace edge.\n\nHis pocket knife I keep: bone black,\n\nbrass head, bird's eye for a rivet\n\nsighting the lifted beak of the blade \u2013\n\nuseful and home made as he was.\n\nLike him plain and of little speech,\n\ngiven to blunt surgery on sheep\n\nor whittling sticks any weather\n\nout on the hill's side, long ago now.\n\n## _Towards daylight:_\n\n_all this and the rain's endurance_\n\nLady I've aged, maybe you've aged me.\n\nWhat I wanted: to roost in the nest\n\nin the dark tree of your body.\n\nI'd live alone but who would I tell,\n\nalone as it happens. From this place\n\nmonths go looking for years and hands\n\nfor each other and night after night\n\nyour voice on the tape in my skull\n\npauses for breath, breathes, speaks\n\nyour name with my own, as it happens,\n\nas I grow old thinking of you.\n\n## _The bee dance_\n\nLet the grey dust thicken on the landings,\n\nlet the spiders tick in the wall,\n\nlet the locks rust and the keys be lost.\n\nThis is the yellow hive of my skull\n\nwhere the bees dance on the honeycomb\n\ntheir tales of direction and distance.\n\nThey tell how high the sun is, how far\n\nto sweet marjoram, borage and thyme,\n\nand the tall green masts of the sunflowers.\n\n# Cain's songs\n\nIf there's a tune no one remembers.\n\nThe words fall away and the voice\n\nremembers in bits, trailing out \u2013\n\n_O when you loved me_\n\n_When the wind in a garden_\n\n_When the carousel_\n\nIn our songs innocence comes back,\n\nour childhood some moment a throstle\n\nsang in the orchard at day's end,\n\nyou sat among blossoms and moths.\n\n_O when you loved me._\n\n_Till with love's fury I came_\n\n_to murderer's home._\n\nDon't I know you? Did we meet\n\nwhen last time you were victim,\n\nI the persecutor? Maybe.\n\n_For the prosecution:_\n\nI arrested him.\n\nHis reply was\n\n_I've got nothing to say._\n\nHe then said _Answer me truthfully officer_\n\n_how many pubs in Weymouth_\n\n_am I not banned from?_\n\nI said _None sir._\n\nIt was 9.10 p.m.\n\nHere's a man with a hammer\n\nbanging the sound under his fist.\n\nThe sound grows as it travels,\n\ndies down its wavelength.\n\nMaybe that's his wife he's beating,\n\nbeating with a hammer. Maybe\n\nwith the nails between his teeth\n\nand the hand and the hammer raised up.\n\nMaybe her. Maybe him. Maybe me.\n\nWhere love stays. Where\n\nthere are no prisons, no police.\n\nThat world you speak of, friend,\n\nlives in another song in a tune\n\nI can't recall, another tale\n\ntold at the road's turn where wind\n\nmoves among beeches. I know.\n\nI was there. The wind told me.\n\nGrieving the years out.\n\nI have made a room in the wind\n\nwhere the days grow tired of each other.\n\nIt is a weepy sound, my grief\n\nbut it is not weeping. Harsh,\n\nit is not anger with anyone.\n\nSo wide was my journey.\n\nThe moon shines on the sea,\n\nit does not intend to.\n\n# For the boys on the wing\n\nThey are birds some thought free once\n\non the wind's swing and air's drop.\n\nHours perched on the landing railings\n\nto be locked up to be glimpsed\n\namong bars and the meshed stale air,\n\nsometimes singing, their wings tucked.\n\nWe are entering silence,\n\ncloud closing the room's light\n\nand the radio music suddenly graver,\n\neach in his moment twoed-up\n\nor threed or alone with the brickwork\n\nhours, nights, years, sinners\n\nwhose proper life study is silence.\n\nAs ever: half a world hungry\n\nand the deployments continued, the swift\n\nplanetary surgery closer, it seems\n\nnot a damn thing we can dance to.\n\nForgive me directness,\n\nand the president his blindness.\n\nAnd the chairman his bullshitski.\n\nBlack and white with my own money.\n\nSo far they can't make my space less.\n\nRound and round anti-clockwise my project\n\nsilence but who would I say it to?\n\nBetween this ear and this ear I'm free.\n\nSo tell them, whose task is to despise me,\n\nwhose career to contain me, tell them\n\nwho call this hell we live here.\n\nOutside I was always\n\nlooking round for them \u2013\n\nchancers, dancers, addicts\n\nof the dark. So roundly\n\nall these are cursed men\n\nby their lovers, victims,\n\nconsensus of the deceased,\n\nand forever. _Worthy_ ,\n\n_worthy of praising_\n\none sings of his Jesus,\n\nanother finding at mass\n\nthe priest's hands moving\n\na moment of beauty,\n\nhis vernacular a holy\n\nrigmarole tale told of\n\nbread, wine, blood.\n\nThink of Billy. He'll not wince\n\npast the checkout. Think of John\n\noverdue in the remembering department,\n\nin the red to the last lost quid\n\nhidden in his shoe and that owing\n\nto Veiled Threats Associates. He recalls\n\na whole ocean cut to a wind and two blues.\n\nHe has pictures to prove it: the hills,\n\nthe harebells whipped by the first\n\nwind of September. Love I remember:\n\nyou were fierce, you persisted\n\nthrough whatever the weather was.\n\nBorn again to the wind's tap on brick.\n\nBorn again to the island of the self,\n\nthe same giggle in the orchestra pit,\n\nnights when the snake of her dark voice\n\nslides over me. She says all journeys\n\nhave no returns. The radio sings\n\n_She & I don't go to the laundrette no more_.\n\nHere's tansy the dried deathless flower,\n\nroses fallen on roots and I'm Orfus\n\nthe man who has everything calling back\n\nfrom the border and lost her forever,\n\nbringing no light back from the dead.\n\nThink of Az. Az says in the\n\nprison of the self he was born to\n\nhe's been here there and Zimbabwe,\n\nthe wire and the wall notwithstanding.\n\nWhat he feels that he feels is always\n\ndissolving. Let's say he matured late\n\nor tripped on the wrong foot, he was\n\n_victim victim_ , his luck never ran in.\n\nThough it's no excuse some days\n\nhe's the brain of a squeegee mop,\n\nhe says _You make the decisions, so now_\n\n_You figure it out: what to do with me._\n\nDon't say guilt, don't say innocent.\n\nSuspend disbelief. Say _the convicted._\n\nSay _the problem of male violence_.\n\nThe problem of abstraction, e.g.\n\nfreedom. Some went abroad\n\nto meet a bullet, some take\n\nthe tube train's last amendment,\n\nsome sleep with the rain and a knife,\n\nspiders caught in each other's webs.\n\nSo wide was my journey, like the bees.\n\nWe have no wings, our honey bitter,\n\nsour as green ginger, and for so much time\n\nwe make little at our trades at the\n\nsewing machine at the sewing machine\n\nwith the needle eyes rising and rising.\n\nSocial or solitary we're bees, we dance\n\nwithout partners or sense of direction.\n\nWe have silence. We have the many eyes\n\nof mosaic vision. And this herb.\n\n_This herb destroys worms_. Wormwood.\n\nMy footsteps come to the page edge.\n\nI glimpse him again, my violent father,\n\nknee deep in the landscape\n\ntill he'd had enough of it. Him\n\nwith all the other closed books\n\nwhose covers are soil, stone,\n\nthe long weeds by the allotments.\n\nI close him again for the last time.\n\nSo far to the wall to count bricks.\n\nSo we've a rich inner life have we?\n\nWhat I want is Gloucester Rd Anyplace.\n\nSingle. What I want is trains,\n\nand my face angled in wind, my hat\n\nblown away behind. I want to be\n\nin other bars asking what's this game\n\ncalled _Family Tissues_ , what to do\n\nwith these blank folded sheets?\n\nI want rain, the lamefoot doves\n\ncrowding city monuments, the traffic\n\nand the grainy flush of air in the tubes.\n\n# What the righteous don't know\n\nThey think only hot and cold\n\nand the dark we fall through.\n\nThey don't know life goes on in hell\n\nwhere there's work painting the brick,\n\nmaintaining the fabric, in the kitchens\n\npreparing the devil's marvellous picnics.\n\nWe've a roof over our heads,\n\nthree squares and it's steady\n\nif promotion comes slow. What\n\nthe righteous don't know:\n\nwe're their shadows,\n\nwherever they are in the light.\n\n# Bodies\n\nSome whose eyes I don't meet,\n\nhands I don't shake, one that cut\n\nNF in a man's back and left him\n\nchoke on his testicles, the knife\n\nstill in him and ran with the video.\n\nSome with no story to bring sleep\n\nor get supper and no tale\n\ntravellers repeat. He can say\n\n_I was responsible_ , can't say\n\n_I killed her, shot her, took an axe_\n\n_and cut her to pieces, sawed her up_\n\n_with the breadknife we'd used_\n\n_so many years cutting our bread._\n\nHe asks himself over and over\n\nwhat name her teeth had bit back\n\nin her long coming, her _tsunami_\n\nshe called it in the pluperfect.\n\nHow when he'd phoned she was\n\nnever at home so where was she?\n\n*\n\nCharged with looking at the building.\n\nIn evidence a white male in a dark Allegro.\n\nSome with a bottle, some with a needle.\n\nLate afternoon the white meat waggons\n\nroll in the day's catch, remanded\n\nwithout bail, some misfit, some vicious,\n\nthe accused to be numbered.\n\n*\n\nChalkie White, Metal Mickey, Spider Webb,\n\nso where be they now? Last seen\n\nwith Murphy of Shepherd's Bush Boots,\n\nhelping Sgt E.C.T. Brainfuck from Paddington Green.\n\nLast heard of on the block, on the book,\n\non the muffin run to Brixton.\n\nJust helping Bill with his enquiries.\n\nThis one's Bungalow: no top storey.\n\nThis one's Muzz. And this one\n\nsinging in the canteen clatter at noon\n\n_I'm nobody's child, I'm nobody's child._\n\n_And no wonder_ another voice calls\n\ndown the wing as the neon hush falls\n\nacross paperwork and it's two hours\n\nto unlock in the empire of the chinagraph.\n\nTime to reflect:\n\nhe hit her with a bottle,\n\na sewing machine, a chair, a tennis racket.\n\nOffered her the easy way with aspirin.\n\nHit her twice when once was twice enough.\n\nAt the centre of the labyrinth: a rose.\n\nAt the centre of the rose's labyrinth: a worm.\n\n# Timekeeper\n\n_It doesn't get worse_\n\n_It just goes on being bad_\n\nAs ever on the digital\n\nall the seconds my life\n\nI repeat one by one I\n\nrepeat myself: _so wide_\n\n_was my journey_. As ever\n\nno one to tell it to\n\nwhatever lies I write\n\nbetween the barred lines\n\non the page in the upright\n\niron of these letters, who\n\nto send them in any case?\n\nWhat we do here is count,\n\ncount, pencil in, turning\n\na smooth choreography \u2013 arm,\n\nchain, keys, whistle, Whisky\n\n2 on the walkietalkie, slam\n\nof the great gates shut \u2013\n\na century, more. Oh\n\nyou'll see me dance, some\n\ntime you'll hear me sing,\n\ntruth is we despise as we\n\ncount each other, as we\n\nstudy the clock's time\n\nticking _knockback knockback_ ,\n\nthe hours one by one on Sir\n\nand as ever it's a long time\n\nto the next number 9 bus and this\n\nurgent news out of nowhere.\n\n_I threw my blade._\n\n_It was a lucky shot._\n\n_It got him right off._\n\n_It killed him._\n\n_Or it was a unlucky shot._\n\n_I been here six years._\n\nHow divide how many ways\n\ncut up time, alone, paring\n\nthe fingernail, notching\n\nthe calendar, shaving\n\na match to a matchstick\n\nby stick to his Romany cart,\n\nwherein he would sail\n\nany lane as he chose\n\nor the slow wind suggested?\n\nThe days anti-clockwise\n\nwalking the yard count\n\nhow many miles, how much rain\n\nand what names for the birds\n\nwhich are two being _hawk_ ,\n\n_sparrowhawk, sparrow?_\n\nEach man here is a thread,\n\neach man is a needle\n\nstitching his tale told\n\nsilently over, already old.\n\nYoung as I am in this place\n\nwhispers run through me,\n\nnightcries, feet running\n\nand rumours. So I moved\n\nonce back in the old life\n\nthrough cities of women's\n\nremembrance and men's yarns\n\nwhere my name is a ghost,\n\nface barely recalled. Now\n\nmy road's closed I've years\n\nto prepare, to polish,\n\nrehearse my story for someone,\n\nanyone, no one, myself then.\n\n_The man I killed. I don't_\n\n_regret it: I'd kill him again._\n\n_But for a long time I'd look_\n\n_at the stars through the window_\n\n_and I'd see his face._\n\nThrough the judas you'll\n\nsee me reading or sleeping\n\nor staring into nothing\n\nat a gesture's midpoint,\n\nall my private dancing\n\nin public. Once more\n\nI free the bird my heart\n\nin the closed 8 by 12\n\nour space is, she and I.\n\nShe sings. She wakes me\n\nand flies at the little panes,\n\nthe yellow paint, the brick.\n\nBeyond glass and the wire\n\nof razor hair and stars,\n\ntraffic and the wind. They\n\nmake the sound a sea breaks\n\non beaches and the risen\n\ncrowd's roar in the stadium\n\nup on its toes. This side,\n\njust me and the budgie,\n\nlost as though long steering\n\nby one star quit the sky.\n\nAsleep I dreamed my heart\n\nthe dark star far away\n\nI long for and remember,\n\nall the stones between us.\n\nI tell her _no_ and tear\n\nthe star out of my chest,\n\n_don't you ever come see me._\n\n# At the solstice\n\nAs for me I'm free to ponder the crow\n\nmy voice blent in the day's wind\n\nsoft grey at my back. To the east\n\nstumpy London humming to itself\n\nblocks spires over the land's hump\n\ndistant finger of the Telecom tower\n\nmy needle's eye of the city my\n\nmarker for Baker Street. Out\n\non some errand some long ago want\n\nfor an open country talking out loud\n\nwith no one to hear. My good days\n\nare like this one into another just\n\ngetting about with an arm and a leg\n\ntwo of each if I'm lucky. Lucky I am\n\nwith my notes my keys to the prison\n\nI pass in and out I sing for my supper.\n\nIt could be otherwise. Years back\n\nin the paranoid self of myself\n\nI recall in the seventyeight of it all\n\nI would have killed a man and been here\n\nmeeting myself a prisoner on no road\n\nanywhere a record no one listens to\n\na book no one reads any more my gear\n\nout of style all the jokes out of date.\n\nYears in the dark mad half mad\n\nwhat would we say when the weather\n\nno longer matters the time the time\n\nany day what month what the season\n\nwhat game to play? Spot the psychopath.\n\nWhich man kills because he feels nothing\n\nand which when he never felt more\n\nwhich for gain which revenge to be done\n\nwhich accident which innocent as charged?\n\nWhat to say when the fear the blood\n\ndown the thickening tunnel the cave\n\nthe thump in the head the chest\n\nthe heart's labouring pump drums nights\n\nat the temple second by second\n\nsystole by dystole its promise\n\na last _jessica jessica_ fading off\n\non the cardiogram's blipless quiet\n\nunplugged at the wall next customer\n\ncaught in the panic that kills\n\nbolting from bed 3.00 a.m. in the soft\n\ncity's groan at the window the clock's\n\neven passing of time the birds\n\nbefore dawn the light's blue glaze\n\nin your sleeping face love I begin\n\nI start saying goodbye my wave of the sea.\n\nWormwood I grew. Tall in the feathering wind\n\nin my garden all summer taller the next\n\na pushy green bush small yellow cushions\n\na dusting of air. Wormwood you drew me.\n\nBitter plant. Absinthe and illusion.\n\nBeer made in the name of this district\n\nthere's none now an oak forest once\n\nscrub clearing last feeding of sheep\n\nbefore market. The long trains\n\nput on speed west go crying to Bristol\n\nto Plymouth the rocky rainy peninsulas.\n\nCrows rubbery avuncular here in the mist\n\nin the grass small peppermint snails.\n\n_Wormwood_ the name of the prison its wall\n\na pit dug in men's lives four hulks\n\nfour ships that never sail anywhere\n\nmoored in time in a dead space\n\nbetween the wire and the wall.\n\nThe name _Wormwood_ the star falling\n\ndestroys a third part of the waters\n\nthe third part of men. Goodbye heartsease.\n\nIn the nowhere waiting for a result\n\nhanging on to the empty urine bottle\n\nhoping for anything the bomb to drop\n\nthe knife to its tryst in the artery.\n\nIn the shadow land. And overhead\n\na helicopter in the broody air of August\n\nabove the keen abstractions and the facts\n\nthat are all bricks locks razor wire.\n\nWe fail as men where is no centre\n\nto the self, these many voices\n\nfailing in first person singular.\n\n_I've done two rapes_ a man whispers\n\n_but I'm here under another name_.\n\nI'm no father confessor. Here I am\n\ntoo many shades of blue already\n\nin the three-ring circus of myself\n\nthinking maybe I can hide in here\n\nwith all the other confessions\n\nin my study of male violence\n\nbut I can't. No more dancing\n\nfor this customer. No more\n\ncrossing town to drink Campari\n\nwith the daughters of the brown contessa.\n\nTime to say goodbye to the dark ladies.\n\nHere is where we leave the shoes.\n\nHere is where we leave the gloves\n\nthe hat the 44 the rolled umbrella.\n\nWe're pulling in your licence Jimmy.\n\nBricks made of clay. Clay dug\n\nin the river leas in the Thames flood plain\n\nbrick cut fired tapped to the trowel\n\ncoursed brick on brick making prison.\n\nPrisoners brickies once labourers\n\nthieves from the bridewell hard men\n\nfrom the Millwall to dig in the mud\n\ntheir own quarters the cells\n\nof all who came after men women\n\nconvicted walking the yard circles\n\nturning the mill hooded and ruled\n\nby silence. Boxed masked ranked\n\nof a Sunday sly in the cubicled church\n\npassing notes looking always front\n\nat priest and their maker condemned\n\nto brood on their criminal ways\n\nthey step in a chained procession\n\ndown time cuffed censored banged up\n\nthere is nothing to hope for. Bricks.\n\nWorm's Wood I invent. Old dark place\n\nunder the treecover of oak and sycamore\n\nbushy scree tangle of briar thornwood\n\nmen are lost in. Wood of _straunge wormes_\n\nsnagging men's ghosts caught earthbound\n\nin the ongoing assault that is prison\n\nthe failed university of time the first\n\nlast faith called fear. Everything\n\nsharp blades fists in the recess\n\na kicking an ear bitten off here's\n\nan edge takes an eye a finger a pencil\n\na razorblade jammed in a toothbrush.\n\nAnd no maps no signs again no way out\n\neach shadow casting its shadow.\n\nMy journey can end here I can\n\ndie be forgotten lie unconsoled\n\nin the brown city clay any time\n\na fate common reasonable even so what?\n\nI could be anyone the wood-goer Nick\n\nI have almost a name for him _Nick_\n\nwho moves in out the nightmares\n\ndown the landings of the sleepers\n\nsleepless fingering the dreams\n\nthe convicted whisper each celled\n\ndark bricked barred lonely alone\n\nforever maybe lost most likely\n\nI could be him: say Nicholas Wildman\n\na fox for instance the very same man\n\nJohn known as Marsbar alias Professor\n\na.k.a. Jack be Nimble Jack be Quick.\n\n# The night whispers\n\n_(for John and all the men in the world called John)_\n\n#### 1\n\n_There was a friend of mine,_\n\n_used to offer me a cigarette._\n\n_On a Tuesday_. John was talking.\n\nHe was saying what he hears, his ear\n\npressed along the wall along the wing.\n\n_Time's all there is_ he says, flat,\n\nto one side, every second word\n\nwhat he'll never do again with women.\n\nHe'll take a light off me though.\n\nHe's the man that ate boiled ham raw.\n\nHe'll take on a sliced loaf single handed.\n\nTime is the crease in his pants I think,\n\npressed as in the army under the mattress.\n\nJohn keeps himself neat. He knows\n\nhow quick they'll spirit him away\n\nin a bodybag along the stairs before unlock.\n\nHe says he heard the screw say _One Off Sir_.\n\n_It's time._\n\nTime he looks back from morning after morning,\n\nhis face changing in the same mirror.\n\nTime is the razorblade, the comb's teeth\n\nand the measure of the toothpaste. Time he eats,\n\nshits, drinks, is sometimes merry in,\n\nthe fallen grey he lifts off his shoulder.\n\nTime scuffs the shoe and blunts all the nails.\n\nIf there were no nights there'd be no fear.\n\nTime I could handle but all this dark stuff\n\neither side between the light and the light.\n\n_Time is what._\n\n_Time is._\n\nHe tells me what he hears in the night whispers\n\nthrough pipework and brickwork, bars and the hard gloss,\n\nand he writes down the messages: _Oddy's on the roof._\n\n_The nurses are having a party. It's in._\n\n_All it costs are little pictures of the Queen._\n\n_Oh and love he says. Love Love Love's_\n\nfaint echo on the landings, through the masonry\n\non a thin late airwave _Love_ running down the batteries,\n\nsinging on a bent guitar\n\n_Lost in the saddle again._\n\nAh, John.\n\nLost in time both of us talking about love,\n\na word born over again and again in the prison house\n\nwhere so many with their hands killed love,\n\nand then the dark came down forever. So now\n\nbehind the yellow wall and the yellow fence\n\nwhere the wind in a scatter of old leaves\n\nbeats the wire to security, the dogs howl\n\nmoonward and the champion dopesniffer Duke\n\nsleeps on but John when he sleeps never dreams.\n\nTime is what it is. The protagonist is mad again,\n\nlost in some mean southern border town\n\nall barber shops and bars and far too many shoes.\n\nI've been out again beating my heart on the wind,\n\nand maybe this time John we never get home\n\nand the journey ends here and time's all there is.\n\nThe idea is don't die in prison John,\n\nin this part of the nightmare.\n\n#### 2\n\nMy brother calls me from the world's other side\n\nand never said which city. He's been robbed,\n\nhe's broke, homeless, out of a job and 48,\n\nhe's drunk in the wrong house and whose phone is it\n\nand I fear my brother will die in the wind.\n\nHe says he's glad dirty money from a dirty job\n\nwent to a dirty place to buy a dirty girl junk.\n\nWherever morning is I hope he'll still be glad.\n\nHe'll send an address when he has one.\n\nSo now you know the plot. Fox is away\n\nin Australasia waiting for the cops,\n\nand when he called I was thinking about John\n\nand what he tells me: _many things_\n\n_will never happen_. As for me\n\nI've been too close too long to the damned\n\nand can't leave, lost as they are in time,\n\non my wordtrack covering the territory,\n\nalways in the dark thinking I've a lucifer\n\nwhen I'm far too near the wire when the lights go up\n\nand I'm lost in the saddle again.\n\nTake me home, love, my scars and all my alibis\n\nand my bad manners and whatever wounds we die of.\n\nIf you can find me. My name is John.\n\nMaybe you can love what will be left of me.\n\nTake me out of this prison.\n\n# Carteret plage\n\nI came to tell you my feather:\n\nat the marina so many bells,\n\nso many voices coming ashore\n\nsaying _listen we have nothing_\n\n_to say beyond who we are_ :\n\nold business the wind works\n\nthrough the slack riggings\n\nof boats laid up for winter,\n\neach the one note clapped\n\non the incoming wind, slap\n\nof metal on mast, wave on hull,\n\nrope on the rain an orchestra\n\nof random notes moored where\n\nalways this was the river,\n\nfor someone the waters of home.\n\nMy blue feather. On the beach\n\nso many lives feathered into being\n\nand out of it. And so much\n\ninteresting foreign detritus\n\nin the rubbery scourings\n\nin the kelp's piled tripes\n\nweary with flies in summer.\n\nEverywhere a tangle of guts,\n\ncrabs, starfish and bladderwrack,\n\nthe weeds of abandoned brains,\n\ntumours, dropped masks, amputations\n\nand all the bloody murders ever\n\nending in string, ripped nets,\n\nhooks, driftwood and the wreck\n\nof the good ship _One blue glove_\n\n_Quatre-vingt je ne sais quoi,_\n\n_Merde de lapin s.v.p. Ce poisson-\u00e7i,_\n\n_c'est une seule nucl\u00e9are n'est-ce pas?_\n\n_Mes enfants, ma langue c'est fini,_\n\n_je suis en vacances, apr\u00e8s la guerre,_\n\nnot permitted to be bored or to work.\n\nMine is a country of small cheeses,\n\nhere I live in a bordello of cheese\n\nand white Muscadet with the widow\n\nof Arromanches, perhaps I'm a man\n\nother men would like to be like\n\nbut they keep their distance,\n\n_ces enfants que le bonheur oublie._\n\nIt's late _et la clef c'est fini_\n\n_dans la chambre priv\u00e9e,_\n\n_et Monsieur Toledo bonne nuit._\n\nMy blue feather. Falling.\n\nIn the quick wind. If the wind\n\nturn you round, blow you west\n\ndown the rowdy Atlantic\n\nand out of yourself, my bride,\n\nmy blue feather. By night\n\non the dark edge of water\n\nI hold you consulting my text\n\nthat says here _a wise man_\n\n_holds out_. Do we think\n\nthe rock thinks forming the slow\n\nthought of itself that dissolves?\n\nThe wind off the sea, steady.\n\nOn the quays faces of Vikings,\n\non the beach wayward paths\n\nsecretly marked by stones,\n\nby the track of a dog,\n\nthe snake tongue of seaweed\n\nspelling your name in cursive\n\nin a scribble of wormcasts,\n\nand the doll's burst head,\n\nfrom her bleached broken face\n\na single blue eye staring seaward.\n\n# [FROM  \nTHE HEART, THE BORDER](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(1990)**\n\n# In the Evangelical Cemetery, San Michele, Venice:\n\nSacred to the memory of\n\nArchibald Campbell\n\nMaster of the SY Minerva\n\nWho died on board\n\nMarch 17 1891\n\nAged 56\n\n*\n\n_The heart knoweth its_\n\n_own bitterness, and the_\n\n_stranger intermeddleth_\n\n_not therewith._\n\n# Dorothea Extempore\n\n_I am a citizen of an incurious land_. While everything changes, this does not change: we accept the customs of our ancestors. We are born, we are named. From infancy to adolescence it is explained to us, patiently, over and over, what are the three things we must do, and this is our whole education and all our lives thereafter: first we must plant a tree, and second we must begin to make a rope. Thus each of us has a rope, each of us has a tree. For each, the rope's first thread is the umbilical that spun us from our mothers, and as we grow we must gather and plant the seeds to grow the hemp to make the fibre from which to spin the braids of the rope, weaving into it the stray hair of all those we love and some we do not love and some \u2013 it turned out \u2013 who never loved us. Making such a rope takes many years. Meanwhile we must tend the tree: the roots, the trunk, the bark, the branches, twigs, the leaves, the fruit and the seeds, and whatever birds and animals and insects live among them, the dawn singers and the evening moths, the cicadas in their long cycles down among the roots for 17 years, and whatever plants grow there in the shade. Later, when we and the trees are grown tall enough and the rope grown long enough, we learn what is the third thing we must do: we must take one and hang ourselves on the other. And somehow sooner or later, one way or another, each of us ends up doing just that. \n\n# Writing in prison\n\nYears ago I was a gardener.\n\nI grew the flowers of my childhood,\n\nlavender and wayside lilies\n\nand my first love the cornflower.\n\nThe wind on the summer wheat.\n\nThe blue glaze in the vanished woods.\n\nIn the space of my yard I glimpsed again\n\nall the lost places of my life.\n\nI was remaking them. Here in a space\n\nsmaller still I make them again.\n\n# Greetings from the Winter Palace\n\nOnce he'd won a medal, he had a letter\n\nproved it. He'd had a wife and a wedding.\n\nHe came and went, talking with his hands,\n\nwith all his names and all of them lies, alibis.\n\nCall him Bob, call him Bounce, call him Dodge,\n\nhe's up again and down again. He says\n\nbeneath his breath _if you want to know the time_\n\n_ask a policeman_. He has a problem and a needle\n\nand he steals to keep it sharp. He writes\n\nfrom his next station of the cross\n\n_I'm in the Ville not treading on the star._\n\n_I dream of snow, of Acapulco, any fix._\n\nAnd then he's fading to a scrawl, the number\n\nthat he goes by, gesture of his mouth,\n\nhis hands folding on his hands. Then he's gone,\n\nanother junkie, another star no light comes back from.\n\n# Jack's postcards\n\nJust a line of posts along the baymouth,\n\nand the tide out. And I'm supposed to know\n\nwhat they mean, this ship, this flag,\n\nboth departing on the horizon, this message.\n\nI'm being tested. I'm under observation,\n\ninterpreting these picture postcards\n\nsent by the nuns from Inveraray: _wish you_\n\n_were here. But we pray for you._\n\nPictures of cool green woods,\n\na thirst forever slaked beside the river,\n\na minaret, a market and a leaning tower,\n\nand in the distance more the same \u2013\n\nthe sunset over palms and best regards\n\nfrom Disney World. You should know\n\nthe censor's on my shoulder always,\n\nlike the poor, like my angel, striking\n\nwhat I cannot say in any case: does love\n\nstill hold each others' hands, does the heart burn,\n\nor is the universe a glossy magazine\n\nand all the polished girls bone china bright?\n\n# The pornographer\n\nThree things the shrink said: he feared everyone,\n\nhe invented himself in everyone he met,\n\nhe feared sex. He'd pointed a camera at it\n\nand ended up in jail, so much hot dry flesh\n\non the cold, burned-out eye of the lens.\n\nFor himself he loved no one, no one loved him.\n\nThey close their eyes, these lovers he's hired,\n\nas if they were alone. They can act\n\nno better than the rest of us, the way\n\nthey do it no one ever gets pregnant.\n\nWatching, you wonder what the fees are,\n\nwho thought of Mozart by the Rome Symphony,\n\nwhat they're on, what they say later\n\nover coffee, cigarettes, Courvoisier\n\nwashing out the sweet spermy taste.\n\nSo this is how it is: flesh hungering for flesh,\n\nfingers and tongues and all the cries,\n\nso much juicy footage and white noise,\n\nthe soundtrack whimpering as if all life\n\nwanted to be one and come again again,\n\nsmearing itself in itself. Meanwhile,\n\nback at the big house the master with the maid,\n\nthe manservant with mother and daughter,\n\nand the plot minimal. Like so many lives.\n\nSad thing for him this is the real thing.\n\n# Figures in three landscapes\n\n## One: _Brady at Saddleworth Moor_\n\nOne: Brady at Saddleworth Moor\n\nOut, this is air, abrupt and everywhere,\n\nthe light and sky all one blaze of it.\n\nCount them: eleven clear hours of wind\n\nover the world's tops into my face \u2013\n\nthis old bleached-out moon always adrift\n\nthrough the bad dreams of the neighbourhood.\n\nIn my ten thousand days I count this day:\n\n_the moor, all its space and vastness_\n\nI hear them say I say. I find nothing\n\nin all four corners of the wind\n\nwhere stones haven't changed, tumps, gullies\n\none blue blur of heather and upland grass\n\nwhere one grave looks much like another.\n\nThink how many years the rain fell I felt\n\nmy heart in my chest a fist of sour dust\n\nforming in the acids of my discontent.\n\nBut it knows one thought: nothing's forgot\n\nthough my vision's bad, my sanity debatable.\n\nI can forget, I can remember, I can be mad,\n\nI will never be as free again, ever.\n\nNor will anyone be free of me. Count on it.\n\n## Two: _Hungerford nights_\n\nBefore you get through this, before\n\nthe next page, before the next breath\n\nyou catch is the last breath:\n\nthe assassin's device has found you.\n\nHis knife of a heart has emptied your own.\n\nThereafter down the rest of the page: blood,\n\nthe book unreadable, plotless,\n\nthe tale of a man with a Kalashnikov.\n\nHow he soothes and greases it, nights\n\nin the garden shed, a boy with a stick\n\nin the bathroom mirror of his mind.\n\nWhat he read, wore, saw on the video.\n\nThe symbols slip into their metal shoes,\n\noils groove the mechanism into one\n\nprecision-milled moment, rapid fire\n\nalong the High St and you're dead.\n\nAnd you're dead. And you're dead.\n\nHimself he had difficulty with.\n\nIt ends with 16 red roses on his coffin,\n\none for each victim, like any cowboy.\n\nHis ashes scattered in an unknown place.\n\n## Three: _Murder at White House Farm_\n\nSo who am I now, falling nowhere\n\non my black wing in the black wind\n\ncalling my cry: _Innocent Innocent,_\n\n_may where was a murderer now grow a rose?_\n\nCan you find me, framed in a photograph\n\nin the surf's eye on the world's other side,\n\nriding the incoming water? I'm locked up now\n\nin the grey tide of my heart's only season.\n\nSinging my orphan song _Pity me Pity me,_\n\nsurvivor of all I slaughtered, my years\n\nclosing before, the steel gates behind\n\nI imagine a rose. I think of a kiss.\n\nI consider the indifference of objects:\n\nthe knife killed a man carves bread\n\nin his kitchen, the hammer\n\nthat clubbed him goes on sinking nails.\n\nHere the clever ones dance and the smart ones\n\nsteal their money. We all go to the wall\n\nknown as _Anyone else_ , and the stars\n\nwander on in their merciless courses.\n\nAnd no one calls out the seeds, we're all\n\nGod's wayward apprentices, miracles once,\n\nthereafter mundanely repeated,\n\na lie telling a lie till one size fits all.\n\nAnd all the words beyond this say farewell.\n\n# Against the grain\n\nSomeone must count them, the bodies that come up\n\none by one out of the fire, up from\n\nthe gloomy cradle of the North Sea\n\nthat has weighted and washed them, months.\n\nSomeone must number them, name each one\n\nby the fingerprints, the rings, by the teeth,\n\nsomeone must stare at the remnants of the dead\n\nfrom Zeebrugge, Kings Cross, Piper Alpha:\n\n_more oil there than under all Arabia_ ,\n\nI recall long ago, _that we bought and paid for_.\n\nWe're dying of neglect. My country\n\nis a free enterprise disaster zone.\n\nAnd now someone must count them all: _one, one_.\n\nSomeone must zip them into a bag\n\nand bury them, tally the ongoing total,\n\nput up a stone. It goes against the grain.\n\n# Three Docklands fragments\n\n## 1 _The Enterprise Zone_\n\nOn my birthday the snow wind\n\nbringing feathery rain, a fine dust\n\nfalling on the edge of crystal.\n\nI take the grey road along the river\n\nwhere pass lives sadder than yours, mine,\n\nslow death in the tower blocks.\n\nThese are the Silvertown Blues,\n\n_Fight the Rich_ ghosting out\n\nin concrete, by the flyover.\n\nNo one ever gets straight here.\n\nThe ego's tale of itself is miserable,\n\nnothing much happens but murder.\n\nYet that these wastes be repeopled\n\nand the rich inherit, everyone's\n\nmoving downriver. This is _the zone_ ,\n\ncarved from the sour and floury air\n\nof London's residuary body,\n\nfilling with cranes and dust\n\nand the racket of money being made,\n\nand there's nothing to say but to say\n\nto myself _Thou bone, brother bone. You old bone._\n\n## 2 _Of things to come_\n\nDown the Bendy Road to Cyprus and Custom House\n\nwhere the new cities rise from the drawing-boards\n\nand the ghosts-to-be of George in his Capri,\n\nJoJo in her birthday suit drinking white wine with soda\n\nfly in from Paris for the weekend. Later\n\nthey'll gather with friends by the marina.\n\nLater they'll appreciate the view of the river.\n\nLater they'll jive to the mean mad dance of money\n\nbetween the tower blocks over the runway\n\namongst the yachts already moored in the development.\n\n## 3 _Yuppy love_\n\nWhat he calls her: my little pocket calculator\n\nmy fully portable my VDU my organiser my mouse\n\noh my filofax my cellnet my daisywheel.\n\nWhat he dreams driving home at the wheel\n\non the brimming motorway: her electronics\n\nthe green screen of her underwear her digital display.\n\nOh my spreadsheet he groans in the night:\n\nmy modem my cursor lusting after her floppies\n\nwanting her printout her linkup her entire database.\n\n# The New Management\n\n_(after Sean O'Brien, in his manner)_\n\nIt's best they look tough in blue suits,\n\nlike police. They are anyway,\n\nordering the lights up, the heat down,\n\nand you redundant. _We're letting you go,_\n\nthey say, _You're not in our cost centre._\n\nAnd you're not. You're out on the city's\n\nskinny peripheries in the landscape\n\nof windy bungalows. You don't live here\n\nand of course it is raining. Entropy\n\nwas against you from the start and now\n\nwhen you can't play the flute there's\n\nonly departure's uncountable sadness.\n\nAnd they're watching. In other times\n\nthey marched in with banners and speeches,\n\nread the new rules in their own rough tongue,\n\nshot hostages, put up the salt tax.\n\nNow they wear suits and the leader says\n\n_stand up, sit down_ and everyone dances.\n\nThey move to the music of money and leave\n\nwithout introductions. Fact is\n\nthey're the missing witnesses to an accident\n\nstanding in the shade of the portico\n\nto one side at the victim's funeral\n\nin the Italian gardens, in dark glasses,\n\nwhere one sniffs the roses, one shrugs,\n\nanother fondles a cigar he will smoke\n\nover coffee, checking the till rolls,\n\nlater, the printout, the bottom line.\n\nWhich is you, wandering the empty quarter,\n\nwhere you meet no one, you find nothing,\n\nyou return with no answers, only grit\n\nin your teeth and a long thirst to slake.\n\n# Running on empty\n\n_What's it like?_ they ask.\n\nLots of space debris I reply: this music\n\nhas been written by psychologists.\n\n'My name is Vera Lute, from Truth or Consequences.'\n\nSome wander all their days\n\nand never find the river.\n\nSo many lives are wasted and no one knows why.\n\nThat sounds to me like a crime.\n\nTell the BBC in confidence,\n\ntell the golfing correspondent from _Angling Times_ :\n\nthere were days when my heart was sore\n\nand it always seemed to be raining.\n\nNow there's too much to be angry about,\n\nand no one left to forgive.\n\nI'm the atheist at the bishop's conference.\n\nI'm the fly in the ointment on the wall.\n\nOn and on down the dirty decades.\n\nNothing as described in the brochure,\n\nas promised on the party platform\n\nand nothing but bullshit to listen to.\n\nMy country is falling off the back of a lorry\n\nbut I bear you no malice, Alice.\n\nWhat I'm in is chagrin. It's late,\n\nI'm out on the road, running on empty.\n\nAnd I'm calling you in.\n\nI'm calling you in.\n\n# Imaginary confrontations\n\n_What a strange world_ Mother says,\n\nstepping back into the room. We're still\n\ntalking about our sons \u2013 tall, handsome,\n\nsaying _just leave me be now Mother_.\n\n_That drink looks like a hedgehog_\n\nthe cowboy says. Turning to me:\n\n_is this your crow? You're as much use_\n\n_as one trouser_ I reply, _as half a pair of gloves_.\n\nWith that he puts _The Inferno_ into his pocket\n\nand gallops off across the map of Colorado,\n\n_I'm only here as an observer_ he announces.\n\n_I'm only part of the wiring in the wind._\n\n_This phone's bugged_ I say into the phone,\n\n_and this dream's rigged_ , to the people\n\nliving in the fibreoptic I've never met\n\nwho overhear us. Who knows who they talk to?\n\nThese days we talk funny, on the TV\n\ndiscussing racket abuse in Latin America.\n\nSuddenly I remember you in the bikini area,\n\nand forget you again, wiping your tape into silence.\n\nAfter the hurricane: how are things\n\nin your wreck of the woods? Does the censor\n\nknow about you or were you educated locally?\n\nAnswers on a postcard. Wake me if I'm dreaming.\n\n# Intercepted letters: Harry inside\n\nThese words with difficulty, friend.\n\nIt's been a while. So little happens\n\nthrough the slow harvests of time,\n\nthe abrupt inflexible silence at my door\n\nthere's no getting round. I make lists.\n\nI add up columns of imaginary numbers.\n\nI ponder the inscrutability of dice,\n\ncards, horses, men. Maybe in the night\n\none thought thinks itself in my brain's\n\nslow stunned contemplation of itself:\n\nsuch a busy machine. It begins one end\n\nof the room, it sweeps inch by inch\n\nto the door then back again, it sifts\n\nthe junk, it inspects each matchstick,\n\nfinger paring, print, drop of blood,\n\npollen grain, every other dead roach.\n\nIt considers for, against, if, but,\n\nmaybe, and all I might have said, done.\n\nIt remembers what love was, the wind,\n\nthe banners of the seagrass, the old wheat\n\nthat was childhood, flesh falling\n\ninto flesh and the wars over, a moment.\n\nIt leaves nothing out and spares none of me,\n\nthe keys, locks, all the bricks, pipes,\n\nbars, years, papers in the wind,\n\nand all there never is to sing about,\n\nto say nothing of the weather. What I do now\n\nI keep my nose clean, a clean shirt\n\non the heating pipe and every day I work\n\nmopping the wounds that go on being wounds\n\nas the war goes on, day by day, so long now\n\nwe don't say _the war_ any more.\n\n# Intercepted letters: Harry on the road\n\nWith one mighty bound I'm free, on the road\n\nsouth and north, back from the border,\n\n\u2013 skint again. I should be glad and am\n\nyet each day I grow heavy, day by day\n\nsinking closer to the earth's core.\n\nEvenings the lights come on in the bars\n\nwhere I'm no longer in residence\n\namong the sour faces of the whisky drinkers,\n\nmen married to their fists, always hungry,\n\nstaring after the heels of women,\n\nliving in the ventilation system,\n\nin the tape's hiss in the stereo.\n\nThat's how it is at the border:\n\nours an insanity we barely control,\n\na life all one fit of bad temper.\n\n_I saw fiend grab tot_ says the SUN.\n\nI shall consider the ambivalence of a hat.\n\nOh I know, I'm all over this story,\n\nI'm in and out the mask of myself.\n\nAll these words have been twice lost,\n\nonce in prison and once at the border.\n\nThey came home like me hungry in the rain.\n\nThere's where I met her: the drowned bride\n\nin the bleak water, up from the country\n\nfrom the deep freeze for the weekend's\n\nbrief encounter with imaginary friends.\n\nHow she moves I think she's the air\n\ndressed in itself, she's shaped\n\nlike good bread, like geography\n\nI'm lost in with other men like me.\n\n# Back from Leah's country\n\nIt's true I was in love: with the roads,\n\nwith the dry river-beds and the canyons,\n\nJoshua trees, mountains, sky, woods, snowline.\n\nAnd you. We ran away together. Years ago.\n\nIt's true long after I'd look at your name\n\nin secret, its winged calligraphy of wind,\n\nsmoke riding the air I dissolved in,\n\nvanishing into the dark signature of your hair.\n\nIt's true I fucked you with my blood.\n\nIt's true later your name was a thought\n\nthat ran out. With you I was like you\n\nwithout plan, without blueprint.\n\nLike the cactus the repetition\n\nof segments of itself, over and over.\n\n_I hate maps_ you said, and went off\n\ninto the desert expecting me to follow.\n\nYou would have taken me to Spider Mother's House\n\nand filled me with your version of yourself.\n\nYou would have kept me in a room below the earth\n\nand wrapped me in your silk till I was clean,\n\ndivided in departments of myself. It's true,\n\nI was five parts hot air and no water\n\nin the empty space between the slices of bread.\n\nIt was your darkness I was in love with.\n\nThen when I came back I was mad, dumb,\n\nlovesick, still drowning in the dry waterless air\n\nof Leah's country. Now I'm myself\n\nright side up there's even less to say about it.\n\nWe are what the rain sees, never\n\nwhere we are but somewhere yesterday,\n\nsome other place we're on the way to,\n\nanticipation turning into memory.\n\nThese events are put together backwards\n\nfrom hints, shreds of evidence and hearsay,\n\nrestricted information, bias measured out\n\ninto the tight little shoes of language.\n\nAnd it's too late to learn anything from them.\n\nSo there's an end to the affair.\n\nDon't write. It's true this silence lasts\n\nuntil we die. Let's not be friends.\n\n# The spectator's terrace, Gatwick\n\nMaybe I came to consider distance,\n\ndepartures, the hole in the sky\n\nwhere plane after plane vanishes\n\ninto its promise of exotic arrivals.\n\nOn the ground the rain hisses,\n\nthe air sings with spent fuel,\n\ntravellers, strangers, saying _honey_\n\n_it's best we both get insurance_.\n\nThink of the miles of wiring,\n\nthe valves, pumps, connections,\n\nblips on the radar, bolts\n\nthat shake loose, metal fatigue.\n\nUp here on the spectator's terrace,\n\nsmug, aloof, not going anyplace,\n\nI hang out with the cognoscenti\n\non a ten-visit ticket for \u00a32.50.\n\nWe inhabit the buffet,\n\nbright city of darkened glass behind wind,\n\ndreaming there's somewhere\n\nto get to, anywhere else.\n\nHere's where the blood clot strikes\n\nand the end of all memory.\n\nHere's where we all go out\n\nin that grey sky the breeze is.\n\n# Then the heart\n\nIn the spring, working up and down\n\nthe enterprise zone, over the mountains\n\nand over the mountains from one sea\n\nto the other: sudden panic, in the chest's\n\nleft pocket a sharpness persisting into pain,\n\nfear of more of it: of death's knife\n\nand a surgeon's chainsaw to the breast,\n\nand beyond the old fear it always was \u2013\n\nsome moment I will die, and the universe\n\ngo on making light of itself.\n\nSuch an arrogance night after night\n\nkeeps me awake so I hang black hours\n\non my heart's thump and blood beat\n\nat the sour lip of oblivion, in fear\n\nthat asleep I'll not wake to the last star,\n\nthe lost dream, the first birds of morning,\n\nanother day to write Tuesday's sonata,\n\nWednesday's epitaph, Saturday's lists\n\nand my cherished Ode to a Month of Sundays.\n\n* *\n\nThis pain: a crowbar to the chest. Small men\n\nin black suits at the meeting of my ribcage\n\nare forcing a door, muttering in a language\n\nwithout a word for _No_. Now I can say\n\nhow Tom Thumb felt in the giant's fist\n\nand what the cut worm won't forgive,\n\nwhat the vampire howls with the stake\n\nto the far side of his screaming. This pain\n\nbegins at the horizon, it begins\n\npromising only more of itself, then\n\ndown the distance's swift oncoming\n\ntakes on the sudden likeness of wolves\n\nin a slick dark river of fur pouring east\n\nthrough the breastbone, left at the rib,\n\nbunched down the shoulder, the arm, elbow,\n\nwrist, knucklebones and out down the fingers\n\ngnarled all the way, and beyond\n\nmore wolves coming.\n\nThen it stops\n\nlike a toothache lugged all weekend\n\nat last to the dentist, folds to a bat\n\nhanging upside down in the ribs' raft,\n\na far off murmur of wolves, a snarling.\n\n* *\n\nI have no beginning. I arrived\n\nin a white room of frightened men\n\nsweating it out in white sheets. Here\n\nin my skull I've this voice: the prompt,\n\npilot and navigator, backseat driver\n\nyelling what to do. And my father\n\nthe northern puritan nagging _Work_.\n\n_Do something useful, son_. It began\n\nbeing his voice but now it is mine,\n\nthe disease of the pale Europeans\n\nwith their spades and measuring rods.\n\nIt killed him. It will kill me.\n\nInsomniac, all my life a rehearsal,\n\nmy heart counting time at its post\n\nnot to miss the very last moment \u2013\n\nthe trumpets, the strutting horses,\n\nthe drums and the brass band's last\n\n_Abide with me_ falling all at once\n\nfrom the world without one more word,\n\nthereafter part of the dust on the landings,\n\nthe full stop any time now where\n\n_to cease_ must at last cease itself.\n\n_hush, now._\n\nWhy not here as at the beginning, circled\n\nby these good women, among these pillows\n\nand these clean white sheets, \u2013 so much care,\n\nso much love in the scrubbed soft fingers\n\nof the nurses, all of them so many colours\n\nthat are all of them blue? Why not here\n\namong these sweet blue lilies?\n\n* * * *\n\nI have no beginning. Each day\n\nis a beginning, an ending, a victory.\n\nEach day a defeat. When I sleep\n\nit is far back in the cave of myself\n\nand I bring nothing back but the dream\n\nof the hollow tree of my own curled self.\n\nSome days I hold one thought, the blackbird\n\non the chimney singing we say\n\n_his heart out_ across the roofs\n\nand washing lines of London's east,\n\nwhere I find myself again. This is\n\nthe summer of my unfinished symphony,\n\na life cut back to the domestic bone,\n\nchasing flies out of the kitchen,\n\nthe cerebral existence of a sparrow\n\neating grains, nuts, bits of green.\n\nSo farewell to the dancing. No more\n\ngetting drunk with the lost boys\n\ntelling the old tales: _how I lost my heart,_\n\n_how it broke, bled, how I gave it away_\n\nyou say _easily_. All these years\n\nit was only the proud pump in my chest\n\nsigning in moment by moment. Now\n\nit has missed some of its step. Now when I say\n\n_I love_ with my whole heart what you get\n\nis bruised, scarred, some part of it dead now.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThere were so many names, so many voices.\n\nNow when I need it where is my voice,\n\nfor instance sitting in a train I try\n\ncounting my heart among so many beats,\n\nand always my potential to drift off\n\ninto some other life and never come home.\n\nSomeone was here, where I am, the one\n\nthey call _the heavy breather, Sobersides_.\n\nI have parts of his memory and think\n\nhe was more fun than I am, muttering\n\nmy way through the dark, frightening\n\nthe children. As for him he couldn't hear\n\nwhat his heart said, too busy killing himself\n\nand at the end with one last cigarette,\n\none last double and one last madman's dance\n\nsang farewell the music. Telling his tale\n\na life he did not live he was never\n\nat the event, at the feast with the candles.\n\nNow wherever he is that I was, wrecked maybe\n\non some beach with the rest of the flyblown\n\nplastic detritus, living under a rusty tub\n\nwith the name gone forever from its side,\n\nwhen here I am answering his letters,\n\npaying his bills, signing books he wrote,\n\npicking up his pieces, sitting in his shed\n\nall summer long, writing _Heart_\n\n_like the fennel root. Heart_\n\n_like a great horseradish. Heart_\n\n_like a loaf of hot bread new minted_\n\n_from the oven, keep beating,_\n\n_brave messenger, bearing news of yourself._\n\n# First echo\n\nI recall the high trees rocking in the wind,\n\nacross the road where the soldiers drilled.\n\nThey learned their trades there, and went to war.\n\nBeyond was unknown country, fields and distance\n\nwhere the sun went out\n\nOne day my shout\n\namong the tall trees found its echo there,\n\nbouncing my name back among the elms,\n\ncalling and calling at the house back\n\nand a second out of time the voice of _not-me_ ,\n\nrepeating all I said though what I said\n\nwas only _I, I, I am..._\n\nHow does anyone write anything?\n\nHow do they begin, in what gesture,\n\nin what moment of a prayer, the pen\n\nto the paper? What would anybody say?\n\n# Braille transcripts\n\n#### 1\n\nWinter comes to the northern plains, winds tearing the landscape, searing the leaves then stripping them. Rust is on the dust, an edge on the sedge and the party is truly over. Find me if you can in all this whiteness, in the cries of birds flying south, the patterns frost makes on the window's glass. I'm here, somewhere. Find me.\n\n#### 2\n\nThe octet for strings, then applause like the rain. 'Rain falls every day here in our lives, with fog from the river but rain chiefly on this rainy coast': the barman telling his tales I listening to what I shall call his _Reflection of a Tenpin Bowler:_ under his foot the bone growth and new hip are one with the pelvic swirl, stop, foot stamped down and away that ball went into a full deck, he made money that way, again turning to the optic and repeating _but the rain, the rain on this accursed coast_. St Petersburg that's where he'd rather be, _one day_ he says. Just switch on the TV, plug in the phone and the air conditioning and bet down the line. _That's living_ he says. Away from the endless rain.\n\n#### 3\n\nSimple returns: we plant snowdrops, tulip, crocus and daffodils, against spring. Tom-next-door's dead and his apples sour, and Johnny-two-doors-up was beaten and robbed, in this quiet neighbourhood. So where is that song I sang once, moments a bird homed in the sky and the river in its valley? Where did that poetry go to, a shore of only the waves' long arrivals? It grows late and darker in the year, I grow older eating a poor man's feast of beans for my supper, reluctantly.\n\n#### 4\n\nIndian summer. The road flecked with gold, the plane trees full of birds, their songs flooding the sunset. 'My heart is dying' I say, testing it on the air's autumn breath. I can't see myself in these thickets, in so many voices I've lost my voice. The backyard fills with wind, with the odour of mints, rosemary, a shock of white heads is the cornflower. In the last of the foxgloves a last brown bee is still fumbling his music. Day by day it grows earlier late, the day's end is blue, and gets closer and closer. \n\n# The furniture game\n\nShe's far away, beyond seas and the mountains.\n\nHer easy presence makes her absence difficult,\n\nnot my heart more fond. She's the good wood\n\nof which this furniture is made, she's everywhere,\n\nin old sweaters, things made easy with wear,\n\nleaving her shoes around. That drives me crazy.\n\nIn old fiddles sleep the sweetest tunes, they say.\n\nOh my love, my lily, my songs of the nightingales,\n\nmy sweet magnolia, come round the mountain.\n\n# Epitaph for a gardener\n\nAll his life a soldier in the field\n\nat war with the weeds, the grass\n\nrooting back faster than he tore it up.\n\nAt peace now it blows over him: _green, green_.\n\n# The annunciation\n\nMany have laboured to convey it:\n\nthis moment that will trouble\n\ncenturies to come.\n\nShe was spinning, according to some,\n\nworking a tapestry, taking a walk\n\nin the cloister, or as Da Vinci has it\n\nreading a book.\n\nA dove or an angel\n\nannounces the news in a shaft of light\n\nthat is God's impregnating glance,\n\nhis most important announcement to date.\n\nHere at any rate she looks properly\n\nsceptical. Just as she might be\n\nunder such unexpected circumstance this is.\n\n# Venetian pieces\n\n## _The Chamber of Torment_\n\nOutside men groan, caged in the square,\n\nburied with their feet sticking up. In this room\n\nthe strappado has heard all their pleading,\n\nthe nailed planks have witnessed their replies.\n\nIt's all very simple: a plinth and a rope,\n\na long stem of agony hung from the roofbeam,\n\nand the man drops, breaks, babbles whether he prays\n\nhourly, at nightfall, or to the man in the moon.\n\nOr whatever you wish, signors, I beg you\n\nthrow my brother in there behind the curtain,\n\ntake my friend Giovanni Giacomo who deserves it\n\nfor the money he's owed me these 15 centuries.\n\n## _Casanova in the room of the Inquisitors_\n\nThey take the blindfold off: wigs,\n\ncourthouse ritual, marble, polished wood.\n\nUnderfoot the black and white tiles\n\nconfuse the feet and trump the eye.\n\nThey will take you through the cupboard\n\nto the rope, the hard boxes under the lead.\n\nDoes anyone here know you? Will anyone speak?\n\nWhat is it you're accused of?\n\n_Love_ , I guess. Love brought me here\n\nto confess all, answering _Yes_ the dancer,\n\n_Yes_ the Armenian, _Yes_ Edurne whose name\n\nmeans _snow_ and _Yes_ the dark witch of Calabria.\n\nBut it's not what they want. They want\n\nthe names of my accomplices, my secret recipes,\n\nwho taught me to play so sweetly my instrument,\n\nwho taught me to whisper to make the clowns dance?\n\n## _Sinistra_\n\nPacked arrows, bones in their boxes.\n\nA horned wolf's head. Masks, silhouettes,\n\nalways the face behind the face another mask.\n\nEgg white stones in the grass.\n\nIn the pine cone a tiny snake.\n\nAll over the honeycomb city of whispers\n\npale saints in wire haloes, rotting\n\nin their boxes, holy arms, holy legs.\n\nTake the left hand, through shadow,\n\nthe stopped door of water, the campo\n\nof the church of Our Lady of the Dead End,\n\nthe magazine stand a cabinet of darkness\n\nall through siesta, the birds asleep,\n\nthe book closed, speech cut in stone.\n\nThe city dreams itself on the slow tides,\n\nimagines water that can be walked on.\n\nIn my dream I met a girl who said _Venezia:_\n\n_it means the place to come to, a dream_\n\n_for those who do not dream._ I believed\n\nthere was a time we were each other's star,\n\nlovers in the long water, waist deep\n\nworking the estuary among the kelp beds,\n\nrocked in the sea swell, centuries ago,\n\nanother life I never lived and never woke from.\n\nThen a long cry ran down the alleys,\n\na bleak signal through the salizadas\n\nof the window-shouters, generations fighting\n\nover the squares, their shouts riding on the wind\n\nacross the Fondamente Nuovo from Dead City,\n\nleaflike, whispering all the tears, howls,\n\ngroans and all there ever was to pray for\n\nthrough the miserable ages: _pray for us_.\n\nRound and around the Ghetto Nuovo,\n\nrepeating _our memory is your only grave_.\n\nFrom here were taken all the Jews of Venice,\n\nfrom the furnace to the furnace.\n\nThis is a cursed place in a landscape\n\nof leaning towers that one day fall,\n\nwhere men rose from the dumb sea to speak\n\nyet said not much. Only the seabirds.\n\nOnly a ship's horn, rousing the afternoon,\n\nthrashing of ropes and metal as the sea\n\nsucks its timbers. Boats slip\n\ntheir moorings, move on the water's glance.\n\nThe gondolas are water snakes, funereal\n\nbent Venetian pricks, at night the shadow\n\nof a shadow, clef of coming music, harness\n\nof the ghosts of horses that they are.\n\nAnd then a bell tells half the fourth hour\n\nof the afternoon, the day begins again,\n\n\u2013 two men at chess, a radio bursting briefly\n\ninto dancing music, through an opened shutter\n\na hand and a jug water the geraniums,\n\nsomewhere a piano plays a practice piece,\n\noffstage a woman yawns, a cage bird sings,\n\nan English voice says _but these are wild birds_.\n\n## _The baron regrets_\n\nThe light here. Sometimes\n\nit is domes and clouds, sometimes water,\n\nthe oar's fin through the ocean's drowse.\n\nI have not painted. Where I look\n\nis everywhere a study in perspective,\n\nthe eyes' delight in their deception.\n\nAll afternoon boatmen walk to the horizon,\n\nmoving on the edge of dancing,\n\ntheir speech always on the lip of song.\n\nWhat could I add to this: yesterday\n\nat sunset a proud woman on a bridge\n\nsinging aloud not for money but for love.\n\nThe wine's cheap. The waiters\n\nflash me their smiles and sleek black bums,\n\ncounting the cutlery all through siesta.\n\nI eat late and am steady by midnight,\n\nweaving my way among reflections\n\nhome to the same dream: the city\n\nadrift on its rafts, the weeds\n\nin the bright sea choking the air,\n\nfish belly-up and the city drowning at last,\n\nthese posts low in the water, clinging\n\nmuch as they clung together, refugees\n\non the sandbanks, building with reeds.\n\nLong ago. I've kept up my notebooks.\n\nOtherwise a whole summer wasted in Venice,\n\nthe tracks of light across the distance.\n\n# Neapolitan interiors\n\n## _Views around the bay_\n\nFar off now a city of apartments, passages\n\nof ducted light the days grow older in.\n\nA city of _why not?_ and all the hours\n\nhung bell by bell around the towns,\n\nbut the shaky earth is cracked and the core\n\njets out hot here. Some have little \u2013\n\na chair on the street, a pack of cigarettes\n\nto sell. Scent of basil, resin,\n\nsmell of fish, bread, stink of traffic\n\nalways on the move along the bay's eye\n\nlosing sight in the blue haze of itself\n\nbetween the mountain and the bay.\n\nSee this and die.\n\nOut on the night water\n\ntwo men fish the dark, one with a light,\n\none a spear. Inland Orion glints,\n\nclearing the cliff, where the dim lamps\n\nshine all night in the house of the dead:\n\n_Giovanni et Famiglia, Rosaria, Longobardo,_\n\nall their children folded in the drawers\n\nstacked to the roofbeam, each a candle,\n\neach a bell's intermittent random tongue\n\ncounting in the saints, the packed\n\nmunicipalities squabbling along the coast.\n\n## _Ercolano's message_\n\n_Begins_ father forgive me, today I learned\n\nbut one word _oziosamente_ , asleep in the sun\n\namong the brown stones, all the guides\n\nto the buried town nagging in three languages.\n\nI have been between life and life, stone\n\nby stone in the rich dust where the lizards\n\nare at home \u2013 Papa Lizard, his inamorata,\n\nhis busy mates and their many bambinos.\n\nWhere was wineshop and water gossip, oven,\n\nmark one man left on another man's wall\n\nthat he owed him, some inscription to a tart\n\nshe's a sweet fig, a vine, a fruity lotus.\n\nCaught side by side in the sudden dust:\n\nold or young with their offspring, a slave\n\ngrinding his bad teeth, Pliny the Uncle,\n\ntownsmen, dead all as all the dead are.\n\nBuried. Stopped rooms in which to fight,\n\nmake love, spin, dream or wake suddenly\n\nto cockcrow and children or the other birds,\n\nthe long shush of the night sea, finished.\n\nNo one here but an old man with his ruins\n\nmuttering in the kingdom of the lizards\n\nspent prayers to the failed gods: _nothing's_\n\n_sure nor long sacred. Message ends._\n\n## _A traveller's question_\n\nI have been days, years on the road,\n\nsinking in winter, dreaming of the south.\n\nI am who sets out who never arrives,\n\narrives though he never departed, the self\n\nalways talking to the self. I am one\n\nchanged by a journey whose tale's never true.\n\nTherefore who is it crosses the littoral,\n\nthe wind faintly with rosemary, at night\n\nglimpses in the cold bouillon of stars\n\nhimself? I have grown weary being part\n\nof God's interminable education. Again\n\nthe dark sisters whisper in the walls,\n\nand again through the rocks the wanderer\n\nOdysseus mast-lashed and mad unstops\n\nhis ears to the singers on the wind,\n\nall the songs on the radio telling him\n\n_nothing so well endures as the ruin of things,_\n\n_a young woman lights up an old man's dark_\n\n_but it won't last. Not much changes._\n\nWhatever set the slow stars in the sky,\n\nthe Plough and the Pole to steer by\n\nand all the blue jewels of the moon\n\ndoubled in the sea with the evening star,\n\nmore to the point will I ever get home?\n\n## _Postscript: nunc pro tunc_\n\nRoman, I'd retire to the coast from things\n\npublic, \u2013 greed, power, the grim lusts\n\nof the merely ambitious, all the sad wants\n\nmost men have merely to be remembered.\n\nDevious or discontent, our doings\n\nshabby deals in an alley, cutting throats\n\nfor loose change, thereafter soon enough\n\nretching up again on the flophouse floor.\n\nI would retire to Ercolano, where I'd be\n\nresident cynic, the large events so far\n\nbeyond my notion or my wish. Slowly\n\nto my own design I'd build a good house.\n\nBetween the mountain and the sea, my nets\n\nslung under the olives, I'd fish a little,\n\nsleep much, contemplate the grape, take\n\na long view of the town's doings and write.\n\n# The magic of Poland\n\n## _One:_\n\nthe coast a long ribbon of string,\n\ngreen earth, woods. Then immigration,\n\nnot user-friendly.\n\nTry to find a bar, and when you find one,\n\na beer. Try to understand the money\n\nyou got for your money. Stay warm.\n\nTake a long tour of the monuments:\n\nthese are to all the many years the ravens ate,\n\nthe long depredations of the wolf, the bear,\n\nthe arrival of the Adam Smith Institute.\n\nI write you, love, from Nova Huta,\n\nfrom Krak\u00f3w the soured beauty, another night\n\nat the Palace of Culture I'll get weepily drunk\n\nfor you and for the magic of Poland. _Na Zdrowie_.\n\n## _Two, the waitresses in Old Town_\n\nThey are discussing shoes, footwear, feet,\n\nlimping and clucking like chickens\n\npicking over their patch but too old\n\nfor the pot now. He wants her maybe\n\nonce a year at Christmas. By now\n\nhe'll be home asleep on the couch\n\nor dead drunk on the floor. Her friend,\n\nshe had a pair of sandals, perfect,\n\nbut they stopped making them, closed\n\nthe factory. He doesn't love her any more.\n\n## _Three, the music of the Emperor_\n\nFarms and unfenced fields,\n\nvillages, chained cattle,\n\nturkeys, road signs\n\nreading _Muzeum Oswiecim:_\n\n_Auschwitz-Birkenau._\n\nFlat grey earth.\n\nPits, drains, factories.\n\nThe machineries of death.\n\n_Work will make you free,_\n\nAnna Sophia from Hamburg,\n\nJelena from Krak\u00f3w,\n\ntenants of the Ghetto Nuovo.\n\nSo close, far away as the moon,\n\nas all the lives all the dead lived.\n\nAn offshoot of the rail,\n\ntracks ending in grass, chimneys,\n\na tangle of old wire,\n\na pond of white human ash.\n\n## _Four, the photograph_\n\nTime stops here.\n\nAnd I am not in it. These chipped bowls,\n\npiles of clipped hair, tangle of spectacles\n\nare here for no one.\n\nBeyond this moment nothing ever changes\n\nbut the yellow light across the fields,\n\nbleached in the snapshot, fading out, the corner\n\nof the picture turning inward where it burns:\n\na field of brick chimneys, the horizon\n\ndirty smoke. Nothing beyond this:\n\na deathless landscape\n\nwith the heart burned out, the smile intact.\n\n# Monument\n\nIn which the bronze mouth forever opens,\n\na stone calling for stone, flags,\n\nmarches, bullets. _Freedom_ he calls it\n\nin the black metalled letters next his initials\n\nchiselled into the bottom left hand corner.\n\nThe date. A handful of old flowers.\n\nIn which his raised arms are the hands\n\nof the ventriloquist forever talking to himself,\n\nthe ego telling itself the same lie:\n\npalm out in the signal to be still and listen,\n\nthe other a fist and a finger pointing\n\ninto the future, which completely ignores him.\n\n# Zoo Station midnight\n\nDrunks glitter in their liquids, fish\n\nfar down water where the light dies\n\non their armour of metal plates and crutches.\n\nOutside in the city flowers of smashed glass,\n\nthe faithful in black spider armbands are back,\n\nand the firestorm raging these forty years.\n\nThe animals wander the trapped streets,\n\nfuriously wounded. Here comes the midnight train\n\nfrom Friedrichstrasse, from Warsaw, from Moscow.\n\nIt arrives in a flurry of flags and snow\n\nwith wolves howling, taking the width of the night\n\nto get here. It arrives dragging the sheets\n\nof its landscapes, \u2013 peasants, fires, shoes, no shoes,\n\nspeeches, snags of barbed wire, bayonets,\n\nthe apple blossoms of spring, the marsh air.\n\n_Late again_ he says, the stranger at my elbow,\n\n_bastards_ , sucking on a beer. In his black coat\n\nand white hair he may be my double, my dark brother.\n\nHe knows a bar, a taxicab, a place to stay,\n\na woman, it takes a little paper money,\n\na word from him and we'll be out of here and into history.\n\n# Katja's message:\n\n'This sentence has no meaning,\n\nbut what are you going to do about the crocodiles?'\n\nIn Berlin, attempting sleep, this sentence\n\nwithout meaning keeping me awake;\n\none by one the hours climb the clock,\n\nlabour as slowly down the other side.\n\nThe silence at the border is absolute,\n\nfull of watching darkness, wire and neon,\n\nthe dark trees either side without wind\n\nor weather or the baying of dogs.\n\nIt goes on and on, the silence, a lake\n\nwithout a name where legends surface:\n\na bead of air, a log of wood, a skin,\n\nan eye blinked open in the dark.\n\nIt is the crocodile, easing down\n\ninto another sleepless night\n\nalong the border, here beside the wall,\n\nwhere still this sentence has no meaning.\n\n# The Wall\n\nThere is the one side and the other,\n\nand between there is the wall. Each side\n\nhas its monuments, its flags, its currency,\n\nits bulletholes, its notions of the other.\n\nOver here we say _the beaten in the lobby_\n\n_of the crestfallen_. Some days we pity them.\n\nOver there they watch us through binoculars.\n\nOver there they call us fascists.\n\nThere, here is _over there_ , and their maps\n\nof where we are are coloured white,\n\nas ours are of them. No one\n\nover there can fall in love over here.\n\nHere the street ends and there's wall,\n\nand on the other side the same street:\n\ntramtracks, kerbstones, streetlights\n\ncoming on, pedestrians about their business.\n\nThey do not wave or look back. It is\n\nas if we were each others' ghosts. Either side\n\nhistory comes with a wall round it.\n\nWe are each other's terra incognita.\n\nSomewhere there's a piano playing boogie,\n\nand on this side a late-night argument\n\nstrung out with booze and bamboozle\n\ntill the word gets lost in the many\n\nqualifications of itself, and it all ends\n\nin tears. Over there the long silence\n\nbroken by dogs at each change of shift,\n\nsome border guard on his two-stroke.\n\nAnd everywhere it seems a night bird\n\nfills the dark with long pulses of his song.\n\nHe doesn't care to be one side or the other.\n\nHis song is all of him.\n\nI understand where this late night music\n\nof a sad piano is coming from.\n\nI understand where that long\n\nleashed baying of manhounds is coming from.\n\nBut I don't understand where the nightingale\n\nin these long pulls of music through himself\n\nand the buildings and the trees\n\nor from which side of anywhere he is singing.\n\n# Passing through\n\nTravellers in a new country, arriving\n\nwithout change for the phone, between trains,\n\njust passing through. _You should have called_\n\ndistant friends say. _Ich verstehe Bahnhof_ I reply.\n\nThen we meet, drinking in another doomed city,\n\ndown streets named for dead soldiers,\n\nvictories understood only in the vernacular,\n\nand we with our own debased currency another history\n\nglimpsed in the driving mirror, central Europe\n\non fast forward: printout, flags, bullets,\n\ndisbelief on the faces of the tyrants,\n\nend of system without escape clause. Walls fall and men.\n\nAs ever we're struck by odd presences \u2013\n\nsix porcelain urinals in a row, their mouths open,\n\nthe white tiled wall, in the half-open door\n\na brush waiting to be used, our faces in the glass.\n\nThere is a perfume called Sorrow.\n\nThere are bars, twilight, the sweet dark music of the city,\n\nblossom, the faces of women, but is there time\n\nto write the book of deeds before it's out of date?\n\n# Chinese whisper\n\nI am a labourer on the Chinese Wall, one of thousands. Far from where I was born, I do not think of it. I was brought here with my neighbours, and set to building the wall. Our life is work, rice, sleep. All day from dawn to dusk I take my place in the line of men labouring up and down the mountains, heaving one by one the rough chiselled blocks of stone from the man on my left to the man at my right shoulder. I am indistinguishable from either one, my thoughts could be either of theirs. When one of them dies he is replaced, when I die the line will move up in my place, and the stones go on climbing the mountain, assembling into the wall. Only the wall grows, but we will never see it. Ahead of us, empty country; behind us the wall, perfect, new, cresting the ridges, enclosing the wastes, dividing the farmlands from the desert. We eat, work, work, eat, sleep, moving over the country with our many arms and legs like a long dragon. When at dark we sleep, exhausted, our sleep is the hard sleep of the same heavy stones moving up the mountain, down the other side. And memory. Asleep, still handling the stone blocks, I sometimes glimpse far away, impossible now, red willows by a river, a fish leaping, white lily flowers in the water. \n\n# After Brecht\n\nIn the end it is Joachim with his maps,\n\nThora in her garden: roses, lilies,\n\nthe scents she desires so she grows them.\n\nIt is the sunlight, high\n\nthrough the tall evergreens, the birdsong,\n\nthe afternoon wind in this place, and our voices.\n\nTelling our tales. We grew up on the other side\n\nof a long long war we all lost.\n\nYears have gone by. All our lives have.\n\nWith songs, sometimes music, children,\n\nsome love in this old cold world,\n\n_years of many letters and a few kisses._\n\nIt will always be so: this moment,\n\nthe sunlight, the long afternoon, the blackbirds,\n\nJoachim with his maps, Thora in her garden.\n\n# [FROM  \nTENDER TO THE  \nQUEEN OF SPAIN](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(1993)**\n\n# Tender to the Queen of Spain\n\nImagination and memory are but one thing, which\n\nfor divers considerations hath diverse names.\n\nTHOMAS HOBBES   \n_Leviathan_\n\nIn the foreground there is the large row boat upside down on trestles, being scraped and repainted by two men in the working sunlight of the harbour, a spring afternoon, in Weymouth. Seen upside down, so that my head must tip to read it, its name says it's the tender to a larger boat, not visible anywhere amongst the other boats of the small port \u2013 lighters, trawlers, coastal barges, fishing trip and pleasure boats, yachts, old coalers painted up with their brown sails slack in the intermittent wind, sail boats tinkling like a mad orchestra of only cymbals. Our boat is not amongst them. She is out chugging on the huge sea, with an unknown cargo for unknown destinations, for who knows how long, and all we know of her is her name: _The Queen of Spain_. \n\n# Milly's end\n\nShe died. Worse was her undoing,\n\nthe tongue's unravelling, the memory's flat battery\n\ncoughing in the night _someone has taken my orange juice,_\n\n_someone has stolen my shoes._ Up,\n\ndown, either was difficult, _it's not_\n\n_her any more_ I hear my voice say again\n\nthrough the narrowing months of her vision\n\nthat could see bright clear to a winter day.\n\nThere was a war, she worked in the harvest\n\nof wet beets, soldiers came in and out her gate,\n\nin and out of her kitchen, hot white mugs\n\nin their hard cold hands.\n\n_Where are they all now?_ she asks.\n\n_How many ever came back?_\n\n# The other elegy\n\n...i.m. Asa _(foolish enough_\n\n_to have been a poet)_ Benveniste, the tall\n\nskinny tree of you felled in the churchyard\n\nat Heptonstall among the Queen Anne's Lace.\n\nIt was a Friday, it was the thirteenth,\n\nsunset, Easter, and you you would have\n\ntimed it differently, you would have sat\n\nright down and writ yourself a letter.\n\nThis is for all the lives we did not live,\n\nmooching in old harbours with the tides,\n\ndriving home across the rainswept moorland,\n\ndrunk, remembering Brooklyn, Amsterdam.\n\nAt the border will be stones and again\n\nwhite birches, the one magpie of sorrow,\n\nyou in your black cap surprised and amused,\n\nyou with two flowers where the road runs out.\n\n# The painter Mannfred Otto\n\nHe is a painter, time indeterminate. Europe.\n\nThen. Also a husband, father, neighbour.\n\nBurgher of the town he was born in, a citizen.\n\nSelf-portraits, mostly. Masks, in various light,\n\nshadow so, various moods, different stages of his life.\n\nCertain moments he was drawn to paint:\n\nhis message to the woman he'd marry he'd not met yet,\n\nin his hand a sprig of rosemary. A flat faced boy,\n\nthe young soldier, a wanderer, mid-life, old age.\n\nThe day he won the old quarrel with Sartorius.\n\nThe years of invasion, famine, the great death.\n\nMother, wife, children, all at once gone.\n\nWhat he couldn't paint: the black rump of night\n\nwhere there's no point to the dawn, no purpose\n\nfor him in the sun's ever again coming up.\n\nAnd the outrage of birdsong, the dawn chorus\n\na panic in the chest, acid on the tongue.\n\nAnd who let all this sudden white light in here?\n\nSelf portrait in shadow. Self portrait in sorrow.\n\nSelf portrait with fruit and flowers.\n\nSelf portrait with instruments and cats.\n\nSlowly: outside events: astrolabe, compass,\n\nhalf finished block of stone, the texts\n\nin the vernacular he lived by, a white bird.\n\nSheaf of gathered wheat. A stuck pig.\n\nBaskets of dark grapes. Like so. On the hills bonfire smoke,\n\nautumn woods, towers of the city. Cloud etched to rain.\n\n# Jack remembering\n\nOut walking the hill's side, the wind here\n\nsmashes the saplings, no trees,\n\nno tree cover, nowhere to hide now,\n\nthe old stones taken for walls and roadwork.\n\nAbove these grey towns, streets I don't know,\n\na corner the road goes where trees gathered\n\nthat are gone now. So much sky then,\n\nthe stars scattered milk, the silence.\n\nI lived beyond this, in my own house,\n\nwith a yard and garden, trees, chickens, a pig,\n\ntwo goats and the white doves, all my days\n\nI made a rough worsted, the same gun metal grey.\n\nHome from the wars I was handsome and workshy,\n\na green stone on a ring was mine once,\n\nthat came from the Nile. Another took it,\n\nthereafter into the ground with him.\n\nI was a good soldier, bright buttons,\n\nbulled webbing and boots, knife crease\n\nin tunic and trews, I was always on parade,\n\non the march, on manoeuvre, on a drunk, or asleep.\n\nNo, I'm not mad. I have this wound, Doctor,\n\nI call Ivan the Terrible, it bleeds when the wind's\n\nfrom any direction, winter and summer. It weeps\n\nbut I don't know for what grieving.\n\nWhat else I recall are tiny white roses\n\ngrowing in the Basques' country of the tongue.\n\nAnd wayside herbs: feverfew, yarrow,\n\nsoldier's wort, all good for something.\n\n# Brother Scratchwood\n\nWhere I am: in the far black of the cave\n\nof my self, in the dark that was never lit,\n\nwhich is to say nowhere, among the unwritten,\n\nthe _agrapha_ , who live in the mountains\n\nand pay no taxes and therefore do not exist.\n\nMy life an alphabet of edges,\n\nsmoke around a taper, my eyes are not good,\n\nonly a vague ache now where I used to be.\n\nI've hung out in the empty spaces between lives,\n\nthrough slow winter dusks, decade by decade\n\nthrough seasons of nothing but patience patience,\n\nin the nowhere wherein I imagined _nothing_.\n\nAnd went mad with the thought of it.\n\nGod knows there's not much of me,\n\nlight enough to be someone, anyone by,\n\npeering into a name _Brother Scratchwood_ , for instance.\n\nWho waits the way iron waits, and the stars,\n\nthe way flame sleeps in the wax, the cast\n\nin the dice, mumbling my interminable prayers,\n\nkyrie eleisons to my own wayward heartbeat.\n\nNight after night, all night long,\n\nmy arse crossed on the misericorde's edge,\n\nwhere Moses crossing the Red Sea sniffs\n\nthe wind of thin farts come of piety's porridge.\n\nAnd that's all there is of me, stoney hours\n\nleft and right of me my brothers on our knees\n\ncalling \u00e0 cappela in the empire of the dark\n\ncrowding to one candle's flame. Amen.\n\n# One of Milly's gifts\n\nSometimes one of Milly's gifts gets drunk,\n\nmakes a fool an absolute asshole of himself,\n\ncomes home late and stormy and breaks things,\n\nmostly his own things. And next morning\n\ncan't remember any of it. He's sorry\n\nbut he doesn't know what for. He can't tell\n\nwho the enemy is and he doesn't have any friends.\n\nThere's a list hereabouts and he's not on it.\n\nHis subscription's cancelled. In the dawn,\n\nsleepy, bladder heavy, the first of the birds\n\nwaking in the blue light of his brain,\n\nhe gets up, discovers just all the books\n\nfloating in the bathtub, and the kitchen\n\ncovered in broken blue and white crockery\n\nand the wife of those years saying _Why?_\n\n_Why do you do these dreadful things?_\n\n# Three in a play\n\nThree cardplayers\n\nin a game of three:\n\n_Stick, Twist, Bust._\n\nThree lords of the dance,\n\n_Thump, Boot, Headbutt,_\n\nrough tongued and tattooed, three liebknechte.\n\nFreelance, hitmen, anyone's.\n\nAnyone: that huddle at the door,\n\nthree fiddlers about to play the Fire Hose Reel.\n\nThree men in a tub.\n\nThree drunks in a pub.\n\nThree dark eyed assassins.\n\nThe three gold-tongued knights of the court\n\nof King Arthur, three horsemen\n\nwho are D\u00fcrer's knight, death, the devil.\n\n_Umbilicus, the young naval attach\u00e9,_\n\n_Scrotum, the wrinkled old retainer,_\n\n_Sputum, a Flemish outcast._\n\nThree separate faces\n\non the night bus, that follow you home,\n\nand know where you live now.\n\n# Woman without a name\n\nPassing on the stairs, what to say to her,\n\nlost in the blue hazy spaces\n\nof the beautiful distance of herself? Say:\n\n_You're very kind. And very beautiful._\n\nDecades ago, in an ill-lit guttural city,\n\nwhere I, exiled, cold, smoking my black cheroots,\n\nstalked the winter park, feeding the water birds,\n\nmy academic study life at the water margins.\n\nAnd that's the whole of the affair, her heels\n\nclacking up the stairwell, the elevator\n\nout again, the winter night, the corner\n\nwhere she turns clockwise out of my life forever.\n\nIt's late, and this is where the door turns in.\n\n_Her name her name_ if I could think of it.\n\nThe luxury of a name, and through it swifts,\n\nin the high trees the rooks squabble.\n\nCoffee, little cakes. I take her picture out\n\nremembering her as she was not, forget-me-nots\n\nknotted in her fingers, frowning\n\ninto the old box brownie, so long ago.\n\n# Part of something else\n\n_Turalura_ she sings to herself, breathing\n\nin, out, him staring into the fireback\n\nnumbering his grumbles, his what he now\n\nonly wished he'd said then but thought\n\ntoo late, later, the moment gone.\n\n_Turalura, turalura_. As for her\n\nthe bread she bakes is soon stale,\n\nhis side of the bed always lumpy,\n\nher sex cold dry inhospitable, then\n\nhis inventory of misery begins, _cunt cunt_.\n\n_Turalura, lureia_. She knows the moment\n\nhe's wound himself up and the wire hisses out of him,\n\ntaut, barbed, edged, and it's thereabouts\n\nshe'll go up, go to sleep in her white sheets\n\nmumbling _Is there any wonder? Turalura._\n\n# Later in the tea-room\n\nI could believe, a moment or two,\n\nthere in the cathedral with the candles\n\nand soaring through the tall stones\n\nthe music of the choir and the organ.\n\nAnd all those dear dead battered bishops.\n\nI think Heaven must be like this:\n\nfeathery quiet and old flowers,\n\nweightless light and long webby nothings,\n\nstones made of cloud, soft rain and warm snow,\n\nice cream you'd never get sick of.\n\nConsider John Longland, 1521-47\n\nBishop of Lincoln, Confessor\n\nto Henry the Eighth. And consider\n\nwhat griefs what regrets what bottomless bragging\n\nhe must lie with, centuries thereafter.\n\n# The blue time\n\nSaturday the storm. She left early,\n\nin her pink shoes skipping down the road.\n\nShe'd dreamed of candyfloss, roses,\n\nher mother's wild chrysanthemums.\n\nTime for a walk and a stare at nothing.\n\nTime for tea and hot buttered scones, a turn or two\n\nthrough the wild wind of the garden\n\nsavouring lavender, thyme, angelica.\n\nIt's the blue time in the season's swift changes,\n\nflagged once by the first cornflower,\n\ntwice by the first blue star of the borage,\n\na message to foxgloves and the tall white daisies:\n\nsolstice and midsummer, harvest then winter,\n\nwhen the alphabet will have run out of letters,\n\nand the year that's halfway over\n\nstill has no direction. And the bank won't wait.\n\n# Accounts\n\nThe noose tightens. How much for each foot of rope,\n\neach inch of neck, and the boxwood coffin,\n\nwho paid for lunch and was drink taken,\n\nand how much to pay the hangman's wages?\n\nSir: my business was slow, my cash flow\n\nsluggish, my credit withered long ago,\n\nmy only product in these words that light me\n\ndimly through the dark not in much demand.\n\nAnd I've no other skill. Words, figures: cold,\n\nuntouchable and abstract, logging receipts, payments,\n\ngoods in goods out, plus, minus. I might have been\n\nbookkeeper in some distant trading station,\n\nReykjavik it will be called, forty years\n\nshivering in the tight mouthed service\n\nof the Northmen, entering and tallying,\n\nand that because I was a boy who wrote.\n\nMeanwhile to one side, late, through the long north light\n\nI write the plot later called _Hamlet_ :\n\na brother's poison and a wife's betrayal,\n\nthe son's dilemma as to vengeance, justice, silence,\n\nand the last act always bloody carnage.\n\nThen back to the profit and the loss\n\nof journeys, dreams, chance encounters\n\nwith the other strangers, till all the words\n\nthat wondered at the world came down to this:\n\nfinal demands from the Department of Wishful Thinking,\n\nthe bottom line, the exact amount now due\n\nI cannot pay.\n\n# Brief encounter on the Yellowdog\n\nOur man is sitting at a bar among reflections,\n\nbits of himself he glimpses in the mirrors,\n\nmopping the spilt drink of all his life,\n\nrings on his fingers, keys at his hip, labels\n\nin his lapels and maybe one day he'll be one\n\nof the many tales he tells, he'll settle down\n\nin far off Aberdeen and write a paperback,\n\nhe'll call it _Lost in Space_ by Justin Thyme.\n\nOutside: Aldgate in the rain. In here the music\n\nis some song of a lost love, the barman says\n\n_ask me what you want, ask me if I'm working._\n\nDry Chablis she will have, he a half a bitter.\n\nThe trains are late, the signals on the blink.\n\nThey talk of distance, valleys of bells.\n\nThe deep sleep of wine and woodsmoke. Figs.\n\nApples. Vines climbing the Tuscan sunlight.\n\nNothing's happening as usual with everything.\n\nEveryone as usual is somewhere else, these two\n\nexploring each other and the Algarve,\n\nthe bartender back home on the Boyne,\n\nthe music somewhere on the road and our man\n\nCurleytoes is rafting down the river\n\nwith the painted hostiles all around,\n\nand that's the moment all their eyes meet.\n\nIt's called the here & now. He belts out\n\n_Oh the times we had below the snowline,_\n\n_we lived the life of the river there,_\n\n_women sharp and skinny as the reeds, our kids_\n\n_spooning up the boney soup of winter._\n\n_Oh I was never sober, I was never drunk,_\n\n_I stayed out of the army & out of the nick._\n\n_So don't collide with me I'm a solid object._\n\nOn the Yellowdog it's winter again, the music\n\nin his brain wolf and coyote, a wheel spinning\n\nround and around in its rut. _Oh Billy_\n\n_can your drool, can you sit up on a stool,_\n\n_can you piss into the pot Little Billy?_\n\nThis customer has eaten too many tomatoes.\n\nHe is no longer in touch with his despatcher.\n\nWhat he has is a bad case of mad social worker.\n\nLet's call it failed author syndrome. He has a dream.\n\nHe can see it all the time on the big screen\n\nin his head. He'd settle for a dry goods store\n\nsomewhere at the edge of town, day by day\n\nadding up the takings, home by 6 to the wife\n\nand the Yellowdog River but it's time,\n\nfriend, time to go now, in the piddling rain.\n\nTime to disappear to Planet Zero.\n\n# The bad news\n\nAnd so it comes to this: didn't get the job,\n\ndidn't get the loan, didn't get the fifteen quid\n\nmy brother Novak owes me nine years now,\n\nand don't qualify for the dole, so I quit.\n\nNever a lucky ticket in the state lottery,\n\nnever me shouting _bingo bingo bingo_ ,\n\nand once again I didn't win the pools,\n\nand I'm getting old for this, too old.\n\nEveryone here is dreaming of somewhere else.\n\nEveryone here works at the heritage museum,\n\nvisited by people they can't somehow like\n\nand their bossy knowledgeable children.\n\nNot a lot to dream: age & Sir Death,\n\nfarewell to the stars, the swallows and the afternoon;\n\nthe young are swarming in over the beach stones,\n\ndispossessed, impatient. And that's the good news.\n\nSo all the treaties are off and I'm mean as muddy water.\n\nThis is bad news day, this is a no deposit no return day,\n\nand though I'm prudent as the Kings of Prussia\n\ntruth is I'm an act of desperation turning grey.\n\n# Film noir\n\nTitles that are more properly stage directions. Then glimpses, snapshots, faces on streets, in doorways, in photographs and magazines, in films, in dreams, in shadow, in broad daylight: the occasions of their faces, what they say.\n\nWe're still sifting the evidence, bits of film, pages from books, manuals of instruction, catalogues, documents that have all been through the shredder. With their customary revolutionary zeal our students piece them together, patiently, haphazardly, matching letter with alphabet, line with line, a grand spaghetti of internal memoranda, minutes, shorthand notes, requisitions, letters, rosters, countersigned orders, demands, receipts, lists of stores. Ours is a strange archaeology, often inaccurate, barely articulate, the meanings of words forever shifting in translation, frame never matching frame, page page, so there is often no continuity, no sequence, no satisfyingly continuous narrative, indeed, sometimes no apparent meaning at all in these activities other than our persistence, without which nothing makes any sense at all.\n\n# Beginning again with a line heard in the street\n\nBeginning anywhere at all with anything,\n\noverheard on the underground: _Birth control?_\n\n_She never had any_. A note taped to a window:\n\n_lost keys ask inside_ or _just get me a taxi,_\n\nand the door smacked shut. Words found\n\non water I ferried home, subject to scribble\n\nand sea bile. Yes I vaguely remember Amsterdam.\n\nToday begins my letter to the Galicians,\n\ndated this day on the Greenwich meridian,\n\nLord Alfred older now home from the grand tour,\n\nconfronting at last the blankness of the page,\n\nan empty blue whose sky will surely fill,\n\na mouth wide open saying anything at all:\n\n_last seen by the river talking to a man._\n\n# Another day another dollar\n\nRails and their stations, nights, trains,\n\nhome again home again to this sweet black coffee,\n\nhere in my own small corner with my pussycat.\n\n_Let me tell you why I don't like this music_.\n\nAh to be in England, the sweet impossibility\n\nof communication, all this English babble\n\nbabble babble: _bad dog, keep off, no ball games_.\n\nI recall the quiet Amish in their buggies,\n\ncarpenters who paint their front doors blue\n\nfor their marriageable daughters, living\n\nalong the borders of states. For them exile\n\nis just across the river at Auntie Mattie's,\n\nand everywhere the same elegant white birches,\n\nthrough the mist the deer on delicate tall hooves.\n\n# Scenes from metropolitan life\n\nI have been conversing with my old mate,\n\nAndrew-by-the-Wardrobe, one day they say\n\nhe'll be a saint among the saints, mumbling\n\nthrough the traffic and the office blocks\n\nwith all he owns in fifteen plastic bags,\n\nand he the curator of abandoned churches,\n\nhis simple prayers the sounds stars make.\n\nAnd yet with me all he ever talks is horses,\n\nhorses and beer. And women. How he loved\n\ndancing with strangers, how he covets them still,\n\ntheir sleek loveliness, knowing they won't last,\n\nwon't stay, roses in the rain, laughter\n\nat the stair-end, leaving their shampoos\n\nin the bathroom, and their pink aromas.\n\n# The lives of the saints\n\nThis one with the tight eyes, _Lorenzo_\n\nhe calls himself, _the Magnificent_ ,\n\nchewing at the inside of his lip,\n\nkeeping his act up. All day on the bridge\n\nin the alcove built for a saint he's there\n\nwith his singsong _change, cambio,_\n\n_wechsel, drogga_ , wearing Dante's face\n\nand the comic's wall eye leading off\n\ninto the sky as he lifts your wallet,\n\nand it's your own fault, tourist.\n\nThere is the long life of the window,\n\nthe interminable history of a doorway\n\nthat opens into poplared distance \u2013\n\nthe Arno I had dreamed of, the old light,\n\nsome comfort in the furniture of time,\n\na little continuity perhaps. And there's\n\nLorenzo, sharp eyed and finger quick,\n\nhere where he's always been upon the bridge,\n\nbelieving as he does in shorter odds\n\nand a free market economy. Him I don't trust.\n\n# The maker of fakes\n\nHe opens his hands, shrugs. He says\n\n_What I make is all fake, there's no_\n\n_song and dance_. Let's say it's a Thursday.\n\nWe are walking down into the city\n\nthrough the late night cars, drunks,\n\nthe cleaning squad in yellow dayglo.\n\nLet's say the ambulance is wailing\n\nits two notes _poor boy, poor boy,_\n\n_bleeding, dying_. Let's say his name\n\nis Leonardo, the maker of instruments,\n\nall fake, a man I seldom meet, for both us\n\nthis is how it is here: grainy, fleeting.\n\nHe continues: _As to this instrument_\n\n_by which I am accused yes it is my making_\n\n_though how became it a Capela, so sold_\n\n_and listed, why that I cannot tell you._\n\n# Johannes from Dresden\n\nA tall lamp. My face I bear high\n\nthrough the strange world, a standard.\n\nThis face from the Thirty Years War\n\nit is ordinary, a copy of thousands.\n\nThe only one I have to look out from.\n\nFaces like mine framed in this yellow hair\n\ndied in thousands in the firestorm of 1945\n\nsent by your Bomber Harris. They died\n\nthe deaths of the snails, of the ants,\n\nthe woodlice they shared the space with.\n\nThe flies. Thank you. I will not take a drink.\n\nNot now. Not this time. Perhaps again.\n\n# Insomnia 1, 2, 3\n\nSometimes you can knock yourself out\n\ntaking whatever it takes to get wherever it is\n\nand you do it, for hours, and for hours\n\nyou try out the trick called not being there\n\nand maybe you sleep and maybe you drift\n\nbut you wake anyway on a dead chicken pillow\n\nwith a rat in your brain and a bat in your mouth\n\nand though you clean each one of your teeth,\n\npaste on a face that will just about do,\n\nyou still can't remember still can't recall\n\nthe numbers and names of each drop of the rain.\n\nSomething is missing, something is wrong:\n\nthat stain on your shirt, is it yours?,\n\nthat dark in your face, that trace of a voice\n\noverheard at the moment you dived into silence\n\nout of the clock-driven bird balmy universe\n\nback of the Nostar Hotel of night plumbing and thumps \u2013\n\nthat voice that said but what did it say, those words\n\nthose beautiful shards, they won't be back now.\n\nThink. Drink hot black tea, black coffee.\n\nThink of the sea. Think of the sweet shift of wheat\n\nwith the wind gone through it, just as the sea is.\n\n# The emigrant\n\nA hundred miles from home, by the road\n\nthe crow's heavy alighting, the first buds\n\nof spring yellowing towards the south.\n\nMy name is Stickincraw, my black looks\n\na mirror of the landscape, all around me\n\nthe same rain-stippled misery, northern uplands\n\nI have prowled grinding out my excuses,\n\nmy fury at dumb rocks, sheep, bracken,\n\nmy short and stocky people, always a wild\n\nmad strand of hair in the long east wind,\n\nall my days it seems. Oh I worked,\n\nmending wall, hedging and ditching\n\nwith my father's tools. But the worm\n\nis in them now, and I am leaving.\n\n# Filmclip: Leningrad, October 1935\n\nDark comes early, and wet snow.\n\nThe citizens hurry from work,\n\nscarfed, buttoned, thinking of supper,\n\nthe tram clanking and squealing\n\nin whose glass an arm has wiped\n\na V of lit space wherein smoke,\n\nold and young wrapped for winter,\n\neyes focussed somewhere ahead,\n\ndreaming perhaps of a sausage,\n\nof bread, coffee, a warm bed,\n\na bullet in the back of the brain.\n\nThen they're gone. Next comes\n\nthe future. It looks like the past.\n\n# A survivor's memoir\n\n_(after Jerzy Kmiecik)_\n\nAnother day on the slow trains south,\n\nyellow sand to the sky's distant edge\n\nthen the River of Mystery brought us\n\nto _Ak Metchet_ , the White Palace, called\n\nafter the comrades came through Kazakhstan\n\n_Kizil Orda_ , the Red Capital, its names\n\nat the station painted one over the other.\n\nHere nothing to eat therefore nothing to steal.\n\nAnd so to Tashkent that means Stone City,\n\nSamarkand biscuit yellow, still in my dreaming.\n\nI was by then again without shoes, a hole\n\nthe wind poked. That was 1942, the spring,\n\nyears from home, prison wire, prison trains,\n\na few necessary words the heart remembers.\n\n# By the Master of Jakabfalva, 1480\n\nIt is a wild place beyond the town wall:\n\nthe moment between moments when the blade\n\nslits these two in their shifts into saints,\n\none already to his eternity of _Hallelujah_ ,\n\nthe other, Josias, James, brave before the blow.\n\nTheir faces say they thought as much.\n\nHooded, the two officials barely look,\n\neach the shamefaced witness of the other,\n\ncome to see the job done, sign the paper,\n\nmake their report and turn into stones.\n\nAt the centre the executioner in black,\n\nthe ballet of his legs dancing to the blade.\n\n# No reply from the East\n\nThe mail addressed _Occupant_ returns _Gone_ ,\n\nall night the phone rings, no one answers,\n\nat the stair's end again laughter, thuds,\n\nthen _Christ Almighty_ they were saying\n\nin those upraised fists of stone. By morning\n\nthey have renamed the streets, the wings\n\nare missing from the statue of Victory,\n\nthe currency abandoned. And no bread.\n\nSo who were they to be in any case \u2013\n\nsour children forever in the blighted garden,\n\nsweet innocents the others laughed at,\n\nan embarrassment to their grandchildren?\n\nI send you these letters I get no replies,\n\nI tell you my secrets they're all of them lies.\n\n# His epistle to the Tatars\n\nFriend from a distant country,\n\nAsia and its horsemen. Elegant,\n\nthe white birches, through the white mist.\n\nLast night I dreamed of Russia,\n\nsnow and a slow train to the mountains,\n\nthe taiga cluttered with plinths,\n\nempty pillars, monuments to the empire\n\nof electricity and state power and concrete.\n\nIn the high cold a man suddenly said\n\nin plain English _but we're always alone._\n\nSo now what, mon ami, now the planet's broken\n\nand the People's Republic of Paradise kaput,\n\nnow the frontier is everywhere and everyone\n\non it a stranger? In my case I suspect\n\nI have come to the end of my saying,\n\nwhatever that wildness was, and doubt\n\nwhat I saw when I saw in such moments\n\nlost itself in the photograph, faded out\n\namong the vocabularies.\n\n_Inshallah._\n\nGod willing we'll be here when God willing\n\nyou return. And if not, when this face\n\nI wear won't be my own may you think of me\n\nsitting in a caf\u00e9, some place the lights\n\nburn late till someone blows them out.\n\n# Poem ending in frogs\n\nMeanwhile in the lands to the east, business\n\nor no business or no business at all, no work\n\nand the bread and jam factory closed down,\n\nits redundant angels shaving their skulls\n\nand it's Siegheil season again, old footage\n\nwith its soundtrack of broken bottles.\n\nAs usual it's raining on one side of the road,\n\nthere's forty years of ruin on the other,\n\nand an ageing man is leaning into the wind\n\nwalking West with a dewdrop on his nose\n\nhalfway on the long road to Paris\n\nfrom Novisibirsk, halfway through his life.\n\nHere nothing and silence and listening to blackbirds,\n\nthe window blinds shuttering, wittering\n\nin the hot wind of the time of the clowns\n\nwith Kalashnikovs, whispering _staatsicherheits_\n\n_sicherheits staasi staasi_ , still listening, adrift\n\nin the pollen heavy air. Or they're hiding in the swamp\n\nwith the frogs, and round their necks bells\n\nthat don't ring, whistles that don't blow any more.\n\nHere the Plough swings overhead and all night\n\nin and out of the water of moon and mosquitos\n\nthe frogs make frog speech, soliloquy and chorus\n\nof _You. Yes you. Oh you. You you you. You. You_.\n\n_You and you and you and you and you and you and you._\n\n# Essential Serbo-Croat\n\nGuraj | Push  \n---|---  \n|   \nPomozi mi | Help me  \n|   \nBoli | It hurts  \nBoli me | I have a pain  \nBoli me ovdje | I have a pain here  \nBole me grudi | I have a pain in my breast  \n|   \nBole me prsa | I have a pain in my chest  \nBoli me oko | I have a pain in my eye  \nBoli me stopalo | I have a pain in my foot  \nBoli me glava | I have a pain in my head  \n|   \nHitno je | It's urgent  \nOzbiljno je | It's serious  \nBoli me ovdje | It hurts here  \nBoli puno | It hurts a lot  \n|   \nTo je jaka bol | It's a sharp pain  \nTo je tupa bol | It's a dull pain  \nTo je uporna bol | It's a nagging pain  \nVe\u010dinom vremena | Most of the time  \n|   \nVrti mi se u glavi | I feel dizzy  \nZlo mi je | I feel sick  \nSlabo mi je | I feel weak  \nNije dobro | It's no good  \n|   \nIzgubio sam sve | I have lost everything  \n|   \nNe mogu vam pomo\u010di | I can't help you\n\n# Lovesong for Kate Adie\n\nWherever it's bad news is where she's from \u2013\n\na bronze leathery sort of lady, dressed for disaster's season,\n\na tough mouth woman, and like me a nighthawk. Ah, Katie,\n\nreporting from the barbed wire rims of hell,\n\nKatie at the barricades I dream of nightly, her voice\n\na bell in the desert wind, her hair blown which way.\n\nIt's true she loves it out where the disputed air\n\nis vicious with shrapnel, bullet stung, the night's\n\nquick stink of sulphur, flies, dead camels, terror.\n\nBut I don't mind now if she never comes back to me,\n\nso long as she's happy. The night in her is enough,\n\nthat long-ago voice sets my gonads galloping.\n\nSure I'm afraid for her and pray every evening at 6\n\nfor her flight to some quiet place, cool nights\n\nand nightingales between earthquakes and insurrections.\n\nThere we meet again, the night bright with stars:\n\nPlough, Pleiades, Pole Star. She drinks, laughs\n\nher special laugh, turns to go. We fall into bed.\n\nWe fuck all night, Katie & me, I never flag,\n\nshe never wearies, we're drunk on whisky and each other\n\nand sweet fresh rocky and who cares it's Thursday?\n\nShe's there for me. I'm here for her. Any day of the week.\n\n# The fat man's movie\n\nI can see it now: a story about rich people,\n\na saga of three cars and two swimming pools,\n\nthe brother with too many wives, too many kids\n\nwho hate him already and all of them too much money.\n\nEveryone else is a walkon, an easy sucker,\n\nprotagonists played by bad actors, a soap\n\nthat will run and run through prime time,\n\na blockbuster: plot, title: _The Fat Man's Tale_.\n\nHe starts out a poor refugee, an orphan\n\nrunning before old grey footage of the war,\n\nsinging to himself _one ball, two small, none at all_.\n\nHe is a hero. He is given a medal. And so forth.\n\nHe goes bad, lives a swindler's life, a conman's,\n\na liar, a bully, a cheat, steals everyone blind.\n\nAt the end of his twisted rope he takes to the sea\n\nin his private boat, calls up his private jet\n\nfor one last salute to his fat greedy vanity,\n\none last flypast, one last upright two fingers\n\nto the universe and to you and to me. Remember\n\nhe's out there on the ocean and no one is looking,\n\nno one to envy him, none to impress. And then\n\nhe slips off the boat and bobs off on the sea,\n\na fat drowned crook winched out of the water\n\nand bundled offstage, swiftly buried in the holy city.\n\nProbably in three parts. Coltrane for the lead,\n\nto be played with deep integrity. Faye\n\nto play the woman who tries to save him, the angel\n\nweeping in the last reel, on the Mount of Olives.\n\n# Task 17\n\n1 |  | Remove webbing  \n---|---|---  \n2 |  | Release smock waist velcro fasteners  \n3 |  | Decontaminate gloves  \n4 |  | Raise smock hem above trouser waistband  \n5 |  | Untie braces  \n|  | Pull clear of loops  \n|  | Tie ends together  \n6 |  | Release trouser waistband velcro fastener  \n7 |  | Pull trousers down to knees  \n8 |  | Decontaminate gloves again and remove them (inners included)  \n9 |  | Store gloves in pocket  \n10 |  | Adjust inner clothing  \n|  | Crouch and reach round behind to pull braces to one side  \n11 |  | Defecate  \n12 |  | Stand up  \n|  | Adjust inner clothing  \n|  | Decontaminate hands  \n13 |  | Replace gloves  \n|  | Adjust nuclear biological chemical clothing  \n|  |   \n|  | **_Practice_**  \n|  | Read the study notes  \n|  |   \n|  | Practise the procedures for urination and defecation wearing the full kit  \n|  |   \n|  | Urination and defecation should only be attempted in areas set aside for the purpose  \n|  |   \n|  | Women should follow the procedure for defecation for both bodily functions  \n|  |   \n|  | Toilet paper must be protected from contamination  \n|  |   \n|  | There are modified procedures for urination and defecation in the Arctic. If you are equipped to operate in the Arctic check with your NBC instructor for details of the modified drill\n\nTasks 17 and 18 from the British Army Nuclear Biological Chemical Warfare Training Manual _Survive to Fight_ (D\/DAT\/13\/33\/18, Army Code 7133)\n\n# Task 18: The unmasking procedure\n\nWhat you have to know and do\n\nYou have to:\n\n\u2022 Know the general procedure for unmasking\n\n\u2022 Carry out the sniff test\n\n# Positive identification\n\nTheir eyes they were grey blue they were black nothing.\n\nOne had a scar a burn a birthmark one an earring one a tattoo\n\ndotted across through over his neck and the legend _cut here_.\n\nThat makes two were there two was it 3? One with the headbutt\n\none with the fists and the finger rings one with a fancy blade.\n\nOne a white male one a girl one something quick I didn't see.\n\nOne a bully one a sissy and one who was an absolute bastard.\n\nOne with a knife one a razor one with a baseball bat.\n\nOne that wept the other one screaming and screaming\n\nat the same time someone someone else laughing out loud.\n\nI found pain pain however when wherever it comes hurts.\n\nThey all yelled the same kind of words you know them\n\nthe same mad anger the same eyes the same dead smile\n\nthe same fury at someone long ago dead yesterday perhaps.\n\nOne was white one black one some other shade of human.\n\nI recall as I fell for the umpteenth last maybe time\n\nmy thought here in this great multi-ethnic society\n\nyou can be beaten and robbed you can die by all sorts\n\nfor all sorts of reasons for none by all sorts of exotics.\n\n# The Chicken Variations\n\n### _Chicken calling:_\n\nWhisky Oscar Chicken. Whisky Oscar Chicken\n\ncalling Foxtrot, come in Foxtrot.\n\nThis is Whisky Oscar Chicken\n\ncalling Foxtrot, come in Foxtrot.\n\n### _Chicken faith:_\n\nThe word was let there be chicken.\n\nBefore the chicken was the chicken,\n\nbefore the egg was the egg,\n\nfrom the beginning of the word the word was chicken.\n\nAnd before that the word was egg.\n\nAnd before that the word was still egg.\n\nAnd before that the great sky chicken\n\nwho is the rooster and hen mother of us all.\n\n### _Phrases for translation:_\n\nExcuse me, parlez-vous chicken ici?\n\nPlease, where is the cambio for live chickens?\n\nIs this the fast chicken for Bratislava?\n\nBitte, do you have a place I can leave my broody hen?\n\nI am married with a roost and three chicks,\n\nI live in Little Red Rooster Town, Minnesota.\n\nI was born in the Year of the Chicken\n\nunder the sign of the Chicken, have a nice day.\n\nI would like chicken en suite, por favor.\n\nChicken on the rocks, chicken all round.\n\nIt's my turn for the Lakenvelder meine Damen und Herren.\n\nS'il vous pla\u00eet m'sieur I want the Chicken Cab Co.\n\nI would like a bottle of this Chateau Poulet Blanc.\n\nThis chicken is too loud, take it away please.\n\nEntschuldige, I have to go buy a chicken now.\n\nPardon me, I think my chicken is on fire.\n\nI have a one way ticket to Chickenville, goodbye.\n\n### _Let us consider the chicken:_\n\nLately I've been thinking about the chickens,\n\nclucking their peevish lives out in the long batteries,\n\nwhere the lights shorten the days, nothing changes,\n\nit's hell on earth and every one in here is loo-loo.\n\nEven in a yard they fret, always at the edge,\n\nsuspicious, laying the great egg, staring, watching,\n\nwary for the cockbird or pecking at their dinners\n\nor asleep dreaming worms, slugs, fat maggots.\n\nAnd then they die, all of them without names,\n\nnumbers, without biographies, votes, pension rights,\n\ntheir throats routinely cut, stripped, chopped up,\n\ncooked in a pot with onions and peppers and devoured.\n\n_Chuck. Chuck._ The Hungarians, who got them\n\nfrom the Bulgarians, they say _tyuk. Tyuk tyuk tyuk._\n\nComrades, clearly this is not in the chickens' interest.\n\nOur feathered friends are manifestly at a disadvantage.\n\nAnd no one protests, no one gives a Gypsy's gob\n\nfor all their aspirations, dreams, their brief itchy lives\n\nscratching and complaining, part of the food chain.\n\n_Save the chicken. Save the chicken._\n\n### _Chicken lore:_\n\nFor a start there was the Miracle of the Cocks and Hens,\n\nthere was the Parable of the White Leghorn,\n\nthere was the Cockadoodledoo Revelation at Alexandria,\n\nthere was the Exemplary Lesson of the Rhode Island Reds,\n\nthere was the Sermon on the Flightless Gallinacae,\n\nthere was the Bantam Capon Culture of the Po Valley,\n\nthere was the Black Langshan Khanate of Kiev,\n\nthere was the Coxcomb Dynasty of the Mekong Delta,\n\nthere was the Teaching of Salvatore Stefano Cacciatore,\n\nthere was the Red Rooster Crusade of 1332,\n\nthere was the Most Noble Order of Jersey Black Giants,\n\nthere was the Barred Plymouth Rock Declaration,\n\nthere was the Constitution of the Andalusian Blues,\n\nthere was the Divine Sisterhood of Old Poultry Lane,\n\nthere was the secret conclave of the Orpington Buffs,\n\nthere was La Fl\u00e8che, Cr\u00e8vecoeur, Campine, Faverolle,\n\nthere was the whole mighty host of Gallus Domesticus\n\nmigrating out of the east, crossing the windy steppes\n\nclutched in the armpits of savage horsemen,\n\nand there was blood, there were mountains of skulls.\n\nWe were at Marathon, at Agincourt, on the Somme,\n\nwe were the Wild Chickens who fought at Malplaquet.\n\nWe too had our epics, our ten year return to Ithaca\n\nonly to find strangers clucking in our compound.\n\nWe too had our blind poets Homer and Milton.\n\nThere was Chaucer's _The Dream of Fair Chickens_ ,\n\nthere was the Last Lay of the Fighting Cocks,\n\nthere was the Black Virgin of the Chickenshack,\n\nthere was Shakespeare's famous Chicken Soliloquy,\n\nthere was the patriarch Chicken Joe Bailey,\n\nthere was the saint and martyr Adolphus Chicken,\n\nthere was the inventor and explorer Gustavus Chicken,\n\nthere was the hero Lieutenant General Gordon Chicken,\n\nthere was Captain Bingo 'Chickenwings' Benson\n\nwho saved us again and again from foreign invasion,\n\nthere was the gunfighter Roaring Jack Chicken,\n\nthere was the horn player Willy Bantam Chicken,\n\nthere was the Ode to a Chicken and the Air on a Chicken,\n\nthere was the Chicken Sonata, the Chicken Symphony,\n\nthere was Chicken Blues, there was Chicken Boogie,\n\nthere was the Chicken Domesday, the Cockcrow Manifesto\n\nthe Chicken Coop Oath, the Last Address to the Chickens,\n\nthere was the chicken round dance and chicken chants,\n\nthere were chicken fiestas and chicken olympics,\n\nthere was Chicken Rococo and Chicken Gothic,\n\nthere was the Colegio Pollo of medieval Florence,\n\nthere were the _Chicken \u00c9tudes_ of Guillaume Apollinaire,\n\nthere was the School of Contemporary Chicken Studies,\n\nthere was the Distressed Indigent Chickens' Benevolent Society,\n\nthere were the Thoughts of The Cocksman Chairman Charlie,\n\nthere was the Theory and Evolution of the Chicken,\n\nthere was the architecture of Frank Lloyd Chicken,\n\nthere was Henry Ford's Chicken Mass Production System,\n\nand it says here much else besides, all of it now best forgot.\n\n### _Saith the Sky Chicken:_\n\nWoe to those who sell guns\n\namongst the warring states.\n\nWoe to those who shell the wounded.\n\nWoe to those who take another's house,\n\nand say _this is my farm, these my chickens_ ,\n\nwho pick up the photo album and say\n\n_why these are all my relatives_.\n\n### _Interim conclusions:_\n\nWhat is a mere chicken to do?\n\nEverything you see belongs to the Fat Man.\n\nThe true commonwealth of equals is now very far off.\n\nThe Dark Ages begin again any time now.\n\nI'll tell you this: the Hundred Years War\n\ndid nothing for those who eat worms.\n\nWhat use was the Renaissance?\n\nThe Revolution's been and gone.\n\n### _Last bulletin:_\n\nThe barbarians are at the city's throat,\n\ntheir tanks moving down the great ringroads,\n\nthe anti-chicken forces are all around us.\n\nAny second now there will be no more electricity.\n\nThis is the end of the Chicken Road.\n\nThis is the last hour of the Chicken Republic.\n\nThis is the final demise of the Chicken Revolution.\n\nThis is the end of all chicken civilisation.\n\nAnd this is Radio Free Chicken signing off.\n\nGoodbye Foxtrot, Goodbye Tango Charlie.\n\nWe of the Chicken Coalition salute you.\n\nWe of the Chicken Millennium bid you adieu.\n\n# Her mirror\n\nSideways it always was along the long wall\n\nand I still see her in it though she's gone now,\n\ncombing her hair, setting her face right for the street.\n\nI fixed it upright by my door to watch who comes,\n\nwho passes. Things are not so easy in this neck of the woods.\n\nThe neighbourhood's gone crazy.\n\nBut in Milly's mirror all the world's reversed \u2013\n\ncar numbers, faces, turned around as mirrors do,\n\nand the mad didikais raging in the street all night.\n\nThey beat each other up, they're selling crack.\n\nThey brick each others' cars and windows\n\nand they scream through the night furnace.\n\nMilly's mirror watches.\n\nMilly's mirror watches all.\n\n# The road to Henrietta's house\n\nWell there's a lot of ways to get there a lot of ways to go.\n\nFor a start you can stop off at the Rainbow Caf\u00e9 and drink\n\ndrink yourself beyond yourself into silence through the jukebox\n\nthrough all the chatter of the pinball machines till its _Time_.\n\nThat would be the end of it that would be the tale. But suppose.\n\nSuppose you have the one drink leave set out across the city.\n\nYou take the bus you take the tram you take the train you walk.\n\nYou come to the river there you wake the sleepy boatman.\n\nFor sure for certain he's sure in a foul mood, and sore drunk.\n\nAnd when he's rowed you over there's the marshes and the wild beasts.\n\nThere's the vipers and the soldier ants and the roaches and the flies.\n\nYou have to catch your own wild horse you have to tame it, ride it\n\nat last at long last down the long road to Henrietta's house,\n\nand just because all hell has broken broken loose broken loose\n\nyou're thinking someone something in the universe doesn't want\n\nthe two of you to meet, ever. Suppose you just keep going\n\nto the end the road makes in the door that opens into light\n\nwater in the kettle wine in the dark red bottle and her beads.\n\nAnd now she wants to dance she wants to click her fingers laugh\n\nfling out her braids flying in the window in the candle's flame.\n\n# In praise of vodka\n\nThe taste they say for they must\n\nor they feel that they must so they say\n\nso they say they say _it has none,_\n\n_there's no taste, just water._\n\nWater: the glassy lake Christ trod,\n\na bowl Herod rinsed his fingers in,\n\nthe rain falling on Troy's ruins,\n\nlast word last balm of the living.\n\nThe same water, over and over. They say\n\nfor they say for they must so they say\n\nwe're running out running dry but there's always\n\nthe same amount as there's always been.\n\nIt's we who are more. As for myself\n\nI've spent all my days working out\n\njust what little Miss Peaches might like\n\nand I'm due a day off for the rest of my life.\n\nSo out of the freezer the bottle, the green\n\nfrosty bottle, its label iced in cyrillic,\n\nthe glass and the water beside the glass.\n\nRussische. Moskovskaya. Stolichnaya.\n\nSo this is the taste of nothing:\n\nnothing then nothing again. Nothing at all.\n\nThe taste of the air, of wind on the fields,\n\nthe wind through the long wet forest.\n\nA stream and the rain. I lie in my yard\n\nand open my mouth to the moon and the down falling rain\n\nand the rods of its words speak over my tongue\n\nto the back of my throat and they say\n\n_Voda_\n\n_Water_\n\n_Vodka_\n\n_Voda_\n\n_Water_\n\n_Vodka_\n\n_Voda_\n\n_Water_\n\n_Vodka_\n\n_Voda_\n\n_Water_\n\n_Vodka_\n\n_Voda_\n\n_Water_\n\n_Vodka_\n\n# The carpenter's confession\n\nAll these years something grew in me, measuring,\n\ncutting good wood, stitching my own sweet way with a dowel,\n\na nail, a joint, reassembling the forest into chairs\n\nand cupboards in a room swollen with wood dust.\n\nThis was the page of my life. Then I was redundant.\n\nSo I come out to Wanstead most days, to the Flatts,\n\nbrooding briar and star moss, lichen, the ways of the ants\n\nand the birds, if the day holds the rain off.\n\nMost days in the city's diet of sound I'm deaf in one ear,\n\nin the other intermittently lucid on the left hand channel,\n\nclairvoyant and amplified, the system working at last,\n\nboth speakers straight to the brain's right side.\n\nSo today.\n\nToday I lay watching a red kite rise and fall\n\nin the shimmer of the updraughts, hearing\n\nthe far away laugh of the boy at the string's end:\n\nto him everything an amazement, like new made money.\n\nAnd the wind through all easy. I pondered the weather,\n\nand what waterlogged secrets the gravel ponds keep,\n\nwhat guns and what corpses and why, when the day's good\n\nand nothing should wreck it some fool always does.\n\nSo today, I brought my Kalashnikov.\n\nAway to one side sunlight was moving on towers\n\nin Leyton and Leytonstone. Gulls, crows, one then\n\ntwo magpies in the scribble of weeds. And the city\n\ntuned itself out, its traffic a distant barking and child sounds.\n\nAs usual as ever I was taking a last backward glance\n\nat the world's green spatter of leaves, wind\n\nhaunting the grass, high up and invisible the larks'\n\nrusty twittering, overhead an incoming plane in descent\n\nwhere the captain had just flipped the no smoking sign.\n\nTraffic noise began rolling in, sirens, then the buzz\n\nof some model plane's toy motor round and around\n\nin the slow light that but for him would be bliss.\n\nSo today I put in a clip. Today I took off the safety.\n\n# The man who ran away from the circus\n\nThat one with the haircut round his ears,\n\nthe one that grins with the teeth and the glasses,\n\nthe little man holding a long umbrella \u2013\n\nor whichever one he is he's the shorter of the two.\n\nIt's been a hard road he says. As a kid\n\nhe remembers they were always on the move.\n\nHe'd sneak away to do his homework in the Fat Lady's tent.\n\nHe remembers ropes, sawdust, llama spit, camel stink.\n\nAnd he remembers how it was with his dad\n\non a bad night of muddy rain and a hatful of unsold tickets,\n\nthe takings slithering off into expenses, the books\n\nunbalanced on the table and the whisky bottle out,\n\nthe dogs howling in the yard. Lenny the lion's sick\n\nand the liontamer out on the razzle with the man\/woman.\n\nThe ringmaster's run off with the cashflow\n\nand the clowns are demanding a payrise and a pension\n\nand Christmas is coming, it's all they can do\n\nto find hay for the horses.\n\nHe's at the end of his endless tether again.\n\nAbout then the old man would straighten up, pour a drink,\n\nfix his bow-tie and collar, clear his throat,\n\nlook you right in the eye and say _There are signs_\n\n_things are getting better. We're beginning to see_\n\n_an upturn in our fortunes at last. The confidence rate_\n\n_is well up this month. There are indications the worst_\n\n_of this long bitter recession is over._\n\nThat's how it was then. It was either that\n\nor close down the zoo, sell the elephant,\n\nauction off the tigers and the freak sheep,\n\nthe sideshows and the performing monkeys,\n\nturn the zebras into handbags, the horses into glue,\n\nlease the big top and develop the site, retire to Brighton\n\nto sell takeaways, become a deck chair attendant,\n\nwatch the cricket and the bowls and the grey swilltub sea\n\nfrom a window in his favourite seafront pub\n\nand reminisce: _ah the good old days of the classless society,_\n\n_the world of every opportunity where everyone_\n\n_could get to crack the whip_. That again.\n\nAnd he's away. Again the horses prance into the ring,\n\nthe pompons and the big drum and the trombone's oompah oompah\n\nand the girls glittering in fishnet and sequins.\n\nHere come the stiltmen and the clowns, the jugglers\n\nand the human cannon ball, the rubber man, the singing dog,\n\nthe giant and the dwarf and the thinnest man in England,\n\nJoJo with her instruments and Suzy's little tricks,\n\nthe man who throws axes, the man who swallows knives\n\nand the one who breathes fire, Manolito's highwire act\n\nfrom Andalusia, the Russian pyramid, the invisible American,\n\nthe drunks, the grand finale of the troupe of South American pickpockets\n\nthat did him in at last. Them and all those women.\n\n# Interrogating the egg-timer\n\nBorn?\n\nI was born in a paper bag in the basement of a shark,\n\nin a windstorm in Arizona, in a Turkish shebeen,\n\nin the cold blue corner of an isosceles triangle.\n\nI was a child of the union of rain and whisky.\n\nHow much of my beginning can I remember?\n\nWhy, isn't this it? I remember nothing and everything.\n\nThere was a blue sky. For once my father was happy.\n\nMy mother was a test tube but more fruity.\n\nI find the world fairly round, roundly and profoundly unfair.\n\nYou ask about my last life, the one before this.\n\nAs I recall I travelled in the suitcase\n\nof a man always stopping to call long distance.\n\nI was the ashtray of a perverted monk,\n\nI was alone I was always alone.\n\nYou want to know how long this road I'm on is?\n\nListen, 60 minutes is the end of my attention-span.\n\nAnything beyond and it's head-over-heels\n\nI'm in love again with someone's juices and aromas.\n\nYou've read Lawrence. You'll know what I mean.\n\nMy favourite food is anything.\n\nIf I stopped eating altogether I'd be a very slim hourglass.\n\nI'm so tired of salt with everything.\n\nI'll just go on being turned over and over,\n\nliving out my life in quiet three minute orgasms.\n\nWhere did I spend last night? Pass.\n\nAm I capable of transformation? Well,\n\nI can turn energy into raw mountains of detritus.\n\nI am capable of anything. Everything again.\n\nAgain nothing. I want to go back into my box now.\n\nAilments? I catch cold when I need to.\n\nNo tobacco, no alcohol, no drugs. Up at dawn,\n\njogging on the spot, somersaults. I keep myself neat,\n\nready for action. _Intrepid_ is my middle name.\n\nIn my job down at the harbour I guide the boats in.\n\nYou want to know how I work?\n\nFirst I have to be turned over. Then\n\nI walk up and down staring at nothing,\n\nthinking of nothing in particular.\n\nSerendipity. A certain aimlessness. Theft.\n\nBetimes I am madde as anie hattere.\n\nCertainly I get sick of the company of Young Smartarse\n\nand his mates, I am a morose and solitary drunk.\n\nI take this ambience from a man called Waits.\n\nI take it and I give it back again.\n\nNo, I never watch old movies. I am one.\n\nAt what time do I burst into blossom?\n\nWhenever I dance, when I grow up.\n\nActually I'm in bloom now. Can't you see?\n\nAll these pink buds will be shiny green apples one day.\n\nMy favourite position is 90 degrees upright.\n\nHow did it feel to be taken away by thieves?\n\nTerrific, I love travel. I adored them,\n\nthey were all excellent dancers, good talkers.\n\nThey taught me advanced kleptomania and secrecy.\n\nWhen did I masturbate? I could ask you the same thing.\n\nI'm old enough not to be daft enough to answer that.\n\nYou want to know what happened to my seven sisters?\n\nThat would be Melissa and the others, Sugar Plum,\n\nStanley Knife, Consonant, Tin Can, Marzipan\n\nand the other one that was never called anything.\n\nThey're the Sisters Pleiades now. Can't you see them\n\nall around me? They were all abused by Father Time.\n\nAs to my future life I just plan to keep busy.\n\nBusy and useful till the salt runs out.\n\nThen I expect to be a hand or just a finger.\n\nWhen I speak to the police what will I tell them?\n\nAll these questions. I'll say I'm no stool pigeon.\n\nI'll tell them how unbearable you've been,\n\nthey should lock you up for life. I'll spit salt at them.\n\nSo how would you feel after a thousand nights without sleep?\n\nWhat does freedom mean to me? My favourite tipple,\n\nthe same as my religion: everything I see.\n\nTaking longer to change. When there's\n\nnothing else in the world I can rape.\n\nAnd what do I mean by 'I'm in love again'?\n\nWell, I was bored in the supermarket.\n\nThe top half of my glassy body loves my bottom half.\n\nIt's my normal status. In any case\n\nI was dried out, I'd drunk six cups of coffee.\n\nI don't know I'm no intellectual.\n\nI was in love before. She gave me a ring.\n\nThat ended in a jackdaw's nest. She gave me white crystal.\n\nI gave her only my time. And what now?\n\nWell, I could write a cheerful book about graveyards.\n\nI could start a small war.\n\nI could drive the peasants out of Thuringia,\n\nlob mortars onto hungry people in a Sarajevo bread queue.\n\nI'd rather dance though. I'd rather the company of books,\n\ncandlelight, unaccompanied singing. Fact is\n\nI'm an officer and gentleman in the SAS. I kill people.\n\nI can mumble the Lord's Prayer in Anglo-Saxon.\n\nAnd the riddles: what am I now, pray? Answer:\n\na long falling through myself into a pile of whiteness,\n\nthe cone of ashes of the dead at Birkenau.\n\nWhat do I expect of strangers?\n\nThat they keep close to the walls. Water, bread, a small fish.\n\nJust slipping in and out of time. I'm content\n\npassing the salt from one half to the other of myself.\n\nThis time the answer is _Edelweiss-Piraten gegen Nazis_.\n\nAnd who would I run to? Who indeed.\n\nThe mad. The imprisoned. The condemned. The dead.\n\nAnyone who starts the day without a good breakfast.\n\nThere are four of us in here you know,\n\none for each season. And more to come.\n\nWhat are my dreams? Wanderers. Other dreamers.\n\nBy the end of the week I'm more a smell than a flavour.\n\nThere are those to whom I bear the debt of time,\n\nguttural people. I myself am clear glass,\n\nfalling white crystals. Drop me and I break and that's _Amen_.\n\nWhat am I weary of? I'll tell you.\n\nEggs, for one thing. Quotations from Shakespeare.\n\nThe Books of Exodus and Leviticus. Answering questions.\n\nFlying the Atlantic. All of Disney.\n\nThe words _arabesque, fraught,_ and _binocular_.\n\nI'm weary of a life without legs.\n\n# Unaccompanied singing\n\n_\u00c0 capella_ : unaccompanied singing, as in a chapel, from Latin _capella_ , a diminutive of _cappa_ , cape, referring to the chapel built to house the relic of the cape of St Martin of Tours (316-397?), Patron Saint of France. Born in the Roman province of Pannonia, now in Western Hungary, he was forced into the army at 15 where he became a Christian and an early conscientious objector. Thrown into prison, he was discharged at 20, and shortly thereafter came the incident for which he was to be revered, when, at Amiens, he split his cloak with a beggar. Later he became a hermit at Poitiers, and was unwillingly chosen to be bishop of Tours, to whom miracles were ascribed. It seems everything he did he did reluctantly, but for the matter of the cape. After his death the cape was adopted as the symbol of the Merovingian and Carolingian kings, and carried by them into battle. At the accession of the first of the Carolingians, the illiterate Peppin the Short, the task of drawing up royal documents was assigned to the _capellani_ , chaplains of the _capella_ , whose original duty had been to look after the cape and the chapel that housed it. And so from the name of a covering against the rain to the name for its sanctuary and its guardians, _capella_ comes to stand for all chapels, for their servants, then for the singing that took place in them without music, the music only of human voices.\n\nSharing the same name is Capella, in the constellation Auriga, a binary star at 50 light years distance, the sixth brightest in the night sky, its name deriving, like the constellation Capricorn, aka the horned goat, tenth sign of the Zodiac \u2013 from Latin _capra_ , nanny goat, in Greek myth a she-goat (or nymph) that nursed the infant Zeus.\n\nSo now we have a story of a star, a nanny goat suckling an infant god, a saint, a cape, a chapel, clerks, and singing.\n\nLet's take the goat track.\n\nConsidering the various derivatives of the projected Indo-European root, _kapro-_ , goat, leads on to Latin _caper_ , goat, _capra_ , she-goat; _caprifig_ , the goat fig; _capric acid_ , so named for its goatlike odour; _capella gallinago_ , the common snipe; _capelin_ , a species of smelt; _caber_ , pole, from Gaelic _cabar_ , from Vulgar Latin _caprio_ , rafter, though the shift from goats to rafters as yet escapes me; _cabrilla_ a tropical sea bass, presumably goat-looking, Spanish dim. of _cabra_ ; _cabriolet_ , a two wheeled one horse carriage, from a French diminutive of _cabriole_ from Latin _capreolus_ , wild goat, referring presumably to the carriage's motion; _capriole_ , an upward leap, all four hooves off the ground, made by a trained horse, through French from Italian _capriola_ , leap of the goat; _capriccio_ (Italian: _capo_ \\+ _ricchio_ (hedgehog), literally 'head with hair standing on end' hence horror, or caprice); _chevron_ , badge of rank, in heraldry an inverted V, in architecture a V shaped pattern, in Middle English from Old French a beam, a rafter, and so back to the caber and the capering goat once more, though I don't (yet) see how. But then _capreolate_ , tendril-like, again from Latin _capreolus_ , wild goat, referring to the wooden prop supporting tendrils or vines \u2013 and (here it comes) the V shape cut at the top of the prop suggesting horns, a goat's horns, hence rafters, turned downward to support a roof, just as the letter A is the inverted diagram of the head of an ox. And might a cape be made of goatskin?\n\nAll this is speculative, the outcome of night-grubbing in the dictionaries. It reappears here and there as motif, hints at recurrent themes, lone voices, a chorus of unaccompanied singing that becomes an opera of fish, birds, leaping goats, vines and rafters, striped sergeants of infantry, kilted cabermen, horses and their trainers, the rattle of many tongues in capricious symphony. As for the parts the performers of this work will play, more night sifting throws up the Portuguese instrument maker, Antonio Capela, born 1932, a leading European maker of violins, violas and cellos. It reveals Sir Arthur Capel, beheaded in 1649, Royalist leader in the English Civil War, 'a man in whom the malice of his enemies could discover very few faults', whose escape from the Tower of London was betrayed by a boatman for 20 pounds. And so now we have a Judas. There's Andreas Capellanus, a 12th-century French writer on courtly love, there's Martianus Minneus Felix Capella, an early 5th-century advocate at Carthage and writer on the rules of prose and poetry, there's a 17th-century Huguenot theologian and Hebrew scholar, Louis Cappel. There's a 16th-century Venetian noblewoman, Bianca Capello, beautiful, passionate, intelligent, the focus of intrigue and scandal, mistress and later wife of Francisco I de Medici, by the ruse of a fake pregnancy and a borrowed baby to deceive her lover into marriage. So much for romance. Soon after the marriage both died suddenly in their beds, of poison believed to have been administered by the Duke's brother. There's Luigi Capello, Italian general of World War I, and Giacomo Capellin, born 1887, a Venetian glassmaker who revived the glass industry at Murano, there's Heinrich Kapell, a 17th-century gun-maker of Copenhagen, and there's Johann Capeller, of Munich, around 1811 first flute in the King of Bavaria's court orchestra. And for the scenery, tempering the wild Italian with an ochre northern sobriety, there's Jan van de Cappelle, 1624-1679, Dutch painter of calm seascapes and silvery winter landscapes.\n\nAnd so we begin with voices in the starry night singing without accompaniment. Then a flute, then a quartet of instruments fashioned by the Portuguese master, a chorus, characters, a plot that begins under a bright star with a suckling goat and the splitting of the saint's cape, rain and lightning and horses, scenes amongst the glassblowers and the gunmakers and the horse trainers, to one side the storming of advocates and grammarians and theologians, and all proceeding to betrayal for mere cash, despite the passionate temper of Bianca, the comedy of the baby trick, the mad speeches of the Italian general, resplendent in his plumes and braids, amidst the sombre Dutchman's winter roads and water, ships always in the offing, one of them perhaps _The Queen of Spain_.\n\n# [FROM  \nWILD ROOT](9781780374338_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**(1998)**\n\n# Eddie's Other Lives\n\n## _Absent_\n\nThe other half of the conversation\n\nhas flown off in a jetplane\n\nto the country of her own tongue.\n\nAnd maybe she'll come back to me\n\nor maybe not or maybe she was all a dream\n\nI had in the blue garden in the dusk.\n\nIn the house the TV is watching itself\n\nand the stereo listening to itself\n\nand the fridge with its running commentary.\n\nShe's out there. And I'm out here\n\namong the moths and the last light,\n\nthe blackbird at her evensong.\n\n## _Country music_\n\nIn my other life in another country\n\non the world's other side I get by, just.\n\nA little fishing a little hunting perhaps.\n\nMaybe I'm a professor of aluminum siding\n\nat Pork Chop U, an aficionado\n\nof the beauties of felt roofing.\n\nLet's say I drive a dusty brown pickup\n\nwith a roofrack and a rifle in the back.\n\nWhat you're up against here is decay,\n\nthat in the system that makes it break down.\n\nAnd anyway it's Friday. In all the arguments\n\nfor one more drink the ayes have it.\n\nTherefore I'm on my way to the Captain's\n\nto fill up the hole I've made in myself.\n\nShe's bored with me, I tired of her long ago.\n\nWe get by with the kids and the payments.\n\nAll the radio stations sing the same song:\n\n_love goes away_ , it's a sad tune\n\ncoming in over the airwaves and out\n\nthrough the light years to the stars,\n\nthe same miserable message\n\nto the whine of the same miserable guitar,\n\nfor forever or the next thing to it,\n\nif anyone out there is listening.\n\n## _Chief_\n\nOn the one side my great great grandaddy\n\nwas Timuquana, chief in these parts.\n\nA great hunter, woman chaser,\n\nfighting man, joker, dreamer,\n\nwhose country was this where I work now\n\nup and down the fairways and bunkers.\n\nLook, here's his picture on the matchbook\n\nfrom the country club of the same name:\n\nthe leathery face in the braids\n\nand the one feather that breaks\n\nout of the ring round him like a seal\n\non a document, his motto underneath:\n\n_Close cover before striking._\n\n_For safety strike on back._\n\n## _When that cop come_\n\n_Old Red_ we call him to his red face,\n\n_Hey Mister Red, Yes Sir Mister Red,_\n\nyou see the heat rise to his head,\n\nand that's what makes him crazy.\n\nSo then he's writing inside his hat\n\nlike he thinks it's New York,\n\n_Pay now pay later pay forever he says:_\n\n_Gimme your name or I'll break your face._\n\nSeems I remember him in school,\n\nsnot running down his white trash face,\n\na pimpled adolescent chewing toothpicks,\n\nbeating his meat behind the bandstand.\n\nNow he's just a dirty cop in Meatville\n\nwriting my name down in his notebook\n\ntelling me I'm booked, hooked, cooked,\n\nand I'm telling him _this conversation cut_.\n\n## _Joy #1_\n\n_Come down here this mornin Madson Wisconsin goin home Denver. Husban's up there inna Vetrans Hospital Madson, s'real good hospital._\n\n_He got hit by a truck. Half his face smashed in, one eye hangin out. Couldn't look at him._\n\n_Had to make myself. Asked me how I look Joy? I said OK Sonney. It was a goddamn lie. Looks like shit. No wonder I'm smokin like they goin outa style._\n\n## _In the next street_\n\nThere's only ever one argument: his,\n\nbawling out whoever punctuates\n\nthe brief intervals his cussing\n\ninterrupts, something unheard, reason perhaps.\n\nWhat you never get is silence,\n\nalways some groan on the horizon\n\nout on the borders of attention\n\nwhere would be quiet if they let it.\n\nAlways some conversation far away,\n\nforeign, banal, dramatic, translated\n\nit means _my wife's name is Judit._\n\n_I am an engineer from Spidertown._\n\nWhat to reply? _Your Majesty_\n\n_my name is Smith_. All lies anyway,\n\nall we do is get drunk, the evening's end\n\ncollapsing loosely into gutturals.\n\nWe drink to silence, where the stars think.\n\nWe drink to the music of rain on the roof.\n\nWe drink to mothers, brothers, lovers, kids,\n\nto the candle burning down its length\n\ntill someone blows it out. Distance\n\nmakes no difference, the same want\n\nfor love and money, the numbers of the winning line\n\nin the state lottery like a needle in the brain.\n\nAnd then I've had enough. I want\n\nto go home now, far away, plug myself\n\nback into the sockets, the blackbird,\n\nthe evening humming stories to itself.\n\nEverything in its place, the moths,\n\nthe mouse in the mousetrap. And\n\nin the next street the same old argument.\n\nHe's sure he's right.\n\n## _Joy #2_\n\n_My mother. She was killed onna street. Had t'go home to Livpool England bury her. That's where I come from, ways back. She was killed right onna street, hit by car. Knocked down hit an run. She was onna crossing. She was dead. She was inna right. But she was dead._\n\n## _Poem to which the answer is no_\n\nThis music you're listening to \u2013\n\nlet me tell you why I don't like it.\n\nNo.\n\nYou with your pretty little Doris Day wife.\n\nShe's been buying and selling in cyberspace.\n\nShe's looking at Jesus through the eyes of Bugs Bunny.\n\nAnd _yes_. This could be me here among the glittering cities,\n\nEddie the Unsteady glimpsed travelling in the opposite direction\n\non an Amtrak out of Toledo, last heard from in a motel room\n\nin Moon Township, old curmudgeon on a stick\n\nlimping aimless in America, through all the other zones\n\nof time and distance and the self, beautifully lost\n\nsomewhere in the great riddle of nowhere, my double,\n\ncarbon copy, fax, living on my wits, conjuring\n\nsomething out of nothing and taking that to the bank.\n\n_I'm sorry sir, we're not connected to that service._\n\n_Your call cannot be completed as dialled._\n\nEddie's on the hoof,\n\nEddie's off the bone,\n\nEddie's getting drunk\n\nand won't come to the phone.\n\n## _More stick_\n\nHere he comes again my man Eddie,\n\nmaking his way downtown on some cross street,\n\nthe rain and the cold wind in his face\n\ndown past Jerry's barber shop and shoe shine\n\non his way to the invisible liquor store.\n\nLike me he is of the brotherhood of men\n\nwith sticks. _East Wacker to West Wacker_\n\n_six times a day and back again, I was_\n\n_a messenger then my foot got sick._\n\n_It collapsed goddammit_. Eddie on the edge\n\nof everything, Eddie on a freight train\n\nto a heart attack. He can say\n\nyou're the one who was here, always will be.\n\nHe can say only time I refused a drink\n\nI misunderstood the question. Oh he can talk,\n\nhe's the epicentre of any conversation,\n\nit runs all round him but he's not here\n\nand tomorrow won't remember. Any of it.\n\nAnd through it all the dead music\n\nof the buildings, airshafts and ventilators\n\nand the electrics, the sirens hunting down\n\nthe streets of the trashed neighbourhoods\n\nalong the lake shore, scruffy trees\n\nstanding in black water, then just the gleam\n\nof cities shining in the night, blur\n\nof conversations over the Earth's rim.\n\nThis is a fugue that is a dream of the world\n\nthat's a bad dream anyway. _Fool:_\n\n_what's this fist for, this automatic_\n\n_in your guts, this knife?_ Fact is\n\nin this bar he's come in from the rain to,\n\nwaiting for a train or a bus or a plane,\n\nfact is there's not one not two not three\n\nbut four talking TV screens competing\n\nfor his anxieties. All this infests his brain.\n\nBut Eddie no crazy. Eddie sick, he in trouble\n\nbut he no lose it. Eddie no mad.\n\n## _Joy #3_\n\n_Name's Joy, an that's my nature. But I swear to God it gets harder. Don't much get on with Sonney's two boys from first marriage, 16 and 18 years old, both of them crazy, crazy as lunes, out half the night raisin hell, come home, switch on TV stereo high as it'll go._\n\n_Sonney wants me to move up there with them, thinks he'll be there a while. Says he wants me with him but I don't know, sella house, move our stuff, get those boys to help an I don't know they will._\n\n## _Joy #4_\n\n_When I married my first husban Elliot I was a GI bride. Those days I was an entertainer, I was a stripper, clubs inna north, Leeds, Manchester. I thought he was the sweetest thing. We didn't last. People don't I guess. His business went broke an he took off, took a farm up in South Dakota, took the boy. I said I wouldn go, said I didn come here to be no farmer's wife out inna wilderness, so we split._\n\n## _The geography of clouds_\n\nIt all happens so fast, in the long grass\n\nlooking up, or staring from the bus\n\ngoing West: the stately kingdoms of the clouds\n\ncollapsing into violent republics, empires\n\nforming and fading on fast forward.\n\nThe cartographers never catch up,\n\nthe mapmakers turn broody and suicidal,\n\nthe subtitles in an unknown tongue,\n\nwhite on white and all too fast.\n\nIn a half an afternoon the history of Russia,\n\nin an hour the discovery and conquest of the New World,\n\nin minutes the development of moveable type.\n\n_The late bloom is on the sedge_\n\nreads the soundtrack. _And the blossom_\n\n_no sooner flowers than it falls._\n\n## _East of here, west of here_\n\nthe days are the great flatlands,\n\nlong arc of the earth's curve\n\nfalling away on all points of the compass.\n\nAnd what the light presents: barn, tree,\n\ngirl in an orchard, an old woman\n\npeeling apples, glimpsed as you go.\n\nThe nights are the mountains,\n\nto be got through in the headlights\n\neast of the river or west of the watershed:\n\nthe same: speech that makes sense\n\nonly of essential things: bread and salt\n\nin greeting, a glass of wine, farewell,\n\nsome place to lay me down to sleep\n\nto the tick of the same bedside clock,\n\nthe battery wearing itself away.\n\n## _Noises off_\n\nSome dream or other, the moon wash\n\nthrough the window blinds, the night city\n\nwith its night sounds. I'm on the road again\n\nin my other life, the lights glittering\n\nin the late distance, the wind\n\nbroken out of Canada and laced with sleet.\n\nSo here I am in this little town\n\nbetween ocean and ocean with my bag\n\nand my out of state cheques and no cash.\n\nI'm rich in bad paper and dead currency\n\nand they say _money never lies idle_\n\nbut what do they know of it?\n\nIt's always this aching hour of the night\n\nin some place called French Lick\n\nor Mud City Indiana, the connection\n\nhalf a day away to some unhappy town\n\nwhere the furniture is made of neon\n\nand sings in praise of K-Mart and the 7-11.\n\nAnd there is always racket, machinery\n\nthat bleeps to say your dinner's done,\n\nyour laundy's dry, horns, talking trucks,\n\nthe chatter of the video arcades\n\nand the low murmur of the soaps\n\nand the endless wailing of the cops.\n\nAlarms no one ever answers, bells\n\nthat ring till the electricity runs out,\n\nand then a door opens on a sudden blast\n\nof heartbreak music, betrayal's beat,\n\nthe same old blues of separation,\n\nmen's inconsistencies and women's.\n\n## _Joy #5_\n\n_Don't know what I can do in Madson. Waitressin I guess. Just when I was thinking to live and die in Denver now I have to do the same for Wisconsin. I don't know._\n\n_Sonney was driving to Canada, got hit up there by Green Bay. Hit by truck. He looked awful, don't know how he's gonna look when it's over._\n\n_Kept askin me How do I look Joy, how do I look? It's real good hosptal._\n\n_He was smashed up before. Photographer. In Veetnam got a grenade in his back, thirty seconds get it out with a fish hook. Goddamm Veetcong._\n\n## _Speech_\n\nNow America is one whirled fire,\n\none babble of speech, the captions loosed\n\nfrom the cartoons, the sentences\n\nissuing out of the wrong mouths:\n\n_fuck you_ says Chief Joseph,\n\nthrowing down his spanner, fired\n\nwithin six months of his pension\n\nfrom the Milwaukee Cutout Corporation.\n\n_One more nightshift,_ leaves the bar\n\nand torches the factory. Out in the wind\n\nthat picks at the stone face of the city\n\nfor the last time in this life\n\nSchroeder stomps to his pickup:\n\n_from where the sun now stands,_\n\npunching the radio to country,\n\n_I will fight no more forever._\n\n## _A dream of disaster_\n\nNow where we are we will always be,\n\nthe moon high on second hand light,\n\nher dark weight lugging the tides\n\nbetween ebb line and nepe.\n\nWe never got there, driving through Ohio\n\nwhen the brakes failed, someone\n\npulled a gun, or in the airspace\n\nof the wide Atlantic some instrument\n\ngave in to entropy and heaved us seaward.\n\nWe are the names on the lists.\n\nThis is our baggage floating in the sea.\n\nWe are the percentage of the reckoning.\n\nAnd the moon up there is our crazy sister\n\nwho just never got started, and we\n\nare on our way to join the angels\n\nin their interminable barbershop quartets.\n\n## _Dead trousers_\n\nOld trousers that were best once, now\n\nthey never go anywhere, mooching round the house\n\ndoing odd jobs, paint and varnish stains,\n\nurine and spilt coffee where once was beer,\n\nwhisky, the faint aroma of sex on the hoof.\n\nSo the centuries flash by: all those handsome women\n\nin pretty dresses that turn suddenly black.\n\nAnd the impossible jobs: making a whole\n\nof the hole in yourself, slamming the door\n\non your discontent and out into the rain.\n\nYou're on hold, in the queue, listening\n\nto the _Nessun dorma_ song on the line\n\nand the _sorry-to-keep-you-waiting_ voice,\n\nfaint electronics at the world's rim.\n\nPlease speak after the tone.\n\nPlease leave your name and number. Speak.\n\nGet it all off your chest: love and love's\n\nbereavement and how short a term of office.\n\nMake your confessions, all the bloody times\n\nyou were a bloody fool. So speak.\n\nTo nobody out there.\n\n## _The theft_\n\nI am a thief and this my thiefwork,\n\nhere in the rare book room in Toledo\n\nrummaging the works of the dead professors,\n\nexamining their boxes of effects.\n\nIt comes to this: a stout carton\n\nin which the late dean's ashtray, gown,\n\nseal of office, rotary inscription,\n\npipe, golf trophy and cigar-cutter.\n\nAmen.\n\n## _Joy #6_\n\n_I guess I'll do it all just like he says. My friend Marlene, she waitresses with me, real good friend, she'll help me I know._\n\n_When my mother got killed onna crossing she said she'd come with me, help out, I said no. Strange goin back there. Hadn't been in 40 years, hadn't seen my mother since don't know. But she was dead, so I just buried her, came away, nothing else to do but come on home._\n\n## _The telephone is in the key of C_\n\nshe says, breathless, home again\n\nfrom the long corridors of air and traffic\n\nover the ocean's curve, where I have prayed\n\nto all the gods of wind and water\n\nfor her safe return, keeping the stillness\n\nstill for her. The stories tumble\n\nover each other, interrupt each other,\n\nall she's met, ate, heard, trembled at\n\nin the country of endless explanations\n\nand too many sudden noises, the freeways\n\nand the announcements yelling in her skull\n\nfrom the continent of her own tongue.\n\nAll falling away, almost in her grasp,\n\na word forming in the ear of her hearing,\n\nglimpsed in the moment that's gone now,\n\nthe stray bullet snug in its target.\n\nIn the year of the comet, with vodka,\n\nphenobarb and plastic bags on their heads\n\n39 grownups went off to board the UFO,\n\neach with a roll of quarters for the shuttle.\n\n_The telephone is in C. And the dryer,_\n\n_that's just a basso profundo klaxon_\n\n_that won't quit, that and the microwave,_\n\n_that and the cuckoo clock and the planes._\n\nSleep is what she needs, and a dream\n\nthrough which geese on the inlet,\n\nnear and then distant, fading south\n\nbeyond the night swamps into summer.\n\nThe rustle of magnolia in the wind\n\nand the stars over all, a nightbird\n\ncalling over water, the oncoming\n\nof the great trains' wild concertos.\n\n# Before the Lisbon Tribunal\n\nThey asked why I came here. I replied\n\nto hear the rain falling in the street,\n\nfootsteps running into the wet dark.\n\nTo consume fish and more fish, drink tinto,\n\nbranco, verde, secco, make love, sleep late,\n\nwaking to the calls of ships on the Tagus.\n\nAnd the arrival of what ships did I wait for?\n\nI described the _Alfama_ winding on itself,\n\na heap of washing lines and lemon trees,\n\nsardine scales underfoot, children tumbling\n\ndown its alleys. In the cold empty cathedral\n\nwhat I felt was _cold, empty,_ a barn\n\nbuilt by the thugs of the Second Crusade.\n\nWhat could I tell them of this?\n\nI spoke of _Guincho_ , its name that means scream\n\nfor the Atlantic wind rushing through, days\n\nwatching the slow shift in the quick sea\n\narriving in walls of water, the sea's change\n\nand the light's change till the round bowl\n\nof the earth's rim's lost and the light gone.\n\nAnd where did I think such light went?\n\nThey were amused, patient. Those were early days,\n\nI was not yet accused. At my second examination\n\nthey were seven, young, clever, soft spoken,\n\na clerk scratching, his tongue between his teeth.\n\nThere were no charges, the questions random:\n\ncould a ship of armed men be hidden in a fist?\n\nDid I believe their mares sired by the West Wind?\n\nDid cheese produce mites, bad meat blowflies,\n\ndid a closed box of old rags generate mice?\n\nI was to help clear up certain allegations,\n\nthey as anxious as I, and so forth, to be done.\n\nI have pen, ink, paper, candle, a writing desk\n\nand this white room wherein to write my confessions.\n\n# Poem without a title\n\nThe borders are open,\n\nthe borders are closed.\n\nI stood in a long line of suitcases\n\nin the Hall of Tears. Each\n\nthey inspected in leisurely detail,\n\nquartering the face, solemn.\n\nSullen. _Open please_. I recall\n\na pair of blue women's underpants\n\nheld to the grubby satin of the neon,\n\nand the paperwork, the paperwork, I thought\n\nthis time they will empty out\n\nthe entire suitcase of my heart\n\nwhen Bang went the rubber stamp,\n\nand Klik the Ausgang. _Go now_ they said.\n\nInto the gold light. Into the birdsong of the dollar,\n\ninto the constellation of the milkshake.\n\nGo be the little boy that lives in the lane,\n\nthis is what you get for your sack of apples.\n\nStill he was there, my father,\n\nat the stair's end these twenty years,\n\nback from the shadow country saying again _I told you so_\n\n_I told you so._\n\n*\n\nThe salt in the shaker,\n\npepper in the pot, everything\n\nin its place here at the Terminal Caf\u00e9:\n\neggs on the skillet, coffee in the cup.\n\nOutside the river traffic on the river,\n\nthe sky as the sky is, blue if you will.\n\nI can stroll in the Italian Gardens,\n\nI can relax in the Sicilian Colonnade.\n\nHere in the city I'm at home.\n\nThis is what I get for all my apples.\n\nThere's a bar I go to.\n\nThere's a woman I see.\n\nThere's a bridge where I watch\n\ndusk after dusk the downgoing sun\n\nlash the water to fire, and go home\n\ncontent in the dark and recall nothing.\n\n*\n\n**_Years go by_**\n\nFather I say. Dad? You again?\n\nI take your arm, your elbow,\n\nI turn you around in the dark and I say\n\ngo back now, you're sleep walking again,\n\nyou're talking out loud again, talking in tongues\n\nand your dream is disturbing my dream.\n\nAnd none of this is any of your apples,\n\nand even now as the centuries begin to happen\n\nI can say: go away, you and all your violence.\n\nShush, now, old man.\n\nTime to go back to your seat in the one-and-nines,\n\nto your black bench on the Esplanade,\n\nyour name and your dates on a metal plate, back\n\nto your own deckchair on the pier, your very own\n\nkitchen chair tipped back on the red kitchen tiles\n\nand you asleep, your feet up on the brass fender\n\nand the fire banked, your cheek cocked\n\nto the radio set, this is the 9 o'clock news Dad.\n\nIt's time. It's long past it.\n\nTime to go back up the long pale corridor\n\nthere's no coming back from.\n\n# Part of the crowd that day\n\nThey watched the pilgrims leave for Santiago\n\ngawping by the roadside. In the harbour\n\nwatching the boats gather they knew something\n\nwas afoot, so many horses and these armed men.\n\nMostly it was all too difficult to believe.\n\nThey watched the stones rise in the cathedral.\n\nThey watched the stars. They watched winter\n\nfollow summer and the birds fly south again.\n\nThey watched the thieves carted up the road\n\nto Tyburn and the beggars whipped through town.\n\nThey were townsfolk, craftsmen, shopkeepers,\n\nthe labouring poor who came in from the fields.\n\nThey watched the witches burn, the heretics.\n\nThey watched the ships leave for the Americas.\n\nThey were on the bridge at Sarajevo the first time.\n\nThey saw. They wondered. They shouted\n\n_burn her, hang him, slaughter the Albigensians_.\n\nThey were the onlookers, the crowd a gasp runs\n\nmouth to mouth down the grumbling street\n\nas Marie Antoinette goes by, and this time\n\nthey are shouting for her head. There goes\n\nthe Iron Duke, there the beaten Corsican,\n\nand this the little father of all the Russians,\n\nthis the firing squad. They were on the hills\n\nlooking down on burning Rome, and still around\n\nwhen Il Duce came to town, and how they cheered.\n\nThey gawp at the hungry, they gawp at the dead.\n\nIn the end they are not spared. In their turn\n\neverything happens to them. Of any half dozen\n\none has a secret vice, one an incurable disease,\n\none a deep faith in God and the rest don't care\n\none way or the other. But they see it all happen.\n\n# With a name like Spratt\n\nImagine at their dinner if you will\n\nJack and Mrs Spratt, whose name was Martha,\n\nmay she rest in peace and all the saints preserve us.\n\n_N\u00e9e_ Robinson. Sole relict Jeremiah Bethia Robinson,\n\na man that was never any fun at breakfast,\n\na life from start to finish without meat and 2 veg.\n\nYou will recall his long face spouting God's holy word\n\nat every spoonful of his pudding, an upright\n\nexclamation of a man much given to kneeling down.\n\nAs was Martha. When Jack took her he would take her\n\nfrom behind and call it prayer, wondering the while\n\nwhat's for supper, wondering if the stars were edible.\n\nHe loved her for her bones. He did this or that\n\nand one died then the other and they're long gone now\n\nto where there's nothing in the cupboard but the dark.\n\nTheirs was a tale told to cheer the poor\n\nand promote thrift among the lower classes.\n\nWritten on their stone _They licked the platter clean._\n\n# Suspicion of reporters\n\n_Help_ she was howling over and over,\n\na long call in fire and he:\n\nhe was scribbling _help me_\n\n_I'm burning_ , his mind's eye\n\nsetting angle, speed, distance,\n\nclosing the shutter, the bright\n\nring of strangeness around things\n\nforming the frame of her burning.\n\nHe wrote _Nor could I save her,_\n\nhe that was chronicler, eye\n\nof events at their centre. As she\n\nin her death was, as this is.\n\n# White noise\n\nLate night watching TV till it stops.\n\nThe hiss silence sings to the ear\n\ncarried in on the electron blizzard\n\npatching into uneasy sleep.\n\nSlow panic of walking columns\n\ntents blown on the wind\n\nshifting the lost villages\n\nin shoes those who have shoes.\n\nBringing the desert along with them\n\nits seeds in the mattock's edge\n\nin the hoe's angle those who have hoes\n\nbringing their hot rainless weather.\n\nCall me Shrug I know nothing.\n\nI'm like distant trouble. I may be\n\nfar from your door but I know\n\nyour name and address, alias and alibi.\n\nWill our children bear children\n\nand will they be anyone like us?\n\nWill the great stream shift south\n\nwill the rain come will the ice?\n\nYou say one day but name it: _Tuesday_\n\n_the fifth sixth the fifteenth_\n\n_October November December_. Your life flies past\n\nlike a train and you're on it.\n\n# Body Cakes\n\n_(for Aggie, recalling Asa)_\n\n_\u00d6l\u00e4ndska kroppkakor. Kroppkakor._\n\nHe liked to say it, aloud, over and over,\n\nreciting his recipe of white flour,\n\nbarley flour, potato flour, potatoes,\n\nonion and allspice. One of his ceremonies\n\nthat end to end made up a life: his.\n\nOr just what he wanted to eat.\n\nI never cooked them but the once,\n\nthe same rainy day I watched\n\nhis tall skinny body into the narrow grave\n\ndug too short so they must tip him,\n\nI thought his black cap perched on the coffin\n\nwould slither away, but it stayed.\n\nWe got on with the bitter ritual\n\nof burying the man I loved.\n\nIt rained all that day and that night\n\nwe got drunk, and we sang _please_\n\n_keep me in your dreams_. He was\n\ngone from me, my viking, _vicarunga_ ,\n\nmy long lover, whose boat came ashore\n\nhere on my life so long ago now,\n\nand from there I was stilled.\n\nThe body cakes weren't a success,\n\ngrey, a mush, wallpaper paste,\n\nthat the next day early, before anyone\n\nrose from their beds, I took out\n\nand buried, deep, in the garden.\n\n# Archive footage\n\nThe film is jumpy in the sprockets, bleached\n\nin black and white and all the shades of grey.\n\nThe memory is dying. Look: this is Jack,\n\nin the fading photo cracking at the corners.\n\nThe seaswell, the old grey swilltub\n\nfilling in the first milky light with grey ships,\n\nso many manoeuvring in so much silence. Jamey?\n\nJimmy or was it Jack? The sky another grey.\n\nJammy we called him for he was lucky.\n\nHe'd been in Africa in tanks, the one man out\n\nwhen the magazine blew and all his mates gone.\n\nThey put him back together. Jerry.\n\nGeorge? He'd gotten wed, they had 36 hours\n\nof Withernsea passion in a mate's caravan.\n\nThe sky bleached out. Here the shoreline\n\nof dune and shingle, flat country over the seawall.\n\nJohn? Joey? Jim? Home the last time turning\n\nat the back kitchen door, his handprint\n\npressed into the wet blue paintwork. That\n\nshe kept thereafter, that was all of him.\n\nPhotographs say nothing. Cheekyface\n\nshe called him. And he liked his beer.\n\nYears from now she'll sing again\n\nshe'll dream again we'll meet again.\n\nAnd there'll be bluebirds. Jess. Jeff.\n\n5th East Yorks wet and seasick off La Rivi\u00e8re.\n\nShot or drowned, face down in the sea,\n\nhis white enamel mug drifting after him.\n\nYears from now the wireless becomes the radio,\n\nthe gramophone the record player\n\nand the record player the stereo, she'll sing along\n\nsongs he sang her then, his lily and his rose.\n\nJosh. Johnny. Jock. The memory is dying,\n\nthe battery running flat. Before it fades\n\nlet's say this one is for Jimmy and for Jack,\n\nand all the others who are never coming back.\n\n# First and last, Alderney\n\nNights with the sea's mouth at my ear,\n\nthe moon at the window. Each day\n\nthe beach flushed twice over,\n\nnewly minted with footprints.\n\nAll day walking, Platte Saline,\n\nLa Bonne Terre, up the Zigzag\n\nto Giffoine, to the Four Winds\n\nand La Vieille Terre and the town.\n\nGulls. Distance that's one side\n\nNormandy, the other wild Atlantic\n\npouring itself in, the northeaster\n\nthat rips up all our words,\n\nall he said and she said\n\nand all they meant: the tale\n\nthat's merely you and I my love,\n\nweary and adrift and wordless\n\nat the light's end, at supper\n\nin the First and Last where we are\n\nsole audience to some tipsy crew\n\nwondering aloud whither the weather\n\nand whether the weather wizard works.\n\nShe says it's all too blue out there\n\nand all too blue in here. She says\n\n_I wish to God I'd never fallen down those bloody stairs_.\n\nHe says he rather likes the idea of a ratdog.\n\nAnd so forth. And as for me\n\nI was getting my voice back from the wind,\n\ntrying to keep it to myself, I was\n\nthinking how we could be nothing much,\n\ngrass in the restless air, a high bird\n\nrising in the baymouth in a landscape\n\nwith the light bleeding out of it.\n\nI want to sit here in this moment\n\nof the quick world and watch\n\nthe light fall over the long seawall,\n\nthe sea beating at the harbour mouth.\n\nI want to be who I want, the wind\n\nrocking me to sleep till I'm still.\n\nI want to be in love with water\n\nand seaweed and lost shoes and you,\n\ntaking serious interest in the tides\n\nand the moon's battered face, the gale\n\nbanging at itself, the casual dramatics\n\nof the way the world works out.\n\nThe way each day the tide makes\n\na clear heart's shape in the bay's arc.\n\n_You_ the gulls mutter overhead\n\ntheir cries rising in the last light:\n\n_you, you_. I can be glad anyone\n\nmakes anything at all of anything,\n\nin whatever space there is,\n\nany shape on the delicate air will suffice.\n\n# Poem for translation\n\nHe loves a woman. If she lived\n\non the other side of the street\n\nhe would cross the traffic to her.\n\nIf she lived on the other side of the city\n\nhe'd take a bus, take a train, call a taxi.\n\nIf she lived on the other side of the river\n\nhe'd take the ferry, row a boat, he could swim\n\nto her, waiting on the riverbank as he arrives,\n\ndripping wet, with a flower in his teeth,\n\nhis tongue working at the first words of her language.\n\nIf she lived on the other side of the ocean\n\nhe would work, beg, borrow or steal,\n\nand fly to her. But it's not like that.\n\nShe lives on the other side of a closed border,\n\nin a country without visas or passports\n\nor any kind of paperwork. They would be\n\ncloser if she lived on the other side of the moon.\n\nShe would be more alive to him if she were dead.\n\nIt's as if she exists on the other side of music\n\nor birdsong, on the other side of the mirror,\n\nclose but far away, like an echo. She's the song\n\nhe doesn't have words to, the words he has no tune for,\n\nalmost the melody he can almost hear.\n\n# For Julia, 1910-1996\n\nTears, like the rain falling, like\n\nthe first pale flowers opening in spring,\n\noh such a surprise. And then\n\nthe full riot of tears, beauty, weather,\n\nbefore the leaves begin falling again.\n\nBut this time the whole tree has fallen\n\nwith a great echo and scurry through the forest.\n\nThat's the way she went: with wind and stormclouds\n\nand nine days of rain, and over East Ham\n\nTown Hall a double rainbow, and no doubt\n\nat each foot of it a whole crock of gold\n\nfor anyone foolish enough to look for it.\n\nThere's always an end, has to be,\n\nan end to everything, to summer\n\nand to rain, to love even.\n\nAnd to the endless sketch of the conversation\n\nin the head \u2013 if you remember it aright,\n\nif it ever took place, ever happened at all \u2013\n\neven if it's just a conversation\n\nyou only imagined, longed for, for years,\n\nwith this woman everyone loved.\n\nDead now, and so far beyond all our desires,\n\nsaid or unsaid, all of it the same now\n\nin the broad length and the long breath.\n\nAll I can say is: let the heart fill,\n\nlet it flood with love, till it bursts.\n\nWhat else is there?\n\nDeath, my friends,\n\nis a dark blood red wine, that comes\n\nin a tall green bottle, a Rioja from Spain,\n\nor a Merlot from somewhere abouts Balaton,\n\nwith a label that is but one small corner\n\nof a Csontv\u00e1ry painting: Mary at the Well,\n\ncirca 1908: women come for water,\n\non their elegant heads great clay pitchers\n\nborne aloft with such tall, timeless, eloquence.\n\n# Looking for the constant\n\n_(for Alan Sandage, astronomer)_\n\nIt was the best of all possible lives,\n\nmuch spent lying night after black night\n\nin the hard cold cradle on the mountain\n\nunder the 200\", gawping like a boy again \u2013\n\nthe same boy with his ear to the telephone pole,\n\nlistening for the singing through the wires\n\nof words in the wood \u2013 staring into the stars,\n\nfurther and further out among the jewels of time.\n\nThe life of an eyeball. A life of measuring,\n\nallowing angle, age, velocity and distance,\n\nthe black dusts, warps, city haze, and all of it\n\nin motion, afloat, aloof, in orbit with itself \u2013\n\nand with whatever else lies out beyond the faint\n\nlimit we can barely see where for us the lights\n\naren't lit yet, on their long tether to infinity,\n\nwatching the far galaxies breathe into the plates.\n\nIt was an honourable life, a long tradition\n\nfore and aft of those who wondered why\n\nand what is all this stuff? It was a dreaming,\n\nseeking a measure in the unforgiving distances \u2013\n\ncrouched in my cold cage among the stars\n\nfrom which we're all of us made \u2013 and I was\n\npart of that becoming, nothing endeavouring\n\nto be something that could understand itself.\n\nThe rest was cold calculation: maps, papers,\n\nsurveys. I sought a constant, the ratio\n\nof speed to mass that meant creation\n\nthinned forever to grow dark and silent \u2013\n\nor collapsed and blew apart again,\n\nthe breathing out of breathing in,\n\na symmetry. There might be reason there,\n\nif not a god of love a god of meaning.\n\nAt any rate that's the scenario I go for.\n\n# No one\n\nLet no one be surprised at what we are about to relate, for it was common gossip up and down the countryside that after February 6th many people both saw and heard a whole pack of huntsmen in full cry. They straddled black horses and black bucks while their hounds were pitch black with staring hideous eyes. This was seen in the very deer park of Peterborough town, and in all the woods stretching from that same spot as far as Stamford. All through the night monks heard them sounding and winding their horns. Reliable witnesses who kept watch in the night declared that there might well have been twenty or even thirty of them in this wild tantivy.\n\n\u2013 from the _Anglo-Saxon Chronicle_ , 1127\n\nVoices in empty rooms, in the time that is no time\n\nbeyond midnight, a shape in the milky moonlight,\n\na pattern of shadow, the chill column of air\n\non the landing. No one there. No one.\n\nThuds in the dark, and from the locked room\n\na groan, whether of pain or passion, then the nothing\n\nwe go on listening to. Cats. The building sinking\n\ninto itself, dry rot eating the timbers. Spooks.\n\nNo one's here. Ghosts. The dead who are dead\n\nand for nothing, tangled like smoke.\n\nGhosts of the barbed wire that persists\n\nlong after the rain and the rust has eaten all its teeth.\n\nTo all this the stars pay no attention.\n\nTo each came the night of the last syllable\n\nand its endless pointless repetition,\n\na water that remembers all that's passed through it.\n\nGhosts of my grandfather's white shirts\n\non the wind through the washing lines,\n\nhis voice that still says whenever I visit him\n\n_I hope you've had your tea we've just had ours._\n\nMisty ghosts of the rain falling in the last of the forest\n\nup by Theydon Bois, the dead ferns and the weeping birch,\n\nand the old voices rubbing through like stains,\n\nthe same refusals spinning down the cortex.\n\nThe ghosts of meaning in the mouths of politicians.\n\nGhosts of the job I don't have, every day\n\nI go down and clock on though I never get paid\n\nstill it keeps the hands and feet busy\n\nand you know the monkey likes to use his hands and feet.\n\nI have become the upturned hook at the question's end,\n\nthe maker of one syllable at a time: _moon moon_.\n\nI am the ghost of the actor who only ever played ghost.\n\nGhosts. Vanished peoples consigned to the hedgebacks,\n\ntheir gods demoted to the production of sour milk.\n\nThere are countries that don't exist any more, citizens\n\nwith their wines and their sauces and their music\n\nwhere are now new people with their different names,\n\nthe Road of Brotherhood & Unity become the Avenue of Victories.\n\nOf the language of the butchering Huns a single word remains\n\nand that _strava_ , meaning funeral, all they left behind.\n\nGhosts.\n\nHalf mad and half wild, there are times if I don't go crazy\n\nI'd go crazy, so I'm walking in the dawn and the traffic\n\nall the way to Barking asking where has the silver river\n\nof my voice babbled off to? Calling in the ghosts.\n\nWhoever they are they will not go down the river,\n\nthey drift like the drowned bride in the water eddy,\n\nreturning over and over to count the takings,\n\nscraping their knives across the doorstone.\n\nGhosts.\n\nIn the new minted year 1091 the priest Walchelin\n\ntaking his customary homeward path through the woods\n\nwas assailed by the howling of the homeless dead\n\nled by a man with clubs, _exercitus mortuorum_.\n\nFamilia Herlechini, Gabriel's hounds: the wings\n\nof the wild geese overhead, mist shapes, lights on the moor,\n\nthen the onrush of the wild hunt, soldiers and women,\n\nthe parson and the clerk, the lovers who will never be satisfied.\n\nGhosts.\n\nOnce on Alderney I glimpsed through rain and sea-squall\n\nwhere their miserable burials had been the graveyard\n\nof the slaves who were whipped there and were all called _Russ_.\n\nNothing there. No one. That side is all golf now,\n\nbunkers of one sort or another, rainy emplacements\n\nwhere the field lines were broken, gun turrets\n\nknotted in briar and seagrass, the road curves away\n\nthrough the few trees it takes to make a wood there.\n\nYears ago a young man in blue across the porch, a clear\n\nafternoon in Pennsylvania, solid, adolescent,\n\nloping by the long windows, and then he jumped\n\ninto the bushes and was gone. No one there,\n\nat the rope's end the dog flailing the empty air.\n\nThere had been such a boy, sulky, slamming his machine\n\ninto the oncoming traffic on the turnpike. Once.\n\nAnd this was his short cut, mooching into town.\n\nAnother that stepped tread by long heavy tread\n\ndown the stairs of my father's house, and the door\n\nslammed so the house shook and we woke and we looked\n\nbut the bolts lay home, the key snug in its socket.\n\nWe agreed, my father and I. No one there.\n\nIt was all we ever agreed. Now he's long gone\n\ninto the dark, to whatever answer to whatever question,\n\nincommunicative as he ever was, and still angry.\n\nDead and buried, there was the cut glass bowl,\n\nits silver rim cracked all the way around, the sound of it\n\nhigh in the air of Sunday afternoon tea and that because\n\nthere was no place at the table for him, he was dead dammit.\n\nThat and two words that came clear, roundabout, devious,\n\ndistorted on the telephone, garbled in translation \u2013\n\nand a knock, once, at the back kitchen door,\n\nthe shape of him as if he would come in from the night.\n\nBut no one. My mother stands at the door looking out\n\nand he's not there, the kitchen light scatters outward\n\non the path and the dusty leaves of the blackcurrant bushes.\n\nAnd now she's dead, little Milly, but of her not a glimmer.\n\nNot much at all of her: the ring she wore I wear,\n\nher button box, thimbles, pins, a card of hooks, a grey\n\nlength of cotton threaded through a needle's eye,\n\na white china shoe with the arms of the city of Blackpool.\n\n_Goodbye_ she says, rouged and pretty and pink\n\nin her stout wooden box. _Goodbye_.\n\nShe'd say _I've seen better on a card of buttons._\n\nShe'd say _You make your bed you lie in it._\n\nSometimes I almost hear her, where the stair turns,\n\nor I almost see her as I pick the bright black berries\n\nyear by year on the cuttings from her garden by the sea,\n\nfew as they are each summer there are more of them.\n\n# Countryside Around Dixton Manor, _circa_ 1715\n\nNow strike up drum\n\ncum harvest man cum.\n\nBlowe horne or sleapers\n\nand cheere up thy reapers\n\nLayer under layer under the paintwork\n\nEngland is making its Midsummer hay \u2013\n\nthe dancing morris, pipelads and drum,\n\nscythemen and rakers, cockers and carters\n\nand centrefield my lord with his ladies\n\nriding where now the pylon hums\n\nwith its wires over spring wheat\n\nthrough the morning's early mist.\n\nThese are the same hedgebacks,\n\nsame lie to the landscape, Mickle Mead,\n\nBarrowdine, Harp Field and Sausage\n\nstill here though the names are gone now.\n\n* *\n\nIn oils, unsigned, anonymous, a jobber\n\nmoving through landscape, used maybe\n\nthe wide angle lens of the _camera obscura_\n\nfor this sweep of a corner of Gloucestershire,\n\nback when all was thought well enough,\n\nand nothing would change beyond this \u2013\n\nthese peasants sweating in harvest\n\ncontent dreaming brown ale and a fumble\n\namong the haycocks, and the dancers dance off\n\nto their drink and their shillings. My lord lies now\n\nand since and soon and thereafter in Alderton\n\nin St Mary of Antioch, long dead.\n\n* *\n\nLong gone, nameless maids in a row,\n\nlong curve of the back of 23 men\n\nin a Mexican wave of swung scythes\n\nto their lost graves. Two gossips\n\nby the gate that is still a gate\n\nmaybe went for infantry, and the pipeboy\n\nshipped out to the far world, most\n\nstayed, went hungry, died anyway.\n\nThe painting's a lie, the landscape true\n\nwhere the field keeps its shape. Everything\n\nbeyond this moment is yet to happen.\n\nEveryone here is part of the dust now.\n\n* *\n\nIf my heart aches it's for this\n\nthough none of it's true:\n\nthe world we have lost never was\n\nso we never lost it:\n\nglitter of horse brass, bells\n\nrolling over the evening:\n\nall my lord's dream of himself\n\nin a hired man's painting:\n\nsame tale then as now\n\nand this has not changed either:\n\n_the enriching of the rich \u2013_\n\n_impoverishment of the poor._\n\n_None but the reaper_\n\n_will come to your door._\n\n# The Great Hat Project\n\n_(for JHW, may he thrive and with him all his ilk & tribe)_\n\nHats I have known: the broad brimmed,\n\nthe beaked, the peaked, the high crowned,\n\nthe aviator's leather helmet with flaps,\n\nthe beret cocked at an angle to the brow,\n\nthe hat at ease with itself, the top hat,\n\nthe hard hat, the clown's cap and bells,\n\nthe Homberg, the silk, the stetson, the straw,\n\nthe Derby, the wide brimmed cur\u00e9's hat\n\nthat drifted away from me from the iron bridge\n\nlong ago; the hood, the helmet, the ten-gallon,\n\nthe sou'wester, the rain hat, the sun hat,\n\nthe biretta, the busby, the bearskin,\n\nthe Sherlock Holmes, the Napoleonic full fig,\n\nthe beanie, the porkpie, cutiepie,\n\npaper hat, party hat, kiss-me-quick hat,\n\nthe mitre, the flat cap, the black cloth\n\nworn by the judge sentencing a man to hang\n\nby the neck and may God have mercy on his soul;\n\nthe blue baseball cap worn brim backwards,\n\nthe bobble with a badge _Georgia Bulldogs_ ,\n\nthe pith helmet, the shapka, the turban,\n\nthe tarboosh, the fez and the liripipe\n\nall of which I must wear when I want to be invisible.\n\nAnd oh the fedoras of victory, the trilbies of shame,\n\nthe kerchiefs of desire, the beavers of lust,\n\nthe cloche, mantilla, chenille, chaperon, Phrygian cap.\n\nHosannah to the panamas of innocence, hallelujah\n\nto the bonnets of bliss, aloh al-akbar\n\nto the cachic and the bashlik and the burnous,\n\nhats off to the scarves of the babushkas.\n\nDid you know Lincoln wrote the Gettysburg Address\n\nsitting on a train using his stovepipe hat\n\nas a desktop? What do you think of that?\n\nThe hat as mine-of-out-of-the-way-information.\n\nSignor Know-it-all. Magister Clever Chops.\n\nThe hat's bona fides. Hat's old bones.\n\nThe hat public enemy number one, pariah,\n\npersona non grata. Hat the subversive.\n\nHat the arbiter of impeccable taste and discrimination.\n\nThe stocking cap treatment. The hat puzzle.\n\nThe great sombrero scandal of September 1895.\n\nThe hat tax. The War of the Seven Blue Bonnets.\n\nThe hat nightmare. The everlasting unforgiving\n\nmemory of hats, their absolute refusal to compromise.\n\nThe nine lives of hats. The transcendence of hats.\n\nThe hat's birthplace in Galilee removed overnight\n\nby the physical intervention of angels, deposited\n\nlock, stock, stall, manger, halter and harness\n\nin the grotto at Loretto, according that is\n\nto Pauline theosophy, can you swallow that?\n\nNight of the long hats. Hats in outer space.\n\nThe hat worn by Those Who Do Great Works.\n\nThe polkadot hats of the Sublime Insurrectionists.\n\nThe pointy hats worn by professors of pontification\n\nat the university of Chapeau Falls Wisconsin\n\nin the Department of Missing Headgear,\n\nFaculty of Hat Studies. Hat and mouth disease.\n\nThe flora and fauna of hats. Hats Rule OK.\n\nThe hat in the poetry of Andrew Locomotion.\n\n_A Short Treatise on the Hat_ , by Harry Novak.\n\nThe It'll-be-all-right-on-the-night hat.\n\nThe hats of God. The Great Hat of Versailles.\n\nImagine the hat made of water, the hat made of snow.\n\nThe people's hat is deepest red. Electrification\n\nplus hats equals the revolution. The silly hat brigade.\n\nGive me liberty or give me hats. Hats off to Larry.\n\nInto the valley of hats rode the six hundred.\n\nTwo acres and a hat. We take these hats to be self-evident.\n\nThe hat soliloquy: Whether to take up arms\n\nagainst a sea of hats and by opposing end them,\n\nthat is the question. For every hat a season, a farewell.\n\nFor every hat there is an opposing hat. Hat=mc2.\n\nThe silly girls' night out hat. The pig's hat.\n\nThe lumpenproletarian hat. The great hat famine.\n\nThe heroic hat. The destabilised hat.\n\nThe deconstructed postmodernist hat.\n\nThe hat as a concept just at the edge of meaning.\n\nYawning, he wonders if it's time for bed yet.\n\nAnd can he please have his dinner now?\n\nPortrait of _The Hat with Fish and Apples_.\n\nPainting of the hat in robes of the Bishop of Durham.\n\nHat in the role of Lear. Hat son-of-a-bitch.\n\nThe hat visits an ailing relative in Caerphilly.\n\nSuddenly the hat sits bolt upright in his rocking chair.\n\nThe hat on the wintery Haf drinking mulled wine.\n\nPhoto of the hat in his garden by the runner beans.\n\nHat, star of stage and screen. Hat son of Hat\n\nwho was begotten of Hat from a long and noble lineage\n\nreaching back into the Bronze Age, the Neolithic,\n\nwho knows? Hat's escutcheon, his entire dog and pony show.\n\nThe hat realizes _Jesus I'm somebody's father_.\n\nThe hat fights in the Spanish war on the wrong side.\n\nThe hat's nemesis. Sometimes the hat makes love\n\nto his sister and later is devoured by guilt,\n\nthis despite the fact hats have no genitals.\n\nAdolf's hat, the goosestepping _Sieg heil_ hat.\n\nNacht und Nebel hat. Ein Reich ein Hut.\n\nThe hats of the ethnic cleansers, caps worn\n\naround Pale by some calling themselves poets,\n\ntheir manicured haircuts that are also hats.\n\nHat bastards. The hat in the underworld,\n\nrealising what he's capable of in the name of hat.\n\nThe hat as envisaged by Dante in the 7th ring of hell.\n\nThe hat is a Dutchman far away from home.\n\nThe hat asking the whereabouts of the red light district.\n\nThe hat smuggling in a little hashish via his hatband.\n\nThe get-stuffed hat. The go-boil-your-head hat.\n\nThe am-I-making-enough-of-an-asshole-of-myself-yet hat?\n\nThe fall-over-and-get-chucked-out-of-a-taxi hat. The hat\n\nrubbing his left ear and complaining he's misunderstood.\n\nThe hat saying _Go from here. Go home_\n\n_to Little Miss Sugarplum who loves you very much_\n\n_despite the constant smell of burning in the room._\n\nThe hat orders a red wine and a red stripe.\n\nHat's name shouted from the top deck of a 57 bus.\n\nThe hat a voice in the night saying _I'm lonely_.\n\nThe hat considers suicide but it is not yet\n\nhis last resort. The hat transformed, redeemed\n\nat last by the all healing properties of love.\n\nMy kingdom for a hat. Le hat c'est moi.\n\nThe ageing hat. The hat on a park bench\n\nin the autumn of his days. The hat with a habit.\n\nThe hat studying his profile in the mirror.\n\nThe hat awake, aware, conscious, a sentient being\n\ncontemplating all the other mysteries of the universe,\n\nwondering to himself _do you suppose there is_\n\n_a finite number of stars?_ The hat as holy writ.\n\nThe hat feels disinclined to go to evensong.\n\nThe hat rushed into hospital for emergency surgery.\n\nThe hat fallen on hard times, the hat with the blues.\n\nThe hat suffering from a hefty dose of paranoia.\n\nThe schizophrenic hat off his trolley,\n\nout of his pram, two cups short of a tea-set.\n\nThe hat's seasonal transhumance through the Alps.\n\nThe hat helping the police with their enquiries.\n\nThe hat that died in the service of his country.\n\nThe hat brought down by insurrection and shot.\n\nThe hat sentenced to life for bloody murder.\n\nThe hat handing in his keys to the desk clerk\n\nsaying _c'est la vie mon cher ce n'est que rien_.\n\nThe homeland of the hat, green rolling hills\n\nand the far river sparkling in the sunlight,\n\nthe hat remembers, the hat is in love, he says\n\n_I promise I will take you there, my beloved,_\n\n_my woman of the hats, you who are my dream,_\n\n_my gift my vision all my inspiration my love_\n\n_amongst the white tongues of the arum lilies._\n\nThe hat's dream life. The hat's dark secrets.\n\nThe hat's prayer. The hat at his rutting.\n\nThe hat's occasional sexual peccadilloes.\n\nThe hat gets his rocks off. The hat purrs\n\nwith pleasure and pours himself a large Glenlivet.\n\nThe life and times and further adventures of a hat.\n\nThe hat dressed to the nines and going on the razzle.\n\nThe hat's programme for reform of the judiciary.\n\nThe hat's codicil to his last will and testament.\n\nThe hat's last territorial demand on Europe.\n\nThe hat as the currency of the Common Market.\n\nThe ghosts of dead hats. The hat in exile.\n\n\u2020I.M. Monsieur Hat. Requiescat in pace.\n\nThe hat gone to his just reward in hat heaven,\n\njoined the great architect, kicked the bucket.\n\nThe wild hats hooting in the woods.\n\nThe hats that have no homes to go to.\n\nhats who have changed their names for immigration.\n\nThe alienated hat. The blunt-spoken hat,\n\nthe ey-by-gum hat, the bugger-you-anyway hat,\n\nthe hat calling a hat a hat speaking his mind\n\nand doing as he would like to be done by.\n\nThe hat sleeping it off in the ditch.\n\nThe last hat on the Yukon. The hat's death in Venice.\n\nSuperhat. Hat's last ride. Exit hat left.\n\nThe hat's memories of an idyllic childhood.\n\nThe hat will now reminisce for fifteen minutes.\n\nThe hat considers his options and draws up a plan.\n\nThe hat wins the Nobel Prize. The hat gets the OBE.\n\nThe hat packs his bags and moves to Amsterdam.\n\nThe hat going into a sulk. The hat in recession.\n\nThe hat swears innocence on his mother's grave.\n\nThe hat sitting down to a fine fish supper.\n\nThe hat saying _so who's been sleeping in my bed?_\n\nThe hat saying _I spy with my little eye_.\n\nThe hat switching channels. The hat movie.\n\nThe hat in a bag. The hat lost in the city.\n\nThe hat going down the pub to get drunk again.\n\nHat's story: I was married once, my sunflower\n\nI called her, _come in_ I said _under my broad brim_.\n\n_under my high crown, come in love and I will warm_\n\n_your cold innards_. She was pretty, we were madly in love.\n\nSo much for my perception of reality.\n\nShe ran off with the captain of the Woolwich Free Ferry\n\nsinging _sanfairyann my hairy little spider_\n\nleaving me weeping bitter tears into my billycock.\n\nThe hat was no longer in my court.\n\nThe hat was now firmly on the other foot.\n\nThe hat was now put before the horse\n\nthat was now of a very different colour.\n\nThe hat hit the fan. The hat with egg all over its face.\n\nThe hat up hat creek as we say hereabouts\n\nwithout a paddle, or _that hat won't hunt_.\n\nGnashings and wailings. Salt tears.\n\nLamentations throughout the Republic of Hats,\n\nBeethoven on the radio, state mourning.\n\nI learned the watched hat never sleeps,\n\nto let sleeping hats lie, turn the other hat,\n\nnever count my hats before they hatch,\n\nand that every hat has a silver lining.\n\nHeyho I say who needs the aggravation?\n\nTime to say _goodnight Comrade Vodka_.\n\nI guess I made my hat and so must wear it.\n\nSo now I walk on the sunny side of the hat.\n\nAnd I say plenty more where that came from,\n\nthere's still rivers and music and birds,\n\nsunrise and sunset, sunlight and moonlight\n\nand the sunstruck wind dabbed water on the mere.\n\n# Go tell the honey ant\n\nThe scavenger ants trek through the forest,\n\neach day an exact slice of the compass.\n\nThey eat everything and they spare nothing\n\nin that sector. They are out there,\n\nI hear them with their black flags.\n\nThere are the slaves and there are the slavemakers,\n\ntoughs who spray propoganda substance\n\nturning their victims onto each other,\n\nand they make off with the eggs. These are the slaves.\n\nThey do all the work around here.\n\nThat's how it is in the ant universe.\n\nNothing can change it. But how would you like\n\nto be pumped into a bag of glucose and water\n\nhung from the ceiling against lean times?\n\nUpside down. That's some career plan.\n\nAs for the bear grubbing in the bleak winter\n\nof the bears, he's not interested in this\n\nbut in the rare sharp sweetness on his tongue.\n\nHe blinks. If I were you the bear in me says\n\nI'd stick to sweet things, especially honey.\n\n# Columbus to Isabella\n\nEvery man is a master of disorder...\n\nCOLUMBUS, Letter to the Sovereigns of Spain\n\nMy ships are beached at Guincho,\n\nfurthest west into the ocean\n\nand alas we are at war with the neighbours.\n\nAt the far limits of the sea\n\nislands rose on the sky's edge,\n\nwhere we landed, sea sore,\n\nmyself wearier than the rest\n\nin all that muttering crew\n\neager to unship me and turn back.\n\n200 nights I did not sleep\n\nin my bunk nor change clobber,\n\nbad meat and wormy bread\n\nand all on my own dead reckoning\n\nshortening the miles in the log,\n\nreading birds and weeds in the sea\n\nout where the pole star wandered\n\nand the earth's shape was a pear\n\nsuch as may lie before you, Lady.\n\nThe natives are mild and naked,\n\nfit to be your servants\n\nand receive Christ's Blood.\n\nThe gold is always further off,\n\nwest towards the falling sun,\n\nsilver as it pours into the sea.\n\n# Days on Dog Hill\n\nA season of loose connections, bells\n\nand weddings through the rainy summer.\n\nI woke with my head in a crock,\n\nI had dreamed of nothing.\n\nI'm into town and out, down the hill\n\nand up again, muttering _waggontruss_ ,\n\n_windbrace_ , through the tall woods\n\nalong the old pack road that no longer goes anywhere,\n\nand like the windy leaves never still,\n\nalways on the way to some thought\n\nlost in the traffic and the chatter,\n\nthe town below fading into voices off,\n\na hammer's knock travelling beyond itself,\n\na man shouting his name over and over,\n\nlives made from the sounds they make.\n\nThese things do not connect:\n\na yellow flower from a far off country,\n\nlinked hearts cut in a tree's side,\n\nsussura of pigeon wings, an animal threshing\n\nthe undergrowth, scribble of bird song\n\nhere, here, and your secret names for me \u2013\n\n_Old Paint, Wild Root, Scissorbill_. I dreamed\n\nthe ridge and these massed dark roots of the yews,\n\nanger like a sudden wind. Wild root.\n\n# Here\n\nI point to where the pain is, the ache\n\nwhere the blockage is. Here.\n\nThe doctor shakes his head at me. Yes\n\nhe says, I have that, we all have.\n\nThey put the wire in again, on the monitor\n\nI watch the grey map of my heart, the bent\n\nladder of the spine that outlasts it.\n\nHow does it feel? they ask. Here?\n\nI am moving away down the long corridors\n\nof abandoned trolleys, the closed wings\n\nof hospitals, rooms full of yellow bedpans\n\nand screens and walker frames, fading out\n\ninto nothing and nothing at all, as we do,\n\nas we all do, as it happens, and no one\n\ncan talk of it. Here, where the heart\n\ndies, where all the systems are dying.\n\n# Night at the Blind Beggar\n\nEasy-peasy they said, a simple job,\n\nmoney for old rope. Here's a drink.\n\nGo to the Blind Beggar in Whitechapel\n\nbetween this hour and this hour.\n\nSink a slow thoughtful pint or two,\n\na tough young bucko in his suit and tie,\n\nout for the evening on a mission,\n\nthe bystander with the job of seeing nothing.\n\nA quiet night, the light fading, traffic\n\non the High Street, music on the jukebox.\n\nThen at 8.30 Ronnie walks in with a Mauser\n\nand blows a man's head all over the room.\n\nHadn't bargained for that.\n\nNot that sort of drink.\n\nOur man sees everything and nothing.\n\nThat's it he's out of there.\n\nJumped the District Line, at Paddington\n\nthe first train anywhere took him west\n\ninto an ordinary life: job, mortgage,\n\nwife, kids, the years becoming more years.\n\nExcept the long days and longer nights\n\nof all the rest of him are spattered\n\nby the bits of brain on the wall\n\nand blood over his white shirtfront.\n\nThis is his tale of how he got lost.\n\n_Dogget_ he says into the strange silence\n\nhe inhabits, the question mark as ever\n\nslung around his shoulder. _Dog ate my dinner._\n\n# The gracenote\n\nSaturday night I'm on the Broadway,\n\nround my own neck of the woods\n\nlistening for the numbers knowing\n\nI'll have none of them that win.\n\nFourth pub left of the tube stop,\n\nI'm in Murphy's where one of us\n\nhas a very bad cough, my mate says\n\n_she left me with just one chopstick,_\n\n_I was one chopstick short of a pot noodle._\n\nMost times it's like this, a strange\n\nnormality where I'm agawp, always,\n\na good listener is all of it, mimic\n\nwith an ear cocked for the gracenote \u2013\n\nalways a nice touch though you don't want\n\ntoo many gracenotes in any one place,\n\nand I tell you all this for nothing.\n\nI'm the starling on the wire, giving it\n\nwith all his harsh repertoire of cries,\n\nsome of them his own, some borrowed,\n\nsome blue, none of them ever repaid \u2013\n\nbits of magpie song and blackbird,\n\nowl's voice, sometimes in a tone\n\nrecognisably human a single word:\n\n_habitually, habitually, habitually._\n\n# Narrow Road, Deep North\n\nFrom the northbound train\n\nwhite flecks on the brown ploughland\n\nlike flakes of fine snow \u2013\n\nthey are birds, gulls,\n\nsuddenly flying. Across\n\nwinter fields somehow\n\nI missed the white horse\n\non the hill that was boyhood,\n\nall of it gone now.\n\nPlaying fields some place\n\nthat was some place once, goal posts\n\nmoved and again moved.\n\nI'm on the run, hours,\n\ndays of the one bitter thought\n\non the narrow road\n\nto my life's deep north,\n\nin my pocket a ticket:\n\nADULT. ADMIT ONE.\n\nAh this long rocking\n\nas the landscape turns to frost,\n\nlulling me to sleep,\n\nweeping and weeping\n\nover the north, for my dead,\n\nfor all my lost ones,\n\nthey who will not come\n\nmy way again, them we won't\n\nsee again, ever.\n\nThe dry northern air,\n\nthe white wind will sort it out,\n\nand the rain, the rain.\n\nAnd everywhere birds\n\nin a glitter of flying,\n\nthe landscape dancing.\n\nAt Culloden larks\n\nthat are dust in the tall air,\n\nblack flags of the crows.\n\nBarefoot some, kilted,\n\ncharging through juniper, thorns,\n\nthistles, their faces\n\nset to the wind, sleet,\n\nshrapnel, grapeshot, bayonets,\n\nCumberland's well trained\n\nHessian butchers \u2013\n\nhungry and down hearted, fell\n\nall the wild flowers\n\nof Scotland. Exeunt\n\nclansmen, croftsmen, fishermen.\n\n_Bonnie Prince Dickhead,_\n\nsays Billy, days away\n\non Skye, in the old mates' club,\n\nand a dram to go.\n\nAh, water. The sunset\n\na riot. The far islands\n\nwhere clouds are mountains\n\nunder deep white snow,\n\nand the Hebridean _yes_\n\nbegins _no, no, no,_\n\nand _no_ again _no_\n\ntill the _yes_ of it at the\n\nsentence's finish:\n\n_aye a wee dram then._\n\nThis is for you Jim,\n\nwhose garden is the battlefield.\n\nThis is for you, Con,\n\nthat you stay upright\n\nand vertical in Tarbert,\n\n_this god forsaken_\n\n_hole_. That the Wee Free\n\ntether the goat, the rooster,\n\nthat the seventh day\n\nis all cold meat, is\n\nfact friend, _in the Good Black Book_\n\n_you will find mention_\n\n_of boats but never_\n\n_a bicycle._ Things the heart\n\nwill no longer hold,\n\nand bursts with, thoughts\n\non the waves and the west wind,\n\nthe long birds overhead,\n\nheron, Brent Goose, swan,\n\ntheir distant migrations,\n\ncontinents their shores.\n\nThe light off the cliffs\n\nclimbing out of the dull sea\n\ninto rainclouds.\n\nThe best monuments\n\nbelong to the defeated,\n\nand always anyway\n\nand after a while\n\nall the bartenders look alike\n\nand your man goes off\n\nthe rails, _refreshments_\n\nsounds in his ear like _fresh mints_\n\nand on the rolling\n\nbar on the rocking\n\nboat asking for chewing gum\n\nwhat he hears: _tuna_.\n\nLet the light bleed out.\n\nLet there be me and the landscape\n\nand the moon, dreamer\n\nwhen the dream goes out\n\ninto the next and the next,\n\nfollowing the tongue,\n\nthe eye, lone white house\n\non the hilltop, why don't I\n\nlive there?\n\nI ran away to\n\nScotland, the people there to\n\nsee, and found a pound\n\nwas as round and soon\n\nspent, home again home again,\n\njiggety-jig.\n\nAh but the cold clean\n\nair of the mountains, water,\n\nCallanish sunlight.\n\nAnd again gulls' cries,\n\ntern, bittern, the heart's last blips\n\non the monitor.\n\nTime to go home.\n\nThe yellow dock gate\n\ncomes down and the town bell rings\n\ntwo, two. From the dock\n\na woman calls her farewells\n\nto her man and a voice shouts\n\n_Kenny, Kenny_ , but\n\nit ain't me Sunshine,\n\nwe roll in the water's heave\n\non _The Isle of Mull,_\n\non passage, the land\n\nfading to mist and distance,\n\non the dark water\n\nblack snouts of dolphins,\n\nup from their own deep places,\n\nbreathing in ours.\n\n# Blue Prague: the worst you can say in Czech\n\nIt's true I desire to go far away\n\nand mutter to myself in the wind,\n\ntaking the long train of myself off,\n\nlost among strangers and distances.\n\nIf I called myself now on the phone\n\nmy voice would say I'm not at home just now\n\nand what I then called now would now be then,\n\nevery moment its own in another time zone of the heart.\n\nBut no I was never in Prague, never lost\n\nin its blowsy statuary, never visited\n\nthe House of the Bell, nor drank the absence of absinthe,\n\nnever ate the Executioner's Special.\n\nI was never the King's Jew.\n\nI was a limping man on a stick\n\nwith a broken eyeglass, just\n\nan old _d\u0115dek_ with his tobacco.\n\n_Nic moc_ , no big deal. The city\n\na blue rainy haze of lights, _Strasne dobry_ ,\n\nawesome, a wolf wind howling over the tiles,\n\ncrack of flags like gunfire, bells.\n\n_N\u0115kecam_. I met a tall man walking\n\nwith a tiny cactus in his fist.\n\n_The chambermind will bring the cattle._\n\n_Would you like grilled meat on the needle?_\n\nMessages: among the scrambled stones\n\nand bladed upright Hebrew a folded note:\n\n_let the hatred cease_. Crows overhead\n\nsawing the air, the souls of ancient rabbis.\n\n_Do prdele_ , the worst you can say,\n\nlost in blue toothy Prague.\n\n_Sere medv\u0115d lese? May all your sons_\n\n_be bartenders. Nos\u012b pape\u017e legra\u010dn\u012b klobouk?_\n\n# Journey without maps\n\n## 1 _Night train_\n\nThe moon's wide open mouth, its\n\nthin light over fields and woods\n\nthat could be anywhere, distant names\n\nof cities chanted on the speakers \u2013\n\ntheir two notes _born free, born free_.\n\nOutside the same night: lit windows\n\nflying backwards through the dark,\n\nthe streetlamps of little towns\n\nlighting empty roads no one\n\nis walking home, late, tipsy.\n\nAnd in a flash of sudden neon\n\na tall crane in a field of wrecked cars.\n\nIt is the night of old shoes, their mouths\n\nslackly open: _where now brother,_\n\n_how long ago was yesterday,_\n\n_how many days until tomorrow?_\n\n## 2 _September distance_\n\nA blur of birches. Borders\n\nthat are more than what you feel there,\n\nwind rushing the reeds, long wing\n\nof wild geese flying south, sunflowers,\n\npoppyheads and milkweed, forest,\n\nmile after mile the tall fields of maize,\n\nthe long plains measuring the distance,\n\nwest to east autumn yellowing the leaves.\n\nIt is a place called Russian Horse,\n\na place called Shoemaker in Iron County,\n\na city of bells and crippled Gypsies,\n\nthe Gold Boys in and out the bars.\n\nThe streetsweeper sifts his broom\n\nfor flakes of fallen gold.\n\nThe dancing whore in Goat Town calls\n\n_oh tonight I want a man between my legs._\n\n## 3 _What Feri said_\n\n_In the far distant relation_\n\n_between Finnish and Hungarian_\n\n_one sentence is the same_\n\n_and only one and though_\n\n_we don't know what it is_\n\n_we know it is about fish,_\n\n_a live fish swims underwater._\n\n_And in Vogul a sentence_\n\n_the same as ours it says_\n\n_twenty women's horses go on ahead._\n\n## 4 _Glimpse_\n\nof a man tapping his finger\n\non a map: _here, I live here,_\n\n_not much of a place, a crossroads_\n\n_with a light that doesn't work,_\n\n_a store that doesn't sell much_\n\n_and a closed petrol station,_\n\n_nowhere in particular but we think_\n\n_it's the centre of the universe:_\n\n_Podunkstadt that was before the wars,_\n\n_thereafter called Amnesza._\n\n_After the changes the beer is better_\n\n_but still undrinkable. Things are not good_\n\n_but they are not unhopeful._ Here\n\nwe have the best of everything\n\nbut you can't have any of it.\n\n## 5 _Flatlands_\n\nThis is another place I won't remember\n\nsomewhere on the great plain\n\nof long byres and tall wells and sky\n\nwhere I have been travelling fast\n\nwith that far shine on the road ahead\n\nand the wind over me, at night the cars\n\nwith their lights trembling on the highway,\n\nas if the stars were passing through us.\n\nMoments that are snapshots, coins slipped\n\nin a beggar's cup, a one-legged man\n\non a bicycle with a broken umbrella\n\nwaiting at the crossroads that are\n\nalways unlucky places, the burials\n\nof lost travellers and victims,\n\nbeside the memorial's unreadable epitaph\n\neaten over by lichen and rain.\n\n## 6 _Closed border, Slavonia_\n\nOver there the flag of one country\n\nblowing in the wind of another\n\nbeyond the closed checkpoint:\n\nfields, river, birchscrub, the same.\n\nThis is the border where the road runs out\n\ninto a tractor trail of snowy mud\n\nto the last house by the wire,\n\nand all the dogs are barking.\n\nNothing between me and the wind,\n\ntall reeds and border fences,\n\nhere to say I've been here,\n\ntake a snapshot and turn home,\n\na traveller with his keepsakes \u2013\n\na man's bone from an old battlefield,\n\na bent bullet from Mostar,\n\nweary with the weight of my self.\n\n## 7 _TV in the East_\n\nOn SKY and SAT late night images\n\npassing for desire and its flesh,\n\nthe play of light wherein they kiss\n\nand soft things flutter to the floor,\n\na mouth begins its snail of a descent\n\nto the promise of a breast and cut\n\nto the commercial: all the lives\n\nwe may not want and cannot have.\n\nAnd on the Russian channel mirror script:\n\nmountains, a place far to the east\n\nof open sky and early snow, a swift\n\nupland river and slow drummers,\n\nchants, horses and horsemen, women\n\nin a long line through windy smoke,\n\nled by an old man wearing skins,\n\non his head the antlers of a deer.\n\n## 8 _Waking in Heroes' Park_\n\nToo many days counting coup on the borders:\n\ncountries sucking on their stones,\n\nsome gone rusty in the rain,\n\nanother sulking on its wounds.\n\nMarkets and stations, crossings\n\nwhere the police jump on the vagrants\n\nand the fugitives, everyone's a suspect,\n\neveryone an item in their career moves.\n\nIn Heroes' Park I wake to white noise\n\nand the world sailing its ocean of dirty air,\n\nacross a bridge men carrying planks,\n\ncopper pipe and scaffolding, tea kettles,\n\nsheets of clear glass. And through\n\nthe autumn trees a line of bright\n\nschoolchildren, babbling like a river,\n\nwhere I wake, dreaming of chickens.\n\n# Moscow dogs\n\nSasha says:\n\n_all the chairs in here are broken_\n\n_though some are more broken than others._\n\nOutside over the garbage cans visited\n\nevery few minutes by the old and the poor\n\na white plastic bag drifts on the updraughts\n\nso delicately, riding the air,\n\nsettles on the new leaves of the cotton tree\n\njust above the steps to the door that never opens.\n\nThe only reply:\n\n_three legs good, four legs better._\n\nI want the words for dogs, huge, loose on the streets\n\nbut the only Russian I know is _da, niet, voda, pivo,_\n\n_vodka, spasibo, dosvidanya:_ yes, no, water,\n\nbeer, vodka, thankyou and goodnight.\n\n_Horrowshow_ : very good. _Spiceybar_ : thankyou.\n\nWatch out for the dogs.\n\nTo say _I love you say yellow blue vase_.\n\nAll the old fear lurks on the stairs\n\nall the way down the elevator shaft\n\nin this Stalinist wedding-cake block of flats,\n\nit blows on the dust of the streets,\n\non everyone's shoes, in everyone's bones.\n\nWatch out for the dogs.\n\n# Georgia, Georgia\n\nsings the market radio, _Georgia on my mind_.\n\nThey sing a lot here, in the underpass\n\nthree in four part harmony, wail of a saxophone.\n\nGlimpse of a woman crossing herself over and over\n\nbefore the locked door of the cathedral.\n\nBulletholes. The dusty south. Tbilisi.\n\nSpectacular storms are breaking far away\n\nover the mountains, no one but a few shepherds\n\nare out in it, and they may not live to tell the tale.\n\nDriven on the storm the sudden wind\n\nthrough the thick black night of the city\n\nshakes the walnut trees. Here they dance.\n\nThree things a bride must know:\n\nto cook, play chess, and recite Rustaveli.\n\nThere's a lot of Rustaveli.\n\nDumplings and dark wine, a balcony on which to sit\n\nand contemplate the evening, lightning on the mountains\n\nand suddenly short bursts of automatic fire.\n\nTie a note to a wishing tree. Sleep,\n\nin the morning woken by the cockbird's cry\n\nwithout a shadow of a doubt: _Cau-ca-sus. Cau-ca-sus_.\n\n# Hungarian quartets\n\n## _The night anywhere_\n\nis just a car choking into life and idling\n\nas he nurses it to warmth, the window ice\n\nmelting as he buckles in, the flare\n\nhis lighter makes in the inner dark\n\nand she chiding his late drinking,\n\nhoping he will drive slowly on the black roads,\n\nand he will let her sleep tonight.\n\nThere is a man's far away shout, a woman's cry.\n\nIt could be anywhere: the cold night stars\n\nburning overhead, the silence of the snow,\n\na horizon of dogs recalling how they ran in packs\n\nlong ago though this flat border country.\n\nIt could be here in the B\u00e1cska running south\n\nwith the great river down to lost Vojvodina.\n\nIt's late, after palinka and fisherman's soup.\n\nThen for hours the thump of the bowling balls\n\nthe local skinheads and the Serbs downstairs\n\nroll half the night between long telephone calls\n\nto somewhere far away. It could be now.\n\nIt could be anywhere in this northern winter\n\nbefore sleep. It could be anyone's song.\n\n## _S\u00e1ndor the poet_\n\nMeet S\u00e1ndor the gypsy. He is a poet\n\nin his own kingdom, under the reeds.\n\nToday he is building his winter house.\n\nThis is his pig. Thankyou he says.\n\nThankyou for coming to see me.\n\nWould you like to marry my daughter?\n\nYou are a rich man from the West. Be kind to her.\n\nBuy her chocolate and pink champagne.\n\nSomeone is shoving a wire through a pig's nose.\n\nSomeone is revving a motorbike\n\nup and down the dusty alley. When the screaming stops\n\nyou hear water pouring from the pump,\n\nyou hear the wind over the waste and the reeds\n\nwhere his people live by the old Russian barracks\n\nat Kiskunmajsa. They could move in there\n\nbut the government, the government.\n\nThe bitter eyes of the Gypsies,\n\nempty pockets, empty glasses. Soon\n\nit may be time to go to jail again.\n\nSoon again winter, when some will die\n\nin this village without a name.\n\nA special tribe he says, their leathery\n\nwee women are blue eyed yellow haired\n\ndaughters of the Red Army, 1944.\n\n_Nem j\u00f3_ he shrugs: doesn't work.\n\nHe waves at the flies, complaining\n\nyou see how it is here with us\n\nthe Cig\u00e1ny? Look at the flies on the bread.\n\nAnd picks up his instrument and plays\n\na lament for the ancient distance,\n\nat night a sky burning with stars,\n\nevery one of them Hungarian.\n\n_Alma_ the apple. _R\u00f3ka_ the fox.\n\nThe leaves are drifting from the trees.\n\nSoon will come the bleak zima of the puszta.\n\nThankyou for coming to see me.\n\n## _Misi's song_\n\nI will sing one song\n\nfrom Novi Sad. But this\n\nthis is not a song.\n\nThe words: difficult, different.\n\nI can't remember: la la la.\n\nOh my love.\n\nMy beloved landscape and the landscape of my beloved.\n\nI was born to it.\n\nI should die there.\n\nEach night the phone rang.\n\nSometimes silence, breathing. Or a man\n\ncursing in Serbian:\n\nwhy don't you go?\n\nYou have a wife, children,\n\nwe can kill them.\n\nYou we will impale.\n\nLand I was born to.\n\nThis is not a song.\n\n## _Dmitri's song_\n\nI will sing now the lost song\n\nin the lost voice from the lost time\n\nif I can find it\n\nif I can find where I left it\n\nthe old song from the old time\n\nof an old man who is young again\n\nah but always\n\nsomething is wrong in exile\n\nand the heart is bloody always\n\n# The Shadow of God\n\n*\n\n_I am Suleyman, sultan of sultans, sovereign of sovereigns, distributor of crowns to the lords of the surface of the globe._\n\n_I am Suleyman, the Shadow of God on earth, Commander of the Faithful, Servant and Protector of the Holy Places._\n\n_I am Suleyman, ruler of the two lands and the two seas, sultan and padishah of the White Sea and of the Black, of Rumelia, of Anatolia, of Karamania, and of the land of Rum I am Rum Kayseri._\n\n_I am lord of Damascus, of Aleppo, lord of Cairo, lord of Mecca, of Medina, of Jerusalem, of all Arabia, of Yemen and of many other lands which my noble forefathers and illustrious ancestors (may God brighten their tombs) conquered by the force of their arms and which my august majesty has subdued with my flaming sword and my victorious blade._\n\n_I am Sultan Suleyman Han, son of Sultan Selim Han, son of Sultan Bayezid Han._\n\n_I am Suleyman. To the east I am the Lawgiver. To the west I am the Magnificent._\n\n*\n\nSuleyman. In his dream the far world\n\nis a basket of heads at his saddlebow,\n\nsunlight's flash on the edges of blades\n\nraised in his name to the dim horizon:\n\n_I am Suleyman._ At the end of Ramadan,\n\nin the spring of the year that will send\n\nhis quarrelsome soldiery north again\n\nSuleyman rises from sleep, consults maps,\n\nglancing up glimpsing the evening star\n\nlow in the cobalt canopy of the day's end\n\ncaught in the thicket of the new moon's\n\nupturned horns, and takes that for his omen.\n\nThat year as every year war is a season,\n\nwar is a fetva, a jihad waged on all\n\nthe unreconciled world of unbelievers\n\nbeyond the gaze of the Magnificent.\n\nThat year his beard points west again\n\nto the domain of war: glimpse of far hills,\n\ncountry scoured flat by the rivers, the beasts\n\nare deer and wild pig leaving their tracks\n\non the soggy waterlands, on the scrubland\n\nthistles, milkweed, juniper, vines,\n\nthe eyes of the tall white birches\n\nglimpsed through the pines. The birds\n\nare swift, hawk, crow and kingfisher,\n\nthe little seedeaters, the buzzards\n\nsentinels on his way, the storks\n\nfrom their round high nests in the wind\n\nglance after him, the pheasant's stutter,\n\nthe owl's stare in his tracks, the woodpecker\n\ntapping in the dark light of the woods,\n\nthe shrike pinning his dinner to a thorn.\n\nThe Lawgiver, Suleyman, whom the Prophet\n\nfavour and posterity long remembers,\n\ngoes out of the city to his war camp.\n\nHe hoists the six black horsetails of his flag,\n\nunwraps the forty silk shawls from the black\n\nsacred banner of Mohammed and raises it,\n\nand from all the heaven protected empire\n\nof dur ul Islam come the levies, sipahiler,\n\nakincilar, se\u01e7menler, t\u00fcfek\u00e7iler, azaplar,\n\ntop\u00e7ular, yeni \u00e7eriler, tribesmen and the wild\n\nbowmen of the steppes, the half naked dervish\n\nnot counted into the muster, one hundred thousand\n\ndreaming of loot, calling his name, _Suleyman_ ,\n\ntaking the roads north, Constantinople to Belgrade\n\nand the rough tracks beyond into the wastes\n\nof the unbelievers, the mire of the infidel.\n\nIn his journal there is rain, endless rain,\n\nday after day the grey slanting downpour,\n\nvague cloudy horizons and the sky's flood.\n\nAnd bitter winds. 80 days on the march\n\nin the downpour on no road that is a road\n\ndriving the great train north, 80 nights\n\npitched in the sheeted rain, slithering\n\nwith horses and camels and weaponry\n\nin the black Balkan mud of the flood plains,\n\nleft of the river between the rivers\n\nin that year of the rain. The beasts\n\nare deer and boar and wolf, the birds\n\nhawk and butcher bird, black cormorant\n\nlow over his black shadow on the river,\n\ncrows in a black storm overhead, or perched\n\non a stump, watching the way God watches.\n\nRopes split, the big guns sink in the bogs,\n\nthe cries of horses and men no one hears,\n\nmerely the dead born to die in the muck\n\nfor the enlargement of empire and the word\n\nof the Prophet, may God's smile ever rest on him,\n\nfor the enrichment of some, enslavement of some,\n\nsomewhere in the mapless country of the rain,\n\ncrushed by the wheels, some lost in sinkholes,\n\nthe ropes falling away from their hands\n\nand last of them the O of their upturned\n\nmouths calling his name: _Suleyman, Suleyman_.\n\nThe names of the days are rain and wind,\n\nthe names of the rivers run into each other.\n\nUp the Danube day after day 800 boats\n\nweigh upwind upstream on the downcoming\n\n_agua contradictionis_ beyond which the barbarians.\n\nUnder the six black horsetail standard,\n\nunder the sacred banner the horse army\n\nlugs its stores and its guns northward\n\ninto the oncoming rain and the clutter of mud\n\nand the wind in their faces: cavalry, artillery,\n\nsharpshooters, musketmen, soldiers, raiders,\n\nshaggy Tatar horsemen, all dreaming of rape.\n\n300 cannon through the marshes, some lost,\n\nthe horses straining, the whips, no roads,\n\nno bridges in all this nowhere of mud,\n\ntracks that run to dead ends, watery graves,\n\nroads running off into water, marsh paths\n\nlearned at a blade's edge and goodbye\n\nthe quick blood, always eager to be off,\n\ngoodbye the names hawk and buzzard and heron,\n\nthe names Sava and Drava mean nothing now.\n\n_Suleyman_. The bared teeth of the horses,\n\ntheir necks rear from the reeds, screaming\n\nas horses scream, men scream, the rain falls.\n\nImprint of reeds on the sky lances on the wind,\n\nlancemen and horsemen. The birds are shrike,\n\nbuzzard, crow, the owl falling on its shadow,\n\nthe harrier's underspread wingspan two skulls\n\non the grey light rising on the sky, the rivers\n\nSava and Drava and Danube though the names\n\nmean nothing to him. Problems with stores,\n\nproblems with water, questions of powder,\n\nfuel for the cooking pots, meat, some warmth\n\nin the long shivering rain, shaving the rust\n\nfrom their blades, sword, knife, sabre, spear,\n\nmatchlock and carbine, guns lugged down roads\n\nbuilt of reeds, the stores rotting away.\n\nThe sodden saddlesore army of divine light,\n\nfractious and lice-ridden and chilled to the bone,\n\ncrying _Suleyman Suleyman_ , those running before\n\ncrying _Suleyman Suleyman_ , the Magnificent.\n\nHe is crossing the Drava on a golden throne\n\nfrom the domain of peace to the domain of war.\n\nTo Moh\u00e1cs\n\nin the marshlands, still in the pouring rain,\n\nAugust 29th, 1526, where those summoned\n\nand hastily gathered died in thousands\n\n_in the space of a moment_ the chronicler\n\nscribbles, in the safety of distance,\n\n_cruel panthers in a moment to hell's pit._\n\nThat day the guns chained wheel to wheel,\n\nsmoke and the cries of men and horses,\n\nthe knights shot from their saddles, armour\n\ndragging them into the mire, the hooves\n\nstamping them in, the infantry butchered,\n\nin the space of a moment the swift\n\nroutine of retreat, slaughter and rout,\n\n_the space of a moment_. No prisoners,\n\nthe wails of the wounded, the dying, becks\n\nbrimmed with blood, and the young king\n\nthrown from his horse, drowned in his breastplate.\n\nThereafter Suleyman recalls he sat on the field\n\nin the pouring rain on his glittering throne\n\nto the long applause of his army: _I am_\n\n_Sultan Suleyman Han, son of Sultan Selim Han,_\n\n_son of Sultan Bayezid Han. The Shadow of God._\n\nAnd they butcher the captives, dig the pits\n\nto bury their own brave dead, horses and men,\n\n30 thousand whose last rainy day was this,\n\nand the other dead lie in the rain, or scatter\n\ntheir bones in the wetlands and the reedgrass.\n\nWhatever birds pecked out their eyes\n\ntheir names are no matter nor the stream\n\nthey drowned in nor the name of the planet\n\nwhose soft brown body they shovelled in after.\n\nThereafter the land burns and the churches,\n\nthereafter women and slaves and silver.\n\nAnd thereafter, pronounces the historian,\n\nhis quill's tip brushing his cheek, his point\n\nsqueaking over the page, the lamp's glint\n\non his inkhorn: _the long Turkish night,_\n\n_the tomb of the nation_ , dug in the rain.\n\nIn the space of a moment, in the centuries\n\nmoments pile into, leaf over leaf,\n\nseason by season as the winters pass\n\nand the wars roll over and the borders shift\n\nit is ploughland, old bones surfacing\n\nat the hoe's edge and the plough's iron,\n\nscapulae and vertebrae rising in a flat\n\nwide fenced country laid open to the wind,\n\nprowled by the tractors of the collectives\n\nand the same wandering birds, black earth\n\nthrough white snow, wind beaten scarecrow\n\nand the white silence of another winter.\n\nIt is a museum of bones in the thick boney\n\nstew of each other, where some bird sings\n\nin the evergreens and a boy rings a bell\n\nin the long white silence that follows.\n\nIt is a field of poles upright at a pit's rim,\n\ncarved into cruel faces, chiselled in grimaces,\n\nspiked, helmeted, horned, a ragged line of posts\n\nthat are totems of men straggling off into trees,\n\nsome aslant, the long necks of horses\n\nrearing from snow. They are flail and bludgeon\n\nand battleaxe, calvaries of yokes and the bows\n\nof the swift horsemen, the trailed arms\n\nof the willow tree. They are the crescent moon\n\nand the star, the cross, the crown, the turban\n\nand the tarboosh, gnarled glances of soldiers,\n\nthe figures of dead men rising from the earth,\n\nSuleyman with a basket of heads at his pommel\n\nand the dead king Lajos in his blue bonnet.\n\nOverhead the high jets in the clear blue\n\ncorridor of cloudless sky above Serbia,\n\nflying the line of the great rivers\n\nwhose names are the same though the names\n\nof the empires and the nations shift\n\non the maps. South of here, not far,\n\nin the debateable lands of the warring states\n\nthe bones are again rising in the mud.\n\nThe wooden cock crows from his wooden post.\n\nIn the clear dry air a bell rings.\n\n*\n\nA bell rings. In the town the dogs bark\n\nand all night again the banging of boats\n\non the river and the thud of drifting ice\n\non their hulls and the slapping of waves.\n\nAlways dogs, beyond gates, over walls,\n\nloose on the streets, howling to the far\n\nflat ring of the world's edge of woods,\n\nrivers, barns, border posts.\n\nWolfhounds, manhounds, pit bulls,\n\nmutts, mastiffs and mongrels bawling\n\nat cats, cars, bells, footsteps, wind\n\nin the winter trees, the yellow moon.\n\nEach with his patch to scratch, each\n\nhis yard to guard, each with his own\n\nview of the world, his own particular opinion\n\nhe will not give up easily.\n\nWars begin with this and end whimpering.\n\nThey begin with the squabbles of neighbours\n\nand end in the baying of men: what's mine\n\nis mine. And yours is mine also.\n\nAnd someone has backed into the lamppost again,\n\nsomeone has knocked over the empty bottles,\n\nsomeone has burst into drunken tuneless song\n\non the late street and set all the dogs off.\n\nSomeone has been beating his wife again,\n\nbroken all the crockery in the kitchen,\n\nwoken the kids and the curs and the old wounds,\n\nslammed the door shut, kicked the gatepost.\n\nAnd gone off to the river to think it all out,\n\ncontemplate drowning himself at last\n\nas all round in his reeling skull\n\nin the great dark the dogs bark.\n\n*\n\nVery fast very slow this music\n\na lament from the villages\n\na music come down from the mountains\n\ncalled across rivers across plains:\n\n_ah no joking and no joking_\n\n_a gift for the kolo, bridegroom_\n\n_the thieves they are singing_\n\n_dance my love dance faster_\n\n_faster till we fall down._\n\nThe reedgrass that will be thatch\n\nfirst snowy fields turned in the plough.\n\na line of trucks in a white field\n\nwaiting for grain not yet sown:\n\nend of the winter quarter\n\nend of the season of craving\n\nthe river's ice drifting south\n\nsnow collapsing from the buildings:\n\nthe days of the death of King Winter.\n\nThe _Bus\u00f3j\u00e1r\u00e1s_.\n\nTime to take to the streets\n\nwearing the skins of beasts\n\nmasks years in the making offspring\n\nof the old whisperers in the hearth\n\nkin to the devotees of trees\n\nand certain stones and all rivers\n\nlord of the vines and beasts\n\nour lady of the wild things the old gods\n\nwho never made it into heaven.\n\nBus\u00f3s.\n\nThey step out of the unwritten\n\nthe unremembered out of Illyria\n\nout of the south the dark the flight\n\nand the distant remembrance of panic\n\nthe horned hoof footed hard drinking\n\ngod of the shepherds. They step out\n\nthrough the winter streets in masks\n\nhorns in sheepskins and old bandoliers\n\nwith their bells and their rattles.\n\nBus\u00f3s.\n\nWith their antlers tall in the skins\n\nof beasts belled shaggy moustache men\n\nhuge with their clubs and horns\n\nwild in their tall wooden masks\n\ncoming on from the distance\n\nall the years they have travelled\n\nout of the unlettered the _agrapha_\n\nthe history of the forgotten\n\nthe long shadows of the lost gods.\n\nAt noon they have crossed the river\n\nthey have taken the streets\n\nfilled with organised riot\n\nthe ruckus of men in the male dance\n\nthe clatter and rattle of flails\n\nthe interminable clanging of bells\n\nrain clanking into buckets\n\nin mockery taking their ways\n\nthrough the orders of anarchy.\n\nBus\u00f3s.\n\nFierce and yet not fierce\n\njoking and yet not joking\n\nthis is the management of chaos:\n\nthe war of the great ratchets\n\nthe battle of the bells upright animals\n\nstriding through the streets\n\nthrough the cold falling sunlight\n\nin a wild skirling music\n\nbearing the skulls of animals.\n\nBus\u00f3s.\n\nOthers come as veiled hooded women\n\na brown friar another the devil\n\na joker in a Russian tank mask\n\na Groucho Marx an Austrian helmet.\n\nAnd these others ghosts in dirty sheets\n\nrags sackcloth and ashes and stocking masks\n\nbunched in knots of impudent silence\n\nyoung men scattering the girls\n\nthe dead risen from the dead.\n\nCenturies ago the traveller\n\nEvliya \u00c7elebi warned his far flung\n\nwandering countrymen of the masked\n\nmadmen of Moh\u00e1cs in the marshland\n\nin their shaggy jackets and bells\n\nand their faceless faces:\n\n_they are devils devils_\n\n_in the place of devils_\n\n_no one should go there._\n\nIn their own legend of themselves\n\nthey chased the Turks out of town\n\nin terror. In the ill-disciplined\n\nshaggy masked half drunk ranks\n\namong pitchforks and whirling clubs\n\nthe carved severed head on a stick\n\nof a janissary, moustache top knot skull\n\ngoes round and round in the racket\n\nand the gathering fire and the dusk.\n\nHow years ago they were fearless\n\nin the place of defeat and rose again\n\nhow years ago a pig's blood painted\n\na cross in the town square and how\n\nthe masks stained in animal blood\n\nand the wild cries and the kolo\n\nwas their resistance. How once\n\nthey were one with the beasts\n\none with men one with the gods.\n\nRutting and butting as beasts\n\nsticks for pricks bells balls\n\nand under the mask is another\n\nand another they are Bus\u00f3s\n\nthree days of the year Bus\u00f3s\n\nparading their ragged squads\n\nto the square where the cannon\n\nfrom that year of the rain\n\nthunders mud and rags and smoke.\n\nBus\u00f3s.\n\nCome nightfall on the third day\n\nof marching and mayhem and music\n\nthat is Shrovetide the fire's lit\n\nin the square. King Winter is dead\n\ncarted off in a coffin and burned.\n\nOn the coffin in flowery\n\nHungarian script: _it's sold,_\n\n_our country, it's sold, we have_\n\n_nothing left but our fathers' pricks._\n\n_Where does this music come from?_\n\nan old woman asks. From all round her\n\nfrom everywhere from earth\n\nfrom the wind from the long turned\n\nfurrows of defeat the old sorrow\n\nthe old joy the songs\n\nof the long gone into the dark.\n\n_It's sold, our country,_\n\n_and all the thieves are laughing._\n\nTime to march one last time\n\non the town and burn winter\n\nwith bells and cannon and fire\n\nround and around the tottering square\n\nmasked men and horses the music\n\nround and round the kolo\n\nthe dancing of the hairy men\n\nand winter goes up in the flames\n\nthe tall smoke climbing the sky.\n\nBus\u00f3s.\n\nThe sliver of moon the first star\n\non the pale blue flag of the sky\n\nas the sparks flare and die. At the edge\n\nof the embers of memory the borders\n\nof hearing: bells laughter a child\n\na cough girls singing the swift music\n\nin the ashes of the evening\n\nwisps of voices at a distance\n\nin that far off language.\n\n# Wire through the heart\n\n## _Where the scythe has been_\n\nThis is the music of no music.\n\nYou have to listen hard if you're listening at all\n\nto hear it out on the wind through the aspens,\n\nfaint as far off bells, as birds\n\non the edges of hearing, dogs in another country,\n\nwolves working their way across the horizon.\n\nIt begins among the smashed stones\n\nof some old Jewish graveyard glimpsed\n\nin passing on the long roads somewhere,\n\nsome star in the window of a place\n\nselling auto parts, a faint air\n\nround the bare brickwork of a dead synagogue\n\nin some town whose name you no longer remember,\n\nwhere is no schul any more, no Sabbath,\n\nno dark sidelocked men arriving on carts\n\nwith their shawled women, their solemn\n\nchildren in long coats perched\n\nlike chickens, where is no kaddish said\n\nfor the millions who never came back,\n\nwhere isn't ten together who can say it.\n\nThe music of where music has been:\n\nonly the tall windblown grasses\n\nin the abandoned yard that will fall\n\nto someone's else's scythe\n\nto the descant of bird song\n\nbefore the summer's over \u2013\n\nthe soft sigh of the blade.\n\n## _Signed sealed & delivered_\n\n_(for Erzs\u00e9bet, Kisszelmenc, Ukraine)_\n\nThis is your permission.\n\nYour licence. Keep it safe somewhere,\n\nthese words will get you through.\n\nYou will need them to pick herbs\n\nby the border wire, and a handful of flowers\n\nto put on your mother's grave\n\nin the village where you were born\n\nin the other country whose steeple\n\nyou can see from your yard's end.\n\nTo get there you will need this paper,\n\nand again when you come back to say\n\nyou have been there. You will need\n\nthese words to say you have read them.\n\nThis is your permission to be someone,\n\nanyone, a person called Kov\u00e1cs\n\nwho says it's all right to love someone,\n\nto excess even, to go crazy,\n\nto piss in the street, go to jail,\n\nto one day die and briefly be remembered\n\nbest for the side of you that stood in light\n\nat the gate of your house in spring\n\njust before the sun went down, considering\n\nthe acacia blossoms and the onions\n\nand your own diminishing options.\n\nThis is your permit, your passport\n\nto the other side of anywhere.\n\nSigned, sealed, delivered,\n\ndated this day vaguely in May.\n\nOf course, the signature's illegible\n\nand on the wrong side of the paper.\n\nAnd the rubber stamp cut from a bar of soap\n\nwas stolen long ago. And in any case\n\nas to delivery there are no stamps,\n\nthe post office became a nightclub,\n\nand the postman if he's been paid\n\nsince January, and if you still\n\nhave a letter box, he might just deliver it.\n\nMaybe.\n\n## _The Secret Police_\n\n_(for Zelei Bori)_\n\nThey are listening in the wires,\n\nin the walls, under the eaves\n\nin the wings of the house martins,\n\nin the ears of old women,\n\nin the mouths of children.\n\nThey are listening to this now.\n\nSo let's hear it for the secret police,\n\na much misunderstood minority.\n\nAfter all, they have their rights,\n\ntheir own particular ways of seeing things,\n\nsaying things, cooking things,\n\nthey too have a culture uniquely their own.\n\nAnd we think\n\nthey should have their own state\n\nwhere they could speak their own\n\nincomprehensible tongues, write\n\ntheir confessions, their unknown histories,\n\ncultivate their habits of watching\n\nby watching each other, and fly\n\ntheir own flags there, at attention\n\non parade in their medals at their monuments\n\non their secret anniversaries, making speeches,\n\nsinging praises to the God of Paranoia.\n\nAnd at the end of the day\n\nbury their dead, publish their coded obituaries\n\nof each other, and rest at last\n\nin their own kind of peace, forever.\n\n## _Intermezzo, Sub-Carpathia, May 97_\n\nThere is a bird in here, an oriole perhaps,\n\na nightingale trying to get out still singing\n\nacross the border between sleep and waking,\n\nbringing the dream along. Sometimes\n\na solemn joyful music from the church\n\nin some village of black widows clutching\n\nprayer books, the black crows of sorrow.\n\nThen a high chant from the music school\n\nin was it Munk\u00e1cs?, and round the back\n\nthe strings tuning up, and once\n\nin the muddy street of the Gypsies\n\nthe boy's high soprano above accordion\n\nand badly tuned fiddle.\n\nWind\n\naround the small sandblown hills, the reeds.\n\nIn the vaults hacked deep in the rock\n\nthe cold wine sleeps, that will become\n\na sharp memory on the tongue, the cold\n\ntug of the air on the body. Elsewhere,\n\nIstv\u00e1n the First sweeps bees from a honeycomb\n\nwith a long grey bird's wing, the bees drink\n\nat the watertub and fill the air with sound,\n\nhoney spills into jars, one the beekeeper\n\ngave me to sweeten my mornings, its gold light\n\nshining here now on my windowsill.\n\n## _In any case_\n\nThe lives we live, always taking us\n\nover some border, we spend our years\n\ntrying to get there, in the tracks\n\nof the old migrations through the passes,\n\nwest and out from the land between the rivers\n\ndown the broken roads of the armies.\n\nEverywhere old borders, countries slithering\n\non the maps, on their rafts of magma\n\nnever still for long. Everywhere memorials,\n\nthe dead of wars and Stalin's Terror\n\nin these parts, the starry graves\n\nof the drunk heroes of the Soviet Union,\n\nand others unknown. Along\n\nthe roadsides crosses for those\n\nwho hit the brakes too soon, swerved,\n\nhit a bus, burst into fire, went over\n\ninto the brown flood of the Tisza,\n\na bunch of fading plastic flowers.\n\nWe took the river road into the mountains\n\nthrough the towns of closed factories,\n\nwhere even the salt mines were shut,\n\na stork preening her ragged nest\n\non the tall brick factory chimney,\n\nup through the high villages of the shepherds.\n\nFleeting: the fast river full of rain,\n\nplank bridges hung over the flood,\n\nwires and watchtowers over in Romania,\n\nhalfway up a steep impossible hill\n\na man in a blue shirt climbing to the sky,\n\nthe villages shifting into other tongues.\n\nTo the Tatar Pass of savage raiders\n\nwith no place to go back to. To the\n\nVerecke Pass, where the seven tribes\n\nof the people of the ten arrows came,\n\nlong ago though in any case the date\n\nis debatable, the stone monument\n\nlost in all the paperwork in far Kiev,\n\nin any case unfinished. Up here the air's\n\nforeign and thin, the first flash of lightning\n\namong the peaks, the misty distance.\n\nWhat of the 18,000 driven through here\n\nin August 1941 to be shot on the other side\n\njust for being Jews? What of the thousands\n\ndead at Szolyva of cold and hunger,\n\ntyphus and TB and dysentery for being Hungarian?\n\nFor half a century no one could speak of them,\n\nput chisel to stone. _Here_ it says\n\non the boulder over the mass graves\n\n_Here one day will be a monument._\n\nThe materials in any case have been stolen.\n\nI hear one man reading from the stone,\n\nanother say _here should be a monument_\n\n_to the unknown thief_. Then wind again,\n\nthe mountain river rushing to its meeting\n\nwith the ocean, half a continent away.\n\n## _Hucul_\n\nVillages in the high valleys, a tall\n\nlong legged people, come early summer\n\nthey walk off into the distance,\n\ngrazing their sheep among the clouds,\n\nmaking cheese in their high solitary huts\n\nover the old tracks of the transhumance.\n\nThis must be one of their jokes,\n\nthis busted flush of a country\n\nwith its government of shadows\n\nin leather jackets and shades.\n\nThis is another:\n\nfrom peak to peak\n\nacross rocks and fast water, birdsong\n\nand bleating and the far glitter of bells,\n\none Hucul is asking another for news.\n\n_Haven't you heard?_ comes the voice\n\ncarried on the distance the sound travels:\n\n_The Russians have gone to the moon._\n\n_What, all of them?_\n\n_No, just one of them._\n\n_So what's to shout about?_\n\n## _Heaven's dust_\n\nI would have sent you a postcard, love:\n\nview of the castle on the river\n\nthat is all the names of this place:\n\nUngv\u00e1r\/Uzhgorod. Dusty streets\n\nhosed by rain, scrawny horses,\n\nthe market, old town, old doorways.\n\nFaces of shepherds or a long shot\n\nof the mountains, Gypsy women\n\nin red flowered dresses, the footbridge\n\nover the river. A few snapshots\n\nof desolation: an old woman selling\n\ntwo toothbrushes, a lightswitch\n\nand a heap of shrivelled radishes,\n\nempty plinths where Lenin stood,\n\nthe biggest wolves in the world,\n\nthe old synagogue across the river.\n\nBut there are no postcards.\n\nNo stamps, no post office,\n\nand in any case it would never reach you\n\nbearing its message Oh I love you\n\nfrom the collapsing country\n\nacross the shifting borders.\n\nIt would have said _Furthest point_\n\n_Europe from three seas\/the pole_\n\n_of continentality\/670 Km. equidistant_\n\n_Adriatic Baltic Black Sea.\/Oh_\n\n_lovely River Uz\/thou givst me such a buzz\/_\n\n_Oh gorgeous River Ung\/thy praises we have sung_\n\n_in good Slovak beer._\n\n_And who_\n\n_would have thought in all the_\n\n_siftings of the stars I'd be here,_\n\n_an old man with his tobacco?_\n\n_Surely we are all heaven's dust. All's well._\n\n## _Border theatre_\n\nNo, I am carrying no contraband,\n\nno firearms, Kalashnikovs, missile launchers,\n\nno drugs, no coils of copper wire from Minsk,\n\nno nuclear materials, no body parts,\n\nno bodies, no bullion, no known diseases.\n\nYes, I would like to leave your country now\n\nand put its broken roads and rusty monuments\n\nbehind me, and Yes I'd like to leave\n\nin less than the 36 hours it may take\n\nfor this performance on the border at Uzhgorod.\n\nAct One: _The first gate_. The actors\n\nare police and tough leather men\n\nwho shake each others' hands, swap\n\ncigarettes, their parts and uniforms\n\ninterchangeable, short of speech\n\nand not much eye contact, men of few words\n\nand blank faces and all they say is No. Wait.\n\nWhat's happening is difficult to tell,\n\nsome drive up and drive away,\n\nsome wait hours, some straight through.\n\nThis for the first hour when suddenly\n\nit's action time, we're in the cage\n\nand in the second act called _Wait & See_\n\nat the soldiers' gate where we wait,\n\nwait, where nothing happens much, money\n\nchanges into money, a blue beer truck\n\npasses for the second time and back,\n\nguards mooching down the border strip\n\nthrough vines, the watchtower watching,\n\nflags snapping in the wind.\n\nHours more until it's hurry up and wait again\n\ndown the long hill of traffic, uniforms,\n\nexhaust gas, another hour to the last act\n\nand the exit and the exit stamp.\n\nYes, this is my own face, the one I usually wear\n\nto these occasions, Yes this my bag,\n\nYes this my emergency tin of sardines.\n\nAnd then we go. Not recommended.\n\nA seven-hour performance all about itself,\n\nand we say we're lucky. There's no applause.\n\n## _Malenki robot_\n\n_(for J\u00e1nos, Nagyszelmenc, Slovakia)_\n\n'Over there in the other country\n\nmy sister had daughters I've seen once\n\nin forty years, nor visited my dead.\n\nIt's too late now, they're poor there,\n\nand here I'm just an old working man,\n\nand the only thing left for me to do is die.\n\n'These are my blunt carpenter's hands,\n\nand this on their backs the frost\n\nthat gnawed them at Szolyva, three winters,\n\ntwo years I was a prisoner there.\n\nMonday I build doors, Tuesday put on roofs.\n\nRoofs. Doors. My life. Vodka.\n\nIt was the priest told me to go,\n\nthree days he said, a little light work,\n\n_malenki robot_ , two years building roofs,\n\nand that because I had a trade.\n\nI survived wearing the clothes of those who died,\n\nafter a while I survived because I had survived,\n\nand then came home and here the border.'\n\nThe wire runs through the heart, dammit,\n\ntherefore we will drink cheap Russian vodka\n\nin J\u00e1nos' kitchen, and later take a walk\n\ndown to the border and look back\n\ninto the other world, the village in the mirror\n\nthat is the other half of us, here,\n\nwhere the street stops at the wire\n\nand goes on again on the other side,\n\nand maybe the Gypsies will come to serenade us.\n\n# SHED\n\n**(2001)**\n\n# Trillium\n\n_(for Kosovo)_\n\n_There was a girl screaming on the mountain_\n\n_over there. All night. She'd gone crazy._\n\nColumns of those driven out. Clips of film.\n\nPhotographs of the world's unravelling,\n\nthe scattered dead, a city of crows and collateral damage\n\nand dust. And the silence.\n\n_I was in the woods, they shot at me,_\n\n_I didn't know my way._\n\nSnatches of speech on the airwaves: _help us_.\n\nIn such times only hurried notes,\n\nmoving to no conclusion, a fool's work\n\nto make anything of them, a liar's to make nothing.\n\n_I didn't know my way._\n\n_Screaming on the mountain._\n\nThe shorthand of death and desolation \u2013\n\nestimates, statistics. Not a song,\n\nnot a poem, not a melody, not a fugue.\n\nNot a single note of any music.\n\n_They shot at me I didn't know my way._\n\n_There was a girl screaming on the mountain._\n\nAmong the trees the wandering white trillium of her headscarf.\n\n# The Millennium near Barking\n\nThe state I'm in, another fugue somewhere\n\nsouth of north, not far off by the sexagesimal reckoning,\n\nthough all that is just another pair of trousers\n\nin another order of events, and this where I am now\n\nis already the other side of that. Here is where I'll be,\n\nliving near Barking wherever Barking is, at midnight\n\non the moment as the arbitrary settings of time\n\ntip us out with a bad hangover into the next thousand years,\n\na device designed to get us to forget ourselves again,\n\nwaking in a new dawn with a new minted identity.\n\nIn the last words of the sailor king _bugger Bognor,_\n\n_let me die in bloody peace. Are you sure it's safe?_\n\nthe last utterance of Will Palmer, hanged for murder\n\nin 1856. _On the whole I'd rather be in Philadelphia_.\n\nIt's true much of the time it is very boring,\n\nsitting in some place nursing a gutsache\n\nso yes I'll have another drink, and think\n\nof all the pretty bottles behind the bar\n\nI'll never taste, all the bars in all the world\n\nI'll never visit, all the blue skies, all the women.\n\nYou know it's funny how you forget heatwaves,\n\nand what was the name of that distant country\n\nof which we knew little, whatever went on there\n\nis a fictionalised account by now, the answer\n\nto all these dusty answers is just dusty.\n\nSo let the last night begin, in the deepening blue\n\nthe blackbird and the evening star, the other stars\n\nwinking on, their messages across the distances that say\n\n_here, I'm here, still here, out here, over here_\n\n_in all this enormity, that is to say nowhere_\n\n_in particular, this speck among the tides of vast dust_\n\n_spread out across the time it makes up as it travels._\n\nWhether the machines cease or no on the midnight\n\nI'll be here, no doubt as usual engaged\n\nin my inconclusive experiment with alcohol,\n\nspeculating this red ten takes that black jack,\n\nthis black pawn that white bishop, muttering\n\naloud these words I've made to be the last words\n\ndelivered at the last minute, ending in a dream of flying.\n\n# The other shadow\n\n_I make lists of things:_ soap, soup, batteries, film.\n\n_And piles of things: socks, maps, passport, compass,_\n\n_a white stone with a hole in it for luck._\n\n_You're not on any of my lists_\n\n_nor in any of the mounds I make_\n\n_of the makings of another journey._\n\n_The ordinary things come with me anyway \u2013_\n\n_stray hairs of the cat stuck to my pants_\n\n_that will become far away memory of cat_\n\n_demanding supper:_ tuna. Now.\n\n_Some music for the road, some photographs,_\n\n_and always some of your dust, love._\n\n_A stray button that is something of you,_\n\n_blue as your eyes are,_\n\n_blue as the sky on a good day in spring is._\n\nThis is a dream.\n\nThis is not a dream.\n\nThe guards are by occupation suspicious.\n\nAn oriole is calling in the border strip.\n\nHills a blue glaze in the rain.\n\nWild flowers in the upland pastures,\n\nbuffalo wallowing in mud.\n\nWheat that will be bread, poppyseeds\n\nand sunflower that will be husks in the teeth,\n\ngrapes that will again be wine's sharp memory.\n\nIn the noon glare peasants huddle under trees:\n\nrakes, hoes, scythes, as in Brueghel,\n\na landscape with D\u00fcrer through it.\n\nAnd by the roadsides so many crucifixions,\n\nblue Jesus hammered into tin, arms spread,\n\nweeping for this grim potholed world.\n\nThunder through the mountains.\n\nThe road snaking up into pine forest.\n\nWhite horse running through black smoke.\n\nA dream, not a dream. Here and not here.\n\n_Perhaps this is a fugue, a fog, a fug,_\n\n_the confusions of another journey_\n\n_where the languages beat at the brain,_\n\n_the maps suddenly another tongue._\n\nIt begins in a litany of the many names\n\nof the seven Saxon towns of the Siebenb\u00fcrgen\n\nthat is Erd\u00e9li, Ardel, Transylvania, each\n\na mouthful of argumentative syllables, guttural,\n\nagglutinative, gobstopper names in languages\n\nwith knives in their teeth, it depends\n\nwho you ask, it depends where you're coming from,\n\nin what irreconcilable tongue\n\nthrough the passes and the river valleys,\n\nto the lands beyond the forest\n\nforever in dispute and everywhere\n\nas anywhere the neighbours do not like each other.\n\nEach town a scrabble of names: Kolozsv\u00e1r\n\nthat was Klausenberg that is Cluj Napoca,\n\nKronstadt that is Bra\u0219ov and Brass\u00f3,\n\nHermannstadt Sibiu to the Romanians\n\nand what the Szeklers call Sz\u00e9kelyudvarhely\n\nis their Odorheiu Secuiesc, Roman Apulum\n\ntheir Alba Iulia a.k.a.Karlsburg and Gyulafeh\u00e9rv\u00e1r,\n\nTirgu Mure\u0219 Marosv\u00e1s\u00e1rhely, Sighi\u0219oara\n\nthat was Sch\u00e4ssburg that was Castrum Sex,\n\nFort Six, Hungarian Segesv\u00e1r,\n\nonly the ancient names of rivers survive.\n\n_In the night cities walking_\n\n_in the streetlights suddenly_\n\n_I am a man of two shadows,_\n\n_one before, the other after,_\n\n_one hurrying east, the other west,_\n\n_falling away._\n\nIn the hotel of heavy chairs\n\nvodka solo listening to the rain\n\nfalling into the town, the traffic\n\nhissing on the streets.\n\n_I drink to one shadow._\n\n_I drink to the other._\n\n_In the lobby a million banknotes_\n\n_switch hand to hand, window_\n\n_to window, drawer to drawer._\n\n_Always the paperwork._\n\n_I drink to one shadow._\n\n_I drink to the other._\n\nThe TV a hiss of snowy static,\n\nsignals from the wrong side of the mountains,\n\nthe screen a grey plaza of rainy shadows\n\nshouting in their distant tongues.\n\nVague shapes running, the soundtrack\n\na crackle or is it gunfire?\n\nOutside the heavy Transylvanian rain\n\nfalling all night into the leaves,\n\nand long after the bars shut the two languages\n\nshout each other down around the square \u2013\n\nproclamations, denunciations,\n\ndeclarations of ill intent, old wounds\n\nthat go on being wounds, chants\n\nof the victors in a game of losers.\n\n_Absent from the events of my life,_\n\n_somewhere I recall little of later_\n\n_home again in my right self again._\n\n_Once again the wrong story_\n\n_wrong place wrong time._\n\n_In my pocket a round white stone._\n\n_Think of one who arrives in the square_\n\n_in Bra\u0219ov with no history no past_\n\n_no plan no story at all._\n\nIt is the war of the languages\n\nwhere the neighbours don't agree about history,\n\ntoo much bloody water, too much misery,\n\nthe Vlachs become the Rumanians\n\nkin with Trajan's soldiery\n\nsettled on the Dacian frontier\n\nwhere begins _the East, serfs_\n\n_tolerated by grace_ , banished\n\nfrom the proud fortified towns, forbidden\n\nchimneys, windows, public office,\n\nembroidery, furs, shoes, boots.\n\nTherefore the wars of the flags that repeat on the wind\n\n_Romania Hungaria Romania Hungaria_.\n\nTherefore the wars of the tulips along the old ramparts.\n\nTherefore the wars of the chestnuts and the walnuts\n\neach claiming each was here first\n\nand this old frontier their homeland,\n\n_the birthplace of the Rumanian_\n\n_Matthias Corvinus, the greatest **Hungarian** king._\n\n_It depends who you heard it from._\n\n_It depends on the question you ask._\n\n_It depends how you ask it._\n\n_It depends in which language._\n\nThe wars of the statues and the wars\n\nof my dog and of your dog\n\nand each other. Same old.\n\nSame old lebensraum scenario.\n\nA living and somewhere to live it.\n\nSame old poker game in a back room.\n\nChants of the victors in the game of losers.\n\n_Whisper of banknotes,_\n\n_the bad breath of money,_\n\n_pages in the book of guile._\n\n_How limited the sounds of the world:_\n\n_how limitless, the oriole still singing in my ear_\n\n_as the radio cuts in._\n\nIn the muddy village of Salt\n\nMari n\u00e9ni is singing for the lost world\n\nher laments for those who are leaving,\n\nleft long ago over the oceans\n\nto Mexico, Australia, Argentina,\n\ntheir news growing fainter till they vanish.\n\nIn her songs the colours of the Sz\u00e9kely women\n\ndeepen as they age into blood red\n\ninto mauve into purple into the black\n\nshe wears, she has a tape hereabouts\n\nof when she was famous, she has\n\nno machine she can play it on.\n\nShe is singing for those still going away\n\nbeyond the border, construction\n\nin Budapest and Balaton and beyond.\n\n_Everyone, everything, goes away,_\n\n_one day even the borders_\n\n_got up and left._\n\nAnd in the 7 Cs\u00e1ng\u00f3 villages\n\nset at the mouths of the passes\n\nwhere they watched for the barbarians \u2013\n\nPechenegs, Bulgars, Kazars, Huns,\n\nTatars and Mongols and Turks\n\narriving in waves of savage unstoppable water \u2013\n\nthey recall watchtowers, alarms\n\nthey rang, their name Cs\u00e1ng\u00f3\n\nfrom the _chang_ of a bell, or it means\n\n_to go off alone. Solo_. They say.\n\nAbandoned villages of the Saxons\n\ngone to Deutschland\n\nfalling to crows and Gypsies\n\nand entropy and gravity\n\nand the Second Law of Thermodynamics.\n\nIn the Bolyai house a beaker\n\nof the ashes of a poem said to be a love poem.\n\nAt Pet\u00f6fi's monument a boy singing\n\n_Flowers in the Spring_. The ruins of ruins.\n\nBy order of the Minister of Ruins\n\nall the monuments are to be rearranged,\n\nall the junk that tells us who we are\n\nbecause we were who we were, whoever.\n\nCeau\u0219escu becomes Chaplin. Some\n\nwill be raised a metre, some lowered, names\n\nadded or erased, some switched the other way,\n\nshifted to another part of town,\n\nremoved indefinitely for renovation\n\nor posing in the statue park of yesterday's heroes,\n\nsplattered, greening over, their obituaries\n\nbrief entries in the long book of misery.\n\nAfter the revolution the proof\n\nis in the documents, somewhere hereabouts,\n\nmislaid, lost, burned round the back\n\nof the police station, or the translation\n\nnot yet checked, not yet authorised. We have a video\n\nthat when we find it is another white\n\nblizzard on the screen, static on the soundtrack.\n\nA revolution. Not a revolution.\n\nThe one hand and then the other.\n\nIt depends who you ask. The red\n\nhas faded from the star, the sickle\n\ncome away from the hammer\n\nand the carnival is over.\n\n_Not much changed_ says the professor,\n\nwho watches the watchers in next door's\n\nSecuritatae yard, _only the names,_\n\n_the faces have not changed._\n\nCsaba says _now is better. If now I cannot_\n\n_sell a beer, back then I could not find a beer._\n\n_On the one hand and on the other_\n\n_says the man of two shadows._\n\n_On the one hand on the other._\n\n_In the great square in Bra\u0219ov_\n\n_the miraculous reappearance_\n\n_of the children of the Pied Piper_\n\n_a likely tale._\n\nAnd anyway you're out of film\n\nwhen the procession goes by\n\nand the action starts, the tape run out\n\nthe batteries flat, the moment passes\n\ninto the history of all moments,\n\nand anyway all the long way up the long hill\n\nyou forgot it's Monday and the place is closed,\n\nindefinitely, _closed for restoration_.\n\n_Far away now, far away then,_\n\n_here and not here, messages_\n\n_written to my fleeing self_\n\n_in some Transylvania of the mind._\n\n_Hung out in the distance_\n\n_like a lamp, the fading light_\n\n_of stars fainter and further_\n\n_in the borderless beyond._\n\n_Flowers in the upland pasture._\n\n_Pebbles in a yard marbled_\n\n_into the letters of a word_\n\n_in some long ago language._\n\n_Come back I hear my voice call back_\n\n_on the long road home._\n\n_Bring a few thing to say you were here \u2013_\n\n_a milkweed pod, a leaf from a walnut tree,_\n\n_a flower from the upland pasture,_\n\n_a handful of stones that spell out someone's name._\n\nNight cries startle my heart.\n\nMusic dulls me into sleep,\n\nthe bird still singing in my brain.\n\nNot the journey but it's recall\n\nfading in the remembrance,\n\nthe slow falling into time.\n\nNot the shadow but the other shadow,\n\ndeath's, falling fore and aft, its agenda\n\nin the swish of time on the watch,\n\nbrief as a kiss in passing, voices\n\nshouting down the rainy night street\n\nsome name, some message.\n\nPhotographs fade. Tapes fade,\n\nthe words will come away from the page,\n\nfrom their meanings, mutters the shadow,\n\nthe same that comes with us everywhere\n\nand eclipses us, swallows us whole,\n\ndeletes our names in other people's address books.\n\nThink of the snail with a boat on his back\n\nhe carries all his days that one day\n\nhe will drown in.\n\nFarewell all those I never met,\n\nfaces that flit across a mirror,\n\nechoes on the phone, the hiss of stars.\n\nThere are the sweet songs of lovers.\n\nThere is the wild music of the mountains.\n\nAnd there is death, suddenly.\n\nThere is the chanting among the wild-eyed rag-haired saints,\n\nan unaccompanied singing addressed to eternity.\n\nAnd there is death.\n\nThat knits us all into the ground,\n\ncaught up with roots and shards and spent ammunition,\n\ninto the names of stones flaked away in the wind.\n\nWe live a while in the tales of our children,\n\ntheir children, gossip and rumour, in the dreams of the sleepless,\n\nthe memories of the forgetful.\n\nThe knife. Fear of the knife. The cancer\n\nclawing at the guts, or on a narrow mountain road\n\na fast truck swings onto the wrong side of the road, goodbye.\n\n# The land of Cockaigne\n\n## _South_\n\nPicture a city in the mountains,\n\nbetween one cordillera or another\n\nsqueezing the burnt air, like wet moss.\n\nA city of flowers, blossom trees,\n\nexotic fruit and so many beautiful women\n\nthe eyes glaze over, everywhere.\n\nEvery street a market, chant of\n\n_chiclet chiclet, mango mango_ ,\n\nin the street of the watchstrap sellers\n\na man selling powder singing _cucaracha_\n\n_cucaracha cucaracha_ through the traffic,\n\nevery lane a fast lane till it stops.\n\n_Zona vehiculo calmado_ : a joke,\n\nas would be siesta in this city\n\nwhere the traffic never sleeps.\n\nBus bus yellow cab bus yellow cab.\n\nHorns brakes whistles backfires. And guns.\n\nThieves and so many one-legged beggars.\n\nIn the doorways of bars squinting\n\nout into the sunlight gnarled old men\n\nwearing machetes. Guns. Guns.\n\nYou could just die here in the crossfire.\n\n_Yo ya no soy yo_. Dead for ever.\n\n_Ni mi casa es ya mi casa._\n\nOut beyond the city the dead zone.\n\nYou are advised not to travel at night.\n\nYou can't get up to the mountains\n\namongst all that clean air,\n\nbut as the light falls sometimes the rain falls,\n\ndry lightning on the high crests.\n\n## _Paperwork for the Consul_\n\n_Verde que te quiero verde,_\n\nthe ship on the sea,\n\nthe horse on the mountain.\n\nI'm drinking rum in the Gran Hotel\n\nwith Federico Garc\u00eda in the dark,\n\nthe barman's name is Rub\u00e9n Dar\u00edo.\n\nHere the townsfolk call me the Sailor,\n\n_Hola marinero_ , for some reason\n\nI don't understand. Perhaps\n\nthe white cottons I wear, the Panama\n\nthat blew off in the sudden wind into a pretty girl's fingers\n\nand went off on her pretty girl's head\n\nand who was I to say _es m\u00edo,_ and gave it\n\nfor a sailor's kiss in passing.\n\nOr maybe it's the roll of my walk\n\nwandering the heat struck streets\n\nin _la neblina_ , the midday heat-haze,\n\nwary, amused, curious,\n\nmad dog or Englishman,\n\nlooking for those two good sisters\n\nMarie and Juana, purveyors of _cigarillos populares_.\n\n_Do you want to meet Mr White?_\n\nThe answer is No. The thought\n\n_you could die here anyway marinero_ ,\n\n_muerto para siempre, dentro este pa\u00eds quebrado_\n\n_broken para coca\u00edna, violencia, avaricia._\n\nThere'd be no lasting memorial.\n\nSome paperwork for the Honorary Consul,\n\nwhose card I carry in my belt. A pointless enquiry.\n\nYou had no name anyway, marinero.\n\n## _Little lost poem_\n\nIt vanished, that music in the brain,\n\na few broken bits all that's left of it.\n\nIt's like trying to recall rain.\n\nSomething about a sailor, wandering\n\nan inland upland city of flowers,\n\nwhere spring was always the season.\n\nAll gone back now into the static,\n\nthe sunlight, traffic, music,\n\nthe mumblings of an ageing mariner\n\ndried out, marooned adrift ashore,\n\nlost himself, and all he met there\n\nin that hot far away mountain city.\n\nThe first note of a melody,\n\nover and over. Beautiful women,\n\ntheir fleeting loveliness, beguile him.\n\nThey smile and lean forward,\n\npointing to a name in a book, his,\n\nthe number of his page,\n\nand oh the deep valleys of their breasts.\n\na younger man would fall in love\n\nwith any one of them. Maybe he did.\n\nOr maybe he died there.\n\nOr maybe he gave his goods to the poor.\n\nWe'll never know now.\n\n## _Bodega de carne_\n\nHis name is Kov\u00e1cs, the mad Magyar,\n\ndrunk, lost again in the foreign tongue.\n\nWhere is my passport, my wallet, my hat?\n\nWhere did the sky go? Why is the border\n\nnever at the border? Please, I have to go\n\nto Playa Bolivar to buy some cheese.\n\nHere you need a ticket for a ticket, a receipt\n\nto get a receipt. Here you hand in your brain,\n\nand don't forget to take the _recibo_.\n\nAnd what's more, says Kov\u00e1cs in his broken English,\n\nthere is a sentence the same in Turkish and Hungarian:\n\n_there are too many little apples in my back pocket._\n\nHe keeps calling home but all he says is yes, yes, yes.\n\nHe calls to say he'll meet me somewhere,\n\nit sounds like Mean Man's Corner, only he's not there.\n\nOnly the wind's door slammed in my face\n\nand a voice in my ear saying _You want meat,_\n\n_you want the mugger's special? An introduction to eternity?_\n\nLights out. A sudden and anonymous ending\n\nto all these dubious adventures.\n\nIt's that live fish swimming underwater business.\n\nWords are dangerous. The government should ban them.\n\nLet me go home now to my imaginary saxaphone.\n\nWhat I hear is not what anyone would say:\n\n_Make way for the Grand Duchess of Alabama._\n\n_I was intended for a priest but dodged that one._\n\n_The beggars take the coins too small to mention._\n\nBut it's OK, we have sent 20 women's horses on ahead,\n\nwe have fish, water, apples for the journey\n\nso we'll get there, home wherever home is.\n\nFields of yellow. I can be calm sometimes,\n\nquiet as the dead are, as sweet as the kiss\n\nof the key in its lock, opening the door.\n\n## _From Lorca_\n\n_Verde verde verde,_ the sailor ashore,\n\nmarooned in the mountains.\n\nDeath's.\n\nNo longer my ship, my house,\n\nno longer I, I.\n\nDeath's.\n\n_Ayer estrellas azules,_ yesterday blue stars,\n\n_ma\u00f1ana estrellitas blancas, de fuego,_\n\n_memor\u00eda de estrellas._\n\nAll death's. The heart, _el coraz\u00f3n_ , death's.\n\nAnd if it's Thursday is it Napoli,\n\nor is it Monday and Medell\u00edn, Habana, Nueva York?\n\nDeath, that old leveller, traveller, wandering shadow.\n\nIf he does not catch me in Bogot\u00e1 it will be in Bilb\u00e3o.\n\nDeath.\n\nIn which the lost sailor and the drunken Hungarian are one,\n\nthe dirty old man from Brazil saying _Old horse new grass_.\n\nDeath.\n\nIn which we are folded, all of us, into the drawers,\n\nthe blankets, the white cloths, into the dry uplands,\n\ninto the lamps, the dusty corners of our lives,\n\nput away with all the other Christmas toys,\n\nthe congratulations of drunken uncles,\n\nforgotten with all the other indiscretions,\n\nthings kept in attics, spider holes, coded diaries,\n\na dog howling in the rain on a distant horizon,\n\nwhat sound the moon makes on her monthly stations,\n\nthe dripping of stalactites, tick of the church beetle,\n\nlast gasp of Ferdinand of Austria: _I will have noodles,_\n\n_and that's an end to all discussion on the matter._\n\n_I am the Emperor._ Death.\n\nNo more argument, thesis, antithesis, exegesis.\n\nJust death, and his crude stitchery,\n\nhis dull music, his black fugues.\n\n## _Coda: Montezuma's Revenge_\n\nFare thee well, Medellin in the hot south.\n\nFever, shivers and sweats at once,\n\ntoo much familiarity with plumbing.\n\nAnd wherever I lay me down there was always\n\na madman chained to a table he dragged back and forth\n\nover the floor above, all night long.\n\nAn impossible country. Broken. Flowers,\n\nso many flowers, so many guns.\n\n_It's the river against the sea._\n\n_It's the sea against the river._\n\n_And why are the poor always more generous than the rich?_\n\nTime to go. On the road to the airport\n\nclouds on the mountains, the watchful infantry.\n\nCheckpoints, TV terror in all the mirrors,\n\nvodka and panic in the departure lounge.\n\nI recall in the rain a great crowd\n\nchanting _poes\u00eda poes\u00eda poes\u00eda._\n\n_Poes\u00eda contra la muerte._\n\n_Muerte a la muerte._\n\n# The Watch\n\n## _El Pacifico_\n\nIt seems I've gone grey in here, ageing\n\ninto these mirrors, these lights, the chatter\n\nthe length of the long varnished bar,\n\namong the tequilas muttering _una m\u00e1s._\n\nIt seems you're far away again. At home\n\nthe bed's a mess and I forget to eat\n\nso I'm here again, drinking to health\n\nand good fortune, the long roads you're out on.\n\nThe heart beats _be safe, be safe, be safe, my love_.\n\nIt's that time again, the mood called _Missing You_\n\neating down into the bones. _Una m\u00e1s,_\n\n_Pablito por favor. Una m\u00e1s, una m\u00e1s._\n\n## _The wife's sister_\n\nShe'll say _you know what I can't remember about cucumbers?_\n\nand never tell. She'll say _I know, I look like a dog off the road._\n\nShe'll say _I asked can you play_ Wish upon a Star?\n\n_But he said Sorry lady our piano player never turned up._\n\nShe'll say _I have a friend, she has a house on the Grande Canale,_\n\n_but I can never remember her name. It's in the phone book though._\n\nShe'll say _We have to go there or we haven't been._\n\n_I can't read a map but I always know where I am._\n\nShe'll say _I'll never make horseradish sauce again_\n\n_though I'll cry again, again, again._\n\nShe'll say _I never loved him, I was blinded by love,_\n\n_the only alternative to loneliness, boredom, nothing._\n\n## _So be it_\n\nSo that's that, the universe is flat,\n\nand they think now it will go on forever\n\nthinning out into the empire of no light,\n\ninto only distance beyond distances.\n\nQuestion answered. The stars\n\nno more than drifts of smoke\n\nfrom one of God's occasional cigarettes,\n\na habit he gave up long ago.\n\nNot a lot to look forward to then:\n\nthe death of time, and all the lamps off.\n\nNot much of anything these days: long\n\ninterrupted silences, slow afternoons.\n\nMy usual limp around the neighbourhood,\n\na word with the Brothers Fish, home\n\nto the ring doves on the chimney pipes,\n\nthe caravan wind in the sawgrass.\n\n## _Midnight Angst_\n\nWas it or was it not all an illusion:\n\nhe loved her, she loved him,\n\nthey would go dancing, dancing off\n\ninto the town & the dawn and the midday,\n\nkids & all, grow old together\n\ninto two old beech trees at the lane's end\n\nwhose branches nudge each other on the wind\n\nsometimes as in some old school tale,\n\nwhat they wanted to think of each other.\n\nThat world that never was, another propaganda,\n\nanother tale written by the victors.\n\nSo there were anniversaries, let's say:\n\nthere were occasions. Moments.\n\nSome that persist in the memory,\n\nthat live in time. That they die with.\n\nCame a time he knew she wasn't listening,\n\nhe wasn't listening either, even she\n\nwasn't listening to herself.\n\nTime to go off into the dark weeds\n\nthat are always at the edges of all our lives,\n\ntime to go off into the shadows & lie down there.\n\n## _Asleep_\n\nCame home late on the last train,\n\nshot the bolts home. Slept,\n\ndreaming of missed trains, missed planes,\n\nlost tickets, failed connections.\n\nI hear you whisper in your sleep\n\nin the soft feather of your voice\n\n_blessed be the rain,_ and wake again,\n\nor dream again but you're not here.\n\nThe night: rainless, moonless,\n\nendless, I could lose myself easily,\n\nasking _Are we nearly there yet?_\n\n_How long is this road?_\n\nNothing between cause & effect,\n\nnothing saves us. I'm getting old\n\nwith my pussycat, still a kid\n\ncheering for the Indians.\n\nStill rooting for the cowboy\n\nin the black hat. I make it all up\n\nas I go, spinning some thread\n\nfrom all these journeys.\n\nI am the Sultan of Reflections.\n\nI am the consort of the Queen of Spain.\n\nI am king of all the snows.\n\nSee how everything melts all around me.\n\n## _The story so far_\n\nThe house on the hill, no one knows\n\nwho lives there, what they do there\n\nwith each other, praying and scrubbing\n\nnight and day but it does no-one any good.\n\nFields of yellow kale, sky, to the left\n\na stand of trees, scrub, sharp briars,\n\nwhat happened there thirty years ago is never spoken of,\n\nbut the birds and the other wild life never go there.\n\nThe sharp spurs of the teazels, weaving on the wind,\n\nlandscape of innocence and childhood, pushy clouds.\n\nWho knows where the bodies and the knives are?\n\nLook to your right: the gravel ponds.\n\n## _Reflections, shaving_\n\nGetting old, wearing out, boring,\n\nnobody fancies any of it, the body\n\nfor ever rudely introducing new pains\n\nfrom parts I'd never thought about.\n\nAll I want for Christmas, really all I want,\n\nis a plastic gorilla in a cage, this high,\n\nthat yells _Help. Hey you. You._\n\n_I'm trapped in here. Get me out._\n\nOver and over till the battery runs out.\n\nIt's a long way from the Land of Green Ginger,\n\nwhere my beery adolescence was misspent.\n\nLet this be a warning to the rest of you.\n\n## _The neighbour_\n\nHe reviews his territory, all forty foot of it,\n\nmapped, a general planning his campaign,\n\nNapoleon next door in his massive\n\nvomit-green shorts. Him and his wife.\n\nIn his own little corner of his own Third Reich.\n\nHe identifies neglect, waste, labour requirements\n\nfor the next grand project in concrete,\n\nthe next five-year plan. Him and his dog.\n\nHis enemies are the slugs and the snails,\n\nthey die by the dozen and still they keep coming,\n\nhe stamps them, clubs them, salts them,\n\nwatching them foam into nothing at all.\n\nHim and his dog in his flagstone empire.\n\nNot that anything grows there these days.\n\nHe knows: under the paving the worms writhe,\n\nand they're every one of them enemies too.\n\n## _The shed in question_\n\nNobody out here but us spiders,\n\ngrown fat through the summer,\n\nin early September hanging out\n\nin all their glittering tiger-striped menace,\n\nbloodsuckers, warriors in the endless wars,\n\ngladiators in the arenas of their nets.\n\nThis is the empire of the vampire,\n\nthe Republic of Bad Manners.\n\nIn here I'm merely tolerated, the delegate\n\nfrom Out There among the stars. In here\n\nI have no friends, relatives, lovers, offspring, antecedents,\n\nno language to know anything, I know nothing.\n\nI am alone in my brief season out here\n\nwondering this that the other, whether\n\nwe're far enough back from the river\n\nto withstand the tsunami.\n\nWe could end up\n\nwith a beachside residence in our old age,\n\nour days spent beachcombing and renting deckchairs,\n\nsoon there'd be a promenade and a bandstand,\n\na stick of rock with EAST HAM-ON-SEA right through it.\n\n## _After the storm_\n\nMilly, ten years dead now. I recall\n\nher saying such odd things:\n\n_I'm worried about the dog in the rhubarb._\n\nThe rain a catspaw at the window,\n\noutside the wind another game in the weeds,\n\nthe storm over at last. Night coming.\n\nI'd like to write to her to say the blackcurrant bush\n\ncut from her garden has filled with fruit this year,\n\nthe first in fifteen, black pearls, enough to make a pie.\n\nEventually the stereo will turn itself off,\n\nthe phone will not ring, no one will call. It's OK.\n\nThe captain's sober and the ship sails at midnight.\n\n## _Mail from the Campania_\n\n'I write from Amalfi, a white\n\nwinding bee's nest, jewels cleft between\n\nmountains falling seaward.\n\nToo hot for my slow northern blood,\n\ntoo claustrophobic, too many tourists\n\nin baggy shorts, the only shade\n\nbeneath the blue plastic umbrella\n\nof the tour guide calling over and over\n\n_I'll be right here, right here._\n\nAlways something to be done, forms\n\nto fill, applications in by due date\n\nin triplicate, signed, witnessed.\n\nThough I'm busy doing nothing\n\nI keep busy anyway, what with the compass\n\nto invent, my _Parsifal_ to write.\n\nAlways curiosities, gossip, love affairs\n\naround the back streets of Salerno.\n\nJust sitting watching everyone go by.\n\nIn the slow afternoons the old city\n\nwhispers to itself in doorways. I fancy\n\nthose conceived in the hours of siesta,\n\nthey are born clever and grow up\n\nto be lawyers, loansharks, politicians\n\nwho steal from all the rest of us. Ciao.'\n\n## _The afternoon_\n\nGone into white mist, the way it is in the movies,\n\ninto states whose names we don't know yet,\n\nborders not yet thought of. Gone anyway. Dust.\n\nSo many centuries just getting up to go.\n\nAnd it rains and rains. My love,\n\nmy life is turning into a list of things I used to do.\n\nMy love consoles me. Sometimes I think of her,\n\na bird high in the tree of the house, a river\n\nof sunlight warm on her cheeks.\n\nSo much patience with paint, silk, _the least gap_\n\n_and it bleeds._ In the end it's a scarf in the wind, love,\n\nbeads of water scattered into sunlight.\n\n## _Midday, Anna_\n\nThe phone rings, it's Anna, she says\n\n_I'm under a restraint order,_\n\n_they can keep me here as long as they like,_\n\n_they can do what they want with me._\n\nBut she doesn't say where, there's bugger all\n\nI can do for Anna, lost daughter of my lost friend\n\nDuncan the Drunken. She says _only two of us_\n\n_in here are ambient and all the rest are chairs._\n\nAnd hangs up. The wires buzz in the ear,\n\nall the way to Bristol and beyond. What was it\n\nI was doing before Anna rang?\n\nWhat to do now with the afternoon?\n\n## _Interim_\n\nA Bloody Mary sort of Friday,\n\nall the way on that long slide\n\ninto Monday, Tuesday, Thursday,\n\nwhen the liver fails, the pump quits.\n\nPrague, Amsterdam, Bilb\u00e3o. Some place\n\nyou least expect, all around you\n\nthe big people in expensive suits\n\nleaving footprints all over the maps.\n\nOut amongst the scatter of languages and stars,\n\npart of the world's chatter that's all of us,\n\nin some distant place where even a fruitstand\n\nby the tramstop _glazed with rain_ is significant.\n\n_Allah il Allah_. Father forgive.\n\n_O Israel. O mane padme hum_. A man\n\nrunning shouting into fire to any God that listens.\n\n_Faethere oure, the tho eart in heofene._\n\n## _Evening primrose_\n\nEvery moment itself, at dusk the many greens\n\nof the darkening garden, background to the sheer\n\nwhite sheets of the hydrangea, the yellow cups\n\nSt John's wort offers to the deepening blue.\n\nThe opening of the hour of the evening primrose,\n\nlast homeward chatter of the blackbird,\n\nthat moment the city's traffic stills. Music,\n\nperhaps, a little night music on the FM,\n\nBach's Staccato in B Minor, a little Mozart,\n\n_Relax relax_ natters the DJ, a plane drills\n\na hole in the horizon, a siren wails its urgent mission,\n\nand the world's with us again. Nag. Nag.\n\nStill, there were moments, yellow flowers\n\nclosing in the last of the light, musk\n\nof lavender and woodruff and a cool breeze\n\nin the long half-light that becomes no light at all.\n\n# Wall dreams\n\nWind, cloud, rain gullied slopes.\n\nBorder country, lawless by habit,\n\nnature, habitat, ungovernable.\n\nSnores from the corner. Someone\n\nscratching his itch. A ripe fart, a groan.\n\nOh for the blessing of sleep and forgetfulness.\n\nOutside a nightbird, nightingale, robin?\n\nThey say in sleep we travel,\n\ntalking in another time.\n\nMessages rise from the muck:\n\n_Lydia, please come to my birthday._\n\n_I send you Flavius a gift of woollen socks._\n\nPart of the world's mundane chatter\n\nto itself. Men drinking after work,\n\nembellishing stories that become legends.\n\nVoices behind voices; behind each thought\n\nthe ghost of another thought, travellers\n\narriving with their dogs and sandwiches,\n\ncameras, backpacks, their own preoccupations.\n\nGhosts, drifting through, out for the day, here\n\nto say they've been and gone. By the south gate\n\na loud woman describing the dress from was it\n\nC&A or M&S, or is or is not that out there\n\nthe 3rd cohort _ala I Pannoniorum_ glittering\n\nin the long sunlight over the fell side,\n\ncome to relieve us at last?\n\nMe, I'd abandon this place\n\nto the wild beasts howling all night\n\nand the painted men skulking\n\nin the bruised hills, the dumb\n\ncontradictory panorama of the north\n\nfrom which cries come: _Go home Rome_.\n\nWatching north where I'd rather turn south.\n\nI praise the horned god of the hunt\n\nLord of all the Animals\n\nI praise the three hooded ones\n\nin their stitchery of stone\n\nI praise the blood red calling of the rooster\n\nI praise the black beak of the raven\n\nI praise him as the lightning\n\nI praise him as the courier of the sun\n\nI praise him as the lion\n\nI praise him as the stag\n\nI praise him as the eagle\n\nI praise him as the bear\n\nI praise him as the snake\n\nI praise him as the ring dove\n\nI praise him as the swan\n\nI praise him as the owl\n\nI praise him in the language of all the birds\n\nI praise the hawthorn's pink bloom\n\nI praise the purple on the blue hills\n\nand the gorse that is always in season.\n\nI praise the hare and the spider and the wolf.\n\nBy day by night I stare over the blank space\n\nwe call landscape, my share of the watch\n\nmy share of the world. Some days\n\na messenger, others a sulky sentry,\n\non a bad day skiving in the shithouse.\n\nI make all sharp and bright burnished,\n\nmy watchword in whatever tongue, my password,\n\nmotto muttered in the wind's mouth\n\n_don't mess with me,_\n\nmy chorus and my long refrain:\n\n_we're here because we're here because..._\n\nMy brother is to be the man bride\n\nof the evening star. Think of that.\n\nIt is a secret, a mystery among others.\n\nI praise the old ones and all\n\nthat come in threes, what\n\ncan be devised from the flight of birds,\n\nglimpsed in the whorlings of water\n\nin the fast upland streams.\n\nMy brother will be _Miles_ the soldier\n\nunder Mars. He will kneel, naked,\n\nblindfold, his hands' bounds\n\ncut at a stroke, he will step up\n\nto be crowned and refuse the crown.\n\nIn this half lit theatre there will be\n\nscorpion, raven, dog, snake,\n\nthe sun and the moon, brass, drumming.\n\nHe is crowned, then he is free,\n\nhe can see at last in so much smokey gloom,\n\ndeclaring _Mithras is my only crown._\n\nWords put into the mouth of a god,\n\nwords that get men killed.\n\nI praise the sun and the sun's rays.\n\nI praise all that lives and struggles,\n\nand those that have power over water,\n\nappearing at the crossing wearing\n\nthe armour of those to die that day.\n\nSo what can he see now that not before?\n\nSo what is he? \u2013 a soldier or a bird,\n\nor does he think himself a god in feathers,\n\nthe corpse bird speaking from the other world\n\nin all his colours that are all of them black?\n\nHe will be the sun runner, dressed\n\nin the colours of fire and blood and the sun,\n\nhis cape the star map of the night sky,\n\nhis pointed cap, he will straddle the bull,\n\nyanking his nostrils back, he will slit\n\nthe bull's throat and scatter his blood\n\nglittering like the constellations down the sky.\n\nI am in praise, especially of Orion.\n\nI am in praise, especially of the raven,\n\nbattle bird, bird of foreknowing and forgetting.\n\nThe raven says time for a new dispensation,\n\nthere is a wobble in the constellations,\n\na long slow shift among the stars\n\nand therefore some shift in the complex\n\narrangements of the gods, therefore\n\nthe long war between the dark and the light,\n\nbetween chaos and order, therefore war\n\nand therefore men will die for this.\n\n_We're here because._\n\n_Because._\n\n_Because the Wall._\n\n_Because because._\n\n_Because we do what we're told._\n\n_Go where we're sent._\n\n_Because the commandant._\n\n_Because the Emperor._\n\n_Because it's here._\n\n_Because the government._\n\n_The government says so._\n\n_Because._\n\n_There would otherwise be barbary._\n\n_So we're here because it's here._\n\n_And it's here because we're here._\n\n_Because._\n\n_Because._\n\nIberia, Dacia, Pannonia, Gaul, Syria,\n\nfrom the watery lands at the mouths\n\nof the great rivers, some from Africa,\n\nsome from these parts, how I envy\n\nthat for them is no country of childhood\n\nto long for, or I despise them this vacancy.\n\nAs well envy another man his prick.\n\nOur lives a dice game in the crapper.\n\nMy world is not much though my life\n\nis filled with it, its tune the same\n\nover and over, _quick march, halt,_\n\n_at ease, attention, present arms,_\n\nin my head counting the arithmetic:\n\n2 steps equals one pace, one mile\n\na thousand paces, a wall one sea\n\nto the other sea. Mine is a world\n\nall in the wind and the wings of birds,\n\ntheir cries that foretell our deaths.\n\nOf my own I think what women\n\nand what offspring left behind.\n\nThere are limits not built of stone.\n\nI am myself a wall, thick,\n\nnothing gets through me. All the walls\n\nhave two sides, I could be on the other.\n\nI could get lost and never found,\n\n_don't mess with me,_ wandering\n\nthe boglands all my days and after\n\nwhat life to remember, sent off\n\nabruptly at a sharp edge, drowned\n\nunder hooves, choked, dumped in the midden,\n\nforgot, chucked at last into the sharp yellow gorse.\n\nAlways in season.\n\nSo be it. So it goes. Here.\n\n_...because we're here..._\n\n_There'll always be a big wall,_\n\n_Big walls keep us free._\n\n_Without a wall there'd be bugger all at all,_\n\n_There'd be nothing here but you and me._\n\nI am that sort of man who bears all\n\nto the last, happy when an old kettle\n\ncomes to the boil still, content\n\nwith my porridge and hard tack\n\nand share of sour wine, in hopes to live on\n\nwith my limbs all in all the right places\n\nand my eyes to see and my strength still,\n\n25 years if I'm lucky enough,\n\na bit of land somewhere and sons\n\nto work it, living my days out\n\nstill tight mouthed, weathered,\n\nscarred, wearing the same tattoo:\n\n_don't mess with me._\n\nScarp. Ditch. Crag. All the north\n\nand the south of it, edge of empire,\n\nblue cap of the sky, cloud splattered.\n\nSometimes the shadowlands\n\nof the great mountains of mist\n\nshuttering the hills, sliding over\n\nmy eye corners as I run, bearing\n\nmy message, sheep voicing\n\ntheir complaints, bull braying\n\nin so much weather. And all the birds.\n\nVoices behind voices. Where was\n\nmy beginning, my eyes opening\n\nto the foggy river banks, woods,\n\nwide snakey water lands, glimpse\n\nof my own stranger's face\n\nin the moonlit pool at midnight,\n\ncries of the flayed ox, the stuck pig,\n\nflogged horse, dogs hunting\n\nalong the horizon's line, always?\n\nSomeone who sang to me,\n\na woman, milk and tears flowed from her.\n\nSuddenly it all melts inside the head.\n\nAccording to my base logic there is\n\nwater and there is the moon\n\non the one side, and on the other\n\nfire and the sun. I have seen the sea\n\nrise and fall to the moon's gold mouth,\n\nto the horns of her, new above spring woods,\n\nnameless with all her many names.\n\nI speak from the lost world of all the living.\n\nI am someone becoming someone else,\n\nI have a name somewhere about me.\n\nI am muddy with others, a body\n\nseparating itself from the common grave.\n\n_I send you Flavius a gift of woollen socks_.\n\nI am in praise. Of the sun. Of the bear, the wolf, the deer.\n\nI am in praise of the horned god that hunts them all.\n\nI am in praise of all that breathes.\n\n# Transit\n\nA no-bar airport hotel room: bed, mirror, Brueghel print,\n\ntoothbrush lonely on its only in the bathroom,\n\nshoes two weary open mouths, nothing to do with each other.\n\nA strange business, to be anywhere, to be anyone.\n\n_Today I shall be Ludwig of Bavaria, eating leftover cabbage._\n\nWater, cup, table, evidence of the world's unlikely existence,\n\ntangible. Take the one and pour into the other. Drink,\n\nsitting to the third. Drink, drink the water. A place called _here_ ,\n\nsome vague other country, bedazzled by too many air miles.\n\n_Suddenly I remember my black dog, his shadow fading into autumn,_\n\n_thirty years gone by. Spiro his name was._\n\nIt is a room big enough and small enough to write a suicide note\n\non the little table provided for the purpose, in the little chair\n\nat the little desk where you take the little pencil\n\nand blow your last thoughts all over the fake red flock.\n\n_You had nothing to declare. You never had._\n\nAs ever too many ifs too many buts. Imaginary conversations\n\nin imaginary English. A narrowing margin.\n\nThe parallel lines of rail tracks and jet trails meeting at last,\n\nthe distance from here to there closing rapidly.\n\n_Objects in the mirror may be closer than you think._\n\nDays weeks months years being invisible, same old tale\n\nthe sorry self tells itself, the machinery ticking away\n\ninto oblivion, everything designed for the scrapyard,\n\nall the world a theme park, every one a game show.\n\n_You can go to bed now you've had your photograph taken._\n\nHere comes a man through the anonymous crowd,\n\nhis face bearing his look of permanent urgent enquiry,\n\neyes staring into everyone, mouth moving into the gift of speech\n\nborn in the mouths of distant hunter gatherers, long ago:\n\n_have you got ten pence, have you got ten pence?_\n\nIncidents along the way. And this is the pretty route,\n\nmeandering, roundabout, more interesting for that.\n\nFor instance at the Accident & Emergency a man, confused,\n\nan open Stanley knife in his back pocket:\n\n_What am I doing here. Where am I anyway?_\n\nAnd in the supermarket suddenly a security alert\n\n_will a member of management go to the security panel_\n\nover and over, again and again, sometimes _this is a secu_\n\n_this is a secu a secu a secu secu secu_. No one pays any attention.\n\n_Anyway it's not my gun. I was never there._\n\nAll the whiskers blown suddenly from the dandelion.\n\nGone over the hills and then some. The book\n\nopen to the last words fading in the brain,\n\nthe last image a child drinking from a paper cup.\n\n# Th\u00e9 dansant\n\nNothing in my inbox just now\n\nso you may entertain me. _A pleasure, Sir._\n\n_I hear the Gulf Stream just went south._\n\n_How d'you like your pina colada?_\n\nWhat was that music now, a quick\n\nSpanish song, stamp of heels, flare\n\nof a black skirt, flash of white teeth,\n\n_lo que el viol se viente_. Goodnight Pamplona.\n\n_Lighten up Sir. Gone are the days_\n\n_of the popular Lament for a Penny Cigar_\n\n_when five farthings was a living wage,_\n\n_everyone a prince among equals._\n\nAccording to my stern religion\n\nwhich is no religion at all, nothing at all\n\nbetween us and starlight, cause and effect,\n\nbetween us and our clenched teeth.\n\nAnd always the mad old bat in the corner\n\nlurking under the fake potted palm\n\nwho wants the band to play tango tango\n\nbut they won't. Oh no they won't.\n\nHer last tango brought the riot police,\n\neveryone into the vans and off to the caracel,\n\na week's loss of earnings, scoldings, hungry kids.\n\n_That was long ago Sir. We don't speak of it now_.\n\nI remember her then, all wild raven hair.\n\nWhen she left it was for a fortnight.\n\nAll I have is this snapshot of her waving,\n\nwaving from the boat that took her away.\n\n_I see Sir. I see it is taken from the back._\n\n_But it is not her and yes she is waving but not to you._\n\n_She is waving to someone else, there, that man_\n\n_in the bow tie, in the black and white of it all. Sir._\n\n# Fast forward\n\n**_one thing then another_**\n\none story then another conversation\n\nalways interrupted by another conversation\n\nI want the words to barely glaze the page\n\ngone the moment of their utterance\n\nas we are\n\nI want\n\nin back of this a story a man with his face with his name\n\nexile emigrant refugee displaced person outsider offcomerdon stranger suspect\n\nthe terms interchangeable politically undesireable\n\na story of a man who leaves his country\n\nand the woman he loves\n\nand the story of why\n\nand her story\n\nthey never meet again\n\nthat's it that's all of it\n\nfar away she hears in the night street\n\nfootsteps footsteps stop\n\nwhen she stops go on when she goes on\n\nfrom the dark in back of her she hears\n\n_I can see you I can see you_\n\n_Sammy Sammy Sammy Sammy I can see you_\n\nfar away she must go on\n\nfar away he must go on\n\n*\n\n**_the middle ages_**\n\ndefeated on all sides\n\nthey tire of the games\n\nand become their own gestures\n\nfor instance my lords Follejambe\n\nwho lie in their armour at Chesterfield\n\na little mad leg dangling from each helm\n\nthe dead and the maimed\n\nalready numbered\n\ncrows and the old picking women\n\nwhat happens happens to all\n\na conclusion that is no consolation\n\nthink of silence now\n\nthe last message from the buildings\n\nindecipherable over and out\n\nstatic then the long nothing\n\nthe moment the lovers\n\nwalk away from each other\n\nthe moment the moment\n\nsuch a sheepish calm on the face of the madonna\n\nlook of a man peering through smoke\n\na man kneeling into the light\n\nwho kneels in his own veins\n\nand is alive is alive brooding\n\nthe forked branch of his solitude\n\n*\n\n**_gone the rain falls_**\n\nthe rain renews itself the rain\n\nfalling through centuries\n\ncolumns and forests\n\noceans the ships nudge into\n\nthe house rears through it\n\nits freight of jars bottles boxes\n\ncontainers for all manner of occasions\n\nassembled just for our amusement\n\nthe rabbit enquires of everything\n\nis it good to eat? is it?\n\nthe rain finds the mouths sewn shut\n\nthe rain drilling its pits\n\n*\n\n**_whiteout_**\n\nthink of lovers for whom silence\n\nis all the speech they can bear\n\nbecome old with nothing to say\n\nbut what is unspeakable now\n\nto burst again into language\n\na thousand years of nothing\n\nthen a single cry and again nothing\n\nsmall talk of the aspens and the stars\n\nat the continent's dead centre\n\none light on a circle of ground\n\nlighting the sleeve and the face\n\nof a man carrying his lamp\n\nthe moment it is blown out\n\n*\n\n**_the new world_**\n\nlady you moved me so\n\nI may not be still again\n\nand if I return to my own country\n\nwhat shall I find there?\n\ngrass on the ancient hills\n\nsmall fields running to smaller fields\n\nthe going away of love\n\nand if I walk to the edge of my lands\n\nwhen shall I see you?\n\n*\n\n**_here and not here_**\n\nalways among stones stoney places\n\nscuffing the dust's old pedigree\n\nis there nothing it seems nothing\n\nthe taken for granted hum of the generator\n\nrefrigerator percolator traffic cries\n\nthe endless muttering of the machinery\n\nnothing but stars and their stardust\n\ngrown upright a little wiser perhaps\n\nfrom where do the words come\n\nweepings and birthcries\n\nshouts from the tram grunts corner mutterings\n\nsotto voce cacaphony of things left unsaid\n\nthe grey tide of everyone\n\nthese we call birds\n\nin these we call trees singing singing\n\nthe grasses moving under the air's\n\nfalling through itself\n\nshadow of hand over hand\n\nvoices from rooms I've not been\n\ncalls from a country no longer in existence\n\nthe wind scribbling the water with letters\n\n*\n\n**_off message_**\n\neverybody here on automatic\n\n_I'm on the train just leaving Liverpool Street_\n\n_say hello to Uncle Joe for me_\n\n_he was always my favourite dictator_\n\nlost in the outbox at paperwork.com\n\na customer at Incarceration Inc\n\ndate of birth sign here sign here sign here\n\nall this and a water feature too\n\nI'm out of here off into the twilight\n\na long way to travel to sit on a bench\n\nlistening to the wailing of yet another city\n\nI don't have the language for the language\n\nI need a cup of coffee to get me to a cup of coffee\n\nmy next number is called _Accidents While Dancing,_\n\nout in the apocrypha of the world\n\nits dust all over my shoes\n\n*\n\n**_cape fear_**\n\nnever enough\n\nthe sound seeking its silence\n\nall company its farewell\n\nwho can't wait for it all to be over\n\nthe story the love affair the telephone call\n\nhistory the message on the tape\n\nat dark I walk by your house\n\nhearing the corn creak\n\na ship on the sea's nowhere\n\nwe have travelled forever without words\n\nI can't bear now to go from your face\n\nforever forever and the distance\n\n*\n\n**_quickly fading here_**\n\nhuddled cold I woke by a dead elm\n\nlooking out over the morning I said\n\ngoodbye morning goodbye afternoon\n\ngoodbye silence begetting itself\n\ngoodbye echo my own footsteps\n\nrunning away my shadow ashamed of itself\n\nalways on the maps where you want to go\n\nis the crease worn away by so many fingers\n\nsearching searching goodbye to that\n\nlost in a muddle of egg timers lost\n\nin a labyrinth of assorted cheese sandwiches\n\nsigns that say _remember to smile at the customer_\n\nconfused by the sign in the video shop\n\n_last person out switch_ perplexed\n\nby the what-does-it-mean of _mind the gap_\n\nso goodbye riddle of the egg in the box\n\nin the Chinese puzzle at the middle\n\nof an infinite succession of nesting dolls\n\ngoodbye mouse with an ear of wheat\n\nold drainpipe cluttered with leaves\n\ngoodbye rainy country goodbye morning glory\n\ngoodbye old drawer of lost keys\n\nblue hills sea glimpse haze on the river\n\nthe mulberry shadow circling the yard\n\ngoodbye rainy nights in a far off city\n\nthe neon shorting at the corner of the eye\n\non\/off orange in the drops on the window\n\nconstellations I've not seen a long while\n\ngoodbye Big Dipper goodbye Orion\n\ngoodbye dodo rain forest caribou\n\ngoodbye empire of grass field of wind\n\nhedgeback where no mercy is asked\n\nall the world falling away like a shell\n\nI have seen you step from the house of your flesh\n\nsaying _this is it this this is my life_\n\n_goodbye is it so it's goodbye so goodbye_\n\n*\n\n**_in the desert_**\n\neverything lost and the rains gone forever\n\nthe rivers and their names the dry stoney riverbeds\n\nthe groundwater in the wells falling month by month\n\nthe memory of grasslands antelope gazelle\n\nlost as I am on the hot anvil of the desert\n\nunder the great shed of stars at last with the wind\n\nwithout the endless need for explanations\n\nquestions to answers I can no longer give\n\nsome I met on the brown road to this place\n\nthe ant a bag lady with her bundle chamelion scorpion\n\nbells on the wind nets to catch fools\n\nand always some fool's errand to run\n\nI am breaking up into segments of myself\n\nalways another chapter in the tale that ends\n\nthe clock in my skull out of time in any case\n\nthe bones I am becoming walking off into the wind\n\n# Just one of you\n\nSarah, while you were at your keyboard,\n\nonline to Japan, on the phone to your boyfriend,\n\njust opening your inbox, scratching your ear,\n\nplaying Solitaire while you thought no one was looking,\n\nFlight 175 was homing in on you and all those\n\nyou'd shared lunch with, a glass of white wine,\n\nsecrets you shared with not many. Ground zero\n\nthey call it now. And you, you're in the long queue to heaven.\n\nWhen you were in diapers he was in his mother,\n\nhis father on some road to some Damascus, the desert\n\nsparks flying in his eyes. You were in kindergarten,\n\nhe was forming the first words of his language.\n\nHe was fluent then, then you were in grade school,\n\nhigh school, college, he was learning by heart\n\nhis holy book, by the time you were no longer a virgin\n\nhe knew the insides and the outsides of Kalashnikovs,\n\nM16s, hand helds. He had a licence to fly. There was a plan.\n\nWhile it was forming you were on vacation in Florida.\n\nYou were phoning your mother, getting drunk\n\nfor the first time. And so perhaps was he.\n\nYour assassin, who flew in from Boston\n\non an unscheduled flight, smack into you,\n\nyour keyboard, your modem, your coffee,\n\neveryone you loved. Like a huge terrible kiss.\n\n# The Donegal Liar\n\nFar from her nest the lapwing cries away:\n\nMy heart prays for him though my tongue do curse.\n\nSHAKESPEARE   \n_A Comedy of Errors_\n\nMagowan the poet, who might have been Irish,\n\nof one sort or another, _Mac an Ghabhann_ ,\n\nmaking his way in another disputed borderland,\n\nwearing another mask, north of the south, west of the rain.\n\nA blew in, a run-in, sometimes adrift on a black sea\n\nof sweet black stout, with his companions the captain\n\nand the navigator, whose identitites\n\nmay or may not ever be revealed.\n\nA ragged country, the roads under fog,\n\nsmall towns and their flags of allegiance:\n\nProd. Taig. _No Bigot Parade. No Pope. No RUC._\n\n_No Agreement. Dungevin supports Garvaghey Road._\n\nNo visible border, the miles shift into kilometres,\n\nthe signs into script, everywhere stone, stone,\n\nmountains and scree, and the lough suddenly,\n\na long bolt of blue in the sheer sunlight.\n\nWithin him he fancies there was always a Donegal man\n\nbutting out from Inishowen, head into the wind\n\nthat bears off the Atlantic from the edge of the known world,\n\nnorthwest corner of the continent of Europe.\n\nWhere the neighbours don't like each other much,\n\nhere as elsewhere. Ah, the Donegal Liar.\n\nWhat does he know? He's on the road,\n\nlooking for lost uncles, out finding his lost self.\n\nA singer, a fumbling romantic, wanderer,\n\nchickencraw. And in him always the other:\n\nthe settler, the stranger, the foreigner,\n\nthe blue-eyed English. Thirty years it has taken.\n\nThirty years before that asking who was that man\n\n_who was my father, a man whose life was all_\n\n_a bad mood, most of that a bad temper,_\n\nwhose first glimpse of the light was here in Buncrana?\n\nIn that town there was a dream night after night\n\nof the wind and a loud knocking at my door,\n\nover and over, and someone calling my name\n\nup the B&B stairs and the rain over the lough.\n\nAt this point nothing is certain, little known.\n\nWhether our man comes back changed from a journey\n\nor whether he learns nothing, thereafter sifting\n\nmemory's scraps, silence, the blue moody sky.\n\nIn Grant's pub they have on the IRA tapes,\n\njust for our benefit: _Have you no homes to go to,_\n\n_have you no homes of your own? Oh the English,_\n\n_they'd steal the crack of the plate and the plate._\n\n_I can't argue with you there boys but I'd love to._\n\n_Are you a spy? What's your cover?_\n\n_How long have you been with the British Army?_\n\n_This with your father and your mother is bollocks anyway._\n\n_800 years of this and the rain. The people_\n\n_you're after are all drunk and have no money._\n\nOur man concludes a pub is a bad place\n\nto begin researching his ancestors. This pub.\n\nWhat is he with a name like Smith and his granny a McGrory?\n\nIs he a left footer or a right for the sake of Jesus,\n\nMary and Joseph, not to mention St Bridie\n\nand St Patrick that we thought cast out all the bloody snakes?\n\nMaybe he'll go live in Cool Boy north of Letterkenny\n\nand make fishing the whole of his story. Maybe not.\n\nHe could believe all he's told: the rock somewhere there\n\nwhere the priest's head cut by the redcoat's sword.\n\nBounced. Three times. To this day where it struck\n\nthe grass does not grow, the man swears it,\n\nthat and the other stone Wolf Tone was chained to\n\nwhen he was taken, along the shore there, somewhere.\n\nSomewhere hereabouts by the long lake of shadows,\n\nwhere the submarines sulk, sunk deep\n\nin radio silence, watching each other. And there's a tree there\n\ncannot be cut down. Men that tried it had sudden bad luck.\n\nAll that's certain in my case: a few names, a few dates,\n\nthe old man's certificates: birth, marriage, death,\n\nall there is of him. John Patrick. John Smith.\n\nAnd what manner of a name might that be?\n\nI thought if he was someone else who then might I be?\n\nIf he could change I could, I too could be anyone,\n\nanyone at all under the stars, Magowan for instance,\n\na worker in metal, McGrory, McGroary, McGroy.\n\nHis silence was absolute, nothing again nothing,\n\nmaybe he knew nothing, shuddered in sleep\n\nin a dream over and over of nuns like angry bees\n\nin a hive he can't get out of, though whether in his sleep\n\nor my own I don't know, never will now,\n\ntill he's kicked down the wooden stairs\n\nto the door for the last time, and thereafter\n\nthe nothing at all he remembered.\n\nOut on his own. Out on his ear at ten years\n\none month, from then a working man,\n\nmost of his days an itinerant unlettered landless labourer,\n\na spalpeen in the English north country counting pennies.\n\nAsked, he'd blaze into anger, subside into long silence,\n\ntill we buried him, weary, still angry,\n\nangry for ever under the great map of the stars.\n\nUnfinished, as everything is. As this is.\n\n# YOU AGAIN\n\n**(2004)**\n\n# Late night call\n\nDiscontinued voice from a disconnected number\n\nin distant rainy Seattle, you're sitting on a balcony,\n\nsmoking in another no-smoking house, out there\n\nin the time zones. We're out of sync.\n\nJust a faint hum on the horizon of listening,\n\nbabble of electronics and the slow hiss of static.\n\nOnce upon a time you walked into the room of my life\n\nand changed all the seating arrangements.\n\nYou with your blue eyes. My marjoram,\n\nmy lumpy gravy. Staring at the rain.\n\n# Ancient Lights\n\nThrough the shadows and the street cries scribbler Boswell,\n\nas ever in need of a drink and an eye out for the ladies,\n\nlimping along beside him old Dictionary Johnson,\n\nas ever in need of a bath. Ghosts in the traffic,\n\nshadows in dim lamplight turning off the Strand,\n\nheaded for the lit door of No. 8, there in the Great Room\n\nto attend a lecture on light, and after to the tavern.\n\nSirs, we are made of light, all of light. And I?\n\nI am the doorkeeper to this house of enlightenment,\n\nthough I am long gone into the sunset now, I am but his ghost\n\namong the other ghosts, the company of ancient lights.\n\nBeneath all this noble talk up above of improvement,\n\nI know the other trades thriving underneath\n\nin the tunnels and the arches down below,\n\ndown where the river's traffic in wines from the lowlands,\n\ncoals from Newcastle, roll up the cobbles on iron wheels\n\namong gulls' cries and women's, rats, dogs,\n\nthe odd corpse knocking at the wharfside,\n\nand the black slave boy sneaked by at nightfall, hooded,\n\nlost in the city's night and the fogs of the riverside,\n\nI saw him scurried by just as that moment\n\nDogood Franklin handing in his coat muttered\n\nto himself liberty, liberty, what is liberty but an engine\n\nthat must be fuelled and from which much use comes.\n\nYears go by into centuries. I've met them all.\n\nReynolds, that toff, I have shaken the rain from his umbrella.\n\nAdam Smith, I have taken his coat and he thanked me.\n\nMarx, never a tipper, nor stood any man a drink.\n\nStephenson, now there was a gentleman, and the likes\n\nof Isambard Kingdom Brunel we'll not see again,\n\nnor your man Charlie Dickens, forever declaring\n\n_Brighten it, brighten it_ , a man always departing in haste.\n\nAnd that wee man, the unknown inventor of a writing desk\n\nthat in case of shipwreck opens out into a literati,\n\nhe gave me the name of a very fine horse once.\n\nSo here's to all and all the others anonymous,\n\nmay they be blessed and ever of good cheer\n\nwho set out to make this world more sensible,\n\nat any rate from where I stand here in the doorframe.\n\n# You again\n\nThese days of terror I daren't write anything,\n\nor I don't want to, but here you are again,\n\nSarah, in my waking dreams out in the street\n\nin the midday where suddenly you enter my mind again.\n\nWhispering, your last breath a soft quick _no no_\n\nat my ear, and _Sarah, Sarah, my name was Sarah._\n\n_It seems there's no room in Paradise_\n\n_or it doesn't exist anyway, so it's you Kenneth John._\n\nIn another war I wrote _A fool's work_\n\n_to make anything of this, a liar's to make nothing._\n\nAnd you, you're in the pixels on the screen\n\nbursting with fire. You're in the printout, somewhere.\n\nThe sound of you still in the airwaves, on file,\n\non the web, the net, the desktop, the database,\n\nzipped, unzipped, encrypted, compacted,\n\nbut not ever I promise you deleted, erased.\n\nA name in a very long list, beginning with S.\n\nAmongst those names I will find you.\n\nI will go looking for what days are left me, Sarah.\n\nI promise. I promise you.\n\n# The 72 virgins question\n\nAs I understand it, those who die as martyrs for the great mad cause of the Believers go immediately to Paradise, there to gawp at the angels and the fine plumage of the birds and eat delicious foods, where for eternity they will have the tender and erotic attentions of 72 virgins. What I've not been able to discover is who originated this theory, now resident in the minds of so many testosterone-and-fundamentalism filled young Muslim men. Is it in the Koran? For them, this is the reward for flying aeroplanes into tall buildings, and slaughtering thousands at their work stations.\n\nI have a few questions, however:\n\nHow was the figure of 72 arrived at? Why 72? Does 72 hold any particular significance, like Douglas Adams' 42, the answer to everything? Any connection with the tradition that only the camel knows the 72 names of God?\n\nGiven the recent sudden influx of martyrs into Paradise, is the supply of virgins sufficient to the purpose? Is there, in Paradise, an infinite supply of virgins?\n\nAre any of them boy virgins? What proportion, if any?\n\nGiven the length of eternity, how long, and how, do they remain virgins?\n\nGiven the length of eternity, I would think even 72 virgins would get tedious. Are they all dropdead gorgeous? Do they grow old, or, if they stay forever young, what would there be to talk about after the event? How long before the martyrs start straying, coveting their neighbours' virgins? And think of all that bickering and scheming.\n\nWhat if the martyr is a woman? Does she get the same privileges. and how does that go down with the lads back at the base?\n\nAnother question. The investigators think not all of the 19 hijackers knew they were going to die, and only six left letters behind them, so far as they know. The others just thought they were going on a jolly hijacking spree, and weren't in the full loop. So: If the martyr doesn't know he's about to die, is he eligible for the same rewards as the one who does?\n\nAnd then another question. At the chemical plant that blew up on the same day in Toulouse, now thought to have been a terrorist act also, they say they found the body of a Tunisian who worked there, wearing four pairs of underpants. This is then said to have something to do with preparations for paradise, and the aforesaid virgins?\n\nWhat does it have to do with it?\n\nWhere in Holy Writ does it say one pair of underpants per 18 virgins?\n\n# Bin Laden is Ken Smith\n\nThis is from the wilder shores of cyberspace, from a site called Terrorist Watch. This bit of the conspiracy theory centres on a place called New Era in Portland, Oregon that acted as a cover for a terror base whereat many of the infamous heros of Hamas, Hizbollah, al Qaeda, etc etc appeared from time to time, including bin Laden. That's what it says here, anyway. It says:\n\n_Usama bin Laden initially showed himself at New Era under the guise of a nondescript backyard mechanic type named 'Mike'. His chosen cover for the late hours in which he worked over a handmade forge, and the huge volume of propane he used while melting down his precious plutonium was that he was recycling aluminium transmissions. At the rate of over 500 gallons of propane every week, that would have made for some very valuable aluminium._\n\n_However, it was Usama's characterization of himself as that of a tall, lanky Missouri man called Ken Smith that allowed him to appear natural......the only difference between bin Laden and Ken Smith is the color change of his hair, and the fact that Ken Smith had no accent._\n\nMy name has been hijacked. I expect the CIA to come knocking at my door. And what about the plutonium? Should I see a doctor? Should I turn myself in?\n\n# From semtex to anthrax\n\nSemtex: you blow up and burst, causing collateral damage.\n\nSmallpox: you shrink from it, you shrink away to nothing.\n\nPox: you don't want it, whatever it is. See Durex below.\n\nPax: yes indeedy brothers and sisters and mad dogs, peace, dammit.\n\nProlix: you just keep banging on the way I am. So I've got it. Look out here it comes.\n\nHoax: you believe every rumour and spread it.\n\nPerspex: you're invisible. People see right through you.\n\nPyrex: you get very hot, and people can still see through you.\n\nSyntax: first the pleasure, then you get to pay for it.\n\nDurex: no more offspring.\n\nBisquix: this is safe. Make pancakes for breakfast.\n\nDetox: a period of being very dry and edgy. Don't drink, don't smoke.\n\nTux: an eternity of tuxedos, high school proms, virgins, 72 in number.\n\nBox: you get brain damage from this. Then you're in one. Forever.\n\nLax: you don't care any more, roll another one, just like the other one.\n\nWax: you turn into a masochist. Forty of these is enough.\n\nLatex: you go all rubbery and inert.\n\nAertex: you're full of holes. Your're a string vest.\n\nIlex: you turn into a tree, a very fine tree.\n\nPlaytex: you turn into a girl in a girdle.\n\nEssex: you turn into a girl in a big bra.\n\nMiddlesex: you can work this one out for yourself.\n\nWessex: your location is imaginary, but absolutely real.\n\nKotex: you start to bleed once a month.\n\nLurex: you shine in the dark but you have great legs.\n\nRedsox: your spelling goes haywire. Three strikes and you're out. Or in.\n\nRollodex: you've got it, all of it, right there, but you just can't find it right now.\n\nRemix (1): you say the same things in different order, like the President does.\n\nRemix (2): you think you're the Prime Minister, and say the same things as\n\nRemix (1) (above), playing an imaginary concertina with your hands, saying over and over _you see you see..._\n\nAffix: you stick close to tactile surfaces.\n\nRolex: you get mugged.\n\nComplex: don't go there. Just don't bother.\n\nReflex: see above.\n\nStyx: there neither. Don't cross that river.\n\nPandora's Box: don't open it.\n\nHalifax: don't go there. Hull, Hell, and Halifax, avoid these.\n\nExLax: come again?\n\nAmex: you turn into a Mexican.\n\nTex: you turn into a Texan and get to be President.\n\nTexmex: get out of there fast fat boy, stop singing those cowboy songs.\n\nLox: you can only eat Kosher.\n\nFour X: you turn into an Australian, and don't give a XXXX for anything.\n\nMax, as in Bigmax: problems with spelling again. Don't go there either.\n\nMatrix: uh oh, lifetime hallucination, don't go there.\n\nTyrannosaurus rex: don't mess with him. He'll have you for breakfast.\n\nRex: you think you're the king, and master of all you survey.\n\nDux: now you think you're Mussolini. It's just the quacking of the crowd you hear.\n\nLex: so now you're a lawyer?\n\nPontifex: so now you think you're the Pope. All together now _Pax in urbe et orbi_.\n\nCicatrix: well you're sick anyway.\n\nMoulinex: mixes you up completely. You're either a mess or a good mayonnaise.\n\nFedex: expect unexpected packages, rapidly delivered, contents unknown. Don't open.\n\nFax: few of these these days I find. Fog of war etc, first casualty etc etc.\n\nTax: you give a lot more money to the government to pay for all this.\n\nX: unknown, too terrible to name. Marks the spot. His mark.\n\nX-ray: people can see through you.\n\nMy ex: here's one I made earlier. What was her name?\n\nAnthrax: was that really her name?\n\nVortex: you just go down and down and down.\n\nSubtext: one way or another, I fear we're exed, four exed. Banjaxed.\n\n# The Ring\n\n_Scenes from a Civil War, Exeter, 1640s_\n\nShe threw her wedding ring high in the air,\n\nfar into the night grass of the graveyard.\n\nAnd I, one eye on her, one eye on its quick glint\n\nspinning in moonlight, followed and found it.\n\nGold, thought I to myself, solid gold:\n\nhot dinners, a bed, a warm winter jacket.\n\nThere we parted, the wife of those days and I.\n\nShe went her way. I went nowhere\n\n*\n\nI looked for a grave and found none.\n\nWind, rain, moss, lichen\n\nhad wiped even their names from their stones.\n\nAll faces are soon erased: neighbours,\n\nfriends, lovers, not one of all these\n\nin the town I once knew I know now.\n\nKings and saints on the battered face\n\nthe cathedral presents to the west wind,\n\nsandstone wearing away in the rain,\n\nslowly down time, their gestures\n\nmaking some fine point of doctrine\n\nin the centuries of their long discussions.\n\nAnd within there the saint's nose kissed away,\n\nthe bishop's effigy slashed,\n\nhacked, arms, face, feet, gone.\n\nChildren who are long away\n\ninto the oncoming cannonade,\n\ntheir cries that are long lost.\n\nTownsmen I knew, scattered now, fled,\n\ndead some, one who was my sworn enemy\n\nwhose grave I swore to piss on.\n\nBut I can't be doing with that now,\n\nand where is it anyway?\n\n*\n\nLate at night as in the old times,\n\nthe last drink poured and the tabaccy low,\n\nthe clock's tick and the rain's drumming,\n\nand I sit pondering my fortune, or lack of it.\n\nMaybe I should not have come back here\n\nto this town of my defeats and betrayals.\n\nI should have passed by on the other side.\n\nI should have kept to my wanderer's track.\n\nYet I am always connecting up the dots,\n\nstitching up the tears in my coat sleeve.\n\nIn all this rattle of traffic I can easily forget\n\nthere was once something called silence.\n\nHere it was that I as I was then,\n\njust coming into being, knowing myself\n\nnumbered among the quick, there came\n\ntrouble and turbulence. Here I fled from.\n\nAnd all fell apart. Wandering the town\n\nand its rainy alleys, I met lads tooting pipes\n\nthat were the organ flutes of the great church,\n\nand they jeered me, out of all command.\n\nYears gone, I'm drawn back, into old doorways,\n\nstaring to the hill's line, the leaning\n\nof one house on another, and the western wind\n\nagain on my cheeks, and always the rain.\n\nHere in a lit doorway a man steps away\n\ninto his own shadow and is never seen again.\n\nHere in an early window another lights his taper\n\nand takes down his books of close scrutiny.\n\nAt the bar suspect conversations: money & property.\n\nAs ever. Always money to be made from grief.\n\nI observe preachers and lawyers sow war's seeds.\n\nLawyers and preachers gather its whirlwind.\n\n*\n\nAnd I thinke those that crie Goddes worde\n\nto bee lawe absolute, suche wordes\n\never subject to variation and errore\n\nin translation from tongue to tongue;\n\nsubject to sundrie interpretation thereof,\n\ndepending which way downwind they drift,\n\nsubject to weather, the mood on the high road;\n\nsubject to primers' error, faint hearing, bile,\n\nbad eyesight, bad temper, indigestion,\n\nthe sudden sputter of the early morning candle.\n\nThose I say who cry out Goddes goodness to all,\n\ncommanding obedience to the Boke's command\n\nthey do not sleep in a windy hedgeback\n\nI have observed them doe the most harm.\n\n*\n\nThat evening in the cathedral,\n\nthe notes of the organ's flutes\n\nrippling over the high arches,\n\nthe great pillars rising into gloom\n\nand the choir's voice fading out\n\ninto silence, the night forming\n\ninto a solid as the sun went down\n\nbeyond the coloured glass saints,\n\nand as the dark and the music\n\nflooded God's great barn\n\nstacked with so many prayers\n\nfor so many centuries, then when\n\na single candle was lit on the altar,\n\nI at that moment as the great world\n\nturned into night and the fear of it,\n\nwould have believed anything.\n\n*\n\nAll day then I stood barking wares on the market,\n\nand at night in my fair hand transcribed\n\nlists of ordnance, and the new regulations.\n\nAye and many a long crawl through the taverns,\n\nIn these fragments my life is, somewhere.\n\nI recall one who died here on the quays,\n\ncrushed under a boat's keel, lightning\n\ntook another, others went under wheels.\n\nHad I siblings, predecessors, antecedents,\n\na line all the way to Adam and the apple?\n\nWill there be offspring of my offspring,\n\nsome of my own blood to wander the future?\n\nHere on this bench, long ago in summer,\n\nas I sank a slow cider, my youngest daughter\n\nsweet Kate, was discovering the writing of her hand\n\nits confident slopes and downsweeps, its cursives.\n\nAdapted from my hand as mine was from Milly\n\nmy mother's as hers from her father's\n\ncopperplate entries in the history of calligraphy,\n\nthat elegant style they used then.\n\n*\n\nSomeone whistling on the corner.\n\nVoices outside the window,\n\nif there is a window, when in these times\n\nsomeone is always listening.\n\nFor what?\n\nFor private thoughts in late night cups\n\nmutterings against God and the godly\n\ndamn Parliament and God damn the King.\n\nFor that fined or sent to the jailhouse.\n\nFor what?\n\nAll talk then was munitions and the price of meat,\n\nNeighbour cast a curious eye on neighbour.\n\nNo joy was to be had in those times to come\n\nonly worse in the savage toing and froing\n\nSometime they locked the cathedral,\n\nGod they said, needs no such room but the heart\n\nnor the great bells they melted into bullets.\n\nThey had other uses for such vast spaces.\n\nThen it was divided between two parties,\n\nand a wall set over the middle, a new door cut.\n\nThen it was storehouse, stables, stalls,\n\n_a jakes for the beastly exonerating of natures._\n\nThat last winter they pulled down the thatch\n\nagainst fire, and for fire to warm themselves\n\ntook everything else: doors, lintels, floors,\n\na fine chair I had from my grandfather.\n\n*\n\nNo question ever answered,\n\nno thought ever finished.\n\nI think we just fade out\n\nacross whatever borderland we come to.\n\nA while we go on, buying milk,\n\nbread, wine, filling the shaker with salt.\n\n_Good morning a fine morning,_\n\ncrossing the bridge into the city.\n\nWe do the same things in the same order,\n\nin summer's heat imagining winter's cold.\n\nAnd vice versa. So this is the after life\n\nof my life. Already this is it.\n\n*\n\nOur world over, we withdraw into the wind,\n\ninto the throaty susurration of pigeons,\n\nchitter of birdsong, chatter of the high grass.\n\nWe are a flicker of light in the shadows,\n\nbreath of a sudden breeze on a still afternoon,\n\nsomething glimpsed at the eye's corner\n\nthat when looked at is merely imaginary,\n\na fiction, an invention in the air, what the eye\n\nwants to see, as it does, days out on the ocean.\n\nAlways on the cusp of some thought\n\nthat evaporates, the verbs falling from the nouns,\n\nthe sentence running out of sense.\n\nTo both sides I went for an ill paid soldier,\n\ncut, shot at, wounded, slept in snowy ditches\n\nwithout a warm coat, at the end without shoes.\n\nAt the last caught on the wrong side sent away.\n\nLand and sea then were all my adventures.\n\nHere only the exile of he who returns.\n\nFragments. My life's bits.\n\nScraps of memory. Disconnections.\n\nI say this and I say no more.\n\n*\n\nShe threw her wedding ring high in the air,\n\nfar into the night grass of the graveyard.\n\nAnd I, one eye on her, one eye on its quick glint\n\nspinning in moonlight, followed and found it.\n\nGold, thought I to myself, solid gold:\n\nhot dinners, a bed, a warm winter jacket.\n\nThus we parted, the wife of those days and I.\n\nShe went her way. I went nowhere\n\n# Almost\n\n## _IM Izet Sarajli\u0107_\n\nIzet, Izet, I regret\n\nI have not written my words\n\nto your words, to your courage,\n\nto your love, to your pain,\n\nto your child's mysterious smile\n\nin your old man's face\n\nunder its wild white hair.\n\nTo your wounds.\n\nAnd Sarajevo's,\n\nNot yet.\n\n*\n\n## _Everything, almost_\n\nA slow life in the fast lane\n\nwhat with everyone in a hurry,\n\n_boring, boring_ my grandchildren say\n\nof almost everything.\n\nEverything is moving away, waving,\n\nwaving, flags, stars, flowers in the wind,\n\nhandkerchiefs from the boat's rail,\n\nthe signal fading as the land falls off,\n\na far window glinting in the sunlight\n\na single gull riding the air's weight.\n\nGoodbye, goodbye. Everything\n\nin its sudden intensity, the blue cup,\n\nthe black bench, the empty bottle,\n\nthe white stairs going up.\n\n*\n\n## _Begins like this_\n\nThis is the almost poem, the not yet poem,\n\nmaybe the never to be poem. Perhaps.\n\nIt begins over beer with the Polish girl,\n\nalready bedded with one of three at the table.\n\nTo me she says _Ken, I could almost be in love with you_.\n\nHere we go. Almost? Only almost? So then:\n\nwe almost could go to bed, almost make love,\n\nby the morning you could be almost pregnant.\n\nBy the morning you would almost have forgotten me\n\nBy the same token I'd have forgotten you, almost.\n\nOr. We could almost have a love affair,\n\nyou could almost have our children, and I,\n\nI could almost go to Warsaw, a flat almost in Stari Grad.\n\nOne day I might almost forget the wife I had.\n\nThe life I live already, the one I'm not waiting\n\nany more to start beginning one day but now.\n\nHer Indoors we call her in my lingua franca,\n\nMiss Peaches I call her still, almost this moment\n\nof the same evening gathering tomatoes, planted\n\nmonths ago in our garden at the house back,\n\nquieter just now without my heavy footsteps.\n\nShe'd never forgive me nor forget me. Almost,\n\nI would most certainly have a fight with your husband.\n\nHe might almost kill me, I almost him.\n\nAnd you, you'd almost come to see me, one Sunday,\n\nin the hospital or in the jail or in the cemetery.\n\nAlmost you might bring flowers. You might\n\nalmost remember me. Otherwise I'd almost kill you\n\nfor your endless infidelities. Almost.\n\nFor your carelessness with what love is.\n\n*\n\n## _Nema problema_\n\nDoesn't work. Nothing works.\n\nAlmost everything lost in translation.\n\nThe wrong word in the wrong sentence,\n\nwrong coin in the wrong pocket,\n\nby the omission of a letter,\n\nthe variation of a constant, said Vishnu.\n\nAnd you're stuck here forever perhaps\n\namong the unknown alphabets\n\nbetween the mountains and the sea\n\nwaiting for the ship that never sails,\n\nthe office never open, the phone not picked up,\n\nthe recorded voice far away offering options\n\nin umpteen languages, none of them your own.\n\nAnd it's your own fault, dummy, waving your arms about.\n\n_What time is the bus? What time is the bus?_\n\nYou may be this way again o mi amigo,\n\nso behave yourself, you with a stick\n\nyou like to think is a gun.\n\nOK amigo, you got me scared now.\n\n_Nema problema._\n\n_No problem._\n\n_Niet problem._\n\n_Kein Problem._\n\n_Es neme probleme._\n\n_Pas de probl\u00e8me._\n\n_No hay problema._\n\n_Mish mushkila._\n\nThey say. Tell that to the marines blacking up\n\nfor yet another war, tell that to the gunmen in the hills.\n\nKindly inform the poor kneeling at the roadside,\n\npalms up, eyes fixed on the almost endless empty distance forever.\n\n*\n\n## _Nightbird_\n\nAt midnight the full moon over Lake Orhid,\n\nits full light scattered over sheer still water,\n\ntiny waves sifting the pebbles of the shoreline\n\nwith a _shush now_ sound, hard to find a word for.\n\nAs is the sudden soft throaty cry of a nightbird,\n\njust overhead, its wings soughing the balmy air\n\nin a splash of feathers, like a passing prayer:\n\n_Let there be peace in this land. Peace, now._\n\n*\n\n## _Listening_\n\nto the last ashes of any sound at all,\n\na vague music fading in the courtyards,\n\nthe announcement of twilight in the mouths of birds,\n\nin the bus stations the destinations to distant cities,\n\nMostar, Vukovar, Sarajevo, Banja Luka,\n\nin all their names in all their tongues,\n\nwith all their bloody histories, and all this\n\nonly the immediate neighbourhood,\n\nand whatever lies further out beyond the last lights\n\nalong the Albanian shore we've not yet figured out.\n\nAll this to the last breath you take anywhere. Almost,\n\nOh and there was something else:\n\nwhat would anyone want beyond food enough,\n\nwarmth, some promise, some love\n\non this mean miserable planet, anything at all\n\nthat is your gift to your children and to theirs,\n\nsome shelter from almost all of the above.\n\n*\n\n## _Split interlude atdeadmouse.com_\n\nOk the keyboard is differently configured.\n\nOk there's no sign for infinity, but you get there,\n\nyou write over and over _I love you love you,_\n\n_I'm not in jail, I'm alive, I'm not sick._\n\nHit Send. For what we are about to send and receive\n\nmay the Lord make us truly thankful. Doesn't work.\n\n_Must enter identity_ the man says. _Make password._\n\n_Any word will do. Almost any word almost._\n\nBut the mouse is dead. _Dead mouse_ he says,\n\nfiddling at the back, _very old late ex mouse._\n\nAnd no spare. _Nema problema_. So my message\n\n_I love you_ won't arrive in your inbox. Ever.\n\n*\n\n## _Night coming_\n\nTravel torn, sitting on a balcony\n\nwatching the heavy Dalmatian rain\n\nlash the streets, boats tossing on the swell,\n\nthunder rolling in, lightning's swift stitchery\n\nin the steep bowls of the hills\n\nwhen all the lights go out.\n\nSuddenly\n\nI am content, not almost but utterly,\n\nsoon to fall asleep alone in white sheets\n\nrocking in the windy cradle of the harbour,\n\nthe sleep of an angel that is once in ten thousand years\n\nto wake as if born again almost, still dreaming.\n\nHow tentative our lives, how short a time in the sunlight,\n\nand most of it imaginary elsewheres, Dubrovnik for instance.\n\n*\n\n## _Things_\n\nThe way they have their own particularities,\n\nleft alone long enough, their solitude, silence,\n\nfullness and emptiness, their togetherness and\n\ntheir autonomies, their connection to everything else.\n\nThe stone.\n\nThe rusty horse shoe and one nail.\n\nThe abandoned suitcase.\n\nThe lost doll on the roadside.\n\nThe rake the saw the hammer, tools that were his tools.\n\nThe empty Coca Cola can in a half-built house in Sobra,\n\nthe rope coiled on the quayside, a one spit, one shoe,\n\none shot, one last cigarette port call if ever I saw one.\n\nThe spent police bullet found in the gravel at Castle Stanjel.\n\nThe fallen chestnut.\n\nThe fallen leaf from a gingko tree\n\nby the old synagogue in Sarajevo.\n\nThe bone.\n\nEverything.\n\n*\n\n## _Seafarer_\n\nlandward mountains and mountains, upended strata\n\ntipped all the way up the coastline of what was\n\nan almost country, almost Yugoslavia. Islands\n\nthat are mountains in the sea, the same in the same\n\ndark blue waters the ancient wanderer spread sail on,\n\nten years lost, the waves cresting the same, bright\n\nsunlight's swift jewellery forming and fast fading,\n\nwind never willing enough, always far from home.\n\nNot even almost there, the boat's wake always behind him.\n\nSo if not home then some haven beyond the next headland,\n\nround the next cape almost, sunlight striding the sea\n\nreceding always into sea haize and more distance.\n\nHome to his ancient dog and the wife's endless weaving,\n\nnot to mention the slaughterhouse he soon made of it.\n\nTales told round fires, late night yarns over alcohol,\n\ntrying some sense to this endless confusion of water.\n\nWaves, tentative, foam crests soon falling, seamen\n\nstaring the sea down for some place looks like home\n\nand the stars above in the right configurations,\n\nwind whipped and sea blind, he sees in the sea's skin\n\nforever on the move sight of the sun through pines\n\nin the bright sea's reflections as it once was on land,\n\nthe motion the same as the same wind's back home,\n\nalmost. The endless immensity of longing for home.\n\nAlmost. Rocks, trees, beasts, faces of the familiar,\n\nrearing from stone, out of water, wood, smoke, rock, clouds\n\nout of yesterday's brisk trade in the town, flash ahead of him\n\ngone. And below where light strikes, snakes, almost,\n\ncreatures writhing away into seaspray and light shine.\n\nWords on the sea. Light's brief brilliant reflections,\n\nlanguages never learned, cuneiform, glagolitic, Hebrew,\n\nArabic, glyphs, runes, living almost into letters, tongues,\n\nalphabets, lost in the quick calligraphy of wind and water.\n\nThe almost everything almost always is, or boils down to:\n\nit was or it will be, could be, may be, might be, perhaps,\n\nthough doubtful. Uncertain. World on the brink of itself.\n\nAlways almost always making it, becoming itself,\n\nbeing or not being, uncertain of itself. Potential, say.\n\nOut on the sea for instance where our seafarer\n\nalmost always is. Off the bitter coast. Off Hvar\n\nand Korcula, birthplace it says here im Deutsch\n\nof Antenor of Troy, and of Marco the Polo, wanderer\n\nby land to the earth's ends and limits. Or by Ogygia,\n\nMijet now, a long lumpy island wherein seven\n\nof ten lost years went by: cloudy light, forest,\n\na single road looping the gaps. _Ah Ithaca, where_\n\n_are my olives, my olive trees?_ Ogygia: upright rocks,\n\nstoney warriors armed to the teeth, no landing there.\n\nAll this, blind, long after. Homer saw.\n\n*\n\n## _On the other hand_\n\nGiven a compass, Racal Decca,\n\ngeostat positioning and a decent map\n\nthere'd have been none of these adventures\n\nand no tales to tell the grandchildren.\n\nHe'd have been tucked up night after night\n\nwith Penelope dreaming one eyed giants,\n\nmen turned to pigs. On the wind off the sea\n\nthe singing women calling him in to his ruin.\n\nAnd for her none of these tapestries,\n\ndone and every night undone again.\n\nAn ordinary life, long forgotten now.\n\nWine in the evening. His olives.\n\nAlmost\n\n*\n\n## _Old man's advice_\n\nWar: the worst dialogue there is,\n\nall the nouns scattered body parts,\n\nall the verbs fire. No sentence\n\never gets finished. Just the abrupt\n\nchatter of bullets, punctuation of artillery,\n\ncluster bombs translated into collateral damage.\n\nThe wailing long after.\n\nThere's no future tense.\n\nAnd never enough adjectives. A language\n\nonly of lamentation.\n\nBut they're talking it up again.\n\nIt's show time folks. Take my advice:\n\n_you go on whittling that same piece of wood_\n\n_you end up out of stick, a bunch of shavings_\n\n_at your feet and a blunt knife in your hand._\n\n*\n\n## _For Jan Morris_\n\nLong ago before the war we haven't had yet\n\nthere was I in Trieste. Someone had written\n\non a wall just off Unita in Cats' Alley\n\n_No stars for me this night._\n\nAll laughter with its edge of sorrow.\n\nAll regret with some punchline of its own.\n\nToo many tears falling,\n\nlike the cold light from the stars.\n\nHere. Everywhere.\n\n*\n\n## _A night of many dreams_\n\nnone of which I now remember. Trumpets\n\nperhaps, blown in some deep cave in the karst\n\nslow water has carved into figures and faces,\n\nthe white columns of some ancient cathedral.\n\nAlmost.\n\nOr maybe the white trotting horses of Lipica,\n\nglimpsed in an autumn country runny with fruit,\n\norchards heavy with apples, pomegranate, grapes,\n\nsticky on the fingers, the wind's songs.\n\nAlmost.\n\nBy day's end a host of faces flash by,\n\ncoming on fast as if out of rock and wood,\n\nout of water and iron and fire, their voices\n\nin so many languages keeping me from sleep.\n\nAlmost.\n\n*\n\n## _Almost not a sonnet_\n\nYou can be the king of England and be happy, almost.\n\nYou can win the state lottery and almost be a millionaire.\n\nYou can be almost famous. You can almost die, over and over.\n\nYou can almost live. You can almost go to war with the neighbours,\n\nor almost live in peace with them. Some days almost\n\nyou can walk on water, you can fly, you can dance the kolo again.\n\nYou can almost be in love with that girl you glimpsed in Zagreb.\n\nA white dress, yellow braids, high heel shoes, almost evening,\n\nthe light rain almost over. Or was that Ljubljana? Almost\n\nyou could go and go forever over the landscape, always\n\na new town with its new adventures, its women almost\n\nholding on to you, almost every night a different bed.\n\n_Unlimited possibilities are not given to man_ , saith the I Ching.\n\n_If they were his life would dissolve in the boundless_.\n\n*\n\n## _I rest my case_\n\nLizard.\n\nScorpion.\n\nPine cone.\n\nWater falling. Wind.\n\nI was making my way between mountains and islands,\n\nall on my ownio, o solo mio, almost at last a bona fide grown up,\n\njust getting there, wherever there was. Tomorrow\n\nI could go to Hvar and wander in its woods. Or tomorrow\n\nI could bugger off to Rijeka and get drunk. Almost.\n\nAs ever I do neither. Watch the sun come up, go down.\n\nSleep. Split for Split and a late night beer with Ante,\n\nwho builds ships in the yards but would rather sail them,\n\nelsewhere, anywhere, the girl in the tourist office\n\nwho envies those she sells the tickets to: another life,\n\nanother world than this, any place almost. Some place\n\nshe'll be someone else completely. America for instance.\n\nWind. Water falling.\n\nPine cone.\n\nScorpion\n\nLizard.\n\nI rest my case.\n\n# Poverty's prayer\n\nPoverty's shoes, if any.\n\nPoverty's house, falling down.\n\nPoverty's hard bed. Poverty's sticks,\n\nPoverty's thin cat,\n\npoverty's dog and its fleas,\n\nits leg in a dirty grey bandage.\n\nPoverty's bread. Poverty's dust\n\nPoverty's mice and cucarachas.\n\nPoverty's rice, poverty's beans.\n\n_Por favor_\n\nbring me the head of an American president\n\non the green platter of a dollar bill.\n\n[Havana, 2003]\n\n# The white chair\n\nThe man whose seat this is,\n\nheavy iron, white paint, that he dragged out\n\none day into a corner of the rattling leaves\n\nin the seawind, he is not here today.\n\nHe went off some place, some business,\n\nand just now he is standing perhaps\n\namongst other leaves drummed on the same wind\n\nComing in fast off a different sea.\n\nBut he has no seat to sit in, and here\n\nit's as if his chair was waiting for me,\n\namong the dropped brown leaves scurrying\n\nlike small animals, like birds into flight.\n\nSo therefore I will sit here thinking of him,\n\nsomeone very like me perhaps, a solitary\n\nwho likes company, wherever he is and in what language\n\nhe listens to the wind, and what it says to him.\n\nI will disturb nothing. Back again,\n\nhe will not know I have been here,\n\nstepping down into the evening to sit\n\nin his chosen spot, lighting his cigar.\n\n[ _Havana, 2003_ ]\n\n# APPENDICES\n# SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY\n\n#### POETRY TITLES\n\n_Eleven Poems_ (Leeds: Northern House, 1964).\n\n_The Pity_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1967).\n\n_Academic Board Poems_ (Exeter: Peeks Press, 1968)\n\n_Arc Pamphlets 4 & 5_ (Gillingham: Arc Publications, 1969)\n\n_Work, distances\/poems_ (Chicago, IL: Swallow Press, 1972).\n\n_The Wild Rose_ (Memphis, TN: Stinktree Press, 1973)\n\n_Hawk Wolf_ (Knotting, Bedfordshire: Sceptre Press, 1974)\n\n_Wasichi_ (New York: Aloes Books\/Spanner, 1975)\n\n_Tristan Crazy_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1978).\n\n_Tales of the Hunter_ (Boston, MA: Night House, 1979)\n\n_What I'm Doing Now_ (London: Oasis Books, 1980)\n\n_Fox Running_ (London: Rolling Moss Press, 1980; Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1981).\n\n_Between the Dancers,_ with John Christie (Guildford, Circle Press, 1980)\n\n_Grainy pictures of the rain_ (Arkansas: Truedog Press, 1981)\n\n_Abel Baker Charlie Delta Epic Sonnets_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1981).\n\n_Burned Books_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1981).\n\n_The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962-1980_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1982).\n\n_Terra_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1986).\n\n_Wormwood_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1987).\n\n_The heart, the border_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1990).\n\n_Tender to the Queen of Spain_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1993).\n\n_Wild Root_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1998).\n\n_Wire through the Heart_ (Budapest: Ister, 2001)\n\n_Shed: Poems 1980-2001_ (Tarset: Bloodaxe Books, 2002).\n\n_You Again: Last Poems & Other Words_ (Tarset: Bloodaxe Books, 2004).\n\n_Collected Poems_ (Hexham: Bloodaxe Books, 2018).\n\n#### PROSE & NON-FICTION\n\n_Frontwards in a Backwards Movie_ (Todmorden: Arc, 1975).\n\n_Anus Mundi_ (Ware, MA: Four Zoas Press, 1976)\n\n_Island called Henry the Navigator_ (Oak Park, IL: Cat's Pajamas, 1976)\n\n_the joined-up writing_ (London: X Press, 1980)\n\n_The Queen's Dreams: a short story_ (Harry Novak Books, 1986).\n\n_A Book of Chinese Whispers_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1987).\n\n_Inside Time_ , with Dave Wait (London: Harrap, 1989; Mandarin, 1990).\n\n_Berlin: Coming in from the Cold_ (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1990; Penguin, 1991).\n\n#### ANTHOLOGIES\n\n_Klaonica: poems for Bosnia_ , with Judi Benson (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1993; with _The Independent_ ).\n\n_Beyond Bedlam_ , with Matthew Sweeney (London: Anvil Press, 1997).\n\n#### MAJOR ESSAYS ON KEN SMITH'S WORK\n\nSean O'Brien: 'Ken Smith: I Am Always Lost in It', in _The Deregulated Muse: Essays on Contemporary British & Irish Poetry_ (Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books, 1998).\n\nStan Smith: 'Salvaged from the Ruins: Ken Smith's Constellations', in _British Poetry from the 1950s to the 1990s: Politics and Art_ , ed. Gary Day & Brian Docherty (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1997).\n\nColin Raw: '\"Best, Ken\": Letters and an Interview', in Ken Smith, _You Again: Last Words & Other Words_ (Tarset: Bloodaxe Books, 2004). This consists of a full-length essay, a series of long extracts from letters by Ken Smith and an interview, and is the most comprehensive critical resource on Ken Smith's work. It is followed by second interview with Ken Smith, by David Crystal and Tim Cumming.\n\n# COLLECTED POEMS\n\nThis edition draws on all the poetry titles listed in the bibliography, including all the poems from Ken Smith's two previous retrospectives, _The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962-1980_ (Bloodaxe Books, 1982) and _Shed: Poems 1980-2001_ (Bloodaxe Books, 2002), the latter including all the poetry which he wished to keep in print from that period, from his Bloodaxe collections _Burned Books_ (1981), _Abel Baker Charlie Delta Epic Sonnets_ (1981), _Terra_ (1986), _Wormwood_ (1987), _The heart, the border_ (1990), _Tender to the Queen of Spain_ (1993) and _Wild Root_ (1998), together with a new collection, _Shed_ (2001).\n\n_Fast forward_ was commissioned and broadcast for the 2001 Poetry Proms by BBC Radio 3, while _Wall dreams_ and _The other shadow_ were commissioned and broadcast by BBC Radio 4 and Radio 3. _Hungarian_ _quartet, The other shadow, The Shadow of God_ and _Wire through the heart_ were published in book form by Ister (Budapest), together with a CD of the BBC programmes of the last three poem sequences.\n\nThe eponymous painting referred to in 'Countryside around Dixon Manor' hangs in the Cheltenham City Art Gallery; the verse prefix in the poem is from _Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry_ by Tusser Thomas (OUP). Ken Smith acknowledged the chapter on Sir John Hawkwood in Geoffrey Trease's _The Condottiere_ for his _Hawkwood_ sequence, and Andrew Wheatcroft's _The Ottomans_ for the prologue to _The Shadow of God_ , which is the content of a letter sent by Suleyman the Magnificent to the King of France, proposing an alliance.\n\nThe poems from _Work, distances \/ poems_ (Swallow Press, Chicago, 1972) in _Collected Poems_ are included in their original order but with later revised texts or revised titles taken from _The Poet Reclining_ in some cases, and with some other poems from the same period added where they appear in the selection he made for _The Poet Reclining_.\n\nThe publication history of Ken Smith's later work included in _Shed_ is well documented in the bibliography. However, _The Poet Reclining_ included poems drawn from a variety of small press publications in the US and UK, some of these appearing in more than one previous title, marked in the following list with an asterisk*:\n\n_**Eleven Poems:**_ Family group*; Grass*; The pity*.\n\n_**The Pity:**_ Family group*; The street; Country: Keld to Reeth; Grass*; The pity*; The hunter; Water; A fragment.\n\n_**Academic Board Poems:**_ The boss*.\n\n_**Arc Pamphlets 4 & 5:**_ The child's version*; The son; Gravedigger; Bitter*.\n\n_**Work, distances\/poems:**_ Exiles; Dream journeys; She speaks; The child's version*; The boss*; Bitter*; Where winter begins; In Pennsylvania, winter's end; After a journey; Little Notes; Persistent narrative; Crying woman; Song for the whites; From the Nahua; The Sioux cleared from Minnesota; Ghost songs; Ghost dances; Where did I learn such quiet [as _Untitled_ ]. The Wild Turkey [as _Calling the Wild Turkey_ ]: Wild Turkey One; Wild Turkey Two; Living in the Danelaw [as _The Danelaw_ ]; Another part of his childhood; A description of the lichway; Wild Turkey Six; A farewell to the city of Exeter; In the Americas, so the tale goes; The author, a teacher of petomania; A journey through part of western Pennsylvania. The Eli poems [as _The dead orchestra_ ]: The marsh; The third month; Eli's poem; The rooming house; His lament; The obsession; What was done.\n\n_**Hawk Wolf:**_ Wolf vision; Hawk vision.\n\n_**Wasichi:**_ Valley*; The clearing.\n\n_**Tristan Crazy:**_ One for sorrow; Two for nobody; Three: tales of the hunter*; Four, being a prayer to the western wind*; Five, which is here by the river; Six: the wife's complaint; Seven: when he can't sleep for thinking; Eight. The singer; Nine: Shorty's advice to the players*; Ten: the tale unfinished*.\n\n_**Tales of the Hunter:**_ Tales of Urias the shape-shifter; Old postcards of the river; The Swan; Reports from the east; From the southern river; At the western beacon, the second of the songs of Urias [as _Among the dancers, being the second of the songs of Urias_ ]; _Tristan Crazy_ three [as _Tales of the Hunter_ ]*, four [as _The fourth song of Urias, a prayer to the western wind_ ]*, nine [as _Shorty's advice to the players_ ]*, and ten [as _The message_ ]*.\n\n_**What I'm Doing Now:**_ Playing field observations; Caesar Caesar; A right curse on the enemy; Spartan communiqu\u00e9; From the vale of White Horse; Being the third song of Urias [as _'Lives ago...'_ ]; In transit; Huneus the shoemaker; Operations undertaken at or near the surface; Transcription of the crying woman; Planting aloes; Mouth; Tongue.\n\n_**Fox Running:**_ This was revised and extended from its first printing with Rolling Moss Press in 1980 to the 1981 and 1982 Bloodaxe texts.\n\n_**Between the Dancers:**_ Moir\u00e9 effect*.\n\n_**Grainy pictures of the rain:**_ My father fading out; Valley*; Childhood in the lowlands; Sunk Island, that winter; The Tivoli Bar; Federico; Maria the thief; The veterans; Peasant; Duck at Haldon Ponds; Moir\u00e9 effect*.\n\nUncollected poems: these poems appeared in the following magazines and anthologies: _Boston Phoenix_ , 'Remembering when he was a wolf; _London Magazine,_ 'Old business: the drowned bride'; _New Poems 1972-73_ , ed. Douglas Dunn (PEN\/Hutchinson, 1973), 'To survive'; _Not Poetry_ , 'Six items heard in three locations', 'At the college des beaux arts', and 'Some unfinished movements'; _Perfect Bound_ , 'Fun City Winter' sequence; _Poems for Shakespeare 4_ , ed. Anthony Rudolf (Globe House Publications, 1976), 'Winter occasions'; _Seizure_ (Eugene, Oregon), 'Half songs, 1790'; _Stand_ , 'To survive', 'Bowl', 'Wants', 'Fly', and 'Lake'; _Surviving in America_ (Tucson, Arizona), 'The door'; _Telegram_ , 'The poet reclining' and 'The night music'; _23 Modern British Poets_ , ed. by John Matthias (Swallow Press, Chicago, 1971), also published as issue 21 of _Triquarterly_ (Evanston, Illinois), 'The stone poems'.\n\nPreviously unpublished: 'Another night of muttering'; 'Crocus'; 'Surprised again beside the river'; 'Shallow dreaming'; 'Old movies'; 'The Ubi Sunt variations'; 'Fox in October'.\n\n# INDEX OF TITLES & SUB-TITLES\n\n  1. A bad day at HQ \n  2. A case of medals \n  3. A description of the Lichway or corpse-road across Dartmoor \n  4. A dream of disaster \n  5. A farewell to the city of Exeter in south-west England \n  6. A fragment \n  7. A good fox \n  8. A journey through part of western Pennsylvania \n  9. A night of many dreams \n  10. A note to his landlady \n  11. A red carnation \n  12. A right curse on the enemy \n  13. A survivor \n  14. A survivor's memoir \n  15. A theme of razors \n  16. A traveller's question \n  17. Abandoned village \n  18. abel baker ashore \n  19. _Abel Baker Charlie Delta_ (1981) 279\u2013292\n  20. Absent \n  21. Absolutely no selling \n  22. Accounts \n  23. After a journey \n  24. After Brecht \n  25. After Mr Mayhew's visit \n  26. After the storm \n  27. Against the grain \n  28. Age \n  29. Aggie's advice \n  30. Airport silences \n  31. Almost not a sonnet \n  32. _Almost_ , 620\u2013630\n  33. Ancient Lights \n  34. and as for you lot \n  35. and finally \n  36. Another day another dollar \n  37. Another night of muttering \n  38. Another part of his childhood \n  39. Apocrypha from the Western Kingdom 179\u2013190\n  40. Archive footage \n  41. _As it happens_ 370\u2013377\n  42. As it happens \n  43. Asleep \n  44. At the Barbican \n  45. At the coll\u00e8ge des beaux arts Escanceaster six further items imagined \n  46. At the rostrum \n  47. At the solstice \n  48. At the Western Beacon, the second of the songs of Urias \n  49. Autumn with full summer\n\n  1. Back from Leah's country \n  2. Before the Lisbon tribunal \n  3. Beginning again with a line heard in the street \n  4. Begins like this \n  5. being a prayer to the western wind [Four] \n  6. Being the third song of Urias \n  7. Between us \n  8. Beyond breath \n  9. Beyond hope and the Lea River \n  10. Bin Laden is Ken Smith \n  11. Bitter \n  12. Blue Prague, the worst you can say in Czech \n  13. Bodega de carne \n  14. Bodies \n  15. Body Cakes \n  16. Bogart in the dumb waiter \n  17. Bonnie over the ocean \n  18. Border theatre \n  19. Both harvests \n  20. Bowl \n  21. Brady at Saddleworth Moor [One] \n  22. Braille transcripts \n  23. Brief encounter on the Yellowdog \n  24. Brother Scratchwood \n  25. _Burned Books_ (1981) 269\u2013280\n  26. By the Master of Jakabfalva, 1480 \n  27. By the northern sea, a farewell to one woman\n\n  1. Caesar Caesar \n  2. Cain's songs \n  3. cape fear \n  4. Carteret plage \n  5. Casanova in the room of the Inquisitors \n  6. charlie delta adrift \n  7. charlie growing old \n  8. Chicken calling 462\n  9. Chicken faith 462\n  10. Chicken lore \n  11. Chief \n  12. Childhood in the lowlands \n  13. Chinese whisper \n  14. Clipper service \n  15. Closed border, Slavonia \n  16. Coda: Montezuma's revenge \n  17. Colden Valley \n  18. Columbus to Isabella \n  19. Commercial break: RSK Porsche \n  20. Communiqu\u00e9 from desk 19 \n  21. Conditions in the west \n  22. Country: Keld to Reeth \n  23. Country music \n  24. Countryside around Dixton Manor, circa 1715 \n  25. Crocus \n  26. Crying woman\n\n  1. Days on Dog Hill \n  2. Dead trousers \n  3. _Death Songs\/Death Dances_ 81\u201396\n  4. Departure's speech \n  5. Disco dancing in Streatham \n  6. Dmitri's song \n  7. Dorothea extempore \n  8. Dosser \n  9. Dream journeys \n  10. Drinking at Dirty Dick's \n  11. Duck at Haldon Ponds\n\n  1. East of here, west of here \n  2. _Eddie's other lives_ 480\u2013491\n  3. Eight. The singer \n  4. El Pacifico \n  5. Eli's poem \n  6. Elsewhere the same night \n  7. Encounter at St Martin's \n  8. Epitaph for a gardener \n  9. Ercolano's message \n  10. Essential Serbo-Croat \n  11. Europe \n  12. Eva's story \n  13. Evening primrose \n  14. Everything, almost \n  15. Exiles\n\n  1. Family group \n  2. Farmer \n  3. Fast forward \n  4. Federico \n  5. Figures at daybreak \n  6. Figures in three landscapes \n  7. Film noir \n  8. Filmclip: Leningrad, October 1935 \n  9. First and last, Alderney \n  10. First echo \n  11. Five, which is here by the river \n  12. Flatlands \n  13. Fly \n  14. For Jan Morris \n  15. For Julia, 1910\u20131996 \n  16. For Nicki in December \n  17. For the boys on the wing \n  18. For the lost boys, sleepless \n  19. Fossil \n  20. Four, being a prayer to the western wind \n  21. Four, the photograph \n  22. Fox in October \n  23. Fox Running (1980) 197\u2013240\n  24. Fragment: memo to Milto \n  25. From Belmont, a ghetto song \n  26. From Lorca \n  27. From my American period \n  28. From Semtex to Anthrax \n  29. From the book of changes \n  30. From the Nahua \n  31. From the plain \n  32. From the southern river \n  33. From the Vale of White Horse: some news \n  34. Fun City encore \n  35. _Fun City Winter_ (1977) 171\u2013178\n\n  1. Georgia, Georgia \n  2. Ghost dances \n  3. Ghost songs \n  4. Glimpse \n  5. Go tell the honey ant \n  6. Going \n  7. Gone for gold \n  8. gone the rain falls \n  9. Graffiti in the hall of athletes \n  10. Grass \n  11. Gravedigger \n  12. Greetings from the Winter Palace\n\n  1. Half songs, 1790 \n  2. Harry inside [Intercepted letters] \n  3. Harry on the road [Intercepted letters] \n  4. Hatred of barbers \n  5. Hawk vision \n  6. _Hawkwood_ 295\u2013307\n  7. Heaven's dust \n  8. Her mirror \n  9. Here ['How they whisper the grass'] \n  10. Here [I point to where the pain is] \n  11. here and not here \n  12. Het achterhuis \n  13. his appearance in the white hart \n  14. His epistle to the Tatars \n  15. His lament \n  16. How to get a job \n  17. Hucul \n  18. Hun\u00e9us the shoemaker \n  19. _Hungarian quartet_ 533\u2013535\n  20. Hungerford nights [Two] \n  21. Hunter's piece\n\n  1. I rest my case \n  2. Ignore previous telegram 337\u2013352\n  3. IM Izet Sarajli\u0107 \n  4. Imaginary confrontations \n  5. In any case \n  6. In Pennsylvania, winter's end \n  7. In praise of vodka \n  8. In Silvertown, chasing the dragon \n  9. In the Americas, so the tale goes \n  10. in the desert \n  11. In the Evangelical Cemetery, San Michele, Venice \n  12. in the flats, flat voices \n  13. in the house of green ginger \n  14. In the next street \n  15. In this place \n  16. In transit \n  17. Insomnia 1, 2, 3 \n  18. Intercepted letters: Harry inside \n  19. Intercepted letters: Harry on the road \n  20. Interim \n  21. Interim conclusions \n  22. Intermezzo, Sub-Carpathia, May 97 \n  23. Interrogating the egg-timer \n  24. Inventory\/Itinerary \n  25. it happens\n\n  1. Jack remembering \n  2. Jack's postcards \n  3. Johannes from Dresden \n  4. Journey without maps \n  5. Joy #1 \n  6. Joy #2 \n  7. Joy #3 \n  8. Joy #4 \n  9. Joy #5 \n  10. Joy #6 \n  11. Just one of you\n\n  1. Katja's message\n\n  1. L.A. \n  2. Lake \n  3. Last bulletin \n  4. Late night call \n  5. Later in the tearoom \n  6. Leaving \n  7. Leaving the Angel \n  8. Let us consider the chicken \n  9. Letters from a lost uncle \n  10. Lilith \n  11. Listening \n  12. Little lost poem \n  13. Little notes \n  14. Living in the Danelaw \n  15. Living with the boss \n  16. Long distances \n  17. Looking for the constant \n  18. Lorca \n  19. Lorca [From] \n  20. [Federico] \n  21. Lost letter to Didot \n  22. Lovesong for Kate Adie\n\n  1. Mail from the Campania \n  2. Malenki robot \n  3. Maria the thief \n  4. Means \n  5. Message from the Basque country \n  6. Message on the machine \n  7. Midday, Anna \n  8. Midnight angst \n  9. Milly's end \n  10. Misi's song \n  11. Moir\u00e9 effect \n  12. Monument \n  13. More stick \n  14. Moscow dogs \n  15. Mouth \n  16. Movies after midnight \n  17. Murder at White House Farm [Three] \n  18. My father fading out \n  19. My father with two knives\n\n  1. Narrow Road, Deep North \n  2. Neapolitan interiors \n  3. Nema problema \n  4. nice one \n  5. Nicholson's advice \n  6. Nielsen's visit \n  7. Night at the Blind Beggar \n  8. Night coming \n  9. Night train \n  10. Nightbird \n  11. Nine: Shorty's advice to the players \n  12. No one \n  13. No reply from the East \n  14. no reply to that \n  15. Nobody's apartment \n  16. Noises off \n  17. Not talking on the Circle Line \n  18. now there's a subject\n\n  1. Of things past \n  2. Of things to come \n  3. off message \n  4. Old business: the drowned bride \n  5. Old man's advice \n  6. Old mill, Newton St Cyres \n  7. Old movies \n  8. Old postcards of the river \n  9. Old Westerns \n  10. On the north coast, Barnstaple \n  11. On the other hand \n  12. On the swings \n  13. One for sorrow \n  14. One of Milly's gifts \n  15. One the foreign woman \n  16. one thing then another \n  17. One: [the coast a long ribbon of string] \n  18. One: Brady at Saddleworth Moor \n  19. Operations undertaken at or near the surface \n  20. Out West\n\n  1. Paperwork for the Consul \n  2. Part of something else \n  3. Part of the crowd that day \n  4. Passing through \n  5. Peasant \n  6. Perdu: his last appearance in history \n  7. Persistent narrative \n  8. Person to person transatlantic \n  9. Phrases for translation \n  10. Planting aloes \n  11. Playing field observations \n  12. Poem 1 \n  13. Poem 2 \n  14. Poem ending in frogs \n  15. Poem for translation \n  16. Poem to which the answer is no \n  17. Poem without a title \n  18. _Poems 1967\u20131969_ 51\u201372\n  19. Positive identification \n  20. Postscript: nunc pro tunc \n  21. Poverty's prayer\n\n  1. quickly fading here\n\n  1. Recitation at the burned books \n  2. Reflections, shaving \n  3. remember young squire \n  4. Remembering the Fifties \n  5. Remembering when he was a wolf \n  6. Reports from the east \n  7. Roads in the north between two seas \n  8. Running on empty\n\n  1. Saith the Sky Chicken \n  2. San Quixote of the cinders \n  3. S\u00e1ndor the poet \n  4. Scenes from metropolitan life \n  5. Seafarer \n  6. September distances \n  7. Serbian letters \n  8. Seven: when he can't sleep for thinking \n  9. Shallow dreaming \n  10. She speaks \n  11. _Shed_ (2001) 557\u2013604\n  12. Shorty's advice to the players [Nine] \n  13. sight of the enemy \n  14. Signed sealed & delivered \n  15. Sinistra \n  16. Six items heard in three locations in Leeds and Exeter \n  17. Six: the wife's complaint \n  18. Skull \n  19. Slow dancer's epitaph \n  20. Snobby Roberts' message \n  21. So be it \n  22. Some notes on Perdu \n  23. Some unfinished movements \n  24. Somewhere else \n  25. Song for the whites \n  26. South \n  27. Spartan communiqu\u00e9 \n  28. Speech \n  29. Split interlude at deadmouse.com \n  30. Suburb \n  31. Suburb city \n  32. Sunk Island, that winter \n  33. supposing it's Friday \n  34. Surprised again beside the river \n  35. Suspicion of reporters\n\n  1. tales of the hunter [Three] \n  2. Tales of Urias the shape-shifter \n  3. Talking with God \n  4. Talking with the censor \n  5. Task 17 \n  6. Task 18: the unmasking procedure \n  7. Ten: the tale unfinished \n  8. Tender to the Queen of Spain \n  9. _Tender to the Queen of Spain_ (1993) 435\u2013478\n  10. _Terra_ (1986) 293\u2013352\n  11. The actor \n  12. The afternoon \n  13. The Amana Colonies \n  14. The annunciation \n  15. The author, a teacher of petomania, reflects on the shortcomings of his students \n  16. The bad news \n  17. The ballad of Eddie Linden at Earl's Court \n  18. The baron regrets \n  19. The bee dance \n  20. The black report \n  21. The blue time \n  22. The boss \n  23. The Botanic Garden Oath \n  24. The carpenter's confession \n  25. The Chamber of Torment \n  26. The Chicken Variations \n  27. The child's version \n  28. The clearing \n  29. Th\u00e9 dansant \n  30. The discovery of metal \n  31. The Donegal Liar \n  32. The door \n  33. The dream \n  34. The Eli Poems _97\u2013108_\n  35. The emigrant \n  36. The Enterprise Zone \n  37. The fat man's movie \n  38. the foreign woman [One] \n  39. The furniture game \n  40. The geography of clouds \n  41. The gracenote \n  42. The Great Hat Project \n  43. _The heart, the border_ (1990) 397\u2013434\n  44. The house of the androgynes \n  45. The Humanities, Dept of Literature \n  46. The hunter \n  47. The John Poems \n  48. The land of Cockaigne \n  49. The lives of the saints \n  50. _The London Poems_ 319\u2013333\n  51. The magic of Poland \n  52. The maker of fakes \n  53. The man who ran away from the circus \n  54. The marsh \n  55. The meridian at Greenwich \n  56. the middle ages \n  57. The Millennium near Barking \n  58. the music of the Emperor [Three] \n  59. The neighbour \n  60. The New Management \n  61. the new world \n  62. The night anywhere \n  63. The night music \n  64. The night whispers \n  65. The 1984 Tour of Britain \n  66. The obsession \n  67. The Olympic Year \n  68. the one you got three days for in achiltibue \n  69. The other elegy \n  70. The other shadow \n  71. The painter Mannfred Otto \n  72. The past \n  73. the photograph [Three] \n  74. the photograph [Four] \n  75. The Pity \n  76. The Pity (1967) 31\u201348\n  77. The poet reclining \n  78. _The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962\u20131980_ (1982) 31\u2013266  _The Poet_ _Reclining_ only, [131\u2013266]\n  79. The pornographer \n  80. The previous telegram \n  81. The program \n  82. the pussy willow song \n  83. The relay runner \n  84. the remembered city \n  85. the return [Two] \n  86. The Ring \n  87. The road to Henrietta's house \n  88. The rooming house \n  89. The rope \n  90. The Russians \n  91. The Secret Police \n  92. The 72 virgins question \n  93. The Shadow of God \n  94. The shed in question \n  95. The singer [Eight] \n  96. The Sioux cleared from Minnesota \n  97. The soldier's tale \n  98. The son \n  99. The space salesman \n  100. The spectator's terrace, Gatwick \n  101. The stone gatherer \n  102. _The stone poems_ (1971) 73\u201380\n  103. The story so far \n  104. The street \n  105. The swan \n  106. the tale unfinished [Ten] \n  107. The talk at the big house \n  108. The tattooed woman \n  109. The telephone is in the key of C \n  110. The theft \n  111. The third month \n  112. The Tivoli Bar \n  113. The town, a general description \n  114. The Ubi Sunt variations \n  115. The veterans \n  116. The visit \n  117. the waitresses in Old Town [Two] \n  118. The Wall \n  119. The wanderer Yakob \n  120. The Watch \n  121. The white chair \n  122. the wife's complaint [Six] \n  123. The wife's sister \n  124. _The Wild Turkey_ 111\u2013130\n  125. The window of vulnerability \n  126. Then the heart \n  127. then there's my publications \n  128. Things \n  129. Three Docklands fragments \n  130. Three from the freak house \n  131. Three in a play \n  132. Three: Murder at White House Farm \n  133. Three: tales of the hunter \n  134. Three, the music of the Emperor \n  135. Three the photograph \n  136. Tiger Lill \n  137. Timekeeper \n  138. To exorcise a blackbird \n  139. To survive \n  140. Tom Peeper \n  141. Tongue \n  142. Towards a coda \n  143. Towards daylight \n  144. Train \n  145. Transcription of the crying woman \n  146. Transit \n  147. Translation \n  148. Trillium \n  149. _Tristan Crazy_ (1978) 159\u2013170\n  150. Tube talk \n  151. TV in the East \n  152. Two for nobody \n  153. Two: Hungerford nights \n  154. Two parts haiku \n  155. Two the return \n  156. Two, the waitresses in Old Town\n\n  1. Unaccompanied singing \n  2. Unfinished portrait\n\n  1. Valley \n  2. Venetian pieces \n  3. Views around the bay \n  4. Visiting Americans\n\n  1. Waking in Heroes' Park \n  2. Wall dreams \n  3. Wants \n  4. Water \n  5. What Feri said \n  6. What the righteous don't know \n  7. What was done \n  8. when he can't sleep for thinking [Seven] \n  9. When that cop come \n  10. Where did I learn such quiet \n  11. where francis drake did drink \n  12. Where the scythe has been \n  13. Where winter begins \n  14. which is here by the river [Five] \n  15. White noise \n  16. whiteout \n  17. _Wild Root_ (1998) 479\u2013556\n  18. Wild Turkey One \n  19. Wild Turkey Six \n  20. Wild Turkey Thirteen \n  21. Wild Turkey Twelve \n  22. Wild Turkey Two \n  23. Winter occasions \n  24. _Wire through the heart_ 547\u2013556\n  25. With a name like Spratt \n  26. without lime that is \n  27. Wolf vision \n  28. Woman without a name \n  29. _Work, distances \/ poems_ (1972) 49\u2013130\n  30. Wormwood \n  31. Wormwood (1987) 353\u2013434\n  32. Writing in prison\n\n  1. You again \n  2. _You Again_ (2004) 605\u2013632\n  3. you owe me \n  4. Your friend the drifter \n  5. Yuppy love\n\n  1. Zoo Station midnight\n\n# BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\n**Ken Smith** (1938-2003) was a major voice in world poetry, a writer whose work shifted territory with time, from land to city, from Yorkshire, America and London to war-ravaged Eastern Europe. He was called 'the godfather of the new poetry' because his politically edgy, cuttingly colloquial, muscular poetry influenced a whole generation of younger British poets.\n\nKen Smith was born in Rudston, East Yorkshire, the son of an itinerant farm labourer. He worked in Britain and America as a teacher, freelance writer, barman, magazine editor, potato picker, BBC reader and creative writing fellow, and was writer-in-residence at Wormwood Scrubs prison in 1985-87. He received America's highly prestigious Lannan Literary Award for Poetry in 1997, followed by a Cholmondeley Award in 1998.\n\nKen Smith was the first poet to be published by Bloodaxe, with his pamphlet _Tristan Crazy_ in 1978. Smith's first book, _The Pity_ , was published by Jonathan Cape in 1967, and his second, _Work, distances\/poems_ , by Swallow Press, Chicago, in 1972. His early books span a transition from his preoccupation with land and myth (when he lived in Yorkshire, Devon and America) to his later engagement with urban Britain and the politics of radical disaffection (when he lived in East London). His first retrospective, _The Poet Reclining: Selected Poems 1962-1980_ (Bloodaxe Books, 1982) covered the first half of his writing career.\n\nIn 1986 Ken Smith's collection _Terra_ was shortlisted for the Whitbread Poetry Award. In 1987 Bloodaxe published his collected prose, _A Book of Chinese Whispers_. Four of his collections, _Terra_ (1986), _Wormwood_ (1987), _The heart, the border_ (1990) and _Tender to the Queen of Spain_ (1993), were Poetry Book Society Recommendations. His last separate collection, _Wild Root_ (1998), a Poetry Book Society Choice, was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize. All these collections were included in his second Bloodaxe retrospective, _Shed: Poems 1980-2001_ (2002).\n\nIn 1989 Harrap published _Inside Time_ , Ken Smith's book about imprisonment, about Wormwood Scrubs and the men he met there. This was published in paperback by Mandarin in 1990. Ken Smith was working in Berlin when the Wall came down, writing a book about East and West Berlin: this turned into _Berlin: Coming in from the Cold_ (Hamish Hamilton, 1990; Penguin paperback, 1991). He edited _Klaonica: poems for Bosnia_ (Bloodaxe Books\/ _The Independent_ , 1993) with Judi Benson, and with Matthew Sweeney co-edited _Beyond Bedlam_ (Anvil Press Poetry, 1997), a book of poems by mentally ill people.\n\nHe died on 27 June 2003 from a hospital infection caught while being treated for Legionnaires' Disease, which he had contracted months earlier in Cuba. His last poems were published in _You Again: last poems & other words_ (Bloodaxe Books, 2004) along with other uncollected work, tributes from other poets, photographs, a biographical portrait, an essay by Colin Raw with extracts from letters, and interviews covering the whole range of his life and work; this is the most comprehensive source of critical writings on his poetry. His _Collected Poems_ was published by Bloodaxe in October 2018, coinciding with his 80th birthday and with the 40th anniversary of the publication of Bloodaxe's first title, Ken Smith's _Tristan Crazy_ (1978).\n\n# COPYRIGHT\n\nKen Smith copyright \u00a9 Judi Benson 2018  \nOther work by contributors as listed copyright \u00a9 2004, 2018\n\nFirst published 2018 by  \nBloodaxe Books Ltd,  \nEastburn,  \nSouth Park,  \nHexham,  \nNorthumberland NE46 1BS.\n\nThis ebook first published in 2018.\n\n**www.bloodaxebooks.com**  \nFor further information about Bloodaxe titles  \nplease visit our website or write to  \nthe above address for a catalogue.\n\nLEGAL NOTICE  \nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be  \nreproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or  \ntransmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic,  \nmechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,  \nwithout prior written permission from Bloodaxe Books Ltd.  \nRequests to publish work from this book  \nmust be sent to Bloodaxe Books Ltd.\n\nThe right of Ken Smith to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.\n\nThis ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.\n\nISBN: 978 1 78037 433 8 ebook\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"# \" **WATCH YOUR HANDS. TOUCH ME AGAIN AND I'LL BOP YOU A GOOD ONE**.\"\n\nStef had turned to Mouth, who was right behind her, and glared at him kind of hacked off. Mouth looked kind of puzzled and just shrugged. A few seconds later she said, \"I warned you,\" and lifted her hand to slap him.\n\nIn the second it took her hand to come around, this giant squid shot up out of the water, and no lie, she slapped the squid.\n\nIt slapped her right back, knocking her into the water. It had this giant bloodshot eye and was kind of pinkish-grey. The thing was huge. And then, like it was letting us know what was what, it slapped the water with another tentacle, sounding like a cracking whip.\n\nIt scared me to death. I mean, I knew the thing was a giant squid, but I still screamed \"What is that?\"\n\n\"Giant sushi!\" shouted Data.\n\nThe giant eye moved just above the surface, and Hook's crocodile never looked so mean. Another arm grabbed Andy around the waist, pulling her towards its disgusting beak-mouth. And another arm got me around the ankle. Then the thing opened its beak to gobble on Andy's leg... \nCopyright\n\nWARNER BOOKS EDITION\n\nCopyright \u00a9 1985 by Warner Bros. Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\nWarner Books, Inc.\n\nHachette Book Group\n\n237 Park Avenue\n\nNew York, NY 10017\n\nVisit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com\n\nFirst eBook Edition: October 2009\n\nISBN: 978-0-446-56768-8\nContents\n\nCopyright\n\nPrologue\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nChapter 7\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nEpilogue\n\nAfterword\nI will never betray my Goon Dock friends,\n\nWe will stick together until the whole world ends,\n\nThrough heaven and hell and nuclear war,\n\nGood pals like us will stick like tar,\n\nIn the city, or the country, or the forest, or the boonies\n\nI am proudly declared a fellow Goony.\n\n\u2014The Goony Oath\n\n# **PROLOGUE**\n\n**_Astoria Evening Standard_ , Saturday, October 24**\n\nIn a daring daylight escape this morning, convicted armed robber Jake Fratelli broke out of State Prison and fled to a waiting getaway car. Fratelli, 33, apparently faked his own suicide while the other inmates were at breakfast, and when the guard entered his cell to cut the body down from where it was seemingly hanging by the neck, Fratelli knocked him unconscious, exchanged clothes with him, and simply walked out of the moderate-security facility.\n\nAccording to guard Emil Yonis, \"He looked dead as a jackrabbit road kill to me\u2014hangman's noose, and his tongue stuck out. But when I went to check him, I saw it was just a harness around his waist. That's when he nailed me.\" Yonis has been hospitalized for observation.\n\nMoments after Fratelli left the compound the guard's naked body was discovered, and the alarm sounded. Prison guards gave chase, but a black off-road vehicle was waiting for the escapee just opposite a hill adjacent to the penitentiary. Driving the vehicle was the prisoner's mother, 56-year-old Mama Fratelli, herself a fugitive; and the prisoner's brother, Francis, 31, currently sought for questioning following a string of arsons last winter in Portland.\n\nThe escape had obviously been well planned. As Jake approached the waiting vehicle Francis lit a long stream of gasoline that had been poured twenty yards from the car, creating a wall of flame that effectively cut off immediate pursuit.\n\nPolice were notified, however. As authorities closed in, the escape vehicle was seen again on Route 27 near Hillside, and a high-speed chase ensued, leading across the waterfront area, past the high school, through the Municipal Waste Disposal area, around the marina, and finally\u2014with a stroke of precision bravado by the Fratellis\u2014into the midst of a cross-country race of over 50 other off-road vehicles. It was in the confusion of this camouflage that the Fratellis made their escape.\n\nThere were no license plates on the vehicle, but it can be easily recognized by the numerous police bullet holes in its side. It was last seen heading north toward Janesville, although there are now reports of a similar vehicle sighted near Fresno.\n\nPrison officials now are conducting an investigation into security procedures at their facility. Guard Emil Yonis has been placed on inactive duty, pending the results of this inquiry.\n\nThe Fratellis are armed and considered dangerous.\n\n# **CHAPTER 1**\n\n**_My Name is Mikey Walsh... The Goonies... Nothin' to do... Chunk's Story... Three Guys in Leisure Suits... Museum Stuff... I Find the Map... X marks the Spot_**.\n\nSo my name is Mikey Walsh. Michael, actually, except nobody ever calls me that but Grandpa, when he can remember who I am at all. Mostly he just lies in the hammock in the backyard remembering when _he_ was thirteen. That's what I am. Thirteen.\n\nShort for my age, though. Not like a midget or anything, and I'm no chicken, but on the other hand, you're not going to find me in the parking lot after a football game with Glenoaks West waiting to mix it up with those trolls. Brand calls me a wimp. He's my brother.\n\nI'm not, though. A wimp, I mean. I've just got better things to do than hoot about who creamed who at the game. _Adventures_ are my game, even though they're usually pretty hard to come by in a junky little town like this.\n\nBrand says it's not that I'm short for my age, it's that I'm short for my size. He cracks himself up with that one. Mom just says I'm \"slight.\" I know what they're talking about, though. It's about how I'm not on any of the teams like Brand is, and I've got braces and asthma, and I get colds a lot, more than most of the other kids, especially in the fall. Fall is when this story all happened, but I'll get to that in a minute.\n\nActually October's my favorite month, even though Mom freaks out about \"flu season\" and my \"condition\" and stuff. October's great for leaves, though. They get these dynamite colors and fall off, and I get to rake 'em into piles to burn and it's the greatest smell. Of course, it rains a lot, too. But when it doesn't, there's this special, mysterious kind of wind that seems to come out of the earth and go right through me, like through my heart or something. I mean I know it doesn't, but that's how it seems. Kind of old-time magic. And, of course, Halloween's in October.\n\nSo I love the fall. What I hate is my braces, especially when Dr. Hoffman tightens them once a' month to correct my malocclusion, which is like an execution done about as slow as marshmallow taffy. Also, once when I kissed Cheryl Hagedorn\u2014actually she kissed me\u2014our braces _locked_ , so we were like joined at the mouth, it was really a gross-out, and I had to unhook us with her eyebrow tweezers in the rearview mirror of her dad's Chevy. After that it turned me off just to look at her, and probably her, me, too. Dr. Hoffman wanted to know if I'd been chewing nails or what.\n\nThe other thing I hate is my asthma, which Brand says is all in my head. Mom says no, it's in my lungs\u2014my _brain_ is in my head. Then Brand generally says something like, \"That's not where Mikey's brains are, _his_ brains are where he _sits_.\" Then Mom tells him to button it up and stop being so crude. But he's not, really, he's just being Brand.\n\nHe's actually a pretty cool dude. Only just about half as cool as he thinks he is. He was sixteen when this mess all happened\u2014starting his junior year at Astoria High, already varsity in wrestling but just J.V. in football. Anyway, he's not anything like me\u2014he's blond and blue-eyed and he pumps iron, and he's not just a jock, either. He knows a lotta stuff.\n\nMom and Dad are just regular. I mean, they're okay, but they don't know what's goin' on. Dad works at the museum, and Mom's a mom.\n\nWe live in a big old three-story white frame house in the part of town called the Goon Docks. It's not too far from the docks themselves\u2014Astoria is right along the coast, way up Oregon\u2014and it's mostly what Dad calls a blue-collar neighborhood. Mechanics, fishermen, construction workers when there's construction work around\u2014that's who lives here. People like us. If there were any tracks in town, we'd probably be on the wrong side, at least according to the people who belong to the Hillside Country Club. They're the ones who call this the Goon Docks and us the Goons. That's okay with us, though, 'cause we like who we are. That's why we call our gang the Goonies.\n\nIt's not a gang, really. More like a club. Dad calls it an assortment, but then I told you, he works for the museum.\n\nFirst there's Mouth Devereux. He's the oldest, and he's definitely the clown of the group. He's always cracking jokes or pulling pranks or just generally mouthin' off. I've like never seen him without a smirk. He used to get _D_ s in conduct all the time. Just trying to get attention is what the school counselor said. Just trying to get the last laugh is what I say. He can get laughs in different languages, actually. He's like a language expert or somethin'. A man of many mouths. He can tell dirty jokes in French, Spanish, German, and Portuguese, and I don't even know where Portugal _is_. He's also like a rhymin' fool. Like he can't help himself, sometimes, he just automatically talks in rhymes. And not only that, you can give him any topic, like cows, for instance, and in about five seconds he can come up with a little rhyming song about it. Like \"The old brown cow, sure knows how, to pull that plow, without sayin' 'ow.\" Only Mouth can do it a lot better than me. And a lot funnier. If there's a joke floating around or a wisecrack begging to be made, Mouth is always the one who can't resist. Anyway, his dad's a plumber, and that might have a lot to do with it, since it seems like that's a business where it's better to have a good sense of humor.\n\nThen there's Chunk Cohen. You can imagine why he's called Chunk. But the other thing about him is that he's maybe the biggest storyteller in this hemisphere. I mean, we're talkin' major-league fabrications. Don't get me wrong, he's a really great guy\u2014it's just that there's times he can be truly bogus. I don't think he lies, exactly, 'cause he thinks he's tellin' the truth. But somehow the story changes over in his mind from something that he wished happened, to something that might have happened, to something that sort of happened, to something that actually happened. And then once he tells the story, it's like he heard it somewhere, so it really must have happened. Then, once he's convinced himself it happened, he takes liberties polishing the story. The other thing about Chunk is that his parents were rejected from joining the Hillside Country Club, Chunk says, because they're Jewish, and the place is what he calls \"restricted,\" but I think it's just because they're assholes\u2014the country club, I mean, not his parents. His parents are real nice, even though they dress just as bad as Chunk does. But I wouldn't join that country club if you paid me, and I'm _glad_ Chunk's folks didn't get to drag him over to where he'd have to learn how to play golf instead of how to jump the barrels in Donkey Kong.\n\nThe last Goony's my next-door neighbor, Ricky Wang. We call him Data. The guy's a genius. He knows all there is about computers and electronics and stuff like that, and he's always making things, too\u2014cool stuff like rings that have flashlights in them and belt buckles that shoot smoke bombs. Really cool stuff. Except a lot of it doesn't always work exactly right. He loves 007 movies, and that's where he dreams up some of his gadgets, but I think sometimes he must've gone for popcorn and missed something important.\n\nSo that's the bunch of us. Not too rowdy, but then nothing much ever happened around here. Until last spring when we found out the country club owned most of the land and all of the houses in our section of the Goon Docks\u2014and they were going to foreclose and tear it all down and build a lousy golf course right on the spot where we lived.\n\nWell, there were public hearings and investigations and impact studies all through the spring and summer, and at one point it looked like some big corporation in Portland actually owned half of it, but then it turned out that was just a holding company, whatever that is, for the country club doodahs, so then it looked like all was lost, especially because those Hillside snobs were known to have a lot of pull in Eugene, but then there was a last-minute court appeal, and the judge said we goonies had the right of first refusal, so we could buy out all our own mortgages if we wanted to and if we had the money, so then we _knew_ all was lost, because if any of us had any money, we wouldn't have been living down in the Goon Docks to begin with.\n\nSo by Labor Day we knew for sure that we were going to be thrown out and would all have to scatter to the winds like dandelions and never see each other again.\n\nWell, the eviction notice came. October 25, we had to be out. I thought of running away, but it didn't seem right to dump that on my parents too. Mouth was sort of inclined to trash the country club, and I admitted the idea had a ring to it. But somehow, the weeks passed, and we didn't get around to much of anything, and then suddenly October 24 was here, and I mean to tell you, I was really down. And I mean the pits.\n\nBut then that weird October wind blew in through the attic window, and I suddenly knew something was going to happen. And it did.\n\nSo this is the story of what happened that one long day last fall, the day before our eviction. And I know a lot of it's gonna sound hard to swallow, but swear to God, every word is true.\n\nIt started with me and Brand sitting in the living room, staring out the window. Actually _I_ was sitting. Brand was hanging from his ankles by the chinning bar. Brand could always find something to do, but I was so bored, I was ticked off.\n\n\"Nothin' exciting ever happens around here,\" I said. Brand didn't answer, he was having too good a time swingin' by his heels. But I was serious. This place was dead. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all to leave. I mean, all these other kids had adventures, like Tom Sawyer and Luke Skywalker and Jim Hawkins. And what did I have? Orthodontist appointments.\n\n\"Who needs the Goon Docks, who needs this house, I can't wait to get outta here,\" I griped, and this time it got Brand's attention.\n\n\"Really?\"\n\nHe just kept on hangin' there, but he knew what was what\u2014he could see through me like lemon Jell-O, and just the way he said \"Really?\" made me see through myself the same way.\n\n\"No way,\" I told him, \"I was just tryin' to make myself feel better. Tryin' to dilute myself.\"\n\n\"Delude yourself,\" he said. I told you he knew stuff.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, I know how you feel, wimp. I sure am gonna miss this place,\" he admitted.\n\nNo doubt about it, so was I. I gave myself a puff on the Promotene Mist Inhaler for my asthma\u2014my chest was feeling a little tight\u2014and started to wander around the house.\n\nKitchen. Nothin' goin' on. Dining room. Definitely nothin'. Rec room. I turned on the TV, but it was Saturday morning, which means kiddie cartoons, which means nothin'.\n\nThere was a _Mad_ magazine on the couch, so I sat down and picked it up. On the back was this thing called a \"fold-in,\" which is like a fold-out in a skin mag, only the opposite. What it is, is this picture with words, which says something like \"Nuke the Reds,\" but then you fold the page in on itself and it suddenly makes this different picture totally, and says \"Ban the Bomb,\" or something. It's like a secret message sort of buried in the original. You probably don't know exactly what I'm talkin' about if you've never seen it, but you probably get the idea. Anyway, if you know what the deal is, you can look at the back cover and sometimes figure out what the secret picture and message is gonna be when the page is folded in.\n\nSo I figured this one out. Boring.\n\nThere was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table, which I'm definitely good at. I can sort of \"see\" where pieces go, without really tryin' to figure it out. Like some people put all the blue pieces in one pile, and all the flowers in one pile, and do it scientifically like that. Not me. I just look it over, and it's like I can almost feel where a piece fits. It's instinctive.\n\nMy guidance counselor in the eighth grade told me I \"scored high in analysis of visual relationships\" but read below my level. It's not that I don't like to read. I do. It's just that as soon as I start reading, I see it all in my mind's eye and it's like a movie in my head, and I get sorta lost in those \"visual relationships,\" and my mind wanders a little and then I lose my place.\n\nAnyway, I picked up a piece of jigsaw puzzle and sort of squinted my eyes and turned it around... and fit it snug into the piece it belonged next to. All instinct. And if there's one thing I learned from Obi-Wan Kenobi, it's to trust your instincts.\n\nThen Mouth came over. It didn't take a genius to see that me and Brand were depressed, and Mouth was no genius, so he dove right in trying to cheer us up.\n\n\"Wait\u2014what's this, Finklestein's Funeral Parlor? Lookit you guys lyin' around like it was Nuclear Saturday. C'mon, dudes! This is our last weekend together! The last Goony weekend! We should be goin' out in style\u2014cruisin' the coast, sniffin' some lace, downin' the brews...\" Without his mouth missing a step he slapped Brand in the belly and shifted into his _Saturday Night Live_ John Belushi imitation: \"But _noooooo! You_ had to screw it up. _You_ had to go and flunk your driving test....\"\n\nBrand reached out to swat him royally, but Mouth jumped back\u2014his feet were even faster than his mouth. Still, Brand would've caught him if the bell hadn't rung at the front gate and stopped things short.\n\n\"Jerk alert!\" shouted Mouth.\n\nWe all looked out the window and saw Chunk standing at the front gate, wearing his absolutely dumbest Hawaiian shirt, plaid pants, and black socks. If Chunk hadn't been a Goony, he'd have been in serious trouble with clothes like that.\n\nHe was shouting now. \"Hey, guys, ya gotta lemme in! I just saw the most amazing thing....\"\n\nMouth called back, \"First you gotta do the Truffle Shuffle.\"\n\nChunk's face fell, but he sighed and lifted his shirt to show his pudge, and then he did the Twist, so it all jiggled around. This cracked Mouth up like it always did, but it just depressed me even more. I mean, Chunk was a stand-up kind of guy, and it wasn't like Mouth didn't have stuff we could laugh at. Or me, for that matter.\n\n\"Cut it out, Mouth,\" I said, and walked to the window. We have this rigged-up way of opening the gate from the window, so I dropped this rod from the sill onto the porch onto a bowling ball that rolled down a track and fell into a bucket that pulled down on a string that closed a bellows that blew up a balloon into a pin that popped it, and the noise scared our pet rabbit, Felix, who started running on the treadmill in his cage, and the revolving treadmill opened the valve that turned on the hose to the sprinkler in the front yard, and the blades of the rotating sprinkler were tied to another string, which was fastened to the gate and pulled the gate open when the sprinkler turned.\n\nGoonies are into stuff like that. I think it's because we can't control anything else about our lives, or the world, like nuclear war or famine or toxic dumps or where we might be living next week or what's for supper, but we can control every last detail about some contraption we build or joke we tell or between-meal snack we snatch.\n\nAnyway, I opened the gate the way that _I_ wanted to, and Chunk came in.\n\nI hadn't seen him, so excited... since the Burger King Sweepstakes.\n\n\"You guys shoulda' seen it!\" he said. He could hardly wait to get inside. \"Cop cars chasin' this four-wheel deal! It was the most amazing thing I ever saw!\"\n\n\"More amazing than the time Michael Jackson came over to your house to use the bathroom?\" I said.\n\nMouth said, \"More amazing than the time you ate your weight in Straw Hat Pizza?\"\n\n\"More amazing than the time you saved those old people from that nursing home fire?\" chipped in Brand.\n\nLike I said, Chunk tended to lie like a rug, so none of us believed him.\n\n\"Honest, you guys, this time it's for real. I was in Maloney's playin' _Star Wars_ and\u2014\"\n\n\"Did you blast all the Towers?\"\n\n\"No, I was just startin' when this car drives by, _riddled_ with bullet holes\u2014\"\n\n\"Riddled? Where'd you hear that word\u2014Dick Tracy?\"\n\n\"No, man, it's the truth, and the cops were chasin' it, and they were all shooting\u2014\"\n\n\"So you turned your _Star Wars_ guns toward the bad guys and vaporized 'em.\"\n\n\"No, really\u2014\"\n\n\"Chunk, did you happen to be drinkin' Maloney's new double chocolate shake at the time?\"\n\n\"Yeah, so what.\"\n\nMouth nodded. \"It's the sugar rush. Makes some people wacky. I remember once\u2014\"\n\nBefore Mouth could mouth off any more, or any of us could put down Chunk's tall one again, we suddenly heard the James Bond Theme song blaring from just outside. Well, I knew what that meant. I stood up and pulled the big side window open wide.\n\nIt was Data, flying in the window. Well, not flying, exactly. See, we had this two-hundred-pound-test nylon clothesline strung between his second-story bedroom and our first-floor den, so whenever he wanted to do it right, he'd signal with some 007 music on his cassette, then I'd open the window, then he'd hang onto this pulley contraption and ride it down the rope right into our house.\n\nSo that's what he did this time, only he was closer than I expected and I didn't get out of the way in time, and he shot right into me. We both tumbled, and I rolled into Brand, who clunked into Chunk. Chunk was not the swiftest guy ever assembled, so he fell flat-footed backward into this statue on the coffee table, knocking it solid to the floor\u2014statue of this naked guy named David done by this big-shot artist Michelangelo, who painted the Sistine Chapel for the pope and then did part of Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas, I think. Anyway, Mom loved this statue.\n\nChunk got kind of nervous and picked himself up and picked the statue up and started to put it back when we both noticed something at the same time\u2014the statue's you-know-what was broken off. I mean, I don't want to sound gross, but like I said, it was a statue of a naked guy, so I think you know what I'm talkin' about.\n\nSo this was really bad news, and Mom was gonna have a cow when she found out. It made me a little wheezy just to think about, so I took a hit on the Promotene Inhaler. Chunk put the statue back in place, then I found the you-know-what under the table and held it up to the statue.\n\n\"This is my mom's favorite piece,\" I said.\n\n\"You wouldn't be here if it wasn't,\" cracked Mouth. Always wisin' off.\n\nData pulled a map of the U.S. out of the backpack he always wore, and opened it up on the floor. \"Any you guys ever heard of Detroit?\" he asked. He still had a little Chinese accent\u2014his parents hardly spoke American at all. They ran a restaurant over on Algonquin Avenue that Mom said was good because it didn't use much MSG.\n\n\"Detroit\u2014great place,\" Mouth said. \"It's where Motown started. Also got the highest murder rate in the country. They sing the blues, cement shoes, bad news.\"\n\nData looked kind of lost. \"My father has brothers there with a big fancy restaurant they want him to help run. That's where we're moving when we lose our house tomorrow.\"\n\n\"You shut up about that stuff,\" I told him. I'd put that all out of my mind for a while, and I didn't want to think about it now. \"It'll never happen. Dad'll fix it.\"\n\n\"Not unless he gets his next four hundred paychecks by tomorrow afternoon,\" said Brand. He wasn't one for living in any fairyland, which is what he said I did sometimes. But I figure, sometimes there's no reason not to, reality is so messed up. Once I saw some graffiti in a stall in the boys' locker room john that said, \"There is no gravity, the earth just sucks.\" Well, there's times when that's about right. And like he was tryin' to prove it just then, Brand walked over to the front window and motioned us. \"C'mere. Check this out.\"\n\nWe joined him and looked.\n\nThree guys in leisure suits were standing out front, looking our house up and down. Our house. One of them was talking, sweeping his arm out across the lay of the land like he was an explorer or some damn thing, claiming it all for his country. I expected him to plant a flag any second. The guy next to him had one of those surveyor's deals like a telescope on a compass and three legs, and he was aiming down our driveway. Then he pointed and said something, and the three of them laughed. Then the third guy picked a straight branch off the ground and imitated a golf swing with it, and then they all laughed again. It made me sick.\n\n\"Look at 'em. Smilin',\" said Brand.\n\n\"Practically droolin',\" said Mouth.\n\n\"They just can't wait until tomorrow when they foreclose on all the foreclosures,\" said Data.\n\n\"And trash the Goon Docks,\" Mouth added. \"Money talks, Goony walks.\"\n\nBrand said, \"When they wreck our house, I hope they make it the sand trap....\"\n\n\"And they never get their balls out.\" I sort of laughed a thin kind of laugh.\n\n\"This is war,\" said Data. He looked real angry. I knew what was coming. \"Go on, Mikey, open that window, I'll get 'em. I got my special-agent assault options all rigged.\" He opened his jacket and removed the cassette player that was hanging around his neck. Tied across his chest was this homemade box-thing with cords sticking out of it, and small plastic rings at the end of each cord, like the thing you pull at the back of a Chatty Cathy when you want to make her talk.\n\nSo then he whips a pair of aviator shades out of his backpack and puts them on and plugs them into the box on his chest with a sort of adapter plug and shouts, \"Glasses of Death!\" out the window and pulls the yellow ring on the box.\n\nWe all stood back, 'cause you could never tell what was going to happen when Data jerked his chain. What happened this time was too little suction darts shot out of the sides of his sunglasses and stuck to the window, pulling the glasses off with them.\n\nI wasn't sure if that was what was supposed to happen or not, but Data didn't seem too pleased with the results. He screamed even louder, stepping back, \"Pinchers of Peril!\" We stepped back even farther. He pulled another cord.\n\nA set of mechanical chatterbox teeth shot out of his chest on the end of a thick metal coil, sort of like a Slinky, only more. The teeth chattered away across the room, on a super-spring, so they sounded like a machine gun until they bit onto our front curtains and just hung there, clamped down like a junkyard dog on a dead rat.\n\nData tried to pull it free, but it wasn't letting go. He pulled a couple more cords, but nothing happened. He was startin' to get real worked up, but Mouth put his arm around Data's shoulder and said, \"Cool it, double-oh-negative-seven.\" He said it nice, though.\n\nIt didn't matter that Data's contraptions didn't work much, it was the thought that counted. And we all appreciated his efforts, just like he appreciated Mouth's thought now, even though Mouth's mouth didn't know exactly what to say.\n\nJust then my mom came in. She was pretty old, forty or so, but still better-looking than most moms. She used to model parkas for the Sears catalogue. Anyway, her arm was broken now and in a sling, from her accident with the spin dryer. I remember I broke my arm once when I fell into the excavation at that new housing development, Cuesta Verde Estates, and the doctor had to break it back in the other direction to set it. He said that was the only way to make it straight. I thought of that when Mom came in the room, so it was on my mind later, when we got to the lighthouse, but I'll tell about that later.\n\nAnyway, Mom came in now with this maid from Mexico or El Salvador or one of those places Mom won't go because of the water or the rebels. \"Boys,\" she said, \"this is Rosalita.\"\n\nThe boys waved. Chunk stood in front of the broken statue of David so Mom wouldn't notice.\n\n\"Rosalita doesn't speak much English,\" Mom said, \"and she's got to help me with the packing. So I was wondering if one of you... well, I know some of you have taken Spanish in school....\"\n\n\"I speak perfect Spanish, Mrs. Walsh,\" said Mouth. Like I said, he had a mouth in a _bunch_ of languages.\n\n\"That's wonderful, Clarke.\" Mom smiled at him. His paper-name was Clarke, so that's what most of the parents called him. \"I need help explaining some things to her, so if you'd just come with us for a few minutes...\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" said Mouth, and shot to her side. Data rolled his eyes at me. Brand went back to hangin' upside down. Mom split with Mouth and Rosalita. Chunk looked at me with this sick face and picked up the statue. There was like a giant hole in the thing's crotch. So Chunk gives me this pukey grin and says, \"Think your mom's gonna notice?\"\n\nI gave him a bottle of Elmer's glue and told him to do something right for a change. Then I went after Mouth to make sure he wasn't grossing out my mom.\n\nThey were in my parents' bedroom at the dresser. I stood back, at the door. Mom was talking to Rosalita, loud and slow like that was going to make her understand. \"Socks and underwear in the top drawer. Shirts and blouses in the second. Pants in the bottom. Always separate the clothes.\" Then she turned to Mouth and said, \"Can you translate that?\"\n\n\"Sure, Mrs. Walsh.\" He nodded. Then he turned to Rosalita and said a bunch of Spanish stuff that he told me later meant \"The marijuana goes in the top drawer. The cocaine and speed in the second. The heroin in the bottom. Always separate the drugs.\" Anyway that's what he _said_ he said, but I believe him because Rosalita looked kind of weirded out.\n\nMom just smiled.\n\nThen they went out the other door, into the hallway, and Mom pointed to the trapdoor in the ceiling. \"That's the attic. Mr. Walsh doesn't like anybody up there. Never.\" Then she nodded to Mouth again.\n\nThis time he told me his rap went, \"Never go up there. It's filled with Mr. Walsh's sexual torture devices.\" And there was no doubt; this time Rosalita's face turned white under the brown, so she looked kind of beige.\n\nThe Mom opened the supply closet. \"This is the supply closet. You'll find everything you need inside. Brooms, mops, insecticide, Lysol.\"\n\nAnd this time after Mouth finished sayin' it in Spanish, Rosalita seemed ready to head back south of the border, rebels or no rebels. What he'd told her was, \"If you do a bad job, you'll be locked in here with the cockroaches for two weeks without food or water.\"\n\nAnyway, the way Rosalita was lookin', I got the idea, even if Mom didn't, so I just left. I didn't much like it when Mouth jived like that, whether it was on Chunk's lard-belly or some poor lady who couldn't speak English yet. But thinking of Chunk, I wondered how he was doing with the glue job, so I headed for the rec room where I heard the TV on.\n\nWhen I got there, Brand was watching the tube, and Data was watching Chunk finish repairing the thing. Its back was to me, so I walked around to face it just as Chunk took his hand away. \"How's that?\" he said.\n\nThe dork had glued the thing upside down. So it was pointing _up_.\n\nWe all rolled over laughing, even Brand, who took a second first to slap Chunk in the head. It was just a crack-up to look at. I knew trouble was on her way down the hall, though.\n\nBrand made a dirty joke, but I guess I won't tell it right now.\n\nWe heard everyone coming downstairs from upstairs. Data snapped his fingers and pulled a leaf off the potted philodendron and taped it to the David's crotch, and we all got down to play marbles in front of an old Abbott and Costello movie just as Mom came in with Mouth and Rosalita.\n\nRosalita looked positively nauseous. Mouth didn't tell me right then what he'd laid on the sorry woman, but I could see it wasn't any winning lottery ticket.\n\nMom just kissed him on the cheek. \"Thank you, Clarke, that was so nice of you.\"\n\n\"Nice is my middle name, Mrs. Walsh.\"\n\nMade me wanna barf. Then Mom spotted the statue. She had a sixth sense for stuff like that.\n\n\"Lawrence...\" she said with a tone in her voice. Lawrence was Chunk's other name. Mom also had a seventh sense for knowing who _did_ stuff like that. She pointed to the statue and held out her hand. Chunk handed it to her.\n\nShe took off the fig leaf and looked. And wouldn't you know it, the glue began to stretch, and that old you-know-what started tilting down right at Mom, while she was lookin' at it.\n\nI took a slug of Promotene. Rosalita made the sign of the cross. I think we were the only two in that whole room that had any sense.\n\nMom was about to say something, then decided it just wasn't worth it. So she said something else. \"I'm taking Rosalita to the grocery store. We'll be home in about an hour. Brandon, you stay inside with Mikey. It looks like rain, and I don't want him out in that with his asthma.\"\n\nI pocketed my inhaler.\n\n\"He should be in a plastic bubble,\" said Brand. My asthma gave him a pain.\n\n\"I'm serious, Brandon,\" said Mom. \"He takes one step outside, and you're... you're...\" She thought for a second, trying to come up with something hip enough to make Brand do what she told him. \"Or you're dead meat.\" She gave this real cazh smile. Way to go, Mom, you're too cool for school.\n\nBrand rolled his eyes, and Mom and Rosalita split. The second they were out the door, Brand jumped me.\n\n\"You want a breathin' problem?\" he said. \"You got one.\" He put me in a headlock I couldn't come close to breaking, but I got a couple good jabs in. He finally let me go when I started to wheeze.\n\nMouth had this thoughtful expression on his face, which was always a dangerous sign. \"Hey, what's your father gonna do with all that stuff in the attic?\" he asked.\n\nIt was museum stuff. When the Astoria Historical Museum moved to the Endicott Building three years ago, they had a big fund-raising show of all their oldest stuff, and my dad was in charge of moving it, and some of the stuff that didn't fit in the show got stored here \"temporarily\" until the move was complete, only it turned out to be temporary storage that the honchos at the museum sort of forgot to stash elsewhere.\n\n\"He's gonna give it back to the museum,\" I said. \"Or to whoever they pick to be the new assistant curolator.\"\n\n\"Curator,\" Brand corrected me again. Sometimes _he_ was really a pain, asthma or no asthma.\n\nMouth's eyes got big as his mouth. \"That means it's all gonna go to the rich people, anyway. Let's go up and see if there's anything we can take for _our_ parents!\"\n\n\"Yeah!\"\n\n\"Cool!\"\n\n\"Let's do it!\"\n\nThey all jumped up and ran off to the attic like this was the best idea they'd ever heard.\n\nAll except me. \"Hey, guys, my dad's responsible for all that stuff. Don't wreck anything... Brand? You know, I'll bet the museum's got a list of it all somewhere. Guys?\"\n\nBut they were history. So I just put my marble bag in my pocket and followed.\n\nActually history's what it's all about\u2014and _we_ were about to discover some... and then make some.\n\nBy the time I got upstairs they had the stepladder out and the trapdoor open. Brand was first up, with a flash-light, and the others were right behind. As usual I was last.\n\nWhen we got up there, we just stopped and stared in amazement. I'd never been in the attic before\u2014Dad never let us\u2014and I was as blown away as anyone.\n\nFirst of all it was pretty dark. There was a skylight in the ceiling, but the storm clouds Mom had seen were really thick now, kind of black and purple. Even so, with Brand's flashlight we could see plain enough: it was a huge old dusty room, jam-packed with the far-outest stuff you could imagine. Historical stuff, some of it must've been like centuries old. Oil paintings, sculptures, broken antique furniture, costumes, whaling harpoons, pirate stuff, Indian stuff. Great stuff.\n\n\"I can't believe somethin' this cool is in your house,\" Mouth whispered.\n\n\"This is the best junk I've ever seen,\" said Chunk.\n\nSuddenly this wild rip of lightning tore over the skylight, with a thunder crack in its shadow, and in a second rain was spattering the glass and throwing funny patterns on all of us. And I don't mind sayin', I was just the slightest bit touchy.\n\n\"Okay. You guys saw it,\" I said. \"Now let's get outta here.\"\n\n\"Whatsa matter, scared again?\" said Brand.\n\n\"Yeah\u2014just like you in the elevator,\" I answered. I knew that would get him. He hated to be reminded of this one time we were on an elevator that got stuck between floors and he like totally freaked out, and I just got on the elevator phone and sort of ran the show. I mean, _I_ think we've _all_ got something like that to deal with, but Brand sees it otherwise. He decided someone must've put some angel dust into the ventilation system, and _that's_ why he blew his wad, and I was just immune to the stuff or something. Anyway, he made me promise not to tell.\n\nSo when I mentioned the elevator this time, he got me in another headlock and whispered, \"You shut up about that elevator. You understand? Huh?\"\n\nI nodded as well as I could with my head being crushed, so then he pushed me to the floor. I coughed and couldn't stop until I snorted a little Promotene. \"Can we go now? It's pretty dusty up here. I think my hay fever's acting up.\"\n\nBrand just ignored me, though. \"C'mon, let's look around,\" he said. He started walkin' through the collection. We all followed, sort of tiptoe, so as not to disturb anything.\n\nAnd it was something. A wooden peg leg, a half-set of ivory false teeth, a walrus mask all mouse-chewed, a hand-carved oar with the handle broken off, some torn lace gloves, a rusted compass without the needle, some drawing on a piece of whalebone (Brand called it \"scrim-shaw\"), a piece of real skull... it was totally cool and kind of spooky.\n\nSuddenly I heard this high-pitched voice calling to me from out of the darkness. \"Mikey... oh, Mikey... come to me... come and kiss me....\"\n\nBrand turned his light on it. There in the corner was a full-size oil painting, torn in places, of a pirate captain and a naked woman\u2014and there was a tongue jutting out of a tear in the woman's mouth, licking her lips.\n\nIt was pretty creepy at first, until I realized it was a tongue that could only have come from Mouth's mouth\u2014he was behind the painting.\n\n\"Come here, Mikey,\" he said in a kind of ghost voice. \"Make me feel like a woman.\"\n\n\"I'll make you feel like a punching bag,\" said Brand.\n\n\"Stop bein' so perverted, Mouth,\" I said. \"You're wreckin' the painting.\"\n\nMouth came out from behind the painting. \"Easy, dude. It was already trashed. Like everything else here\u2014trashed, bashed, slashed, or gashed.\"\n\nWe went back to exploring.\n\n\"What _is_ all this stuff?\" said Chunk.\n\n\"The museum did some kinda show,\" I said, explaining it to him. \"With historical things they found all around here. And these are the rejects.\"\n\nChunk nodded. \"Kinda like us.\"\n\nIt was true, though. I felt very in touch with these discards. We started rummaging through the piles. I found an eye patch and put it on. Mouth and Data each scored a feathered hat; Brand picked up an old cutlass. I felt like I'd somehow seen it all before. I mean, I know I'd seen stuff like it on lots of pirate movies. But it wasn't that. It was more like _this stuff_ had some kind of special meaning for me. Almost like maybe I wore these clothes once before, in a previous life or something. I mean, I don't really believe in reincarnation, but that's what it felt like. Or maybe it was just a feeling of Time Goes On. You know, like some guys wore this stuff, and then they took it off and it knocked around for a while, and then _we_ wore it and knocked around for a while, and then someone _else_ will find it. Us, them, now, whenever. All part of the same thing. You know what I'm talkin' about? I can't explain it too good\u2014my counselor in the eighth grade told me I didn't do well in verbal skills, either. But I guess you already scoped that out.\n\nAnyway, Data started gettin' into the same thing\u2014the sort of sameness of us and those old-time guys who originally had this stuff. Like there was some kind of _connection_.\n\n\"Just think of it,\" Data said, \"all this stuff belonged to guys who walked on the same ground that we do. They went swimming in the same ocean, they breathed the same air\u2014\"\n\n\"Yecchhh\u2014they had to breathe the Herring Factory air too?\" That was Chunk's contribution to all this deep talk.\n\n\"No, they didn't have herring then,\" Data explained patiently. Being of Chinese descent, he had a lot of patience. Also had a major thing with history\u2014like I said before, he was a kind of all-around heavy thinker. \"This was right after Christopher Columbus,\" he went on sayin', \"in the seventeenth century. They only had ships. They were adventure guys and explorers. They made maps and captured Indians and spent all their time killing each other with swords\u2014you know, Errol Flynn stuff.\"\n\nThat was right, too. My dad used to tell me about some of it. This place was like a suburb of the Spanish Main at one time. And up here, in this old attic collection, I could almost see it, almost smell it. You know what I'm talkin' about?\n\nI walked over to a corner near the skylight where a bunch of old framed photographs and drawings were stacked. I started flippin' through 'em. Right above me a little piece of glass had cracked out of the skylight. It wasn't raining now, but the wind had picked up and was blowin' in onto my face. That old October wind. And suddenly somethin' about the way I was standin' and the funny greenish-purple sky and all this olden stuff around me and that zoned-out something's-gonna-happen wind and that musty attic smell... I just knew I was on to somethin'.\n\nAnd it was right then that I looked down and noticed this framed map.\n\nI picked it up to look at closer, but it was impossible to read, all covered over by this dusty, yellowed glass. I tried to pull off the frame, but it wouldn't budge. I turned it over, but the back was covered by a sheet of wood. The only way I was ever gonna get to read that map was to break the glass.\n\nBut I couldn't bring myself to do it. I mean, my dad was responsible for all this stuff, I couldn't just go around trashin' it. On the other hand, Uncle Art always said you can't make an omelet unless you break a few eggs. On the other hand, Uncle Art is still on probation, I think, or maybe he's in that work program now.\n\nAnyway, just then I noticed Chunk workin' on tryin' to get a paint can that he'd accidentally stepped into off his foot. I thought I should help him, but I couldn't if I was holdin' the map, so I got an idea. \"Hey, Chunk, hold this for me,\" I said, and handed it to him.\n\nHe nodded and took it. I had to stand there maybe ten or fifteen seconds, trying to figure out the best way to help him before he suddenly lost his balance and fell over, dropping the map, shattering the glass into a zillion pieces.\n\nLike I said before, Chunk wasn't the lightest guy on his feet.\n\n\"Can't you do anything right?\" I sort of snapped at him. He shrugged, kind of embarrassed, and I was sorry right away that I'd made him feel bad, just for breakin' my eggs\u2014I mean, glass.\n\nSo I helped him up and got the paint can off his foot and then, with this weird feeling, I picked up the map.\n\nIt slid out of the frame real easy now, along with a small gold doubloon. Swear to God, a real gold coin.\n\nThe map was all creased and cracked and hand-painted in perfect detail. All of the writing was in Spanish with little arrows by some of it and little pictures by some of it, and at the bottom it was signed by some guy named \"One-Eyed Willy.\" It was written in Spanish, but that's what Mouth said it said.\n\nI stared at that signature. Man, I stared. Something about it, I don't know, something just got me.\n\nI looked over at the part of the map that was coastline. It looked real familiar to me. I followed it up slowly with my eyes, around this peninsula that looked kinda like the head of a hammerhead shark, then back up along this pretty straight area that got more and more full of coves, until it came to this kind of mountainous cliff drawn in, and right below the cliff was this big red _X_.\n\nI felt, like thunderstruck. I just knew, somehow, that this big red _X_ was _the_ big red _X_. You know, like _X_ marks the spot. And all this stuff I've been tellin' you, about foolin' the maid and foolin' my mom and all this other foolin' around\u2014that was all kids' stuff.\n\nAnd this _X_ marked the end of all that. \n\n# **CHAPTER 2**\n\n**_Ye Intruders Beware... One-Eyed Willy... We Slip Out the Back, Jack... We Stop for Provisions... Jerk Alert... Saved by Brand... Up the Coast... The Lighthouse_**.\n\nAll the other guys gathered around. They were still wearing some of the pirate things, hats and scarves and stuff like that.\n\nThe doubloon was like a large round coin, with sort of a coat-of-arms stamped on it, and three irregular triangular holes cut into it, two near one edge, one near the opposite. There was also a cross stamped near the third hole, and Spanish words around the edge, and some notches on one side. I held it up to the light.\n\nChunk took it out of my hand and looked at it real close. \"This says 1532. It that a year, or what?\"\n\n\"It's your top score on Donkey Kong,\" said Mouth.\n\nData ran his finger along the map's coastline, like he was into some really deep stuff. \"Maybe that's how it used to look,\" he said. \"You know, before they put up all the Wendy's and McDonald's.\"\n\n\"All the good stuff,\" Chunk added. Some day he was gonna do the editorial rebuttal at the end of the 6 o'clock news, I bet.\n\nBrand pointed to the Spanish words at the top of the map. \"What's all this say?\"\n\nMouth translated. \"It says 'Chunk's... father... screws... sheep...'\"\n\nChunk hit him a good one, right in the kidneys. Mouth just gave his usual obnoxious cackle, though. Then he got on his straight face, and translated again, for real, this time:\n\n\"Ye intruders beware\n\nCrushing death and grief,\n\nSoaked with Blood,\n\nOf the trespassing thief.\"\n\nWe all looked at him like he was jackin' around again, rhymin' just to hear himself rhyme, but he raised his hand in the Boy Scout Pledge, which meant no lie.\n\nData got kind of BFD about the whole thing then. \"That map's old news,\" he said. \"Everybody and his grandfather went after that treasure when our parents were our ages. Didn't you ever hear of that pirate guy? One-Eyed Willy?\"\n\nAnd Mouth sure wasn't gonna believe in anything Data didn't believe in. \"Sounds like your basic, boring Saturday morning TV junk for teeny kids,\" he said just too cool.\n\n\"Hey! One-Eyed Willy!\" I said. I was tryin' to get some enthusiasm going. \"He was the biggest pirate of his time. My dad told me all about him one night.\"\n\n\"Yeah, Dad'll tell you anything to get you to go to sleep,\" said Brand.\n\nThere was no point in dealing with Brand when he got like this, though. \"He had millions in treasure,\" I told 'em, \"but the King sent ships after him. So Willy took _his_ ship, called the _Inferno_ , and ducked into this cave to hide. But the King's men sealed him up inside it with cannon fire.\" It was clear as a picture to me.\n\n\"Your dad oughta write for the movies,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"My dad doesn't lie,\" I said, \"and he told me that Willy and his bunch spent years hiding out down there, building these underground caves loaded with all kindsa booby traps to protect the treasure.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"Whatever you say, man.\"\n\nThen Chunk looked down to the place where I'd found the map, and next to it he found a framed yellow newspaper with a photo of an old, smiling man who looked sort of like Gabby Hayes in a miner's hat. Chunk read the headlines on top of the photograph. \"'Chester Copperpot Missing in Pursuit of Local Legend.'\" And then under that, in smaller type, he read, \"'Reclusive Scavenger Claims \"I have the key to One-Eyed Willy!\"'\"\n\nData doubted. \"Nobody ever found nothing. Why do you think that map is sitting up here instead of in a safe-deposit box somewhere?\"\n\nTheir doubts were like water down my back, though. \"But... but what if... _what if_ , you guys! What if this leads to One-Eyed Willy's stash?\"\n\nThen Brand stepped in, like a cold, rational fish. Like a wet blanket. Like an adult. \"Take off all that junk, you guys. My mom's gonna come back soon.\"\n\nAnd then the door bell rang.\n\nIt was like time for study hall or somethin', with the hall monitors out in force. We all tore off our pirate clothes and raced down to see who was at the door and to show whoever it was that we were bein' nice, behaved kids.\n\nIt was the three guys in leisure suits. They were standin' behind the front screen door like big flies. The ugliest one kept practicing his golf swing. The closest one talked.\n\n\"Hello, guys. I'm Mr. Perkins. Troy's father.\"\n\nPerkins was one of the owners of the country club, and a bigger jerk has never existed in this galaxy, except maybe for his idiot son Troy.\n\nBrand kept his cool, though. \"My dad's not here, Mr. Perkins.\"\n\n\"Well, then, is your mommy home?\"\n\nWhat a flake.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Brand, \"she's out at the market buying Pampers for all us kids.\"\n\nPerkins laughed like someone had taught him how, then stopped like he forgot the way the rest of it went. \"Well, you can give these papers to your father to read over... and sign. Somebody from my office will pick them up in the morning.\"\n\nBrand took the papers and closed the door in the guy's ugly face.\n\n\"What is all that stuff?\" I asked. But I knew.\n\n\"It's Dad's business,\" said Brand. He was real depressed now.\n\nWe sort of looked at all the legal forms, but they were too complicated to figure out. Then we looked out the window at the three insect-men as they walked away, and they seemed real simple to figure out. Scums with money.\n\nI remember seeing this old movie on the tube, _You Can't Take it With You_ , about this stuffy, tight banker who's about to foreclose on the good-hearted heroes, but they convince him with love and generosity in the end that it's better to be kind and fun than rich, so he doesn't foreclose on 'em, he plays the harmonica instead. Stuff like that only happens in the movies, though.\n\n\"If I found any treasure with that map,\" I said, \"I'd pay all Dad's bills and buy his mortgage, and then maybe he could get to sleep at night instead of sittin' up tryin' to figure out a way for us to stay here.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Me too.\"\n\n\"Me three.\"\n\nBrand just grabbed me by the hair, though. \"You can forget about any adventures, limp lungs. You go outside now and Mom'll ground my ass. And I got a date with Andy on Friday.\"\n\n\"You're dreamin', dude,\" said Mouth. \"Besides; who's gonna drive you? Her parents? Then you gotta make it with her and her mother.\"\n\n\"Eat it, Mouth,\" Brand said, and walked back to his exercise area.\n\nI pulled the map from inside my shirt, and the guys pushed in to check it out.\n\nAnother lightning bolt flashed outside. It looked like blue neon. The map brightened and dimmed.\n\nIt looked like my future.\n\nSo me and the guys powwowed and came up with an exceptional plan.\n\nWe waited until Brand was sitting in his straight-backed chair in the rec room, pulling his spring-coil chest exerciser across his chest. We drifted around behind him, and then, the second he finished the fifteenth rep of his third set and dropped his arms like a couple quivering lumps at his sides, we jumped into action.\n\nMouth held Brand's arms to his sides; me and Chunk grabbed the exerciser and wrapped it around his chest, arms, and the back of the chair; and Data clamped the two ends of the exerciser together in back. Brand was totally chained. It was totally cool.\n\n\"Hey! Wait... lemmee out!\"\n\nWe were outta there, though.\n\nWe snuck through the backyard. Grandpa was sleeping in the hammock, probably dreamin' about Ziegfeld's Follies or somethin'.\n\n\"Careful, don't wake Grandpa!\" I whispered.\n\n\"Shhh, yeah, don't wake him.\"\n\n\"Yeah, shhh.\"\n\nJust as we rounded the corner of the house, though, Mouth shoved the hammock, and Grandpa woke up.\n\nIt's not that Mouth was a mean person, you gotta understand\u2014he just had this basic urge to do whatever it was he shouldn't do. I think it was genetic or something.\n\nAnyway, we split before Grandpa saw us, slipped out the back, Jack, and ran to the side of the house. Mouth let the air out of Brand's ten-speed while we climbed onto our dirt bikes.\n\nI looked to make sure Mouth wasn't slashin' the tires or anything. \"It took him 376 lawn jobs to pay for that,\" I said. \"It's his most favorite thing in the world.\"\n\n\"Now it's his most _flattest_ thing in the world.\"\n\nSuddenly we heard Brand screaming from inside the house. \"Mikey, I'm gonna hit you so hard, when you wake up, your clothes are gonna be outta style.\"\n\nI didn't need any more encouragement. We shot down the driveway and were gone.\n\nWe rode toward the old coast road, which seemed like the best place to begin, according to the map. To get there we had to pass the edge of the business district, which meant two things. First we went by the museum.\n\nDad was up on the rooftop, nailing down a leaky shingle. \"Hi, Dad!\" I called out to him. He waved back and smiled. I sort of wanted to say good-bye to him, in case this hunt took me somewhere I couldn't get back from. I just had that feeling. You know?\n\nThe last place we passed on the way out of town was the Stop-'N'-Snack. I zoomed on by it, the map spread open on my handlebars, headed for the coast and maybe dire straights. When I looked over my shoulder, though, I saw three bikes parked in front of the Stop-'N'-Snack, and the guys walkin' inside.\n\nI skid-stopped on the gravel. I held up the map. \"Hey, guys\u2014what about this? Huh?\"\n\nThey just waved me over and kept on in. I guess old habits die hard.\n\nSo I turned around and joined them. Last one in, as usual. Data was buying a pack of baseball cards, and Mrs. Keester, the old lady who ran the place, was ringin' it up on a computer cash register. The thing was jammed or somethin', though, so she started pounding it with her hand. Data made her stop. He opened the little door at the back of the thing and began fiddling with the wires.\n\nMouth was standing at the magazine rack, lookin' kind of sly. While Mrs. Keester was busy with Data, Mouth slipped a copy of _Playboy_ inside a copy of _Omni_ and casually started reading, mostly around the middle of the magazine.\n\nChunk was over by the junk food, and just like Mouth, he was lookin' pretty cagey. Suddenly he tore open a Twinkie, slurped out the cream filling, then rewrapped the Twinkie and put it back on the shelf. It was really gross.\n\nI walked up to him and waved the map in his face. \"Hey, Chunk, c'mon\u2014we were gonna look for rich stuff, we gotta do it _now_.\"\n\n\"Hey, don't get nervous. We gotta get provisions, don't we? We're goin' on an expedition, aren't we?\"\n\nHe had a point, I guess, even if I was too excited to eat. I went over to Data as Chunk went to work on a Ding-Dong.\n\nData was still messing with the cash register, and that got me a little down.\n\n\"Data, what if they make us move?\" I said. \"Where we gonna go?\" I was startin' to get depressed again, to have second thoughts about our adventure. I mean, if we could get sidetracked by a two-byte computer, a skin mag, and a Hostess Ho-Ho, we weren't gonna get very far on any treasure hunt. \"Data?\" I said again.\n\n\"Don't bother him while he's working,\" said Mrs. Keester.\n\nI walked over to Mouth, to try to charge him up again. \"Mouth, what if they start tearin' down our houses?\"\n\nThe centerfold was the only thing charging _him_ up, though. \"Take it easy, dude\u2014let your folks handle this. That's their job. _Our_ job is to get through the weekend without destroying too many brain cells.\"\n\nI took a hit of Promotene Mist, I was feelin' that low. I picked up a copy of _Mad_ off the rack, flipped to the back, and checked out the fold-in. I guessed it\u2014as usual.\n\nI happened to look down just then and noticed that all the way at the bottom of the stand was a section of dusty old tourist maps of Astoria. I pulled one out, sat down on the floor, and opened it. Then I took out the pirate map and opened _it_ , and lay the two side by side.\n\nAnd they were the same.\n\nI mean, basically the same. The coastlines were identical, and a bunch of the cliffs were exact matches, even though some were different, probably because of earthquakes and tidal waves and stuff over the years. But the really important thing was that the place where the _X_ was on the pirate map was at a place that looked exactly the same on the tourist map, and it was a place that I knew, knew exactly where it was.\n\n\"I know where this is,\" I whispered.\n\nThis was too great to believe. We were in business again. I was totally stoked. I jumped up and ran over to Chunk, to tell him the good news. He was bent way over into the ice-cream freezer, though, licking the top layers of the Swensen's and then replacing the lids. That was his favorite thing, so he wasn't about to be interrupted.\n\nSo I ran to Data, who was still diddling the wires in the register. \"Data,\" I said. Just then the machine beeped and lit up, and Mrs. Keester pinched Data's cheek with a big smile, the way she does.\n\nSuddenly Mouth's voice rang through the store. \"Jerk alert!\"\n\nI looked over to the entrance, and Mouth wasn't kidding. Troy Perkins was coming in.\n\nLike I said before, Troy wins Dork of the Year, hands down. And don't think it's because he's rich, because I know a lot of guys from Hillside that play it just as straight as anybody. But like I also said before, Troy's got a big handicap to begin with, just because his father is _Mr_. Perkins, who could use a few lessons in earthling behavior.\n\nSo, anyway, Troy strutted into the Stop-'N'-Snack like he owned the place, which he probably did. He was wearing his cool-o tennis outfit, and his hair was styled, and so were his _fingernails_ \u2014what he called manicured. Get the picture?\n\nBut the thing is, he was walkin' in with Andy Carmichael and Stef Steinbrenner. Now Andy is the girl Brand was hopin' to take out Saturday night, and she was like so foxy, it was intense. She was wearin' her cheerleader's outfit now, but she was also wearin' Troy's letter sweater with his name sewn on the pocket. Dum-da-dum-dum.\n\nStef was Andy's best friend. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Andy, but she was tough enough. She lived in the Goon Docks, like us. Andy was from Hillside. Stef wore glasses. Andy wore contacts. Stef once punched out Lenny Dole. That was before high school, but the reputation stuck. She also had a rep about sex, like there was always some guy poppin' up sayin' he had a friend who _did it_ with old Stef Steinbrenner. But you couldn't believe that kinda shit. Still, she did have a certain way she walked, and her brothers were always in trouble, and she hung out sometimes with Macy and those motorcycle guys, and she smoked and had a fake ID. Anyway, Stef and Andy were sort of opposites, but they whispered to each other all the time and went to the bathroom together, so I guess they had a lot in common too.\n\nAnyway, Troy walked straight over to the magazine rack, grabbed the _Playboy_ out of Mouth's hand, and started pagin' through it. Mouth glared at Troy like maybe he could kill him with his eyes, but Troy didn't drop, he just kept lookin' at the pictures. So finally Mouth backed off, without mouthin' off even once, like he couldn't be bothered to waste his breath on such a jerk. So instead he just picked up another magazine.\n\nStef came up behind Mouth. \"You still smell like a plumber's son,\" she said.\n\n\"You still smell like a fisherman's daughter,\" he said back.\n\nWhich is what they both were. I think they sort of liked each other, though.\n\nAndy walked over to them. Troy nudged her with this really feeb grin and held up the _Playboy_ centerfold and said, \"Can you measure up?\"\n\nAndy looked away, kind of embarrassed, like, of course, she would be, so then to make matters worse, Troy laughed, like you knew it wasn't a real laugh, he was just trying to make a point, but the point was his head.\n\nI don't know, it really made me feel bad.\n\n\"You're a lot prettier than that, Andy,\" I said. She was too. She didn't have those huge Annie Fannie boobs, but so what? You know what I mean?\n\nAnyway, she smiled at me. Gave me this real flutter in the pit of my stomach, like when I had to recite _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ on stage at the spring assembly. Like I wasn't sure I'd said the right thing, but there was no taking it back.\n\nI don't know, I just haven't had much luck with women. I mean, I know I'm supposed to, but I don't know where to begin. Especially with anyone as pretty as Andy. Like, my braces alone are so ugly, it seems that most girls must be embarrassed just to look at me. Not to mention which it probably wouldn't be fair passing on my wimpy, sick genes to a kid, so I'm not gonna get married, so why bother dating and stuff in the first place, right?\n\nTroy walked over to the freezer where Chunk was still in over his head lickin' ice cream\u2014and he brought the freezer door down on Chunk's back, trapping him there.\n\nReally rude.\n\n\"My mom's makin' a Goon Pizza tonight,\" Troy yukked. \"She's gonna need some frozen dough.\"\n\n\"Why don't you leave him alone?\" I shouted. The poor guy was floppin' his legs all over like a fish. I mean, he was obviously freakin' out.\n\nTroy let him alone then. But he came over to me. \"Did I hear you right?\" he said. \"Did I hear a Goony telling me what to do?\"\n\nI thought he was going to hit me. My chest got tight. I was about to crouch, but suddenly he grabbed my map off the floor. The old one.\n\n\"Hey, let go,\" I shouted. \"That's art you're messin' with.\" I mean, if he wrecked it, my dad was gonna kill me\u2014and I sure wasn't gonna tell him what it was really all about.\n\nSo he didn't know how important it really was, but he could see it was important to me. So he held it over my head\u2014he was pretty much taller than me\u2014grabbed a pack of tobacco from the counter, poured it onto the paper, and started rolling it like a cigarette.\n\n\"Just can't get rolling papers like these anymore,\" he said.\n\nI grabbed for it, but he knocked me down. Big tough guy. Then he took a butane lighter out of his pocket and lit the end of the rolled map. I couldn't believe it. He took a puff. The end of the map started burning!\n\nI could hardly watch, and I had to put my hands over my eyes. The jerk was actually blowing smoke rings. Just then Mouth walked up and raised his eyebrows. \"Ya know,\" he said, real cool, \"the way you're puffin' on that cigarette, it reminds me of somethin'.\"\n\n\"Yeah? What's that?\" said Troy.\n\n\"The time I French-kissed your mother,\" said Mouth.\n\nTroy freaked. I mean, you'd have thought he actually had a thing for his mother, the way he looked. Whatever it was, though, he dropped the map and went for Mouth. I stomped out the fire and grabbed the map. Unfortunately for Mouth, this time his feet weren't as fast as his voice box. Troy tackled him and started punching.\n\nMouth covered his face, but Troy was a lot bigger. I jumped onto Troy's back and got him in a headlock. But I was a lot smaller.\n\nData ran up and shouted \"Smoke screen!\" and held out his arm. A garden hose was sticking out from his sleeve, but instead of shooting smoke at us, it just kind of smoldered and burned him, so he ran over to the ice machine and buried his arm in the cubes.\n\nTroy pulled me off with his left hand and cocked his right to smash my face in. Halfway to my nose, his fist was stopped short, though, and was held in midair by somebody else's.\n\nBrand.\n\n\"Nobody hits my brother except me,\" he said.\n\nTroy got off me and stood up. He was scared of Brand, no doubt about it. He had this kind of sick grin bullies get when they're not gangin' up on someone. I'd love to have seen him sweat himself into a puddle.\n\n\"Can't wait until Monday,\" he said. I could hear in his voice that he was so scared, he was talkin' through his nose. \"Monday's when my dad kicks you all out in the street.\" He stood back and did a golf swing, like he was supposed to be a pro or something. \"While you Goonies are pilin' all your stuff into moving vans, I'll be teeing off on what used to be your front lawns.\" Then he laughed and sounded like he was clearing snot, and he said to Andy, \"Our court time starts in five minutes. I'll be waiting outside.\" Then he walked out, real casual, sat down in his red Mustang convertible, and turned on the radio so loud, we could hear it all the way in the store.\n\nBrand looked at Andy kind of angry hurt and jealous, and she looked back at him with a look I'd like her to have looked at me, and then Brand kind of melted, and then Andy shrugged like this was a bad time, and then Brand slumped like he was trying to be nonchalant, and then Andy turned and left.\n\nI quickly unrolled the map. It was okay, only the edges were burned.\n\nBut Brand was really broiled. He grabbed the map and slapped my head.\n\n\"You know how I got loose?\" he said. \" _Mom_ came home and unhooked me. She was totally pissed off, man, and so was I. And Rosalita was there with her brother, and _she_ thought it was some kind of sexual torture device, thanks to Mouth. And then Mom told me that if I didn't find you and get you back in thirty minutes, we were _both_ grounded. And _then_ you know what happened? _Somebody_ flattened my tires, so I had to _steal_ Data's sister's bike to get over here\u2014'cause I _knew_ you bozos wouldn't get any farther than this on your great adventure.\" Then he pinched my arm and shoved me ahead of him. \"You just blew your whole life, pal.\" He stuffed the map into his back pocket and looked at the other guys. \"The rest of you guys too\u2014you're all history. We don't need friends like you.\"\n\nMouth put his arm around Brand's shoulder and started singing, real sincere. \"Here's to good friends, tonight is kinda special, the beer we pour, must be something more, somehow...\"\n\nAnd all the time he was singing, he was pulling the map out of Brand's back pocket.\n\nBrand shoved him away. \"You don't have to drink to make friends, wimp.\"\n\nThat was when Mouth showed us the map, with his back to Brand. We all made a run for it.\n\nWe were on our bikes before Brand realized what happened and were out of the parking lot before he got to the neighbor kid's bike, which was about three sizes too small for him, and no way he could catch us.\n\nSo we were outta there.\n\n* * *\n\nMouth handed off the map to me at the next corner, but I didn't even have to look at it yet. I took us right to the coast highway and turned north. We were on our way.\n\nSpringsteen was blasting from Data's tape deck, and somehow, with that cloudy wind and those darkish fir trees all up the coast, it was just perfect discovery weather. Something was definitely happening.\n\nOne of the clouds on the horizon blew into a different shape so that it looked just like a pirate ship to me. I see pictures in clouds all the time. Mom says it's because I'm a dreamer, but they look so real, I don't see how other people don't see what I see. It's like jigsaw puzzles, I guess.\n\nAnyway, the fact that this cloud was a pirate ship seemed like a pure sign, no two ways about it, so I knew my instincts were right, and, if I just kept following my nose, I'd get a noseful of something soon enough.\n\nI checked the map after riding about twenty minutes and took the first turnoff beyond the old schoolhouse, leading up over Piedmont Ridge. In the distance we could see the edge of the Hillside Country Club. Mouth spat.\n\nWe went down the ridge and past the coast road to where we overlooked the ocean again, and the first thing I saw was these three rocks sticking up out of the water in a _V_. And I knew them from somewhere.\n\nI stopped pedaling, and the guys stopped with me. \"I know this place,\" I whispered. \"This is it.\"\n\nIt was the beginning of the place on the old map that didn't show up on the tourist map. It was marked by those three rocks, and by this tall, natural pillar of rock that stuck straight up at the bottom of the hill that we were at the top of.\n\nIt was a steep hill with lots of jutting, jagged slabs pointing out all over and hardly a bike path down through it, nothing we would've taken if it hadn't been on the secret map.\n\nBut we took it now.\n\nWe walked our bikes, it was so steep. At the bottom it turned into a sort of gravel path that veered off in a funny direction just past the tall stone pillar. We got on our bikes and rode real slow.\n\nThe coast road was behind us now, and then I don't know where it was. We went through this place with mossy trees, and then there was this rickety old wooden bridge across a creek, so we walked our bikes over that, and then next thing, we were out of the woods and onto this rocky beach.\n\nWe kept going. Trees came right up to the beach at one point, and we were through 'em, down a hollow and up a hill where the trees thinned out again and left us with a clear view of the ocean right below us. And here's what we saw.\n\nThere was a small peninsula with waves smashing all around it. On the near side was a little cemetery with a bunch of crooked old falling-down gravestones. Beyond that, at the tip of the land, was a tall stone lighthouse, broken off at the top and bent over so it almost looked like it was a giant tombstone too.\n\nAnd sitting between them was a square one-story building. Real run-down. It was made of wood, painted white about a hundred years ago, it looked like. It sat kind of crooked, too, like the gravestones, like maybe one end of it had started to sag into the ground. Its windows were twisted and dirty, and a broken red-and-green neon sign was sort of stuck on top like a big wind had planted it there by accident. It said LIGHTHOUSE LOUNGE.\n\nThere was an OPEN\u2014CLOSED sign hanging in front of the front door, but it was flappin' around in the heavy wind, so sometimes it showed one side and sometimes the other.\n\nThe place looked pretty spooky, I gotta say. None of us said a word.\n\nAnd then, swear to God, I saw a shadow pass by one of the windows inside.\n\nI looked at the other guys, but nobody was talkin'.\n\nI stared out over the sea. Those three rocks we'd passed before were sitting out there in the distance, way behind the lighthouse, and it made me think of something, but I didn't know what. But then I knew what.\n\nI took out the doubloon. It had these three holes cut into it, so I held it up to my eye\u2014the holes lined up exactly with the three rocks and the lighthouse. They were even shaped the same. Not only that, there was an _X_ etched on the coin that seemed to sit right over the Lighthouse Lounge.\n\nI passed the coin around, and everyone had a look.\n\nI looked back at the map. It seemed to end right where we were, but it was hard to tell, because this crease ran through that part where it had been bent in on itself for a long time, before it had been framed.\n\nI tried to straighten it, but it wouldn't straighten, and that's when I remembered how the doctor had had to break my arm back the other way from the way it was broken in order to straighten it. So I folded the map backward to undo the crease, and that's when I _really_ saw what was what.\n\nI saw it worked like a fold-in on the back cover of _Mad_.\n\nAnd when I folded it in completely on itself, it formed an exact replica of the doubloon, with the holes marked at all the same places, and an _X_ right by the third hole.\n\nAnd when I put the doubloon down over the three signal rocks on the map, the _X_ in the side of the coin exactly laid over the lighthouse.\n\nI showed the guys. \"We're here,\" I said, pointing to where the little square wooden building was sinking into the sand. This is where the treasure's buried.\"\n\nI indicated the _X_ on the map, and then, once more, pointed toward the lighthouse. \"Right down there.\" \n\n# **CHAPTER 3**\n\n**_The Lighthouse Lounge... Gunshots... The Old Lady... Jake's Fish Surprise... The Thing in the Basement... Brand Catches Up... The One-Bag Trunk... Stef and Andy... Descent into Darkness._**\n\nMouth read what was written beside the cross on the map.\n\nSix times five\n\nStretching feet,\n\nTo lowest point\n\nGet the treat.\n\nWe paused, calculating.\n\n\"Six times five. That's thirty,\" I said.\n\n\"Brilliant,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"Stretching feet,\" said Data. \"Your feet stretch when you walk....\"\n\n\"So that's it!\" I said. \"If we walk thirty paces, to the lowest point, we'll get the riches.\"\n\nChunk shivered. \"I dunno... it's gettin' late. My mom's gonna be worried.\" I knew what he meant. It was down and gloomy. \"Besides,\" he said, \"what's that place doin' open in the fall? It's only a summer place\u2014I was here once when I was a kid. But I think I just saw someone walkin' around in there. Seems pretty creepy.\"\n\nAll of a sudden a car pulled into the drive. It stopped in front of the building, and two guys got out wearing dark business suits. They walked up to the front door and went inside.\n\n\"See,\" said Data, \"there's nothin' to be scared of. There's two other customers goin' in.\"\n\n\"Maybe they ain't customers,\" Chunk whispered. \"Maybe they're drug dealers or somethin'.\"\n\nData didn't buy it. \"Drug dealers? Did you see their clothes? J.C. Penney polyester. Drug dealers wouldn't be caught dead in those rags.\"\n\nI had to agree, although I should say I don't know exactly what drug dealers would be caught dead in. Probably we were all thinking along the same lines, because Mouth seemed kind of put-offish. \"So what made you think nobody ever followed this map before and split with whatever's buried there?\" he said.\n\n\"They could've,\" I told him. \"But I never heard of anybody finding more stuff than already's in the museum. And anyway, to grown-ups this is already worth enough\u2014you know, they dig up an old map and threw a wooden frame around it and hang it in a museum and can it art.\"\n\n\"Okay, but how're we s'posed to dig for anything?\" Mouth wanted to know. \"Knock on the door? Ask whoever's there? 'Scuse me, mind if we wreck your floor? Borrow a cup o' jewels, golden rules, ship of fools'?\"\n\nThey were starting to chicken out, and I was too chicken to do it alone, so I had to get 'em up for it. \"Look, the place is obviously open for business. We can pretend like we're comin' in for somethin' to eat and then joint the case.\" Or maybe I meant get on the case.\n\n\"You mean case the joint,\" said Data.\n\n\"Yeah.\" That's what I meant. I was just talkin' outta the wrong movie.\n\nWe walked down the hill and parked our bikes at the base, right next to the near side of the graveyard. The clouds were almost black and rippin' by like a stormy ocean above us. Man, it was somethin' else.\n\nWe stepped real slow between the gravestones. They were at all different angles, so you couldn't tell if you were walkin' on somebody's grave exactly or not, so we tried to go gentle wherever we put our feet. A cemetery's not a place where you want to offend anyone.\n\nMade me think of this _Twilight Zone_ where on a dare this gunfighter has to stick a knife in the grave of the man he killed. So he sticks his knife in the grave, but he accidentally sticks it in his coat, too, so when he stands up, he thinks the guy's tuggin' at him from the grave, so he dies of fright.\n\nI checked to make sure my coat wasn't draggin' on the ground.\n\nSuddenly we heard a loud bang, like a firecracker, coming from the house. We stopped. Then two more: _Bam! Bam!_\n\nIt seemed kind of scary, but it also seemed like here we were in this graveyard, nearly Halloween, and it was really neat scarin' ourselves at any sudden noise.\n\n\"That sounded like gunshots,\" whispered Chunk. \"Not the big ones like you hear in war movies but real ones.\"\n\n\"Gunshots. Jeez, Chunk, turn off your brain,\" I said.\n\n\"No problem there,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"Somebody probably just dropped a pot in the kitchen,\" I added, just for an example. I mean, I really thought it was probably somethin' like that. So I started walkin' toward the lighthouse again.\n\nWhen we got there, it was real quiet. Mouth looked through the front-door windows, but they were too dirty to see anything, he said. Me and Data went to the side of the building, but the windows were too high. Chunk walked over to the garage while I piled a couple of orange crates for me and Data to stand on. We climbed up, put our noses to the glass, and looked inside.\n\nIt was a restaurant with a bar, but it looked shut down, and pretty ratty for sure. The kind of seafood place with shredded fishnet hanging on the ceiling, all covered with dust and cobwebs. There were stuffed fish on the walls, too, except they looked plastic, and crossed oars with rusty pins, and the whole place looked like it had been left behind somebody's refrigerator for about ten years.\n\nWay in the back I saw two people. Shadows of people, actually. Probably the guys we saw go in. They were dragging two long, limp sacks across the floor. I figured flour, or maybe a couple of big swordfish, so I figured these guys were makin' a food delivery, or maybe they were the off-season kitchen help, so I figured maybe they could tell us what the story was.\n\nSo I jumped down off the orange crates and went inside. Mouth and Data followed.\n\nIt was, like I said, real quiet. The ceiling had high beams that kind of swallowed up all the light from the few bulbs stuck along the walls. Some of the furniture was broken, some of the plaster was cracked. It seemed deserted, but at the same, time I felt watched.\n\nChunk suddenly came running in, waving his arms and jumpin' around real crazy. There was this old jukebox near the bar, and in a weird way it looked like Chunk was dancing to some silent song that he could hear and we couldn't.\n\nThat happens to me sometimes: I hear some melody, I guess it's in my head, 'cause when I say, \"Did you hear that?\" someone like Brand looks at me like I was crackin' up. But it's there, swear to God, just like the pictures are really there in the clouds, just like there are patterns in the jigsaw puzzle some people can see and some can't. I mean, maybe that _does_ make me a dreamer. But don't you have dreams?\n\nSo Chunk started gaspin', \"Guys! Guys! We gotta get outta here! There's a car in the garage with\u2014\"\n\nBut before he could finish, a slamming door cut him off. I jumped high enough to hurt myself coming down. We all turned toward the sound of the door and saw a woman standing there, and I jumped again.\n\nShe was sort of old but looked like she could eat the four of us alive and was thinkin' about it. She had on an ugly black dress, black shoes, a black beret, and a black scowl. There was a tattoo on her left arm. Damn, she looked mean.\n\n\"How long you boys been at that window?\" she growled.\n\n\"Long enough to see that this place needs about four hundred roach traps,\" said Mouth. Only Mouth could have thought up a crack that fast to this lady. It kind of broke the tension for me, though, and I nearly laughed, especially because you could see she really had it in for Mouth now, so the heat was kind of off the rest of us.\n\nShe pulled out a chair at one of the grungy tables and motioned us to have a seat, which we did. She called out, \"Jake! We got customers!\"\n\nWe heard a loud thump in the back room, and then someone called back, \"Whattaya mean, customers? This ain't no\u2014\" As he was sayin' this last part, he stuck his head out and saw us and said, \"Shit, Mama,\" real soft.\n\nThe old lady snapped her fingers at him, \"Now go on. Get in the kitchen. Warm up the stove.\"\n\nJake walked across the room to the kitchen door, giving us the eye the whole way. He was an older guy, maybe thirty, with round, wire glasses and a cool vest and a temper you could see all under everything.\n\n\"Okay,\" said Mama, \"we got a specialized menu here.\" She had to be kidding. The table we were at was wobbly and filthy enough to make my mom puke if she ever saw it. I tried to pick up a rusty fork, but it was half stuck down with an expired glop of chewing gum. Really gross.\n\nThe other guys looked pretty leery, but Chunk looked like a jumpin' bean, he was squirmin' around so much.\n\nMama kept talking. \"We serve one thing. Fresh Fish Surprise.\"\n\n\"What kind of fish?\" said Chunk. Food could take his mind off anything.\n\n\"I said it's a surprise!\" shouted Mama, crashing her hand down on the table.\n\n\"Okay. Okay. I'll take it,\" said Chunk. He looked pretty scared.\n\nI suddenly know she was tryin' to scare us off, so I suddenly didn't think she was really all that scary. Just kinda weird.\n\nAnd I also thought that if this ugly old lady wanted to scare us away, maybe there _was_ gold buried here. So I was more fixed than ever to stay.\n\n\"What about the rest of ya?\" said Mama.\n\n\"Just a glass of water for me,\" I said. The other guys all ordered the same. No one knew what to make of this mess.\n\n\"Okay, one Surprise and four waters. That it?\" she snarled.\n\n\"I'd like-a the antipasto salad, the fettucini Alfredo, the-a veal scallopini, and a bottle of Boticelli, 1981.\" This was Mouth doing his Italian imitation, which means that this was Mouth mouthing off from nervousness 'cause he just couldn't shut up.\n\nSo he laughed nervously with his tongue flappin', and the old lady grabbed it\u2014grabbed his damn tongue!\u2014and pulled a pocketknife out of her dress and put the blade to that tongue in Mouth and said, \"We got one more thing on the menu\u2014tongue. You boys like tongue?\"\n\nWe shook our heads fast. That was when I realized this lady was not only trying to scare us off, she was a little nutsy.\n\nShe let go of Mouth's tongue with a smile then, like she was just kidding all the time, and walked into the kitchen.\n\nMouth put his hand to his mouth. I got up to look for a trapdoor or some other place a treasure might be hid. As soon as the kitchen door closed, Chunk started to talk, but he was interrupted by arguing in the next room.\n\n\"But, Ma,\" came Jake's voice, \"this was supposed to be _our_ dinner\u2014\"\n\n\"Just shut up,\" yelled the old woman. \"Shut up and do what I told you.\"\n\nData whispered to me, \"What about those two guys who came in before us? What happened to them?\"\n\nChunk finally pushed in close and told what he'd been trying to tell us since Mama first crowded us. \"Guys, look, if we don't get outta here now, there's gonna be some kinda hostage crisis,\" he whispered. \"Out in the garage there's this truck\u2014the same one I saw this morning\u2014bullet holes in it the size of Big Macs\u2014\"\n\nMouth cut him short, though. \"Big Mac, yakkety-yak. Chunk, I'm startin' to O.D. on all your bullshit stories.\" I think Mouth was feeling kind of snappish after the business with his tongue.\n\nThen something else bizarre happened. There was this churning, bumping, whirring noise echoing through the place like a washing machine having a nervous break-down. Then this guy started swearing, and there were feet on stairs, and another door flew open, and this guy came stormin' out, spattered all over with dark green ink, yellin' and stompin' across the room toward the kitchen, holdin' up his hand, which had the face of a president stamped on the palm, but I'm not sure which president.\n\n\"How the hell am I supposed to finish up downstairs with that piece of Smithsonian shit I got to work with?\" he shouted.\n\nThen he saw us. That stopped him. He just stared at us for a second, then made a fist with his hand, and another one with his face, and turned and ran back through the door and slammed it behind him.\n\nBefore we could speak, Mama came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of glasses, which she set down on our table. The glasses were filled with this rusty-orange-colored liquid with these scuzzy little particles floating in it. It looked like something from a drainage ditch.\n\nShe gave us each a glass.\n\n\"This supposed to be water?\" said Mouth.\n\n\"It's wet, ain't it?\" the old lady said.\n\n\"Yeah, sure\u2014looks great,\" said Data.\n\n\"Yeah, great mule piss,\" said Mouth. He was really pushin' his luck, it seemed to me. The old lady looked at him real strange. That was Mouth, though\u2014always doin' what he shouldn't.\n\nHe started pouring his glass into the others, just to irritate her, I think. The sound of the water trickling sounded kind of like going to the bathroom, which gave me an idea. If I pretended I had to go to the bathroom, I could excuse myself from the table and I might get a little time and privacy to check the place out. So I started to squirm around the way I used to when I was a kid and had to go. That made me remember that this was the sort of place that had daddy longlegs in the bathroom, so I shivered, and then I really did have to go a little.\n\nThe kitchen doors flew open, and Jake came out wearing a bloody apron and carrying a huge, steaming pot with a big ladle in it. He set it down on the table and said, \"Okay, who ordered Fish Surprise?\"\n\nChunk raised his hand, kind of nervous. Jake ladled a mess of the stuff into Chunk's dish. It was totally gross. Kind of a jellified black soup with fish heads and parts. I think it's considered a delicacy in France or some damn place, but it just made me sick.\n\n\"Yummy,\" said Chunk. I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. He knew a lot more about food than I did.\n\nMama looked into the pot. \"Is there any left?\" She checked her wristwatch.\n\nJake nodded.\n\n\"Then it's time to feed your brother,\" the old lady went on.\n\n\"Let Francis do it,\" said Jake. \"I fed it last night.\"\n\n\"Francis is busy,\" said Mama.\n\n\"But I hate goin' down there, Ma. It\u2014\"\n\n\"He's your brother. Now get goin' before it gets cold.\" She pushed him hard.\n\nHe walked across the room without much enthusiasm, opened a creaky old door, and walked down a lot of creaky old stairs.\n\nNow that we were alone with Mama again, it seemed like a good time for me to try out my plan. I stood up. \"'Scuse me, ma'am,\" I said, real polite. \"Where's the men's room?\"\n\nShe turned to look at me. Chunk, behind her, kept motioning me to forget it, but it just looked like he was dancing to the silent jukebox again, and I was hearing my own tune now\u2014I mean, I really knew I was in the right place at the right time.\n\nMama glared at me. \"Can't you hold it?\"\n\n\"Yeah, Mikey,\" said Chunk, \"can't you hold it?\"\n\nMouth, of course, couldn't help stirring things up. He poured a thin, noisy stream of water from one glass to another. What a jerk.\n\nIt was perfect for me, though. \"Lady, please!\"\n\nShe nodded kind of understandingly, like maybe she really _was_ somebody's mama once. \"Downstairs, to your right,\" she said. \"And stay to your right!\"\n\nI nodded and went to the door before she changed her mind. I could hear Chunk whispering behind me, stuff like \"Mikey, don't, you can't...\" but I ignored him and started down the stairs.\n\nIt was dark, too dark to see much, and twisting down, so I kept my hand against the wall to guide me. The wall was cool, damp stone. The steps were rotting wood. They creaked the whole way down.\n\nAt the bottom was a long corridor with a few bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling. There was nobody else around, so I took out the map to see if I could find any comparisons or clues. But I didn't get much time to check, because suddenly I heard this weird growling coming from the other end of the hall. It made my hair tingle.\n\nI put the map away and followed the sounds. They led me, after a little turning, to a thick wooden door, open a crack. The growling was much louder inside, like a sick animal or something, and mixed in with rattling chains.\n\nI don't know, but somehow it wasn't exactly scary, just sort of sad and weird and pitiful.\n\nI pulled the door open a little wider, and I stuck my head inside.\n\nIt was a stone room, small, like a jail cell, with heavy, old wood beams and a slatted ceiling. There was a light in the room above us, which sent stripes of light through the slats into this room. There was a thin, stained mattress on the cement floor. There was rotten food and rat turds all over everywhere. And against the far wall, sitting in a hard wooden chair, there was a large... person.\n\nSort of a person. He was kind of too big, though, and not shaped exactly right\u2014but he was hard to see, 'cause he was all in shadow.\n\nJake stood beside this guy, holding the pot of food. The guy growled at Jake, not human but like a thing. Jake held the pot out and talked like he was talking to a pet dog.\n\n\"Here, boy. You hungry? Want your supper?\"\n\nThe thing grunted and held out his arms. They were thick, with more muscles than I'd ever seen, covered with curly, dark hair and too long for his grayed old coat. Heavy metal chains wrapped around his wrists, connecting him to the stone wall. He whined like a starving child. Scared as I was, that crying sound made _me_ want to cry tears, swear to God.\n\nJake held the pot just a few inches from where the chains held the thing. \"Here, fella\u2014this what you want? Your Tender Vittles?\"\n\nThe big guy roared and grabbed for the bowl. Made me jump, it sounded like a wounded wolf. Jake dropped the pot, and the fish-head soup spilled all over the floor.\n\nThe big guy cried again, more sort of like a rabbit in a trap.\n\nJake was real sarcastic, though. \"Oh, poor boy. Sorry, fella. Maybe tomorrow night.\"\n\nThe big thing whimpered. Jake laughed and turned for the door, which I jumped behind to hide. Jake walked right by me. He didn't see me in the dark, so he walked back upstairs. So I came out and took a step into the room.\n\nThere was a small black-and-white TV against the wall, and it was turned on now, without the sound. It sat on bricks, near the floor, with a little rabbit-ears antenna on top of it. The reception was awful. It looked like an old movie, with a sword fight and people yelling. I think it was _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , which I never saw, but I read the Classics Comics, so I knew this was definitely a sign, because the count got to be count because _he_ figured out _his_ lost treasure map and dug his way to freedom.\n\nAnyway, this big guy wasn't interested in any of that now. He was on his knees, eating the fish heads and tripe off the floor, sometimes mixing it in accidentally with little bits of cement or rat bones or dirt, making little satisfied grunting sounds. Then he heard me.\n\nHe lifted his head\u2014and there in the whitish glow of the crummy TV, I saw what he looked like. And man, I was scared.\n\nHe was bald except for a little topknot, and his head just wasn't the right shape. High up were two partly formed ears, more like dried apricots that had gone bad. His eyes weren't the same size or color, and they were at two different levels on his face, one near where it was supposed to be and one down along the side of his nose. And his nose was all wrong, too, kind of off-center and squished, like he'd fallen on his face and it was made of clay.\n\nBut his mouth was real sad.\n\nHe growled at me like I was going to steal his food, though, so I didn't stick around to argue\u2014I just took off and hoped the chains held and he'd had all his shots.\n\nI ran down the basement hall, back up the stairs, and into the lounge so fast, it made me wheeze. And I ran smack into Brand.\n\nHe was all dirty and bruised and looked totally pissed off. He grabbed me by the collar and lifted me in the air and stared at me so hard, it hurt. \"Death's too good for you,\" he said. \"I'm savin' you for Mom.\"\n\nI wheezed a little louder, and he dropped me. \"Brand, what happened? You look awful,\" I said. I was actually pretty glad to see him, but with that thing in the basement, and Brand looking like he'd fallen into a blender, I didn't know what to say first.\n\n\"I'll tell you what happened, twerp,\" he said real quiet but like he was shouting. \"I was on your trail on that teeny bike when Troy Perkins pulled alongside me in his red Mustang, with Andy and Stef in the car, and he asked me if I wanted a lift. So I grabbed onto the door handle, and he grabbed my wrist and peeled rubber, and in eight seconds I was going sixty on that bike. So when he finally let go of me, all I could do was plow off the road into the tall grass and wreck myself and follow you here on foot. So I dragged my ass out of the field and found your slimy-snail bike tracks in the dirt, and between those and the Twinkie wrappers Chunk dribbles behind him wherever he goes, it wasn't too hard to keep tabs on you yahoos. So when I saw your little Hobbit sneaker prints toddling up to the lighthouse, I just used my massive powers of deduction and zeroed in on you.\"\n\n\"Way to go, Brand,\" said Mouth. \"You've earned your decoder ring for sure.\"\n\n\"Shut your face, Mouth, or I'll shut it for you.\"\n\n\"I'm trembling,\" said Mouth.\n\nBrand glared at him and then at me. \"And after Mom finishes with you, _then_ you got _me_ to deal with.\"\n\nI looked over at Chunk for some support, but he'd eaten most of his Fish Surprise and was real obviously wishing he hadn't. \"Can we go now, you guys?\" he whispered. \"I think I'm gonna be sick.\"\n\nI looked over at Data, but before I could say anything about anything, Mama walked back into the room from the kitchen. She looked fed up.\n\n\"All right, boys. Go on home. It's on the house.\" She pointed at Chunk's empty dish.\n\nChunk stuck his head under the table and barfed.\n\n\"And now it's on the floor!\" Mouth laughed.\n\n\"Go on, get out of here,\" Mama said with a smile she didn't mean but tryin' to sound like a mom. \"Jake'll clean up. Now git.\"\n\nWe got. Tried to beat each other to the front door is what we did, and we all won. And as soon as the door was shut behind us, Mama put the CLOSED sign in the window.\n\nWe shivered a group shiver.\n\n\"Let's go,\" said Brand, and he marched us off.\n\nWe were pretty quiet until we got to the graveyard, each of us thinking our own thoughts. Chunk spoke first.\n\n\"Hey, guys, I gotta stop here a minute. I still feel sick.\"\n\nSo we stopped. It was getting on to dusk, and the shadows of the tombstones dissolved into the bushes all around us. We sat there a minute while I got it all straight in my head, especially the stuff about this Mr. Gruesome that was so weird, I couldn't even believe I'd actually seen him at first. But I had.\n\n\"Okay, now listen up, guys, this is hard to buy, but it's total truth, swear to God. When I went into the basement, I found this room down there, and I'm tellin' you, they got an 'it' in there. A giant 'it.' And they got it chained to the wall, and when it... when it came into the light and I saw it...\" My chest got tight when I thought of that face, and I had to give myself a puff on the inhaler. \"Guys, you should have seen its face. It was horrible. All the parts were mixed around\u2014\n\n\"Like your brain, lame-o,\" said Brand. He hadn't been there for the whole first part like the other guys, so he didn't know how spooky it was. He didn't hear the growling, and he wasn't into finding the treasure. So he just pulled me up. \"Say good-bye to your little pals.\"\n\nBefore he could pull me outta there, though, Chunk said, \"Look,\" and pointed back toward the lighthouse. We all looked.\n\nJake and Francis were coming out the side door, carrying a large, limp bag. Sort of body-sized. Then Mama came out right behind them, carrying another bag all by herself.\n\nJake opened the garage door.\n\nChunk gasped. \"Lookit there! That's it!\" he said. \"That's the car from the chase this morning!\"\n\nFor the first time it occurred to me, maybe his story wasn't total bullshit after all.\n\nJake opened the back and then pulled up what looked like some kind of false bottom, but it was hard to see in the dark. Jake and Francis stuck their back into the bottom and then tried to load in Mama's bag, but it wouldn't fit, so they closed the trunk on the one and carried the other back into the restaurant.\n\n\"What do you think they got in the bags?\" whispered Data.\n\nNobody answered. But I think we all had an idea.\n\nJake, Francis, and Mama came right back out again and got in the car and drove off.\n\nThe wind started to blow, that old October wind, and I got this warm sort of flush all over, the way I feel when they give me a shot for asthma in the emergency room, kind of excited but real, real calm. \"Hey,\" I said, \"the place is ours.\"\n\nThey all looked at me. I felt... I don't know, magic somehow.\n\nChunk looked scared and sick. \"Our parents are gonna be worried, guys. C'mon, let's go home.\"\n\n\"What home?\" I snapped at him. I didn't like snapping at Chunk, but it just came out. \"In a couple more hours it's not gonna _be_ home anymore.\" And then it all spun around my mind, all at once\u2014the crazy old lady with the taste for tongues, and the thing in the basement, and the bags that probably had bodies in them, and how brave I wasn't, and the car with the bullet holes in it that might've been chased by the cops earlier that day, so maybe that meant there was a reward for these guys, mean-lookin' Jake and fruity Francis, and how even if everything went wrong, these guys weren't gonna kill five kids, and how there was absolutely without doubt a major treasure in there somewhere, and it was ours if we could follow the map, and how the eviction tomorrow was sad but in a funny way real free, like there was nothin' to lose anymore, and everything before this moment was ancient history, and only this ancient map was real. It was a map of right now, and I was magic in this Halloween wind, I knew I was. I was in some kind of groove, like when you know you made the basket the second the ball leaves your fingers, like I was hearing this music no one else could hear, like it was a perfect chord, and not only that, but I'd heard it before. You know what I mean?\n\nSo I tried to explain it to the guys. \"C'mon, guys. This is _our time_. Our _last time_.\" That's the only way I could explain it.\n\nI pulled the map from my pocket and tried to read it. It was too dark, though. \"Anybody got a match?\" I said.\n\nA small flame appeared. Then a second. We looked up. There, holding two matches, were Andy and Stef.\n\nAndy's eyes sparkled in the match light, they were so clear. But her hand was shaking, and it was obvious right away that she didn't much like being in a cemetery. \"Hi, Brand,\" she said.\n\nBrand smiled and let go of me.\n\nStef sat next to Mouth. \"Whatcha doin' in the graveyard?\" She winked at him. \"Diggin' up new girlfriends?\"\n\n\"Don't knock it,\" he cracked. \"Stiffs are a lot warmer than you.\"\n\nI knew we were gonna do it then. Stef and Mouth would egg each other on, and besides, Mouth would think of how he could mouth off about it at school on Monday. And Brand would want to impress Andy and show her how cool he was and tougher than jerky Troy Perky. And Chunk would want to make up stories about it for years, and he'd never live it down if we all did it and he didn't, and we had wilder stories than his, and ours were true. And Data would never have another chance like this to really do something like 007. And I _told_ you all _my_ reasons. And if all the rest of us were gonna have this adventure, I was damn sure Andy wasn't gonna just sit here in this creepy old graveyard all by herself. So, all of a sudden right then, I just knew we were gonna do it. So I lit another match and studied the map.\n\nBrand looked kind of puzzled at Andy. \"What're you doin' here?\"\n\n\"We followed you. We drove around with Troy for a while, but he was being a real spas-ass\u2014you know, tilting the rearview mirror so he could look down my shirt.\" She shrugged, real cool. \"So I elbowed his lip.\"\n\nBrand smiled like he liked that answer. I didn't pay much attention to them after that, though\u2014I was too interested in figuring out exactly where we were on the map. And where we were going.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said, holding the parchment in front of me, \"if it's thirty paces... one... two... three...\" I began to walk.\n\nData stopped me, though. \"No, Mikey. Your feet are too small. We must do this scientifically.\" He took a calculator out of his backpack.\n\nMouth pushed Data out of the way, though. \"Paces are paces. You think this Willy dude had a calculator?\" He started walking in the direction I'd started, with much longer strides. Right toward the restaurant.\n\nHe counted off the paces like Elmer Fudd. \"One... two... twee... Shhh! Be vewy vewy quiet! I'm hunting wabbits! Hee hee hee heel\" That's the way he let off nervous energy, you know, clowning around.\n\nHe kept walking, though, and we followed. I was excited\u2014we were all really in it together now. Mouth was trying to be a big shot, and Stef was trying to see him fall on his face. Chunk was scared but stickin' with his Goony brothers. And Andy was gettin' coy with Brand.\n\n\"Poor Troy,\" I heard her say. \"Guess he won't be makin' out with anybody for a while. Boy, am I gonna miss that.\" Then she snuggled up real close to Brand and said softer, \"C'mon, Brandy. Let's get out of here. Graveyards freak me out.\"\n\nI didn't have to look\u2014I could hear the gleam in Brand's eye. He was sizin' this up as the best night of his life. I saw him turn back with her, but then he stopped and said, \"I can't leave without my brother. Just hold on, one second...\"\n\nWe were already at the front door of the place by the time he caught up with us, though.\n\nThe front door was locked. Mouth tried it. I tried it. Nothin' doin'.\n\nChunk was standing there real tense, and that gave Mouth an idea. \"Hey, Chunk,\" he said, \"I got some naked Polaroids of your mom takin' a bath. Wanna buy 'em cheap?\"\n\nThat was Chunk's last straw. He charged at Mouth like a linebacker. At the last second Mouth dodged out of the way, and, Chunk smashed into the door, breaking the old rusty lock that was holding it closed, and falling into the front room.\n\nAnother Chunky accident. Mouth laughed like Eddie Haskel on _Leave It to Beaver_ and casually walked inside.\n\nChunk was really upset now. He brushed himself off as he stood. \"Now my mom's really gonna kill me. I'll have to pay for this door out of my allowance, and my dad's gonna cut my allowance off\u2014\n\n\"Chunk,\" I whispered, \"we're all gonna be rich.\"\n\nAndy shouted from outside. \"I'm going home. You guys are gonna get in big trouble!\"\n\nI saw her turn to go, and she walked right into a big stone gargoyle sitting on one of the tombstones. She jumped about a foot in the air and then trotted over to us\u2014to Brand, actually, who hugged her like a brave soldier, which meant he was with us now for sure, since he wasn't about to be shown up in front of Andy by his wimpy little brother.\n\nInside, Mouth kept counting paces, back with his Elmer Fudd routine. \"Twenty-eight... twenty-nine... toity. This is it! That wascally wabbit must be under here!\"\n\nStef rolled her eyes to the ceiling. \"You can stop auditioning to be popular. You don't impress rue anymore.\"\n\n\"I'd rather dive into a swimming pool full of razor blades than impress you,\" he said. Which was obviously bullshit.\n\nI looked at the map. \"We gotta get to the lowest spot.\"\n\n\"We gotta get outta here,\" said Brand. His sensible half was having second thoughts. He grabbed me, but I pulled away.\n\n\"C'mon, Brand, what's another couple a minutes gonna hurt? What if we find somethin'? Huh?\" No way was I gonna leave now. The lowest spot beneath the place we were standing was about to make us the richest Goonies on earth.\n\nI opened the basement door. It was as black as a grave down there and three times as deep. I looked back at them\u2014Mouth, Chunk, Data, Stef, Andy, Brand\u2014seven of us all together. Like _The Magnificent Seven_. Made me feel like Steve McQueen. Invincible. Cool. Certain.\n\nI started descending the stairs, more scared than I'd ever been. In a couple seconds the others followed. I suddenly realized I wasn't last anymore. I was leading.\n\nI held on to the stone wall again and led us, twisting down. We all stopped halfway, though, in the middle of the same step, because at the same time we heard the same thing.\n\nA low growling and a rattling of chains.\n\n# **Chapter 4**\n\n**_The Roar of the Thing... An Unusual Fireplace... A Frozen Corpse... The Return of the Fratellis... Chunk Escapes... We Enter the Tunnels... Chester Copperpot... The Swarming... Pirate Gold._**\n\n\"Chunk,\" said Stef, \"I hope that's your stomach.\"\n\n\"No,\" I whispered. \"That's the 'it'.\"\n\nThe Thing roared louder, like it was bragging or something. Pretty damn scary.\n\n\"Sounds sorta like Kong,\" said Chunk.\n\n\"No, it's partly human, I think,\" I said.\n\nWe kept on walking until we reached the bottom and kind of collected in a group at the end of the corridor.\n\n\"C'mon, wanna see it?\" I asked everybody. I felt kind of like it was my Thing now. And as things go, it was pretty cool.\n\nThey just shook their heads \"No way\" though.\n\n\"Don't worry, it's chained up.\" I led on.\n\nWe all stayed pretty close together, pretty quiet. I mean _I_ knew the Thing was chained up safe enough; I just wasn't sure _It_ knew.\n\nAs we got close to the door I heard Andy whisper, \"I don't want to see it, Brand. Stay with me, okay?\" So they stayed behind, in front of a door across the hall. I saw Brand put his arm around her, so I knew what they were up to.\n\nWe reached the door\u2014it was closed now. I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it slowly, and suddenly from behind the door came the loudest, horriblest roar I'd ever heard, like Godzilla dying and the whole hallway was a Dolby speaker or something.\n\nAnyway, we all jumped back and fell every which way into Andy and Brand, who were just getting kissy, and all of us tumbled through the door across the hall.\n\nThe doubloon fell out of my pocket and rolled along the floor, but Chunk caught it just before it fell into a drain and put it in _his_ pocket.\n\nI looked around. We were in a big stone room that must've been a kitchen once. There was a giant wallfreezer near the door, a couple huge sinks, an old rusty stove, a glass water cooler, and a bunch of pots over the stove. It was pretty filthy, too, but it was obviously being used, because there was still a small fire going in the stone fireplace at the near wall.\n\nBut the weird thing was that against the outer wall was a big, black, metal printing press. Above the press was a window to the outside, and beside the window was a newspaper photo of Mama, Jake, and Francis.\n\nChunk went straight for the water cooler and started to guzzle. I grabbed a fireplace poker and went to the center of the floor. \"Guess this is as good a place as any to start diggin'.\" I lifted the poker as high as I could and jammed it down on the concrete floor.\n\nAll that happened was that it made my teeth chatter.\n\nBrand shook his head. \"You sure you're not adopted? I mean, are we from the same family?\" He looked over at Andy, who definitely didn't want to be there. \"C'mon, Mikey,\" he said, \"you're embarrassin' me. There's nothin' buried under here, damn it. This is the twentieth century, in case you haven't heard.\"\n\n\"Hey, I know how to get through the cement,\" said Mouth. \"Just put Hershey's all over the floor and let Chunk eat through it\u2014turn stone into sludge, just smear it with fudge, and give Chunk a nudge.\"\n\nChunk still had his head turned up under the Sparkletts' nozzle, but he stood fast when he heard that. \"Okay, Mouth,\" he said like Popeye, \"'that's all I can stands, and I can't stands no more... '\"\n\nThe thing is, he knocked over the water jug when he stood up, and it crashed to the ground in a million pieces.\n\nThe water flowed across the floor to the fireplace and trickled into the open grating under the logs. There was a little hissing, but what amazed me was that there was at least a couple seconds before I heard the water hit bottom.\n\nChunk started freakin' out about breakin' something else, but I told him to shut up. \"Shhh, listen,\" I said.\n\nA slow, echoing trickle.\n\n\"Big wow,\" said Brand.\n\n\"No, it's deep!\" I said. Nobody else got it. \"There must be some kind of opening or another room or something down there....\"\n\nWe ran to the fireplace. Brand reached down to pull a log out of the way and burned his hand and yelped and dropped the log.\n\n\"Brand, you sure you're not adopted?\" I said. \"Are we from the same family? C'mon, you're embarrassin' me.\" I noticed that Andy was smiling.\n\nBrand gave me a look but didn't hit me. He just took off his shirt, partly to wrap his hand with it and partly, I think, to show off his pecs to Andy. Anyway, he pulled all the hot logs away and pushed all the ashes to the side, so the blackened grating in the floor was exposed. He pulled it out.\n\nA few feet below we could see a second floor of old crumbling bricks and earth. Brand stuck his foot down there and began stompin' on it to see how solid it was. Right away it started to give, like it would maybe break through. He kept kickin'.\n\nPeople react to nervousness in different ways. I just get more nervous, or sometimes I get an asthmatic attack. Mouth mouths off. Data fixates on his gadgets. And Chunk gets hungry.\n\nSo about now is when Chunk noticed the freezer in the wall. \"Hey, I wonder if they got Chipwiches,\" he said with his special food-glow smile. He walked over to it and pulled on the handle, but it wouldn't budge.\n\nBrand kept stompin' the false floor under the fireplace. I could see the bricks starting to crumble and give way. All of a sudden there was a crunch, and his foot broke through, up to his knee. There was an opening beneath the bricks.\n\nWe helped Brand up just as a loud whirring noise filled the room. Data, drawn to the biggest gadget around, had turned on the printing press,\n\nWe walked over to him as he was picking up the last page rolling off. It was a freshly printed sheet of perfect counterfeit fifty-dollar bills.\n\n\"Bogus bills,\" said Brand. \"Check it out,\" said Data, handing me the page.\n\n\"I knew those people were from the ozone.\"\n\nStef pulled the news photo of our hosts off the wall. \"Oh, God, I knew I recognized these faces,\" she said. \"This is the Fratelli mob. They were on the news. Jake just broke out of prison, and there was this high-speed car chase, and they're wanted everywhere, and\u2014\n\n\"See! You guys never believe me,\" said Chunk, still trying to get the freezer open. \"And now look what you got yourselves into....\"\n\nSuddenly the freezer door flew open.\n\nAnd standing inside was a dead body.\n\nFrozen solid, his eyes wide-open. With a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. And an FBI badge pinned to his lapel.\n\nHe was one of the two guys in dark suits we saw go in the restaurant earlier in the day. He was bound and gagged now, and halfway zipped into a green plastic bag. The one that wouldn't fit into the trunk.\n\nAnd then, like it was in slow motion or something, the body fell forward and hit the floor. Almost hit Chunk\u2014he was so petrified he didn't move\u2014until the body crashed to the cement, and then we all moved, and I mean fast.\n\nOut the door, down the hall, up the stairs. But not very far up the stairs. Because in the lounge above us we heard voices.\n\nThe Fratellis were home.\n\nAnd then, at the top of the staircase, we heard the basement door open.\n\nWe turned without a word and ran back to the counterfeiting room and shut the door.\n\nI took a suck on my inhaler.\n\nChunk was shivering. \"Mommy! Daddy! Uncle Wormer!\" Over and over. I remember that's also the way he calmed himself down the night after he snuck in to see _Friday the 13th, Part II_.\n\n\"Oh, Jesus,\" whispered Andy, and crossed herself.\n\nChunk saw that, and I guess he figured he'd try anything if it would help, but he was Jewish, so he outlined a Jewish star over his chest and stomach.\n\n\"What are we gonna do?\" said Brand.\n\n\"We gotta get him back in the freezer,\" I said, \"or they'll know we been here.\"\n\nChunk got behind the body and pulled, while the rest of us got in front and pushed, except Andy, who just stood there stiff as the stiff, whispering, \"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.\"\n\nWe could hear the Fratellis coming down the stairs, but we finally got the corpse up on its feet, pushed it into the freezer, and closed the door. We didn't realize yet that we'd pushed Chunk in with the body.\n\nWe ran to the fireplace. I grabbed a shovel and motioned everyone else down into the passage below the false floor\u2014first things first, but I figured as long as we were escaping from the Fratellis, we might as well check out the buried treasure at the same time.\n\nAll the kids went down the hole except Brand. \"Geez, it looks kinda small,\" he said.\n\n\"Yeah, like the elevator. Remember?\" I said.\n\n\"I told you to shut up about that.\" He started to smack me a good one, but Mama's voice was getting closer, and besides, Andy was watching him from below, and he didn't want to look chickenshit in front of her for sure. So he swallowed it and crawled down in there with the rest.\n\nI went in last. Once I was down there I pulled the grating back over our heads, and then stuck the shovel up through the grating and pulled the logs and sticks back on top of it, and then took Stef's lighter and Data took Andy's matches, and we relit the fire from underneath.\n\nAnd then Mama and the boys came in.\n\nI could see them through the grate. Jake went right to the freezer, but before he could open the door very far, Mama spotted the broken water cooler and knew somethin' was up.\n\n\"Let's go check your brother,\" she said, real raspy. It was pretty obvious to me who the Thing in the next room took after in the voice department.\n\nThe Fratelli family left to check on junior. I could still hear her saying, \"He better not've busted them chains again. I ain't goin' back to the zoo for another set,\" when the freezer door opened the rest of the way and Chunk slid out from behind the corpse. That was the first time I realized he wasn't with us.\n\n\"Chunk!\" I yelled in a whisper.\n\nHe ran over to the fireplace. In his Hawaiian shirt he reminded me of a plate of frozen Jell-O with fresh fruit in it, but I didn't say anything.\n\n\"Guys?\" he said, holding his hands over the fire to warm up. \"Lemme in! Quick, c'mon!\"\n\nThere wasn't any time for that, though. The gang would be back in a second.\n\n\"You gotta get outta here, Chunk,\" I whispered. \"Get the police.\" I saw the window above the press. \"Use the window! Up there!\"\n\nHe looked over to the wall and started to shake his head, but then we all heard the Fratellis coming back. So he jumped up on the printing press, pulled open the tiny dirty window, and crawled out, just as Mama, Jake, and Francis reentered.\n\n\"I knew he couldn't break those chains,\" said Mama.\n\n\"Maybe it was one o' them tremors, Ma,\" said Jake.\n\n\"Yeah.\" Francis nodded. \"I remember that happened once\u2014\"\n\n\"Shut up,\" said Ma. \"C'mon. We gotta move the other one.\" She pointed to the freezer.\n\nThe boys nodded and dragged the body out. \"You boys take care o' that,\" Mama went on. \"I'm gonna stay behind and look around, make sure none o' them 'tremors' is still nosin' around to start up again.\"\n\nI figured it was time for us to ease on down the road a little, so I scooted back with the others.\n\nWe were in a narrow tunnel surrounded by smooth rocks and hard earth and shored up by an occasional beam of tar-soaked timber. The tunnel headed down at a slant, getting wider as it went but totally black as soon as we got away from the feeble firelight above us. So even when it got wide enough to stand, we just huddled together for a minute, scared to walk any farther into the darkness, trying to take stock of everything we'd just been through.\n\nWe were hidden from the murderers, Chunk was gone for help, every step from here on might bring us to pirate gold. It was wild and scary and it felt like we'd made it past the first couple of dangers like pros almost, and I was like high or something.\n\nAndy was more like something. \"Oh, my God, I saw my first dead body,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Okay, look guys,\" said Brand, \"I'm the oldest, so I'll call the shots. First, let's find a way outta here\u2014heads up, maybe we'll see a manhole cover.\"\n\nThat seemed like a dumb idea, but I didn't say so. I turned to Data instead. \"Hey, Data, you got any light on you?\"\n\n\"Yeah, in case of emergencies. When I'm walking home from school and some big guys stop me for money, I pretend like I'm real scared, and then I reach in my pocket and pull this cord and say 'Bully blinders!'\" He sort of whisper-shouted the last words as he pulled the cord in his pocket.\n\nTwo eight-millimeter movie projector lamps on his belt burst on with this incredibly bright light that was so blinding, we all had to cover our eyes.\n\nAnd then about three seconds later the lights went out.\n\n\"Only problem,\" Data mumbled, \"batteries don't live so long.\" So he reached into his backpack. \"So... I have father's backyard light.\" He pulled out a large battery lantern and flipped it on. It lit up the passageway.\n\nBrand took it from him. \"Okay, I'll walk ahead with the light....\"\n\n\"Walk? said Mouth. \"What about run, son, and when you're done, you run some more, till you know you've won...\" he started rappin'.\n\nThere was a little cluster of nervous laughter.\n\nAnd then we began our journey.\n\nWe walked for a long time. The tunnel twisted around in every direction, sometimes getting bigger, sometimes narrowing, sometimes widening to the size of a cave, sometimes splitting into three or four forks. After three turns I was totally lost. So we just kept heading upward as well as we could\u2014at least to freedom, if not booty.\n\nAfter a while we came to a surprise sight: In a wide, low cavern, pipes came down from the clay ceiling, dangling into our space, crossing over each other, and bending back up again. All different sizes, mostly pretty rusty, tangled with lots of tree roots and creepers..\n\nWhatever they were from, it meant we were probably pretty close to the surface here.\n\nStef jabbed Mouth. \"Your old man's a plumber. What kind of pipes are those?\"\n\nMouth checked it out. \"Gas pipes, electrical, sewage, plumbing, hot water, cold water, pressure pipes....\"\n\n\"Water pipes?\" said Brand. \"Hey, you think if we started hangin' on 'em, somebody upstairs might hear?\"\n\nMouth nodded and pulled out the wrench he always carried in his back pocket. The rest of us picked up rocks. And we all started bangin' away.\n\nNobody answered, though, so we clowned around a little, just to relax\u2014began swingin' on the pipes like Tarzan or walkin' on some of the bigger ones like they were balance beams, and Andy tried her Mary Lou Retton imitation but fell, and Brand hung upside down from one, which I think is his natural position.\n\nMouth began working on one of the fittings with his wrench, trying to unscrew it. Between him and us, it wasn't long before a dozen pipes were leaking and spewing water. Some, under pressure, even started to move by themselves, and it was weird and kind of mysterious, like a huge underground engine or something.\n\nWe started really goofin' on 'em then\u2014pullin' and pushin' and bashin'. Water was spraying all over, and some of the pipes actually sank to the ground and pulled fixtures down from the surface with them, shower nozzles and fountains and spigots and stuff.\n\nAnd then all hell broke loose. The pipes were bouncing righteously, smashing into the earth walls on overdrive, with steam and water hissing everywhere. It got scary fast, like in the middle of a laugh we all knew we should be somewhere else.\n\n\"What's happening?\" yelled Stef.\n\n\"We wrecked the pressure valves,\" yelled Mouth. \"We better get outta here!\"\n\nWe got outta there. On to the next tunnel.\n\n\"Geez,\" said Brand, \"you'd think somebody would've noticed.\" He sounded pretty glum. I think we all agreed, but were just too ragged-out to agree out loud. So we just kept walking.\n\nWe were wet now, which made us cold, and cold, which made us scared. Somehow dark and lost and cold is a lot worse than just dark and lost. So we walked huddled together for warmth and company. Reminded me of Robin Hood and his merry men, hiding in the forest from evil Prince John, keeping each other's spirits up with stories and songs and games.\n\n\"Anybody know any stories or songs or games?\" I said.\n\nMouth started singin' the \"Funeral March,\" and Brand said, \"Yeah, you hear the one about the kid brother who was buried alive?\"\n\nWell, maybe it wasn't exactly like Robin Hood.\n\nAfter a while we reached a long passageway with an uneven floor, all jutting rocks, and sharp inclines. About halfway down it we saw something funny\u2014a gum wrapper, a tin cigar tube, and an old mildewed bible.\n\nWe stopped like an animal with too many legs.\n\n\"Somebody else was here before us,\" I whispered.\n\n\"Maybe they're still here,\" said Data, looking around.\n\n\"Maybe we better hope they're not,\" said Stef.\n\nAndy stopped doing Hail Marys long enough to start blabbering and wandering. \"An hour ago Troy was looking down my shirt. There's nothing so wrong with that, is there? But, no, I had to get all vain and huffy, so now instead of cruising down the coast with Troy, I'm down here talking about my body to the walls. I mean, it's a nice body, and how many more years do I have before\u2014\" She stopped so still, I could almost hear her turning white. And then she pointed. \"\u2014before I start looking like him.\"\n\nWe all looked in the direction of her finger. On the floor, against the wall, lay a decayed skeleton.\n\nWe sort of ran slowly over to it. Its legs were pinned under a giant boulder. I looked up at the ceiling. There was a whole string of boulders, dangling from heavy chains, along the entire length of this tunnel.\n\nAll at once I knew what had happened here, and how, and why, and it all made sense.\n\nI spoke softly to the ghost that told me. \"You did this, One-Eyed Willy, didn't you? This is one of your tricks. And you wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to keep people out unless you had somethin' awful big to hide, would you, Willy?\"\n\nAnd I think 1 heard old Willy smile.\n\nLike I just knew from that moment on, I was right on his wavelength. There was something between us, reaching across all those centuries, pulling us together. Maybe he was my patron saint. Is that possible? Saint Willy? Or maybe I was related to him. Like his genes got passed down generation to generation, and some of 'em ended up in me, and it was that part of me that knew what he was up to all along the way.\n\nWe looked close at the skeleton. He was dressed up in miner's clothes with a miner's hat and tools\u2014shovels, picks, stuff like that.\n\n\"This must be Chester Copperpot,\" said Data.\n\n\"Who?\" said Stef.\n\n\"The last guy who went looking for One-Eyed Willy's gold. The newspaper said he went in but he never came out\u2014that was back in 1935.\"\n\n\"Find his wallet,\" said Brand. He wasn't about to do it himself, though.\n\n\"No way am I touchin' _that_ dude,\" said Mouth. \" _You_ find his wallet.\"\n\n\" _I'll_ get it, you nerds,\" said Stef, and reached into the skeleton's pants. I told you she was tough enough.\n\n\"She reaches into guys' pants all the time.\" Mouth laughed about a second before Stef kicked him a good one in the calf, which shut him up.\n\nShe found the wallet and pulled it out, but at the last second, swear to God, the skeleton's hand closed on it and wouldn't let go. If it were me, I'd have let the sucker _keep_ his damn wallet, but Stef had gone that far, and she wanted to go all the way. So she tugged, and he tugged back, and she finally pulled the thing free, and a couple of the skeleton's fingers fell off, to boot. Freaked me out, kind of.\n\nStef opened the wallet, and sure enough, the old guy's name was on a crumbling card inside\u2014Chester Copperpot.\n\nData whispered, \"Geez, if _he_ didn't make it out\u2014and he was supposed to be an expert\u2014what about us?\" Then he had another thought, so he reached into his pack and pulled out a couple dozen small red thingies made of caps, and set a couple down on the floor.\n\n\"What're you doin'?\" I said.\n\n\"Setting booby traps,\" said Data. \"In case anybody follows us. We'll hear them coming.\"\n\nThat's when I noticed the medallion hanging around the skeleton's neck. I grabbed it and studied it close. It was copper, and it was shaped like a key with a skull at one end, with three irregular holes cut into it for the eyes and nose.\n\nFor some reason I wondered if it fit onto the map somehow, so I took out the old parchment and tried comparing points.\n\nMeanwhile Data started transferring junk from Chester Copperpot's pack to his own\u2014road flares, matches, a compass, a big knife....\n\nThis last item was the last straw for Andy. She flipped out and started runnin' down the tunnel, yelling, \"Let's get out of here! Come on! We've got to keep moving!\"\n\nShe was running right for a tree branch lying on the floor against the wall, and then I noticed there were branches just like it, spaced regularly along the floor, stuck into the wall, right at places near where the boulders were hanging.\n\nLike triggers.\n\n\"Andy! Stop!\" I shouted.\n\nBut it was too late. Her foot snapped the first branch.\n\nI heard this humongous creaking sound, and the first boulder began to waver. And suddenly, without thinking, all the kids ran after her. Now, I wasn't very strong, but I was pretty fast\u2014faster than old Chester, anyway\u2014so I raced along with everyone else. Playing Beat the Boulder.\n\nAnd did they fall! Just missed me twice, once so close that the wind of the fall knocked me over. But the noise alone was enough to kill anyone with half a brain. Fortunately we'd parked our brains elsewhere temporarily.\n\nAnyway, we all made it somehow, finally, to the far wall, as the last boulder crashed behind us by a hair, shattering into rubble. We huddled there a minute, shaking and holding our ears, scared and buzzed, and only slowly realized we were at a dead end.\n\nIt was a big stone wall with a small circular boulder stuck into it at the bottom. And gradually, as our ears stopped ringing, we were aware of another sound\u2014behind the wall.\n\n\"Listen!\" said Stef, real excited. \"There's somethin' behind there!\"\n\n\"Maybe it's a way out,\" said Andy.\n\nBrand took it as his big chance to be Macho Rescue-Man. He gave Andy a wink, yanked off his shirt, and flexed. Andy blushed, Mouth _woo-wooed_ , I tried to make a muscle, Data rolled his eyes, and Brand put his shoulder to the boulder.\n\nNothing happened at first, but then, after a lot of grunting and sweating and isometrics by Brand, the thing began to give.\n\nBrand was a lot of kinds of jerks sometimes, but he was strong, I'll give him that.\n\nSlowly the rock moved more and more, with a sound of crunching stone. And suddenly it just rolled away down the slope of the floor, leaving a hole in the wall.\n\nEveryone applauded, and Brand did his typical fake-modesty trip. I poked my head into the opening. Total blackness. But there was still that sound, only much louder now. Sort of a squeaking, rubbing, whupping.\n\n\"Hey, Data, bring the light,\" I said. It wasn't the kind of sound I wanted to walk into blind.\n\nBrand stuck his head in. \"Hello! Hello! Anybody here?\"\n\nAnd the next thing I knew, there was a screech and a flapping, and about a thousand bats came flying out of the hole.\n\nThey were in our hair, in our clothes, big black wings and sharp pointy teeth and red eyes and evil garbles. We knocked at them, we tried to hide behind the big rocks, we yelled\u2014I think it was the most disgusting thing that ever happened to me in my life.\n\nLuckily they didn't stay long, or we might have died of being grossed out. They flew in a swarm down the tunnel, back in the direction we'd just come from, like a loud cloud. It took maybe five minutes for all of 'em to pass.\n\nSo then we moved on.\n\nThrough the hole in the wall, which led, it turned out, to this huge old cavern with only one other tunnel out, which we took. Andy didn't want to go at first, until Data pointed out that if there were bats living here, there must be a way out for them, which meant there must be a way out for us too.\n\nWe had to muck through about a foot of bat guano on the way to the exit tunnel, which was no treat, but then we were across and into the next passage.\n\nBrand was leading the way, holding the lantern, but the passageway was gradually getting narrower and heading lower again, sometimes so steep that we had to sort of slide down\u2014and I could see Brand was getting nervous.\n\nAfter a while the tunnel got so tight, we had to start crawling. That's when the flashlight began to flicker and die. Brand began to panic.\n\n\"Hey, what's goin' on? This thing's losin' juice! What're we gonna do about light?\"\n\nData reached into his backpack and pulled out one of the flares he'd lifted from Chester Copperpot. He struck it, and it burst into that special cool red flame they make, so bright you can hardly stand to look at it, and he passed it to Brand.\n\nBrand took it, but he kept griping. \"All we keep doin' is goin' lower! Where we goin'? Where's this leadin'? All I know is, this place is gettin' too damn small....\"\n\nI was near the rear with Andy. \"Uh-oh,\" I whispered, \"he's gettin' that elevator look in his eyes.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, 'elevator'?\"\n\nI moved up close to her. Even after all this she smelled awful good. Some kind of perfume none of the other girls wore. Made me wanna talk softer than usual.\n\n\"Me and Brand got stuck in this elevator once,\" I explained. \"For five hours. It was okay at first, but then he started gettin' closet... trophy... photo...\"\n\n\"Claustrophobia,\" she said. She was even smarter than Brand.\n\n\"Yeah. And he freaked out. Lost total control. Started spinnin' in circles, his arms whippin' around. Like a break dancer on fast forward. I had to climb on the elevator roof so I wouldn't get hurt....\"\n\nThe tunnel started widening again a little, so we were able to stand up mostly now, but even so, Brand suddenly began shouting, \"I can't breathe! I'm chokin'! Mikey, gimme your mist inhaler! C'mon, man! Now!\"\n\nThe Goonies fight to save their homes on the Goon Docks in the Warner Bros. movie, THE GOONIES.\n\nMama Fratelli and her boys, who recently escaped from prison\n\nThe boys discover the map and...\n\nits secrets really open their eyes.\n\nThe Goonies meet Mama, who doesn't make the most gracious waitress.\n\nSloth, before the Goonies set him free.\n\nChunk is interrogated by the Fratelli's while the rest of the Goonies make their way to the underground treasure (Below).\n\nThe path to the treasure is not an easy one.\n\nStef meets the octopus.\n\nThe Goonies finally discover the treasure aboard a mysterious pirate ship as they are caught by the Fratelli family (Below).\n\n\"The Goonies\"\n\nI passed my inhaler up, and I could see him take a long suck on it.\n\nI whispered to Andy, \"Last time he used that was in the elevator. Andy, this might get rough. You better let me take your hand.\"\n\nI don't know why I said it, it just came out. She looked so petrified and smelled so good, I just sort of had this urge to protect her. I don't know.\n\nI really wanted her to like me, I guess. Not that she would, not someone with braces and asthma, but still, that's what I wanted. I think that's why I ratted on Brand about the elevator thing\u2014so she'd think less of him, so maybe she'd think more of me. But then the trouble was, as soon as I said all that stuff, I felt real bad about breaking my promise to Brand, so I felt even worse about myself, which made me think Andy must feel worse about me too. So the whole thing kind of backfired, which made me remember that's why it wasn't such a good idea to break promises, even if I thought I had a good reason.\n\nI must have looked awful pitiful to her, because she took my hand, and then _I_ felt less nervous. Go figure _that_ one out.\n\nWe kept walking, and the tunnel got real wide, so we could stand straight. After about twenty feet it turned a sharp corner, putting us in a pool of water up to our ankles. I walked to the front where Brand was. Near the head of the group I stopped, though, 'cause something caught my eye, on the ground, in the water. A lot of somethings, in fact.\n\nIn fact, sparkling and glinting there in the red phosphorous of the flare light, under the ripples of the shallow pool, were thousands of ancient, glimmering coins.\n\nWe'd found the pirate gold.\n\n\"We've found it! We're rich!\" I screamed.\n\nAnd then the flare went out.\n\n# **CHAPTER 5**\n\n**_The Wishing Well... The Wrong Door... The Goony Oath... Leeches... Brand Flips Out... We Lose Data... The Pirate Skeleton... Rendezvous in Tunnel #3... Into the Skull's Nose._**\n\nI fell to my knees, scooping up handfuls of coins out of the inch-deep pool. All I could see at first was this red, glowing spot where the flare used to be, but as my eyes got used to the dark, I saw there was a shaft of cool, white moonlight coming straight down on us from above. And it smelled like fresh air too. Brand was taking in these big, deep breaths, like he was out of the elevator again.\n\nAs the guys were stuffin' their pockets with coins, I looked close at my handful. Pennies. Lincoln-head pennies.\n\nData was looking closer too. \"What year was that map made?\"\n\nThen Mouth started checking. \"Few hundred years before Lincoln... Washington... Eisenhower... Roosevelt... Martin Sheen\u2014\"\n\n\"That's President Kennedy, crater face. We must be at the bottom of the old Wishing Well,\" said Stef.\n\nShe was right. It was mostly pennies down here, with dimes and quarters scattered around. Hardly a fortune.\n\nStill, it was major pocket-change, so we started stuffin' our pockets.\n\nAndy just stood there, though. \"I always used to believe that when you threw a coin, it turned into your wish.\"\n\nIn a few seconds Stef passed and looked at her and nodded. \"Wait a minute, you guys. These are somebody else's wishes, not ours.\"\n\nShe emptied her pockets. Then I did. She was right, it's not cool to mess with somebody else's wishes.\n\nEveryone put the money back, except Mouth kept one quarter. \"Yeah, well, this wish was mine, and it didn't come true.\"\n\nI stared back and forth between the map and the medallion I'd ripped off from Chester's neck. I was sure they were connected, I just didn't know how. \"What's this got to do with the map?\" I muttered to Willy's spirit, which I was becoming more and more certain was floating around here someplace. \"I know the answer is here somewhere, Willy. I know how smart you are....\"\n\nSuddenly there was a loud splash right in front of Data. He fished into the water and came up with a silver dollar. \"Now who's got the _K_ to be makin' dollar wishes?\"\n\nBrand grabbed the coin. \"Well, let's get their attention before they split.\" He sailed the dollar straight up the well, as hard as he could.\n\nWe heard a _thunk_ , and then a voice shouted down to us. \"Hey! Who's down there?\"\n\nIt was a familiar voice.\n\nThe Goonies went nuts cheering.\n\n\"Hey, throw us a line!\"\n\n\"Help!\"\n\n\"We're down here!\"\n\nThere was a pause, and then the voice at the top said, \"Andy! Is that you I hear?\"\n\nAnd then I recognized the voice up there. Troy Perkins.\n\nOf all the jerks in all the places in all the world, it had to be that jerk on that spot at that moment.\n\nAndy shouted up to him. \"Yeah, Troy, it's me! I'm stuck down here!\"\n\n\"Who's that with you?\"\n\n\"Stef and Mikey and Mouth and... Brand...\"\n\n\"Those Goonies?\"\n\n\"Troy, just send down the rope and bucket and save us, for God's sake.\"\n\n\"What have you been _doing_ down there?\"\n\n\"Troy, this is no time for show-and-tell. Now, please!\"\n\n\"And how'd you _get_ down there?\"\n\nShe was gettin' real fed up, I could see, and nobody else wanted to say anything, 'cause how can you talk to a jerk?\n\n\"We got here through the lighthouse and into the tunnels,\" she started out, real patient, \"and then we banged on the underground water pipes, but nobody heard us....\"\n\n\"Pipes? The pipes under the Country Club? Was that _you_ banging? Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused?\"\n\n\"Trouble _I_ caused?\"\n\n\"Damn right! We had sewage going through the shower lines, we had water fountains getting sucked into the ground, we had toilets exploding...\"\n\n\"Well, we had falling boulders and bats and... why are we discussing this while I'm trapped at the bottom of a well?\" she screamed.\n\nShe got her point across, I guess. In a few seconds we heard the bucket being lowered down to us.\n\nAll the guys were pretty excited, but I stood off alone, still staring at the medallion. \"I know I can beat you, Willy. This is just one of your games.\"\n\nThe bucket reached us, at the end of its rope, and everyone gathered around as Andy started to put her foot into it. I got real sad all of a sudden, like somehow all of this was going to disappear\u2014almost like it had never happened at all\u2014as soon as Andy rode the bucket up.\n\nSo I grabbed her arm. \"Andy, wait! We've got this other clue now... and Chester Copperpot never got this far, so we have a chance to\u2014\"\n\n\"A chance at what, Mikey?\" she said. She was lookin' right at me. She was real serious. \"Getting killed? Look, if we keep going like this, somebody's gonna get dead. Boulders, bats... I don't even want to _imagine_ what other things are down here. Besides, we've got to get to the police.\"\n\n\"Chunk probably already got to the police,\" I said.\n\n\"Unless he's already dead.\"\n\n\"Don't say that! Don't _ever_ say that,\" I snapped at her. \"Goonies never say die.\"\n\n\"I'm not a Goony,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"Right, I forgot for a second.\" I turned to the others, who were just standing there watching us, like we were gladiators or something. \"But _you_ guys understand what I'm sayin', don't you? The next time you see the sky, it'll be over another town. Next time you take a test, it'll be at some other school. Our moms and dads want the best of stuff for us, but they gotta do what's good for them because it's their game, it's their time, but down here, it's _our_ time. Our time and our adventure and our rules and plans. But the minute we ride up Troy's bucket, that's all over.\"\n\nThey were all lookin' at me with their whole bodies, like maybe they were hearin' for the first time the melody I'd been hearin' all along. I tried to make 'em hear it another way.\n\n\"Look, a couple years ago my mom and dad got on that big game show. Remember, Brand? Mom spent a month makin' those funny costumes. She was a giant egg. Dad was a frying pan. Dad kept sayin' we were gonna live on Easy Street. So we drove all the way to Hollywood. When we got there, they put us in this big audience with all these other people in funny costumes. Then some dude with lipstick and sprayed hair came down the stairs. He walks up to us, right? First he makes Mom guess how much toilet bowl cleaner costs, and she gets it right. Then he makes my dad guess what a jar of Ragu spaghetti sauce weighs, and he gets _that_ right. _Then_ he asks my dad, 'Is the Big Prize behind Door Number One, Door Number Two, or Door Number Three?' Now, my dad's lucky number was always two. He got married on August second. He got his job on June second. He's got two kids\u2014\"\n\n\"Okay, okay, we got the point,\" said Data, \"he took Door Number Two.\" He was hooked on the story now.\n\n\"No, that's the weird part, for some reason he took Door Number Three. So the game show guy screams, 'Congratulations! You've just won one hundred thousand...' And the door swings open, and this huge glass jar is sittin' in the middle of the stage, filled with... toothpicks. One hundred thousand toothpicks.\"\n\nThey were all still starin' at me, waitin'. Troy suddenly shouted down from up top, like he had to remind us what a pain in the ass he was. \"Hey, Andy! You coming or not?\" He pulled on the rope, and the bucket scraped the floor. I was glad he did, though. It made our choices even more clear to me. Andy pulled back on the rope, kind of annoyed, and kept lookin' at me, waitin' for me to finish. I liked that.\n\n\"So everybody in the place was laughin',\" I went on. \"Even Mom and Dad smiled. But I could see on their faces, they knew. They were never gonna live on Easy Street. They blew their chance. And you know why? 'Cause they didn't follow their instincts. They tried to outguess themselves. They thought that what they knew in their hearts and what they knew to be true for them couldn't be the door that the riches were behind. So they chose the door they thought they _should_ choose instead\u2014and they blew it.\" I looked steadily at each of them. \"This is it, guys. On Monday our living rooms turn into golf holes. This is our last chance, and I don't want to blow it 'cause we're too chickenshit to go for it.\"\n\nNobody moved a muscle, but I could see they were all nodding inside. And I knew that for the first time that night we were all together, really together.\n\nTroy shouted down again. \"Hey, Andy, you want to stay down there with the Goonies? Or are you coming up here where you belong? I don't have all night!\"\n\nEveryone looked at Andy. Without a second of hesitation she picked up three large rocks and put them in the bucket. Then she took off Troy's letter sweater and piled that on top. Then she tugged on the rope three times, and Troy slowly pulled the bucket up.\n\nShe was one of us now.\n\nNothin' left but to make it official.\n\nWe heard Troy swear and roar off in his Mustang as I had Andy raise her right hand, and repeat after me:\n\nI will never betray my Goon Dock friends,\n\nWe will stick together until the whole world ends,\n\nThrough heaven and hell and nuclear war,\n\nGood pals like us will stick like tar,\n\nIn the city, or the country, or the forest, or the boonies,\n\nI am proudly declared a fellow...\n\n* * *\n\nAnd it was right at that moment that I saw the first one. My skin pulled tight, and I screamed. \"Leech!\"\n\n\"Leech!\" repeated Andy. She'd repeated the whole oath perfectly. Then she paused. \"Leech? You mean 'Goony,' don't you?\"\n\n\"I mean leech!\" I shouted. \"All over your arm! Leeches!\"\n\nEveryone gawked. There were countless small, black, slimy leeches covering her arms and hands.\n\nCovering all of us.\n\nIn a panic we ran out of the water, out of the moonlight, screaming and yelping and pulling at the little bloodsuckers. But they stuck. We couldn't shake, dance, or squirm the things off.\n\nData had an idea, though. He grabbed a twenty-volt battery out of his pack and connected two long wires to each pole. Then he crouched in the pool and stuck the ends of the wires into the water. The leeches writhed all over him and fell off\u2014electrocuted.\n\nData called us all over. One by one we stepped into the water, between Data's wires, and our leeches dropped off. Andy and Stef were last in the water. Even after their leeches were gone, though, they kept standing there with this kind of limp smile and small sigh.\n\nWhen they finally came out, I heard Stef whisper to Andy, \"I got all tingly\u2014just my luck, I'm in love with a pond.\"\n\nIt pissed Andy off, for some reason, I don't know, like someone had made her get horny and she didn't want to. \"Who's responsible for that?\" she grouched.\n\nData held up his two battery wires proudly, and Andy, _wham_ , slapped him without warning, like she was sayin' \"Don't you ever try that again with me, Buster!\"\n\nHitting him triggered one of his booby traps, though\u2014 this little G. I. Joe doll popped out of his shirt and shot her with a tiny plastic BB. She just rolled her eyes.\n\nThat's when we heard the shots. Way back in the tunnel, like gunshots. We froze.\n\n\"What was that?\" Brand whispered. \"What was that sound?\"\n\n\"My booby caps,\" said Data. He held up a couple of his red ball-caps. \"I put these on the ground back there so we could hear if somebody was following us.\"\n\nWe looked at each other in a sort of quiet panic as the news sank in.\n\n\"That means somebody's following us,\" said Stef.\n\nNobody argued the point. We just started running.\n\nData lit the way with another flare. The tunnels turned and curved, but they seemed to stay on a gradual rise, which meant we were getting near the surface, I guessed. For ten minutes we ran like that, kind of bouncing off the walls with one ear behind us, when all of a sudden we turned a sharp corner and ran smack into a dead end. And then the flare fizzled and died.\n\nData lit another one, but I could see that Brand was starting to freak, anyway, from his claustrophobia.\n\n\"Great! A dead end! Now what, huh?\" He was breathing too fast, lookin' all around.\n\n\"We just go back the same way we came in,\" said Andy. She looked worried about Brand, and she was trying to cool him down.\n\nI looked at the map. There had to be a way out. \"It's gotta go on\u2014right, Willy? You wouldn't end it here. You always got somethin' up your sleeve....\"\n\nBrand was really flippin' now. \"I can't breathe, it's too small in here! You guys are usin' up all the air! It's too small!\" He was scratchin' at the walls, lookin' like he might melt.\n\nI found the place on the map where I thought we were at, more or less, and told Mouth to translate the writing there.\n\nCopper bones,\n\nTriple stones,\n\nWestward... foams.\n\nI looked at Chester Copperpot's copper medallion, shaped like a skull with nose and eye holes. \"Here's copper bones,\" I said. That seemed right to me. I couldn't quite figure out the rest of the riddle, but I kept running it over in my mind.\n\nThat's when Brand snapped. \"I can't breathe! You guys are suckin' all the air out! You sucked it all! Lemme out! Let me out!\" Then he began to climb the walls\u2014for real. He tore out big chunks of earth, he scraped away sheets of moss, he snapped off roots and pulled down stones. Man, he wanted out of there.\n\nWe all grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground and piled on top of him. I mean, we didn't want him to hurt himself. He finally relaxed a little, but he couldn't stop breathing like a locomotive with the accent on _loco_.\n\n\"Anybody got a paper bag?\" said Stef. \"We gotta get him to breathe back his own carbon dioxide.\"\n\nData pulled off his backpack and rummaged through it, but he didn't have a bag. Nobody had one, so Stef pulled out her shirt and stuffed Brand's head inside. I tell you, she knew how to handle herself. \"Just breathe back in what you breathe out,\" she told him. \"It's good for you.\"\n\nData looked away, and Mouth snickered, but Andy just stared at Brand's head buried in Stef's chest and didn't look real happy.\n\nStef could've cared less, so she took Brand's head out and stuffed it under _Andy's_ shirt before either of them could say anything. \"Andy's probably better equipped for this,\" she said, shakin' her head like the rest of us were all kids acting like kids.\n\nStill, I couldn't help thinkin' maybe Brand wasn't so dumb to breathe too fast after all.\n\nI noticed the wall Brand had clawed at and walked up to examine it closer. All the dirt was scraped off now, and it was just hard, cold stone, with a lot of irregular metal pegs jutting straight out of it. They looked almost like natural formations, but something about them caught my eye. Like there was a pattern there or something. Like, did you ever see these computer printouts of pictures of people made up of just dots, but if you move farther back, it starts to look like something, and then finally you can see it's a picture of something? Like that. Only I was sort of at that in-between point where I could see it was something, but I couldn't figure out exactly what yet.\n\n\"'Copper bones, triple, stones...'\" I said. I held the medallion up and looked through the holes in it at the higher pegs on the wall. I'm not sure why, it just looked like there was a connection somehow. Like when you're doing a jigsaw puzzle and you see a piece that belongs in a certain section but you're not sure how.\n\n\"Hey, Data, give me a boost,\" I said. He hoisted me up to the pegs I wanted.\n\nI put the medallion up against the wall. Some of the pegs fit into some of the holes sometimes. I kept moving it all around.\n\nThe other guys were watching me.\n\n\"What's he doing?\" said Data. I know it looked pretty weird.\n\n\"He flipped,\" said Mouth. \"Just like his brother. Just like the rest of us pretty soon. We're all gonna go batty. One by one. Pretty soon we'll be eatin' each other's fingers to stay alive. Finger-lickin' good, taste like it should, we're all goin' nuts, knock on wood.\" He rapped his head with his knuckles.\n\nAll of a sudden it fit. A perfect fit. Just like a piece sliding into place, the medallion just slipped over three pegs just as snug as a key in a lock.\n\nIt made me gasp, it was so cool. I was really on to something\u2014if I could only figure out the rest of the riddle. \"Westward foam... foams... foaming...\"\n\n\"My grampa had a dog that foamed after it got bit by a skunk,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"How about shaving foam?\" said Data. They were all into it now. They could see I was on a roll, and they wanted to get on it with me.\n\n\"There's a foam in the ocean when it breaks on a shore,\" said Stef.\n\nThat sounded right. \"And the ocean's to the west,\" I said. I turned the medallion in the direction I thought was west. And guess what\u2014it turned!\n\nIt turned, and the pegs turned with it, like this perfect doorknob. We heard all these clinking sounds, like gears turning and tumblers falling into place. Man, it was radical.\n\nAnd then the cannonball shot out. Didn't actually shoot exactly, but it rolled out of this crack in the wall and down this incline that was obviously cut for it, and it plopped down on this stone plate on the ground\u2014reminded me exactly of the bowling ball device I had rigged to open my front gate at home. It was amazing. I was expecting any second to see some gate in the wall open up to let us pass through\u2014and suddenly this square of floor opened up under Data, and he fell like a rock into the hole, with a wild, kind of bottomless scream, while I held on, dangling, to the doorknob in the stone.\n\nAnd then the scream stopped.\n\nCut short. Come to a fast, bad end.\n\nI jumped over the pit, to the ground.\n\nWe ran to the hole and looked down. Nothing but blackness, in a long, vertical shaft.\n\n\"Data?\" called Brand. \"Data?\" He held the flare down the pit, but it was too deep to see bottom.\n\nAndy turned white in the red glare. \"Data! Data!\" she shouted. But there was no answer. \"Hail Mary, full of grace...\" she began whispering.\n\nMouth was shakin' his head. \"He just went down. I could've grabbed him\u2014I was this close... this close...\" He held his hands a foot apart. \"He's really\u2014\"\n\n\"Gone,\" Brand said quietly.\n\nThat was it for me. I mean, it just happened so sudden, it was like one second Data was right there with the rest of us and the next second he was history. And it was totally final, like no asking to do it over. I remember when Grandma died when I was a little kid and I asked Dad when was she comin' back, and he said not ever, and it was too sad to stand that I wasn't ever gonna see her again, so I ran away to cry. And now it was the same thing only I couldn't run away.\n\nSo I just cried.\n\nCouldn't stop. Everyone was sort of sniffing, in fact. Brand even left Andy's side to come over and put his arms around me. We hugged each other, and it helped a little, and I wasn't ashamed to do it, either. \"I'm gonna miss the way he used to shout out the names of all those goofy inventions of his,\" I said. I imitated him: \"Glasses of Death! Bully Blinders! Smoke Screen!\"\n\nAnd then a voice shouted up out of the hole: \"Pinchers of Peril!\"\n\nWe all shouted back down into the shaft.\n\n\"Data! Data!\"\n\n\"Are you okay?\"\n\n\"Speak to us!\"\n\nHe shouted up to us. \"I've been saved by my Pinchers of Peril!\"\n\nWe cheered and hooted and razzed him, but man, it sure was good to hear his voice.\n\nI pulled a rope out of his sack and tied it to the flare and lowered it into the pit. About twenty feet down we finally saw Data. His Pinchers of Peril had clamped onto a jutting rock, and he dangled from it by its slinky coil, bobbing up and down a couple feet above these giant wooden spikes sticking up from the floor.\n\nHe shouted again, \"Hey, you guys, I found another hole... it's all lit up down here!\" I saw him get a foothold on a nearby rock and lower himself all the way down. And then he was out of sight.\n\nI pulled up the flare. We tied one end of the rope to a grappling hook in his sack, which we secured to a rock. Then, one by one we lowered ourselves on it, down the shaft.\n\nWhen I got down to the level of the tips of the spikes, I saw there was a skeleton jammed down onto one. It looked like a screaming mummy. Scared me so much, I slipped and almost fell on the next spike.\n\nI finally made it down, though. We all did. We hugged Data, or patted him on the back, or shook his hand, or called him a jerk, or whatever. He just smiled the way 007 would.\n\nWe looked around to see where we were. It was a medium-size cave, all damp and covered with this slimy algae stuff that glowed a kind of greenish phosphorescent glow. Water was dripping from the ceiling, from these stalactite deals, and collecting near the corners, all over this dark, rough coral. I wasn't sure, but somewhere in the distance I thought I could hear the ocean\u2014kind of a low _whsh, whsh, whsh_ , like the sound of cars speeding by on the freeway at night just over the hill past my bedroom window.\n\nMy bedroom window\u2014it seemed like ages ago. I wondered if I'd ever hear the freeway from it again. It already seemed like a memory from childhood.\n\nAt one end of the cave were three tunnels, right next to each other. And at the other end a crumbling skeleton was propped up, pointing at them. It was dressed in shredding, tattered pirate clothes.\n\nWe checked it out up close. It had a big chilly grin on its face and a dagger through one eye. Pretty damn freaky.\n\nMouth laughed nervously. \"Hey, all this trickling water reminds me of somethin' I haven't done in a while\u2014I'm gonna check out the men's room.\" He walked into the left-hand tunnel.\n\nBrand followed while Stef and Andy went into the \"ladies' room\" in the right-hand tunnel.\n\nI didn't have to go, so I just stood there, staring at the three entrances. I was absolutely certain one of them led to treasure, another one to the jar full of toothpicks, and the third to...\n\nI looked at the pirate skeleton with the knife in his eye. It made me shiver. Shiver me timbers. Is that what that meant, that old pirate saying? I looked at where his hand was pointing. It seemed like more toward tunnel three. It had to be the middle tunnel, though, didn't it? Wasn't this like history repeating itself or something? Like my dad had this chance to go with his instincts, and he didn't do it and lost, and now here were the same three doors, right?\n\n\"Everything's behind the second door,\" I whispered.\n\n\"Maybe,\" said Data. \"Maybe not.\"\n\nI heard Andy call out from the right-hand tunnel. \"Brand!\" Kind of quiet. \"Brand, hurry.\"\n\nBrand wasn't back, though. \"I'll go see what she wants,\" I said, and set off up the passage.\n\nIt was dark and twisty, and I had to feel my way along the wall. I hoped she hadn't sprained her ankle or anything\u2014that would really slow us up. Then I realized I hadn't heard Stef at all, so I got even more nervous, like maybe she'd fallen down a pit or something, or got crushed under a boulder, or something weird had carried her off, or...\n\nI rounded the next corner, my hands on the wall in the total blackness, more and more afraid, when my palm came to rest on something soft and warm. I'd never felt one before, but I knew immediately what it was. It was a breast.\n\nIn a second Andy pulled me close and whispered, \"Oh, Brand,\" and put her lips on mine and kissed me with her mouth wide-open.\n\nShe didn't pull away, either. She just kept on keepin' on, with the same long kiss. I opened my mouth. First time I'd ever done that, too, except for the time I started to do it with Cheryl Hagedorn and we locked braces. But this wasn't anything like that.\n\nAndy stuck her tongue into my mouth and sort of licked around in there. It was pretty weird, but I liked it. I mean, I don't think I'd ever had anything in my mouth that felt anything like her tongue. Even _my_ tongue didn't feel like that.\n\nThen I realized everything was going on in _my_ mouth, so I stuck my tongue into _her_ mouth and sort of slid it around her tongue, and she started making these little whimpery kinds of noises. My hand was still on her breast, and I pressed down a little harder, but I didn't move it around much. I was afraid she might get mad and make me stop, or tell Brand, and then he'd make me sorry. She didn't seem to mind me just pressin'. down, though. So I did it with my other hand on her other breast, too.\n\nAnd for just a few seconds there, I forgot about One-Eyed Willy.\n\nFinally we broke, and she just leaned back against the wall, kind of out of breath, but it sounded like she was smilin'.\n\nSuddenly Stef came up from the other direction and stopped short when she saw me\u2014my eyes were used to the dark now, so I could see her, and I guess she could see me. Andy could've seen, too, but she still had her eyes closed. Stef looked surprised, but I guess she figured out what was what pretty quick, because she gave me a wink. Sometimes Stef was like one of the guys.\n\nI winked back at her, and I hoped that meant, this was our secret. Than I backed out real slow, back toward the main cavern. Just as I got out of sight from the girls, I heard Stef whisper to Andy.\n\n\"Okay, you kissed\u2014now tell.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Andy, \"he's not what he appears. He's... scholarly. And sensitive. And very, very sweet. But there _is_ something weird.\"\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\nI stopped so I could hear better.\n\n\"I think he wears braces,\" she said.\n\nI passed my tongue over the wires on my front teeth. For a minute, with Andy, I'd forgotten that my teeth weren't perfect.\n\n\"Next time,\" I heard Stef say, \"you gotta kiss him with your eyes open. It's a whole different experience.\"\n\n\"Well, if anyone knows, you should,\" said Andy. \"I wasn't interested in watching, though\u2014I just thought that if this was going to be my last day on earth, I wanted to make Brand my last meal.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well I don't intend for this to be _my_ last day, so someday I'll tell you a secret about this.\"\n\n\"Meaning what?\" said Andy.\n\n\"Meaning apples are tastier when they're not quite ripe.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Never mind. Let's get back.\"\n\nI heard them start toward me, so I hurried back to the cavern.\n\nAll the guys were there again, huddled around the pirate skeleton, and a few second later Stef and Andy joined us. Data had the lantern working again. Mouth was looking along the skeleton's arm toward the tunnels.\n\n\"So are we gonna get outta here or what?\" said Brand. Andy eased over to him and put her arm around his waist. He put his arm around her shoulder. It made me feel funny\u2014kind of bad and kind of good, like jealous of Brand but full of my secret, too. Stef didn't look at me, and I didn't look at her.\n\nMouth said, \"Well, this arm's pointin' to Door Number Three, so let's take it and blow this joint.\" He walked to the right-hand tunnel. The others followed.\n\nI just stood there for a second, staring at this mummified buccaneer... and all at once I had an idea. It was like a melody inside my head again. It just started playin' real pretty, just like one of those songs no one could hear but me. Reminded me of Chunk dancing to the tune of that silent jukebox up in the Lighthouse Lounge... when was that? Only earlier today? Seemed like a year ago.\n\nI wondered where Chunk was now. Did he get the cops? Was he trapped somewhere? Was he...\n\nAnyway, I had this idea.\n\n\"Hey, guys! Wait!\" I shouted.\n\nThey all stopped and looked at me.\n\n\"So this guy has a knife in his eye, right? So it's like he only had one eye, just like One-Eyed Willy. Right?\" They all agreed. I went on. \"So, if you only got one eye, you sort of see things in a different way....\"\n\nI looked along the pirate's arm, first closing one eye, then the other. It made the arm point to two different tunnels. When I closed the eye that the dagger was sticking in on the skeleton, his arm seemed to point to the middle tunnel.\n\nEveryone gathered around me and did the same thing.\n\n\"It's the middle tunnel,\" said Brand. \"Door Number Two.\"\n\nMouth had to agree. So without any more discussion we all headed into the middle entrance, Brand in the lead with the lantern.\n\nAfter a few steps I remembered Chunk, though. What if he _hadn't_ found the cops but had come down here after us instead? Or what if he _had_ found the cops and they were _all_ looking for us? We had to let them know where we were going. We had to leave them a sign.\n\n\"Hang on a minute, guys,\" I said, and ran back into the main cavern.\n\nI wanted to leave a trail for him that _he_ could follow but no one else could, if there was someone else after us that we didn't want around.\n\nSo I rummaged in my pockets and came up with a pocketknife, a rubber band, a PEZ dispenser, three base-ball cards, some old Kleenex, a Twinkies wrapper, a ticket stub from the movies last Saturday, and half a red licorice.\n\nThen I scratched a one in the dirt in front of the left tunnel, a two in front of the middle one, and a three in front of the right. And then I dropped the Twinkies wrapper near the pirate. I figured Chunk would know there were two Twinkies to a package, and go to Tunnel Number Two. Anyway, that's what I figured.\n\nI stood up to go back into the tunnel and nearly jumped out of my skin. There were two big, round holes in the rock, high up, one either side of the middle tunnel. I hadn't noticed them before, but with the light on inside the passageway now, it shone back at me through these holes and through the entrance\u2014and with the other two side tunnels kind of like hollowed-out cheeks, the whole wall looked like a giant skull, with two eye sockets above, and the middle tunnel a huge nose hole.\n\nAnd now every friend I had in the world was inside that skull.\n\nI ran through the nose hole to join them.\n\n# **Chapter 6**\n\n**_Chunk's Story_**\n\nThinking of Chunk reminds me that he was having quite an adventure of his own during all this, even though I didn't find that out until later. But now's as good a time as any to tell you about it, I guess. So I'll tell you. Just the way he told me. He said:\n\n\"The last time I see you guys we're in the counterfeiting room in the basement of the lighthouse and the Fratellis are comin' back and there's this frozen dead guy on the floor and I thought it was all over for us and I wasn't that scared, since I had to fight off that wolf up near Vancouver.\n\n\"And then you stuff _me_ into the freezer with the stiff and close the door. I can't believe you guys! I mean, I try to yell, but my vocal cords get frozen up and I can't make a sound. And this damn corpse keeps slidin' down onto me so I'm starin' in his face, which, if you remember, has three eyes on account of the bullet hole between the normal ones.\n\n\"Then the freezer door opens and I'm about to cuss you out, except I notice it's Jake at the door. So I keep real still until I hear 'em leave, and then I'm outta there.\n\n\"So I hear you callin' from inside the fireplace, right, the fireplace, geez. So I tell you to lemme in. So what do you tell me? Take a hike. Well, thanks a whole lot, I'm a sittin' duck out there, and my best friends won't pull me out with a rope when they see me goin' down for the third time. Great friends.\n\n\"Then I heard the Fratelli gang again, but since I'm a resourceful kinda guy, I leap for the window in a single bound, slink through like a ferret... and I'm free. I don't know why you guys didn't think of it.\n\n\"Anyway, I'm outside now, and it's night, and it's cold, and I'm scared out of my mind, so I just start running. Reminds me of the time I was one of the pacers in the Portland Marathon. O' course, that was before I had my, you know, my weight problem, and then I was never timed officially, but I used to be a pretty good hoofer, especially cross-country. So I try to keep that in mind as I tear ass outta the lighthouse. I run through the graveyard, which is no picnic, I run through the woods, I run up the hill, I get all the way to the damn road before I remember we had bikes down there and I coulda been riding. But I'm too scared to go back now, so I just keep running.\n\n\"Must've run ten minutes before a car finally shows. So I stand right in front of the headlights and wave my arms to flag it down, until it finally stops right in front of me, and this guy gets out, only I can't see him too good on account of the headlights are on bright and right in my eyes. So the guy says, 'Is there something wrong?' So I say, 'Look, mister, I need a ride. My friends and I just had a run-in with these really gross people, you might've heard of 'em, the Fratelli Gang: Anyway, we found their hideout, so if you could gimme a ride to the police station...'\n\n\"Meanwhile I'm walkin' up to the car while I'm talkin', and as soon as I get past those blinding headlights, I see the car is the same damn car with all the bullet holes in it from back at the lighthouse. Talk about feeling stupid. Geez.\n\n\"So I look up, and sure enough, it's Jake Fratelli standing there, with Francis right behind him. I turn to run, and I'm fast, but they're faster, so before I know it, they've grabbed me and they're stuffing me into the trunk of the car, and I'm yowling, but there's nobody else around.\n\n\"Except right next to me in the trunk is that same damn FBI corpse. But naturally he wasn't listening.\n\n\"So we go for a short, painful, bouncy ride back to the hideout, and they take me down to the basement again, right into the counterfeiting room. Where Mama's waiting. Right about now I'm wishin' I knew a prayer, but I don't, so I just sorta smile as good as I can and hope maybe they'll just kidnap me and adopt me as their outlaw son and I can turn myself in during our first holdup. But they don't wanna adopt me. They just wanna torture me.\n\n\"So they tie me into this hard chair with an old extension cord, and Jake holds a gun to my head. Geez, my mom won't even allow a gun in our _house_. Made it tough the night I had to disarm those two cat burglars when my parents were at the ballet last New Year's Eve. These guys climbed in the upstairs bathroom window, but I heard 'em from the den, and I knew they'd have to pass the linen closet on the way to Mom's jewelry, so I hid there, and when they passed, I threw one of those huge wraparound towels over their heads and knocked 'em cold with the Spic-N-Span bucket.\n\n\"But, anyway, there's no way I'm gonna get the Fratellis' guns now, 'cause they got me tied up in a flash, and I'm thinkin', this is not going well.\n\n\"Then the old lady puts a blender on the table in front of me and plugs it in and turns it to 'Liquefy' and jams an eggplant into it, and we all watch the eggplant turn to mush. And I hear Mama saying, 'First we'll start with your pudgy little fingers, then your round little hands, then your fleshy arms...' Geez, I want to puke just thinkin' about it.\n\n\"Then she turns off the blender and says, 'Now you gonna tell me where your little friends are?'\n\n\"'In the fireplace!' I tell her in about three-tenths of a second. I mean, no offense, guys, but I'm talkin' scared as in scared shitless.\n\n\"But, the thing of it is, she doesn't believe me! 'Don't lie to me, boy!' she says. 'Honest,' I tell 'em, 'we got this map from Mikey's dad, and it said that underneath this place is a buried treasure, so\u2014'\n\n\"'Don't give us any o' your bullshit stories,' Jake says, and starts shakin' me. 'We want the truth! Spill your guts, boy! Tell us everything! Everything!'\n\n\"He's screamin' and shakin' me, and I don't know _what_ he's gonna do, and I'm _tellin_ ' the truth but I gotta make them believe it, so I figure when he says _everything_ , I gotta tell _everything_. So I do. 'Okay, okay,' I say, 'in the third grade I cheated on my history exam, in fourth grade I stole my uncle's toupee and glued it on my face when I played one of the wise men in our school Christmas play, and then in the fifth grade I pushed my brother down the stairs and blamed the dog....\"\n\n\"So I go on like that for a while and they're lookin' at me like I'm nuts, and I'm really startin' to feel bad, so then I _really_ start thinkin' of things I did that I'm ashamed of, stuff I never told _anybody_ before, so I tell 'em about the time I mixed up this fake puke out of pea soup and soy sauce and corn niblets and hid it in a can in my jacket and went to the movies and sat up in the front-row balcony and made this huge ralphing sound and dumped it over the side on a bunch of people in the audience, which made _them_ start gettin' sick and throwin' up all over each other. Geez, it was just horrible, I never felt so bad in my life... so I'm tellin' this to the Fratellis, and it makes me feel so bad, I start bawlin' like a baby. Can you believe it? What do you mean, you can?\n\n\"Anyway, old Mama just looks at me so angry, her eyes cross, and she grabs my chin between her thumb and her first knuckle, just like Aunt Rose used to do, only Mama squeezes like she's trying to make juice, and she says, 'Look, kid, I still ain't heard what I wanted. Now where are your friends?'\n\n\"I don't know what else to say to make her believe me, so I just say, 'I told ya, in the fireplace. They took out the logs, and then the grating, and then they crawled into some secret passageway....'\n\n\"So she says, real sarcastic, 'And then I suppose they put the grating and the logs back and started up the fire from inside....'\n\n\"'Yeah, right, just like that,' I say, but I don't think she really has the picture yet. No way. She turns to Francis and says, 'Hit \"Puree.\"' So Francis grabs the blender and pushes the 'Puree' button, and it starts whippin' the eggplant into eggplant foam, and Mama says, 'Now do I get the truth, or do you get added to the Fish Surprise?'\n\n\"So she grabs my hand and holds it over the blender. I'm screamin'. I'm cryin'. I'm making' deals with God, like just lemme outta this and I'll go to temple every Saturday, or just make these dudes disappear and I'll take out the garbage all year. Stuff like that. But they just keep pullin' my fingers closer to the blades. I figure at least now I'll have an excuse to stop takin' violin lessons.\n\n\"But all of a sudden there's this noise, like the sound of a blender the size of Rhode Island\u2014and it's comin' from the fireplace. My first thought is, Geez, maybe some _really_ big troll is gonna throw us _all_ into this huge blender. But then the logs and the grating like explode out of the fireplace and bounce across the floor, and a flock of bats, no lie, and I mean a major flock, shoots out of the hole in the fireplace floor and swirls around the room the way you dream about when you eat pizza too close to bedtime, and then they finally land up in the rafters where it's dark, and Francis runs over to the hole in the fireplace and looks down into it, and he says, 'Hey, the kid's not shittin'.'\n\n\"Not shittin', hell. I'm shittin' bricks. But I'm saved by these bats. This is actually the second time I've been saved by bats. First time was in that old bell tower up on Lynch Road. I was up there with a net, tryin' to catch a bunch of 'em 'cause I heard the university was doin' experiments with 'em and payin' five bucks a head, so I had a whole sackful. It's pretty easy catchin' 'em in the day, 'cause they're sleeping\u2014and I fell off the damn tower, but I shouted so loud, I woke up the ones in the sack I was carrying, so they started flappin' and turned the sack into this sort of spastic balloon, which let me down easy. I let 'em all go after that. I mean, it was the least I could do after they saved my life, even if they didn't know it.\n\n\"So, anyway, the Fratellis realize now that these bats must've come from _somewhere_ , so they realize I'm not such a know-nothing after all.\n\n\"So they check it out and find out there _is_ a passageway down there, and I'm so happy, I'm shittin' pearls. But then Mama opens the cupboard, and I can see it's filled with guns and more guns. They all take one. Then Mama says, 'If we find those kids, remember, no witnesses\u2014we'll let all the air outta their Calvins.'\n\n\"Then she cackles like somethin' from Dungeons and Dragons, and no lie, she points the gun at my head. All at once everything I've ever eaten flashes before my eyes, but then she lowers her pistol. 'Maybe I better keep him alive,' she says, 'just in case he's lyin'. Put him in with your brother.'\n\n\"So Jake starts to lift the chair I'm tied into, but the doubloon falls out of my pocket. Mama picks it up, she bites it, she looks it over real close. But she can't figure it. 'What's this, a Cracker Jack prize?' she says.\n\n\"'We found it with the map,' I tell her. 'It's got somethin' to do with the buried treasure.'\n\n\"Mama gives it over to Francis. 'You're supposed to be the minting expert,' she says.\n\n\"He studies it real careful, even more than she did. His eyes get wide. 'I'll be damned,' he says.\n\n\"'That's for damn sure,' says his mother, 'but what's the story on this coin?'\n\n\"'You see this mark here?' he shows her. 'This here's the mark of William B. Pordobel, better known as One-Eyed Willy.'\n\n\"'I've heard of him,' says Jake.\n\n\"Francis nods, real slow. 'One-Eyed Willy was one o' the most ingenious pirates of the seventeenth century. The guy started out as a court jester but was banished from five Spanish courts because of his off-color stories and practical jokes.'\n\n\"'You woulda liked him, Ma,' says Jake, and they all laugh.\n\n\"Francis keeps talkin', though. 'So Willy formed this pirate band, and they set sail on a ship named the _Inferno_. Willy and his men marauded hundreds of the king's ships, they amassed a fortune, a treasure worth millions. Then, legend has it, three of the king's ships chased him farther and farther north, until he got all the way up around _this_ area\u2014and while being attacked, Willy steered his ship into a huge, hidden, underground cavern, which the Navy ships sealed with cannon fire. Willy and the survivors spent the next couple years hiding out, repairing the _Inferno_. They explored all the natural catacombs and dug new tunnels and loaded 'em all with booby traps, to protect the treasure and prevent attack. One of his men escaped to tell the story, and that story's been passed down generation to generation for over three hundred years.'\n\n\"'And how do you know so much about it?' says Mama.\n\n\"'Willy melted down all the gold he stole and minted his own coins,' says Francis. 'And this is one of 'em, and I know because that's what I know, Ma.'\n\n\"'Well, you put this chub in with your brother,' she says, 'and then we'll see if we can find us some snoopy kids and maybe a few pieces of eight in the bargain.'\n\n\"So she starts climbin' down into the passageway under the fireplace, holdin' a gun and a flashlight, while her two sons cart me off in my chair, out of that room, down the hall, and through the next door into the next room. The room we heard the growling in before.\n\n\"So this guy is sitting in there with his back to the door, kind of a hulky kinda guy, and he's watchin' TV, with his face about two inches from the screen. Some kinda swash-buckler movie, with everyone accusing everyone else and drawing swords and demanding satisfaction. I'd like to demand a little o' that myself, but no such luck. Jake and Francis set me down right next to him, but he don't even notice, he's so into this movie. And I can't exactly see his face, 'cause it's turned in toward the screen.\n\n\"Jake says, 'Hey, don't sit so close to the screen, it'll stunt your brain,' and then him and Francis laugh and leave.\n\n\"So me and this guy, we just sit starin' at this movie for about five minutes, and I'm gettin' kinda nervous and wonderin' what he's thinkin' about, 'cause, to tell the truth, the movie's not that great, so I figure it can't hurt to make friends with the guy, so I smile, and I say, 'Hi, how ya doin'? My name's Lawrence. Everybody calls me Chunk, though. Guess that's 'cause I eat too much Twinkie juice....'\n\n\"And then all of a sudden this guy turns to face me, bellowing this righteous growl. Unbelievable. His head is bent outta shape, and his eyes are in the wrong places, and he has these Venusian ears and a patch of hair at the top of this pointy skull and a nose like marzipan and rubber lips with spit dripping down his chin and crooked yellow teeth, and I am totally grossed out.\n\n\"I scream. I gag. I try to stand. I try to pass out. No soap. He looks like he's just about to rip out my heart. But he opens his mouth instead. And I'm not shittin' you, but he smiles. And then he giggles. At least I _think_ it was a giggle.\n\n\"You know what? I think he liked me.\n\n\"'So. What's _your_ name?' I say. So he points to this old magazine page tacked up on the wall, I think it's from outta _National Geographic_ or somethin'. And it's a painting of this huge, furry prehistoric animal bein' eaten alive by a saber-toothed tiger while they're both fallin' into this bubbling tar pit, and the printing under the picture says, 'Giant sloth, too heavy to escape the tar, provides a last supper for the ferocious saber-tooth, who doesn't yet realize his own fate.'\n\n\"So he points to the giant sloth, and then he points to himself, and he gets this look on his face that's like sort of ashamed and sorta proud at the same time, and he says, kinda growly, \"Sloth.\" And he smacks his chest a couple times and says it again.\n\n\"So I look closer at the picture, and you know\u2014there's kind of a family resemblance.\n\n\"So then he changes the channel. He finds Craig Claiborne making a chocolate fudge cake, and he sets in to watch it awhile. And I swear, I didn't realize how hungry I was until I see old Craig pouring this creamy frosting over the double layers, with these big old cherries mushed into the filling. So my mouth starts watering, I can't help myself, and I can't take my eyes off the set, either. So we're both sittin' there just glued to the screen, and I'm actually startin' to like this guy a little, I mean, he's not really such a bad dude and we're sort of gettin' into this show, and suddenly he turns to me and talks like he was suckin' on a Brillo pad. 'Chocolate,' he says. Then he smiles again.\n\n\"So I smile back. This guy's all right. I mean, I don't trust a guy who doesn't like chocolate. And then I remember something else\u2014I've got a candy bar in my back pocket. My hands are tied, but not so's I can't get my fingers around to dig into that pocket. So that's what I do, and I manage to pull out this crushed Almond Joy between two fingers.\n\n\"So I show it to Sloth, and he beams me this huge grin, and screams out, 'Baby Ruth! Baby Ruth!' It was a heartwarming sight, I tell ya.\n\n\"So I toss him the candy bar, but I can't move my wrist too good, so it lands halfway between us on the floor. And I can't get it 'cause I'm tied in this chair, and he can't get to it 'cause he's chained to the wall and it's out of his reach. So he starts growlin' and slobberin'\u2014I mean, he is pissed. He starts pullin' at his leg chains in the wall. Nothin' happens at first, but he's gruntin' and strainin' and pullin' harder, and pretty soon the wall starts to give. The cement cracks and crumbles, the boards creak. The bolts fly out of the wall, and the chains drop to the floor. And that sucker is free.\n\n\"'Geez, mister,' I say, 'you're even hungrier than me.'\n\n\"He just laughs, though, kinda like a wheeze, and with a couple good tugs, he pulls his wrist irons apart, too. So now these chains are dangling from his arms and legs, and he goes for the chocolate. Rips that Baby Ruth in two and gobbles down half of it right away, paper and all.\n\n\"I'm still tied into the damn chair. So you know what he does then? He puts the other half of the candy bar in my mouth. And man, nothin' ever tasted so good.\n\n\"Then he stands up over me, and I swear to God he must be eight feet tall. No, really. Scared me so bad, I stopped chewin'. So he reaches down for me, and for just a second I think I'm buyin' the farm. He grabs me by the shoulders, lifts me _and_ the chair up until my face is just even with his, which seems like close to stationary orbit, holds me there a few seconds, and then\u2014now get this\u2014he kisses me on the lips.\n\n\"Now don't get me wrong, it's not like perverted or anything. It's like he's tryin' to be friends. I mean, it kinda freaked me out at first, but then he just throws his head back and giggles, real friendlylike. The thing is, though, his breath smells like the locker room during football season. So I mention that to him. So he drops me.\n\n\"So the chair smashes on the floor, and I stand up, free as a bird. But before I can split, Sloth grabs my hand and pulls me outta there, down the hall, and back into the first room.\n\n\"Nobody else is there now. I figure they've gone down into the passage under the fireplace. Sloth runs to the freezer and opens it and smiles at me kinda sheepish and devilish at the same time, and says, 'T-bone.' Then he pulls this frosted plastic bag out and gets this thick T-bone steak outta the bag, and it's frozen solid, man, it's like granite, but he don't care, he takes this huge bite out of it and starts crunchin' away like it was a Dorito or somethin'.\n\n\"Then he holds it out to me, like he's offerin' me a bite. I'm real polite, though. I figure he's not the kinda guy you wanna insult. 'Ah, no,' I say, real smiley, 'you keep it. I like mine not so crunchy.'\n\n\"So he just shrugs and finishes eating the thing, bones and all. Guy's got a lot to learn about manners. Anyway, I notice there's a phone on the table, so I pick it up and dial the police. I mean, what luck finally. So the sheriff himself answers. 'Hello? Sheriff?' I say, 'I'm at the old Lighthouse Lounge, and well, I'd like to report a... first, there's a murder. Actually, two murders. Plus we found the hideout of those Fratelli people. Then\u2014'\n\n\"'Wait a minute, just hold on there,' he says. 'Is this you again, Lawrence?'\n\n\"Well, you can imagine I'm kind of embarrassed that he recognizes my voice, but I say, 'Ah yes sir, it is.'\n\n\"So he snaps back, real rude, 'When the hell are you gonna stop buggin' me? Do I have to call your mother again?\"\n\n\"Meanwhile I'm watchin' Sloth devour a whole frozen turkey. He cracks off one of the legs, but it's like solid ice, so it slips out of his hand and flies across the room and bounces into the fireplace. So he chases after it\u2014I have a feeling like the drumstick is his favorite part.\n\n\"But I hear the sheriff still raggin' at me in the phone, so I say, 'But Sheriff, this time I'm tellin' the truth.'\n\n\"'Sure,' he says, 'just like the time you told me fifty Iranian terrorists took over every Sizzler Steak House in the city.'\n\n\"'Okay, I'll admit that was a joke,' I say. Then he starts bellyachin' again, and now Sloth is stickin' his head down the hole in the fireplace floor to see where his turkey leg went to. But it's not there, I guess, because he lets out this roar down the hole that sounds like an elephant in heat. Then, about two seconds later, the roar echoes back outta the passageway. So the big guy jumps back like his mom yelled at him or somethin', and then he laughs. Then he sticks his head down there and roars again, and sure enough, it echoes back again, and he laughs even harder. I think, he thinks he found another friend down there who talks his language or somethin'.\n\n\"Anyway, the sheriff is slartin' to sound like a broken record, so I try to be nice and sincere and stuff. 'Honest, Sheriff, you gotta believe me.'\n\n\"'I do?' he says. 'Just like that last prank about all those little creatures that multiply when you throw water on 'em?'\n\n\"I can see I'm not getting anywhere with the bozo. I mean, just because I've exaggerated a little from time to time, he hasn't got that police-thing down to know when I'm really on the level. And besides, Sloth is beginning to climb down into the passage under the fireplace, and I don't wanna be left alone here now, in case the Fratellis show up again, so I say, 'Sheriff, hold on a minute,' and I call out to Sloth, 'Wait! Get back here! Hey!' But when I make my move to go toward Sloth, I accidentally pull the phone out of the wall. Cheap equipment.\n\n\"So Sloth is down under the basement now, chasing his echo, or maybe he's just after the turkey leg. So I decide to follow along with him. I mean, I figure I told the sheriff where we are, that's all I can do. If we turn up missing, at least he'll know where to start. Besides which, I'm afraid to be alone, and I don't know where I can go now that _is_ safe. Besides which, I'm worried about _you_ guys, and I want to find out where you've gone to. Besides which, I'm startin' to really like this Sloth guy, and I don't want him gettin' into any deep shit, 'cause I'm afraid he's not too bright. I mean, it's probly just a learning disability or something, the guy probly just needs tutors.\n\n\"So I climb down into the passageway with a flashlight I find in the cabinet. I thought about takin' one of the guns, too, but I figure my mom would kill me if she found out, and besides, I'd probly blow my toe off.\n\n\"Sloth is rooting around down in the dirt, and he comes up with his turkey leg, gnawing on it, and yells into the tunnel, and the tunnel yells back, so he looks at me and giggles and starts walking down the passage. So I run along behind him. I mean, his legs are pretty long. We go down and up and around... it's like a maze down there. Any minute I expect to find this big piece of cheese.\n\n\"And at every new turn Sloth lets out this loud scream, and his echo answers him, and he chuckles like he just heard somethin' pretty damn funny.\n\n\"Finally I grab his arm, 'cause I figure if somebody doesn't tell him, he's gonna be in for a big letdown. 'Wait, listen to me,' I say, 'that's not a person. That's just your echo. Understand? Your echo. Echo.'\n\n\"So he holds up and thinks about it a minute, and all of a sudden, his face lights up and he nods like he understands. 'Eggo,' he says, 'Eggo Waffle!'\n\n\"Then he turns and starts walkin' down the tunnel again, repeating it over and over to himself, real excited. 'Eggo Waffle! Eggo Waffle!'\n\n\"I follow along, trying to reason with him. See, I still don't think he's got it like crystal-clear. 'No, not Eggo,' I say. 'Echo. Echo!'\n\n\"He just smiles, though, and keeps on truckin' and mumblin' to himself.\n\n\"We twist around through all these tunnels, and he finally does quiet down, though. We get to this cave all filled with pipes leakin' and sprayin' water everywhere, so I figure we must be on the right track, 'cause it looks like Mouth's handiwork, tryin' to fix a pipe that wasn't broken before he got to it. Sloth was real thirsty after his steak and turkey, so he just sucks on one of the gushers for a while, and then we set off again.\n\n\"We get to this tunnel full of boulders, and the first one is sitting on top of the crushed skeleton of an old miner, no lie! Pretty cool. We just moved on, though. You know, my, Uncle Sydney was a miner, and he told me never hang around in a cave where you find a dead miner, 'cause you never know what killed him, like it could be natural gas. You know, they used to bring canaries in cages down to the mines with them, and if the canaries dropped dead, the miners knew there was a gas leak, so they split in a hurry\u2014so, seeing a dead miner just lying there is kinda like havin' a free dead canary. Now like I said, this miner was crushed under a boulder, but you can't jump to conclusions in these matters. It still might've been gas that killed him. I ever tell you about the times Uncle Sydney took me down to the mines with him? Oh, yeah, he relied on me. See, I was a lot smaller than him, so there were holes I could crawl into to get stuff that he couldn't, so I'd crawl through these little tight spaces, sort of explore it for him, then come back and tell him about it. Never found any gold, o' course, but we weren't lookin' for any\u2014aluminum is what Uncle Sydney was after, raw aluminum ore. Sells for millions up in Canada. They make cans with it, but they don't have the resources up there, so they gotta import the stuff. Still drink most o' their beer outta bottles, that's how underdeveloped they are.\n\n\"So, anyway, I know a thing or two about mines and miners, and I know it's best just to move along now before gas overcomes us and we get too groggy to dodge the boulders.\n\n\"We go through this hole in the wall into this big cavern, which is obviously where the bats came from, and that leads us down this real narrow passage, and then things get tense\u2014'cause way up in the distance I can hear voices. And it sounds like the Fratellis.\n\n\"I look at Sloth right away, to see what he's gonna do, to see if I have to run and hide somewhere or what. But he just gives me this big sneaky grin and holds his finger to his lips like he wants me to be quiet and then snickers and covers his mouth with his hand so _he_ don't make no noise. Then he motions me to tiptoe up with him, so we do, until we're close enough to the Fratellis to see 'em and hear 'em but far enough back to be hidden in the shadows.\n\n\"The Fratellis are standing in this shallow pool of water, with moonlight shinin' down right on 'em, when suddenly they start squawkin' and jumpin' up and down and yellin' that there's _leeches_ all over 'em. Makes me shiver just to think of it.\n\n\"So they get out of the pool, and they all light cigarettes, and they start burnin' the leeches off their skin with the lit ends. Talk about gross. Then Mama looks down at the ground and says, 'They went this way. There's little Nike prints all over the ground.' So they walk on.\n\n\"So we sit there a minute, figuring what to do. I don't wanna follow too close, 'cause I don't want the Fratellis to see us. On the other hand, I wanna see where they're goin', 'cause if they're in front of us, they're not behind us. Right?\n\n\"And Sloth just seems like he thinks it's the greatest trick since bubbles that he saw them and they didn't see him. So we just sit there a minute. Pretty soon he crosses his legs and leans forward and starts drawing something in the dirt\u2014it's a circle with these spoky things and like a grid, and I can't figure it out at first, and then all of a sudden it hits me\u2014it's a TV test pattern, from when they sign off the air. This one's channel nine, I think. So he finishes drawing, and then he stares at it real intense, sitting there cross-legged with his hands on his knees the way Mom sits when she's doin' yoga, and he starts breathin' in and out real deep and fast like he's out of breath or somethin', and then all of a sudden he takes a deep, huge breath and lets out this long, soft, high-pitched sound. It sounds just like the test-pattern sound, like when the radio does its emergency-test sound for a minute sometimes. It sounds like 'Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.' Only Sloth makes the sound a lot longer than a minute, and without takin' a breath, too, he just keeps sayin' 'Deeeeeeeeeeeeeee,' and pretty soon his eyes sorta glaze over, and I realize he's in a trance.\n\n\"No lie, he looks just like my mom did when she was doin' meditation a lot to try to stop eating, only instead of saying 'Ommmm,' he's sayin' 'Deeeeeee.' So I realize then that Sloth is actually a very spiritual guy. Probly a highly evolved person. I feel like honored to be in his presence.\n\n\"So he does this for a while, and then he finally stops and like snaps out of it and takes a big, relaxed sigh and smiles, like he's ready to go on.\n\n\"But he doesn't get up. Instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Jew's harp, and knocks the lint off it and brings it up to his mouth and starts playin' away.\n\n\"'Hey!' I tell him. 'That's a Jew's harp, and I'm Jewish. What an incredible coincidence!' He just nods and keeps playing, and then I realize it's probly not such a coincidence at all. We actually have a lot in common, like we share mutual interests and stuff.\n\n\"Anyway, he gets up and starts stompin' his feet as he plays, and I start,clappin' along. It's real familiar but I can't quite place it, and then I realize he's playin' the Gilbert Chevrolet commercial they do on channel thirteen late at night. Then he starts doin' a whole medley of TV commercials, like, 'You deserve a break today at McDonald's,' and 'Ajax the foaming cleanser.' Stuff like that. I guess those are the only songs he knows.\n\n\"So he goes through his repertoire, and now he's completely cooled out and ready to go. So we march on again, in the direction his mom and brothers went.\n\n\"We're real careful to walk around the pond with all the leeches in it, even though there's a whole shitload of coins at the bottom. Maybe the leeches put the money there to try to lure people in so they could suck their blood, I don't know.\n\n\"Anyway, we walk along for a while, around a bunch of other tunnels, until we come to this dead end with a hole in the floor, and a grappling hook snagged on a rock at the end of a rope that dangles down into the hole. I look down the hole, but I can't see bottom, and I think I can hear the Fratellis' voices at first, but then they disappear.\n\n\"I'm kind of reluctant to shinny down this black hole, though, you know what I mean? I mean, I'm not the best climber in class, anyway. But Sloth kind of understands that, I think. So he hoists me up on his back, and I hang on, and _he_ lowers us _both_ down the rope. Nice and slow and steady.\n\n\"So my face is right next to his now, so I get to study it real close. And the walls are startin' to glow from this sea-slime stuff I think, so I can see pretty good. And lookin' at him that way, in that light, from the position of being carried on his back, he doesn't look so bad. I mean, he's not gonna be in _Playgirl_ next month or anything, but I've seen worse. You ever see my Uncle Grobnick?\n\n\"So I say to Sloth, 'Ya know, you're not such a strange-lookin' guy. I used to have a snake with two heads.'\n\n\"So he grunts at that, sorta like he knows what I'm talkin' about. So I keep talkin'. 'And I got this other friend, Mitch, and he's got this big hairy thing growin' out of his neck, and people always make fun of it, so he only goes out to play at night. I bet you only like to go out at night, huh?' He nods, so I go on talkin'.\n\n\"'Yeah, I know how you must feel,' I say. 'It's like when I go swimmin' at the public school and I gotta take my shirt off, I get really embarrassed, 'cause all the other guys got dark tans and ripples in their stomachs, and I'm this Pillsbury Dough Boy. So I swim in a sweatshirt.'\n\n\"So he grunts with total understanding, you know? Like he knows just how I feel. Right then he reaches the bottom of the rope and steps down to the floor, which is covered with these giganto wooden spikes under the shaft, so if we'd fallen, it would've been Chunk Kebab.\n\n\"We look around. It's like a big cave, and at one end is this pirate skeleton that's pointing to these three tunnels at the other end. I mean, it's this mummified human skeleton dressed in pirate clothes. So what does Sloth do? He takes the pirate hat off the skull and puts it on himself and wiggles his eyebrows at me. I mean, c'mon, what was I supposed to say to the guy? So I say, 'Man, you are a stud.' So he smiles at me, kind of embarrassed, you know? Funny guy.\n\n\"Then he pulls himself together, real suavelike, and gets a cigarette out of his coat pocket and sticks it in the corner of his mouth and lights up with this Bic lighter and takes a long drag and leans back against the wall and takes a coin out of his pants pocket, and he starts flippin' it and catchin' it, flippin' and catchin', just like that smoothtalkin' mobster in that old gangster film. Musts seen it on TV.\n\n\"But, anyway, I tell him, 'Hey, man, it's not cool to smoke.' So he gets this real bummed-out look on his face and throws the cigarette away and holds up his hand like he means 'Wait a minute,' and reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a ratty old deck of cards, which he fans in front of me, and says, 'Pick a card.'\n\n\"Well, you coulda blown me away with a straw. I mean, this guy never ceases to amaze me. So I pick a card and look at it and stick it back in the deck, and he shuffles like a pro from Vegas. It was the four of diamonds. Then he throws the pack into the air, and the cards flutter down all over the place, except there's one card sitting in the palm of his hand, and I'm damned if it isn't the four of diamonds.\n\n\"Well, he can see I'm impressed, but he just kinda nonchalantly picks up the cards and pockets 'em, still wearing his pirate hat. 'You know, you're an interesting kinda guy,' I say. He just sorta smiles, though, and tips his hat back.\n\n\"Anyway, while I'm helpin' him pick up the cards, I find this Twinkie wrapper on the ground, so I know you guys have been here, and I see all these footprints goin' into the middle tunnel, so I figure this must be the place. So this time I take the lead. 'Come on, men,' I say, and Sloth follows me into the middle tunnel.\"\n\nSo that got Chunk to where I left off with _my_ story, except I was there first. Or second, actually, although the only guy there ahead of _me_ was One-Eyed Willy, and I was about to meet up with _him_ soon enough. But he wasn't the _first_ cutthroat I met down in those caves\u2014first was the Fratellis, and that was _sooner_ than enough. \n\n# **CHAPTER 7**\n\n**_My Story Continued... The Lake... Data's Story... Stef's Story... The Fog... Mouth's Story... Brand's Story... Andy's Story... Dreamy River._**\n\nSo, anyway, I went back through the middle tunnel\u2014the nose hole in the skull\u2014and joined the gang, and we started down the next section of twisting corridors. And the farther we went, the more the caves echoed with the sound of rushing water, first louder, then softer, like a tide. We kept pretty quiet. Thinkin' to ourselves, I guess.\n\nAfter walking in silence for about thirty minutes, we came to a cave the size of our house, with only one exit\u2014tunnel\u2014and _it_ was filled with water.\n\nFloating on the water in the tunnel was a huge wooden raft made of tarred logs strapped together with chains and rope and tied to a rock in the cave. And scattered around the stone floor of the cave itself were a dozen more rafts of different sizes.\n\nStef said, \"This must've all been filled with water once. Like a harbor or somethin'.\"\n\n\"Well, it's a dry dock now,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"Except for that waterway. Where do you suppose it leads to?\"\n\n\"Well, since it's the only way outta here, I think we're about to find out.\"\n\n\"Maybe we can go back,\" said Data. He looked more worried than the others about goin' down this underground river.\n\nFar behind us, though, we could hear maybe footsteps, and maybe voices.\n\n\"I don't think we can go back,\" I said.\n\nSo we hopped on the raft, unhooked the rope from its anchorage, and cast off.\n\nThe water looked smooth, but there was a pretty good current comin' from somewhere, 'cause we immediately started driftin' downstream. There was no way to steer the thing, but that didn't matter, since it was about fifteen feet square, and the tunnel was only about twenty wide. So we just bobbed down the water, turning slowly, bumping softly into one wall, and then, a minute later, into the other.\n\nAfter about ten minutes the tunnel started to widen, though, and the current picked up.\n\n\"I've got a bad feelin' about this,\" said Mouth.\n\nThe raft began to bounce a little. There were spots of white water now and then. We all gathered near the center, away from the edges, touching each other. The logs were so big, they floated high, at least, so we weren't getting very wet. Just very scared.\n\nWe plunged down a three foot drop-off, and Data nearly went overboard before we leveled off again. That got us wet. And very, _very_ scared.\n\nThe raft was spinning now, really out of control, and Andy was cryin', and Data shiverin', and Stef stickin' her feet over the edge to try to steer a little bit, and me tryin' to light a flare so we could see better... and suddenly we spewed out into a huge, quiet lake, in a huge, sparkling cavern, and drifted slowly toward the center of it.\n\nNow, when I say huge, I mean we couldn't see the far side. It might have been two hundred yards across, or it might have been a mile. The ceiling was at least a hundred yards high, and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.\n\nCrystal formations hung down like fine-cut chandeliers, ruby-colored and sparkling in the light of my flare. They hung down, then splayed out, interconnecting with each other, then dangled again in this like incredible jumble of cut-glass spiderwebby crystalline icicles. Like a light show.\n\nIt was magical. We stared up at the projections almost hypnotized, as the raft slowly floated farther and farther into the core of the cavern. In a minute or so I looked around and realized I couldn't see any of the walls. Then I realized we were sort of bobbing in place and not really moving anywhere.\n\nData shined his lantern over three hundred and sixty degrees, but the beam didn't reach a single landmark.\n\n\"Uh-oh,\" he whispered as the raft turned in slow circles. His teeth started chattering. \"We're in trouble now, this is no good.\"\n\nIt was pretty intense, I gotta admit. Stef was cool, though. \"Relax, we just start paddling, that's all. We'll get somewhere sooner or later.\"\n\nSo we started paddling in the direction we thought was the other side. We gave up ten minutes later when we still couldn't see a wall. Besides, we were all a little shy about putting our hands in the water after we saw something break the surface about twenty feet away and then dive again. It was hard to tell in this light, but it looked an awful lot like a dorsal fin.\n\n\"Oh, man, this is terrible, this is it...\" Data whimpered.\n\n\"Take it easy, man, we'll get outta this,\" said Brand.\n\n\"No, you don't understand,\" said Data. \"Drowning is the worst. I can't take drowning. Anything but that. I can't swim. I can't even float.\"\n\nStef took his hand and put her arm around his shoulder, real nice. \"You're not gonna drown, kid. I can swim like a fish.\"\n\nMouth was gonna say somethin' wiseass\u2014I could see it in his eye\u2014but Stef threw him a look like \"Don't you dare,\" so he kept his mouth shut.\n\nAnyway, Data seemed to relax a little. And then, as we all sat there gazing up at the crystal ceiling in the middle of this black, boundless, motionless ocean, Data started talking.\n\n\"Someday I'm going to invent something great,\" he said. \"It's gonna be a city that's under the ocean, and it's gonna be inside this huge, clear, plastic bubble. Space-age plastic, the kind the NASA guys developed, so it can withstand thousands of degrees of heat, in case there's an underwater volcano eruption; and thousands of tons of pressure, so the weight of the ocean can't crush it. It'll be clear, so you can see through it to watch all the fish, so you're like surrounded on all sides by this gigantic aquarium. And it won't have any seams. It'll be molded out of one huge piece of plastic, so it can't spring a leak.\n\n\"It'll be a mile in diameter, and it'll have all these different levels, like plateaus constructed across the bubble at different levels,. and they'll be connected by ladders and stairways that go up and down. And each level will be for a different purpose. There'll be one level for housing and one for farming\u2014there'll be special lights there, so you can grow whatever you want\u2014and one level for fisheries, and one for playgrounds and restaurants and movies, and all the areas right near the inner surface of the plastic would be for observation decks, with big powerful spot-lights in some places shining out into the ocean so you could see all the amazing fish and coral and whales and stuff.\n\n\"And there'll maybe be an airlock, so people can go out on expeditions in submarines if they wanted to.\n\n\"The bubble will be held down to the ocean floor by a hundred gigantic anchors, connected to nondegradable cables that stretch over the top of the bubble and criss-cross there so they form a huge net weighted down by these anchors, so the bubble doesn't float up to the surface. It'll be held down there, at least a mile below the surface, so it won't be wrecked if there's a nuclear war, and fallout won't get that far down, either, or germs if there's a germ war. And it won't get hurt if there's an underwater earthquake, either, because it's not touching the bottom, only the anchors are, so the bubble will just kind of shift around on its cables and sway a little in the underwater current.\n\n\"That's where all its energy will come from, from underwater currents. So the location will have to be carefully chosen, so it's right beside one of those super currents that never stops, like the Gulf Stream, or El Nino, or one of those. We'll put a huge series of huge propellers right in the path of the current and connect them to huge turbines, so the propellers will always be turning and cranking out energy\u2014I guess we _will_ have to have an airlock, so the submarines can go out to service the propellers if they need maintenance.\n\n\"But, anyway, it'll be a safe, endless energy source, nonpolluting and self-generating. It'll power the lights in the city, and there'll be a desalination plant so we can get as much water as we need right outside and turn it into fresh water. And it'll power a big plant for extracting oxygen out of the water, so we can breathe\u2014it's not very efficient, but who cares about efficiency when you can harness the power of the ocean?\n\n\"It'll be completely self-contained and self-sustaining, and we'll limit the number of people who can come live there, so it doesn't get overcrowded\u2014only my friends and their friends and some of my relatives and a few nice people I don't know.\n\n\"And we'll be completely safe and happy, and we can never drown, even though we're surrounded by water on all sides, and life will be devoted to farming and eating and playing and discussing philosophy and working on new inventions.\n\n\"That's what I'm gonna invent.\"\n\n\"Sounds like you already did,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"Data, that's beautiful,\" said Andy.\n\nOur eyes had grown used to the dark by now, but the farther we were able to see, the farther we could see that there was no end to this cavern. The raft drifted this way a little, then that way, then just bobbed without direction for a bit, then turned around its center. We were going nowhere.\n\nStef said, \"Now me, I love the water. I grew up around it, I go fishin' all the time with my old man\u2014I'm the only one who _will_ go with him. My brothers just play with car engines and smoke dope. I love goin' out there, though, it's so quiet and peaceful, no one else around, no one tellin' you what to do, no noise and stench from the factories, just you sittin' out there in the middle of all this quiet, rollin' on the waves like it was a cradle. There's nothin' else as peaceful as that.\n\n\"And swimmin', that's just like runnin' or dancin'. You just dip in the water and mess around there and dip out and mess around in the air again. Same difference. Except in the water, there's this peace.\n\n\"I like to scuba, too, only it's too expensive to do it very often, but my old man lets me use his gear once in a while. That's a _real_ mind-blower, swimmin' around down under all that water. Talk about quiet, man. It's like nothin' but you and all these strange, silent fishes starin' back at you and you just know they're thinkin' somethin', but they ain't talkin' about it.\n\n\"I scuba'd off Catalina once. It was so warm and clear and blue, man, and these fish were like orange and neon purple\u2014no shit, they were like punk fish. Like there was a Cyndi Lauper fish, and a Eurhythmics fish, all glidin' around to some special underwater fish beat that I couldn't hear, but I could see it, and the seaweed wavin' like in slow motion and these pink jellyfish hangin' their fringe down wavin' back, and schools of fish that turn in formation like they had the same thought at the same second, and all the time it's so quiet and peaceful....\n\n\"No, I love the water. Water's where I go when I wanna _stop_ being scared. What _I'm_ afraid of is the dark. Knowing something's out there but you can't see what. _That's_ what scares me.\"\n\nWe looked out in all directions, trying to see something. Anything. The raft rocked almost not at all now. Just flat and still.\n\nOff to the left something caught my eye, though. Real hazy, like just a sort of lightness in the darkness. It seemed to get a lot colder all of a sudden, not a wind exactly, but like a movement of cold air all around us. And then the lighter area in the distance got closer and whiter and thicker. And then you could see that it was a fog rolling in.\n\n\"Oh, shit,\" whispered Stef.\n\nThe fog started to reach us, sort of a chilly wetness at first, and then the mist began creepin' over the edge of the raft and just sat there, real low, for a time.\n\nSomething echoed way in the fog, and we all jumped. Sort of a falling rock noise, only muffled by the fog, and then it was quiet again.\n\n\"Reminds me of a story, kinda,\" said Mouth. \"Took place on a cold, dark, foggy night up near Vancouver, sorta like what we got right here, in fact. This family was livin' in a little place at the edge of town. They were tryin' to make ends meet, like all our families. It was just a little nowhere sorta place with a creaky front gate, in a little factory town. Mother and a father, and they had one kid, a guy, he just finished high school and he was still livin' at home and workin' in the factory with his dad, so he could save up enough to get a place of his own. His name was Alex, he was a friend of my cousin, Doug. That's how I know the story.\n\n\"Anyway, there used to be an older son, too, but he got killed in Vietnam years ago. But then one day they heard the front gate creak open, and a mailman with this package showed up at the door, and it was from the older son, the dead one\u2014see, the army had just found his personal junk, it was lost in a warehouse or somethin' for fifteen years, so they just sent it. Typical army.\n\n\"So, anyway, this package came, and they opened it, and it had, you know, his dogtags and some pictures and some medals and his clothes and letters and stuff, but it also had this one sealed envelope addressed to them, and it was taped to a box, all wrapped up and about the size of a telephone.\n\n\"They opened the letter, and it had a lot of personal stuff\u2014made 'em cry, 'cause they remembered him all over again now\u2014but it also said he got this special gift for 'em from an old Chinese wizard, and it would grant 'em three wishes if they just held it while they made the wishes.\n\n\"So they opened the box. And inside they found the paw of a monkey.\"\n\n\"Mouth, you jerk, are you gonna tell 'The Monkey's Paw?'\" said Stef.\n\n\"Hey, gimme a break, I listened to your story, now you listen to mine. C'mon, you might get into it.\"\n\n\"I don't _wanna_ get into it.\"\n\nWe were all pretty into it already, though\u2014starin' real quiet at him, with the fog rollin' over our feet in the dark, getting wrapped up in his ghost story.\n\n\"So, anyway,\" said Mouth, talkin' softer now, \"the father wanted to put the paw away with the rest of the son's junk, but the mother said, 'Wait a minute, now, this thing was his last gift to us, maybe we should use it,' and the father said, 'No, it's bad luck to try to take things from the dead,' and the mother said, 'Geez, it couldn't hurt, and they sure could use the money,' and the father said, 'Yeah, but greed only gets people in trouble, and they'll get by just fine,' and the mother said, 'Well, they don't need to be greedy, they could just ask for a _little_ money, just what they needed to make their back payments and fix the roof and help their son get his own place. 'Just ten thousand dollars,' she said. 'That's all we'll ask for is ten thousand bucks.'\n\n\"Well, the father didn't like it, but he said okay, so he held the monkey's paw in his hand and said, 'Please give us just ten thousand dollars.' Then all at once he yelped and dropped the paw. 'It moved in my hand,' he said.\n\n\"Well, nothin' else happened. They looked around, waited a minute\u2014nothin'. The father just laughed, though, and said, 'Oh, well, we still got each other.' So they went to bed.\n\n\"Next day the father and son went off to work, out the creaky front gate to the factory. But that afternoon at three, they didn't come home. Couple hours passed, and she started to worry... and then all of a sudden, creeeeak, the front gate, and the father came staggerin' in, cryin' and gnashin', and two guys from the factory were with him, and the mother said, 'Oh, my God, what happened?'\n\n\"And one of the factory guys tells her he's real sorry, but her son Alex fell into one of the machines at work and was killed.\n\n\"She screamed and said she didn't believe it, and she wanted to see her son. But they said no, that wasn't advisable, 'cause he'd been mangled beyond recognition and parts cut off and stuff.\"\n\n\"Eeuww, gross,\" said Andy.\n\n\"Sshh. Go on,\" said Brand.\n\nMouth went on. \"And then the factory guy put his arm on the mother's shoulder and said it wasn't much consolation, but her son had a life insurance policy with the factory, and the guy had a check here for her for ten thousand dollars.\"\n\n\"Wow,\" whispered Andy.\n\n\"So she screamed and tore at her hair and stuff, and her husband finally quieted her down, and the other guys left. The mother and father sat there at the kitchen table for hours, just lettin' it get darker as night came on. And night did come on\u2014kinds cold and black and foggy. Just like this.\n\n\"And the mother finally couldn't stand it no more, so she grabbed the monkey's paw, and the father said, 'No!' but before he could do anything, she said, 'Bring him back. Bring my son back to me!'\n\n\"The father grabbed the paw away, but it squirmed out of his hand and fell back on the table. Anyway, it was too late. She'd said it. So they just sat there at the table as the fog curled all around the house, and it got colder and darker, and an hour passed, and all of a sudden... they heard it. Kind of a scraping sound, and then a thump. _Wshhh, thup. Wssshhh, thup. Wssshh, thup._ Like that.\n\n\"Kinda the sound a body might make if it was missin' a leg and an arm, draggin' itself along the ground, inch by inch.\n\n_Wsshhh, thup._ They heard it comin' closer, along the front walk. The windows were all open, but it was too foggy to see anything, foggy and dark, and they were so scared, they couldn't move, anyway, and all they could do was hear. _Wsshhh, thup. Wsshhh, thup._\n\n\"It went all the way along the front of the house, and it got to the place where they knew the front gate was... and there was a long pause. The sound stopped, it was totally silent in the thick, black fog... and then they heard it. Creeeeeeeeak. The front gate was opening, slowly opening... and then a loud _thup_ , like somethin' fell hard through the gate.\n\n\"Then it got all quiet again. They didn't move a muscle, they just sat there starin' at the night, and then all at once... it started again. _Wsshhh, thup. Wsshhh, thup._ Much louder now. Closer. Comin' down the path to the front door.\n\n\"The mother started whimperin' now, and they were both starin' at the door, and they could hear the thing comin' closer\u2014 _wsshhh, thup_ \u2014and it was at the door, and suddenly... there was a knock.\"\n\nMouth knocked three times on one of the wooden logs of the raft.\n\n\"'Go away,' whispered the father. But the mother stood up. 'Alex,' she cried. 'My baby.'\"\n\nMouth knocked three more times on the wood.\n\n\"And the mother started walking to the front door. 'No,' the father whispered, but she ran to the door now. And just as she flung it open, the father grabbed the monkey's paw and said, 'Make him go away forever. Let us never see him again!' And the paw twitched.\n\n\"And the mother, threw the door open. And there was nothin' there. Only the fog, creepin' in over the doorsill and over her feet. And into her heart.\"\n\nWe all sat there starin' at him, but he didn't say any more. Just sat there starin' back at us, like he was darin' us to disbelieve his story.\n\nAndy clung to Brand for reassurance. \"Oh, Brand, that was so scary.\"\n\nHe wrapped his arms around her. \"It was just a story,\" he said. But the fog was starting to come higher on us, and it was pretty damn chilly.\n\n\"You satisfied now, Big Mouth?\" said Stef. \"You got everyone scared real good?\"\n\n\"It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it, baby,\" said Mouth.\n\nI gotta admit, it _did_ take our minds off our own worries, for just a little while.\n\n\"I feel safer with you here,\" I heard Andy whisper to Brand. \"Nothing much scares you.\"\n\nBrand was quiet a minute, and then he said, \"Something does scare me. Small spaces scare me.\"\n\nI was kinda shocked to hear him say it, but I was glad he did, partly because it was big of him to admit it, and it made me like him better for copping to one of his weaknesses. And partly because it made _me_ feel not so bad about blabbing to Andy about him freakin' out in the elevator.\n\n\"Elevators scare me,\" he kept on talkin', \"and closets scare me, and even cars scare me a little. I think that's why I screwed up gettin' my driver's license.\"\n\n\"Excuses, excuses,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"Shut up, Mouth,\" I told him. I wanted to hear what Brand had to say.\n\n\"I know why they scare me, though,\" he said. \"It's because when I was six, I accidentally locked myself in an old refrigerator in the basement. I knew I wasn't supposed to go near it, but I went, anyway, and then I couldn't get out. So I was afraid to call for help, 'cause I knew I'd get in trouble, so I just sat in there\u2014in this totally black, tiny, closed-in space, and it seemed like it was gettin' smaller and smaller and smaller, until I couldn't stand it anymore, and I started kickin' and yellin', and Mom heard me and got me right away. And you know what? She spanked me for playin' with the thing. Here I was half-chokin' to death, and she rattles my ass for it.\n\n\"So ever since then, I don't know, small spaces just kind of get me. Make me feel... I don't know, like I did when I was six. Real scared.\"\n\nThe fog was all around us now, from here to the ceiling and in all directions. We could see each other barely, if we stood close together. And I'm here to tell you, we stood close together.\n\n\"Well, it was brave of you to tell us,\" said Andy. \"Me, I'm scared of just about everything. Scared of my father, scared of the nuns, scared of getting bad grades, scared of being lonely, scared of getting hurt. And I'm really scared of dying. I mean, not just because of all the things I'd miss out here and how sad that would be, and unfair\u2014the thing is, what's _out_ there?\n\n\"I mean, is there a heaven? God? What does he look like? Will he be angry with me? Probably so. Probably send me to hell, if there is one, 'cause of all the bad things I've thought and done.\n\n\"So then I get scared of what hell's like. Is it painful eternally? Is it flaming, do you have to swim in molten lava? Or is it icy cold and you have to sit on icebergs, shivering forever, and your skin sticks to the ice and pulls off in little bits when you try to stand up?\n\n\"I mean, what's the story?\"\n\n\"It's cold, I think,\" said Stef. \"Cold and dark. Like this.\"\n\nThe fog swirled around in a brief wind, then settled again.\n\n\"No, this is what limbo is,\" said Andy, \"and this is what I'm _most_ scared of. Just floating, in the middle of nowhere, the middle of nothing, in a kind of thick darkness, waiting forever, and it never ends....\"\n\n\"And you hear things,\" said Stef, \"but you can't see 'em....\"\n\nI heard something, but I couldn't see it. \"Sshh,\" I said.\n\nEveryone got quiet.\n\nI heard it again. A voice. Whispered, through the fog.\n\nAnd then the mists blew around again, and for a second there was an opening in the soup, and I saw, just thirty feet away, the Fratellis, floating on a smaller raft, in a slow current, wavin' a flashlight around.\n\nThen the fog closed up again, and they disappeared. Only the hazy glow of their flashlight remained, and then it got dimmer and faded away.\n\nI suddenly felt like totally exhausted. I mean, I had no idea how long we'd been in these caves, but all the tension was startin' to wear me down, and this brush with the Fratellis and then being saved by these weird currents... it was like sleep was just beggin' me to fold.\n\nI didn't wanna, but it was tough holdin' out. It's not like there was much I could do, anyway, right? I mean, we were becalmed. I thought of all the stories of becalmed ships I'd ever read or heard, to see if I could remember anything that might be useful.\n\n_The Rime of the Ancient Mariner._ I had to learn that in seventh-grade English. _He_ was becalmed 'cause he killed an albatross, but we hadn't done anything like that, so I didn't think that would apply. Unless breaking Mom's statue of David counted, but I didn't think so.\n\n_Moby Dick?_ They were becalmed 'cause Ahab was crazy and wanted revenge on the White Whale. But we didn't want revenge on anybody, so scratch that one.\n\nThe Sargasso Sea, the Doldrums, nothing gave me any clues. Maybe if I just nodded off for a few minutes, something would come to me in a dream. I noticed that Data had already taken that plunge\u2014he was asleep, in a fitful kind of sleep, leaning against Stef, hangin' tight on to her sweater.\n\nAnd Stef was kinda dozin', too.\n\nBrand looked wide-awake, peerin' into the fog. Mouth and Andy, too. So they could wake me if somethin' heavy started happenin'.\n\nSo I curled on my side with my head on the logs, lookin' straight out at water level. That's when I noticed we were movin' again. Not fast, but there was a definite wash past the raft now, and even a little breeze on my face.\n\nI just stayed where I was. Maybe my sleepiness was causing this motion somehow. Maybe if I woke myself up, it would stop. I let myself doze, sort of in and out. The raft seemed to pick up speed.\n\nMaybe I should go all the way, really crash and dream. Maybe a dream could really speed us outta here. But then I'd miss all the fun, and I didn't wanna do that. So I forced myself to stay awake, sort of half-drowsing, watchin' the water splash gently by the log my head was resting on. The captain's log, I thought\u2014and I'm the dream-captain of this raft. I think I was so tired, I was startin' to hallucinate.\n\nOr maybe not. The fog cleared after awhile, and it turned out the cavern had finally narrowed to where we could see the walls, so now we were on this like wide, steady-movin' river that twisted back and forth through these tall, fantastic tunnels.\n\nThe walls glowed with phosphorescent algae or sparkled with rock formations, or the ceilings hung with stalactites, or light mists swirled like ghosts here and there over the face of the water, or plankton shimmered just below the river's surface, like they were electrical sparks, or like the river itself was alive and the dots of light were its nerve cells, or shafts of moonlight sometimes pierced cracks in the ceiling, like spotlights on special crystal configurations....\n\nI didn't move during all of this. Just lay there, dozing, tryin' to stay awake while I slept, so I could see it all in all its wonder and still make it keep happening with the power of my sleep\u2014keep the raft movin'.\n\nIt sounds pretty flaky now, I know, but that's what I was thinkin' back then.\n\nAnd then, lazin' along the river like that, it made me think of Huckleberry Finn driftin' down the Mississippi, havin' adventures and gettin' into trouble and escapin' trouble and helpin' his friends and learnin' a thing or two now and then... and I suddenly realized, Huckleberry Finn was one of the first Goonies.\n\nAnd as I had that thought my eyes were unable to stay open a second longer, and I fell into a deep, undreaming sleep.\n\n# **CHAPTER 8**\n\n**_The Cave of Rushing Waters... The Chase Quickens... The Organ Chamber... The Ship... The Squid... Pirate Booty... One-Eyed Willy._**\n\nI was dreaming I was floating down a river through a magical tunnel of jewels when I was jolted awake by our raft crunching on some kind of shore.\n\nI jumped up, ready to run.\n\nWe were at the end of the river. It just ended, the way it began, lappin' against the stone floor of a small cave.\n\n\"Guess this is the end of the ride,\" said Mouth. He stepped off the raft, into the cave.\n\nWe followed, and he kept talkin'. \"Please make sure you have your purse and other valuables with you before we continue....\"\n\n\"Stow it, Mouth,\" said Brand. He stretched and flexed. We all did, kinda creaky from all that nappin' and hunchin' down and cold fog. I don't know how long we'd drifted.\n\nMouth bowed and smiled. \"I can stow it, I can throw it, or I can show it.\"\n\nStef groaned. \"Whatever you do, don't show it.\"\n\nWe looked around quickly, and again there was only one way out.\n\n\"I hope this is getting us somewhere,\" said Andy.\n\n\"It is,\" I said. I knew it was. It was the way Willy wanted to get us.\n\n\"Sshhh,\" said Data. We all froze and listened. Nothing. And then, just for a moment, far back along the river, voices.\n\nFratelli voices, maybe, but it was hard to tell 'cause the wind shifted or somethin', and we couldn't hear 'em anymore.\n\n\"Let's get outta here,\" said Mouth, and this time no one objected.\n\nWe entered the next tunnel and set off.\n\nIt was good to walk again after so long cramped on that raft. Some of the passageways looked man-made here, with occasional timber beams supporting the earth. They jagged down for a while, not too steep, though. Reminded me of _Journey to the Center of the Earth,_ this old Pat Boone flick I'd seen last month one Sunday afternoon. I hoped we weren't going that far.\n\nThe tunnels did veer upward again, and eventually we came to a real tall grotto, with a major stream running right across our path, and a stairway cut into the rock on the other side, leading to a hole up near the high ceiling. Spanning the stream was an old, crooked piece of mast, just wide enough to walk across, but it looked awful slippery. And sticking out of the water was the rib cage of a whale or a sea serpent or something, must've got caught in there ages ago and never found a way out. But there was a way in, so there had to be a way out.\n\nWater dripped from the top of the cavern, and the ocean's roar wasn't too far away at all anymore. Hundreds of starfish stuck to the walls, moving too slow to see. Which is how _we_ were moving now. Just standing there, really, just watching this huge sort of craggy chamber, with stalactites and rushing water and a starfish convention and sparkly sea creatures and a jangle of rose quartz crystals spillin' down one wall, and bones from somethin' big enough to be a monster, and a broken mast from an old man-of-war, and it was like this was _it_ , we were doin' it, and it was pretty damn far-out.\n\nWe all felt it. Andy, right behind me, called to Brand in front of me, \"Brand, hold my hand, I have to be sure this is real.\"\n\nShe reached out her hand, still lookin' up at the dripping rock and crystal formations near the ceiling. I took her hand. I mean, this was my adventure, not Brand's. And it was me she kissed, not Brand. And besides, it was dark, and it just seemed easier to do that kind of stuff in the dark. And besides, in the dark, I don't think she knew it was me.\n\nBrand heard her and reached back without looking. I pulled a starfish off the wall and slipped it to him\u2014he thought it was Andy's hand. What a dork he was sometimes. He saw what he had in a few seconds, though, and threw it into the water. I let go of Andy to try to stop my giggle.\n\nBrand got pissed off, so he grabbed me in a headlock. \"You little wuss! You wanna play games? We'll play\u2014\"\n\nHe was cut off by the noise of banging caps. Data's booby traps.\n\n\"Shit! That sound again!\" said Mouth.\n\n\"And it isn't as far back this time,\" said Stef.\n\nWe started over the mast.\n\nIt was slippery in some places, and rotting in others, I think maybe depending on where it was most tarred. We inched across, watching our feet at every step, but halfway to the other side a gusher shot out of the hole where the stream was comin' from, flooding the mast and nearly knocking us all off at once. I went over but caught the beam at the last second and pulled myself back up and crawled to the end as soon as the gusher passed by.\n\nThe rest of the kids were still dangling or crawling when we heard Mama Fratelli's voice.\n\n\"Ohhh, boys...\" she called out.\n\nI looked back to the other side. There they were, at the foot of the mast, watchin' us, holdin' guns and flashlights, and looking like they were not kidding.\n\n\"Ohhh, shit,\" cried Andy.\n\nAnd Mouth whispered, \"Jerk alert.\"\n\n\"Not one more step!\" Mama shouted across the mast. Her voice echoed up and back like there was ten of her. She raised her gun.\n\nFor a bunch of goony kids, we moved very fast. I scrambled up the rocks toward the hole in the ceiling, while the rest of us slipped and slided along the mast to the far side.\n\nMama shot.\n\nThe bullet hit a section of timber near Mouth, and he nearly jumped the remaining distance across.\n\nThe other Fratellis sent a couple shots off, too. The slugs hit rock, though, and ricocheted around so much, Mama told her boys to stop shooting, so they wouldn't hurt themselves.\n\nSo instead they just came after us.\n\nWe all made it to the other side. Data was the last one over. Just before he hopped off the beam, he turned and screamed, \"Slick shoes!\" Then he pulled a cord on his jacket.\n\nTubes running down his pant legs and around his heels squirted this black oil all over the mast. Then he started climbin' up the rocks to where we were.\n\nAnother gusher hit the Fratellis just about the time they made contact with the oil slick. The combination dragged them into each other and half into the rapids before they could figure where to grab. It was a comforting sight.\n\nWe didn't stick around to see how it ended, though. We ran into the next passageway, high up near the top.\n\nIt was a smallish chamber, maybe thirty feet across, with a huge stone slab blocking the only way out, and this incredible weird pipe organ filling the center of the room. An organ made of bones.\n\nThe middle of it was a human skeleton, its arms outstretched, its hair flowing thinly to its shoulders. Radiating out from its hips in a wide semicircle were about fifty finger bones\u2014these were the keys. And sticking up every which way behind it and around it were the organ pipes, made of either hollow thigh bones or bamboo sticks. But that wasn't the creepiest part. The creepiest part was that it was playing itself.\n\nNot a song, exactly. It's just that the thing was set up over a hole in the floor that this wind kept blowing through, sometimes harder and sometimes softer, but it kept blowing up the hole and through the pipes, making these eerie, unnatural chords.\n\nBrand tried to open the stone door, but it wouldn't budge. Data noticed a bunch of candles on the walls, so he lit them while I looked at the map. I remembered seeing a line of musical notes along one edge of the paper and found them now, except some were smudged with age and some burned away from when Troy had lit it in the Stop-'N'-Snack. What a jerk. Anyway, I can't read music.\n\nThere was another riddle, near the notes, so I told Mouth to translate again.\n\n* * *\n\nTo move on, play the tune,\n\nAs each note is said,\n\nFor too many mistakes,\n\nYe will surely be dead.\n\nI held up the map. \"Anybody know how to read music?\"\n\n\"You mean we gotta play this thing to get outta here?\" said Brand. His claustrophobia was acting up.\n\nStef looked at Andy. \"Hey, you're the only one here who could afford piano lessons....\"\n\n\"Six months of lessons when I was five and then I quit because I hated it,\" Andy said. She wrinkled her nose when she talked about somethin' she hated.\n\n\"Six months is better than nothin',\" I told her, and gave her the map. It was neat the way each of us was helpin' out in some way. Like we couldn't've done it alone. Made me proud to be a Goony.\n\nShe looked over the music while me and Data checked back down at the mast over the river. The Fratellis were still hangin' on, and the water level was down now, and they were slowly pulling themselves along toward our side.\n\n\"Hey, guys, they're coming,\" said Data.\n\nWe all looked at Andy. She gave kind of a nervous shrug. \"I'll give it a shot,\" she said, and propped the map up against the skeleton's chest.\n\nI gave her the thumbs-up. She smiled and pushed the first key. A loud, hollow, scary tone filled the chamber. Scary but beautiful, like a secret harmony you dreamed once but don't quite remember.\n\nIt was beautiful for another reason, too. As soon as it started, the huge stone door creaked and opened a crack, right at the top, where it was being lowered on chains.\n\nAndy played the next two notes. Two more chords echoed around the walls, and the door dropped down a couple more inches.\n\nWe all smiled nervously and motioned Andy to hurry. The next note was kind of smeared, though, and when she hit the key, this sour tone jangled out, and the next second, a big chunk of floor dropped away, right near my feet.\n\nIt happened so fast, I almost didn't have time to be scared. Instead I just inched up to this new hole that was now in the floor and looked down. _Then_ I got scared. Below me was a hundred-foot drop, to a floor full of sharp stalagmites and rough coral.\n\n\"Oh, my God,\" I whispered.\n\n\"What?\" said Stef. \"What is it?\"\n\nData joined me. He gasped, too. \"My whole life just flashed before me.\"\n\n\"Life? What life?\" said Stef. \"You're eleven years old.\"\n\nAndy played the note again. This time it was the right one\u2014clear and melodic. And the door opened another inch.\n\nMe and Data checked on the Fratellis below. They were more than halfway across now.\n\nData shouted at Andy. \"Better play faster\u2014they're getting close!\"\n\nAndy played faster. It was really this haunting tune, reminded me of early Doors. And inch by inch the boulder opened, lowering on chains like a drawbridge.\n\nBut then she hit another wrong note, and another huge section of floor dropped out, crashing to the cavern below. I nearly went with it this time, but Stef grabbed me by the belt and pulled me back.\n\n\"Always pullin' on guys' belts,\" said Mouth, but he was just bein' nervous. She flipped him the bird.\n\n\"Hurry, they're coming!\" screamed Data at the entrance. \"You have to play faster!\"\n\nAndy played faster. The door opened faster, and the floor dropped away faster, all at the same time. We were leapin' around like frogs, tryin' to avoid this pit that was gettin' wider all the time, until finally we were all huddled onto this one section near the center, and the rock door was half open and too far to jump to, and we could hear the Fratellis clattering up the stones below us.\n\n\"Mouth,\" I whispered, \"say somethin' funny.\"\n\n\"We're all gonna die!\" he screamed.\n\nAndy was on the last bar of music. Four notes left. She played three real fast, and I could see that her hands were sweating. The drawbridge came down almost far enough to reach.\n\nThe last note was completely blurred. Andy paused.\n\nBrand touched her shoulder. \"Andy, whatever you do... don't screw up another note.\"\n\nThat's when the Fratellis showed up at the entrance\u2014still slippin' and wet and obviously totally pissed off.\n\nAndy was frozen at the keyboard. Didn't want to hit the wrong note, didn't want to look at the Fratellis, didn't want to think about the long way down, wished her mother had made her keep taking piano lessons....\n\nBut Data screamed at her, \"Just play the mother!\"\n\nAnd she played it.\n\nAnd it was the most beautiful note yet, and the door dropped open enough to climb across. Everyone hopped over to the next cave. Except I just stood there a few seconds at the organ, facing the Fratellis\u2014they were on their feet now, just about to jump the distance to the remaining slab of floor I was on.\n\n\"Go back,\" I said. \"This isn't for you.\" And I pushed a handful of keys.\n\nI grabbed onto the stone door as the floor I stood on fell away, taking the whole organ with it. Brand reached over and took my arm and pulled me across to safety.\n\nThis next cave had a steep slope, and it felt slippery with moss, so we all huddled at the edge, deciding what to do. The Fratelli gang was taken care of, for the time being, but I couldn't see any way out of this new place.\n\n\"Data, light a flare,\" I said. The lantern was lost now, and there was only a little candlelight from the room we'd just escaped. We were all holding on to each other for support and to make sure we were all still there.\n\nAnd we were. It was a good feeling. We'd come through it together. We'd outsmarted the Fratellis, and Willy as well. Although it didn't feel like I'd _outsmarted_ Willy so much as _understood_ him. Like he was communicating to me. Like just now when I played the last organ note to wipe out the floor so the Fratellis couldn't get across, just as I jumped to safety\u2014how did I know how to do that? I mean, it wasn't the kind of thing I did every day. It was just sort of... intuitive. Or maybe Willy just told me how to do it.\n\nI wondered if Willy like inhabited my body. You know, like if I was possessed? If he did, it might explain why I was feeling so un-sick down here, too, like maybe his strong, healthy spirit was beefin' up my body for a change.\n\nAnyway, I was glad to be here, wherever here was. Glad to be here with my friends. Glad to have come so far and glad to be movin' on. So I directed my attention to movin' on.\n\nData reached into his pack for a flare and, in that movement, lost his footing. He began to slip down the steep grade of the floor. I grabbed for him, but he just pulled me with him. Mouth was hangin' on to me, and. Stef to him, and Andy to Stef and Brand to Andy, and before we could react, we were sliding down the floor, which narrowed to become a chute. And all of a sudden it was a water slide, and I was blasting down it way faster than I could control.\n\nIt turned into a tube, all twisting and curving around, surrounded by moss and trickling water. Must've been a high-pressure water spout to be so smooth. It divided pretty soon, and we were all separated, but I couldn't deal with that. I was barely dealing with this suicide roller coaster I was on.\n\nBut what a way to go. I mean, it was the funnest terrifying thing I've ever done. Like they have a water slide amusement park called All Wet down near where Grandpa used to live, and this was _way_ better than that, but there were problems with this one. Like the rocks that were sticking from the ceiling at some of the turns, so if I'd been any bigger, they might've clobbered me. Little stuff like that. No time to think about that, though. I just wiggled and dodged without thinking, and somehow that was the right thing to do.\n\nFinally I spurted out the mouth of the chute, flew through the air, and landed with a splash in a pool of shallow water. Within seconds the others shot out of other holes in the rock and splashed down around me. There was a lot of coughing and spitting and shaking water from our ears, until when I stood and opened my eyes and looked around, I almost sat down again, just at the wonder of it.\n\nWe were in an enormous, and I mean friggin' huge, cavern. The far ceiling and walls were lined with sparkling rocks that glittered off shafts of low sunlight that pierced through holes high up. The whole place was filled with a still pool of dark blue water. Just beyond the walls the ocean's waves could be clearly heard lapping and crashing all around.\n\nBut the most amazing sight stood at the far end of the cavern\u2014a ship! A real, honest-to-God, well preserved, seventeenth-century pirate ship, tilted half on its side, buried half in the far wall, where there'd been a cave-in probably hundreds of years ago.\n\nThe sails were tattered. One mast was gone, the others were broken or leaning. The skull and crossbones hung at half mast. The ship rested broadside, its gunports open, its rusting cannons pointing right at us. It was like something out of _Treasure Island_ , marooned there.\n\nWe all just stared.\n\n\"It's Willy's ship,\" I said, but no one was really listening. I started to wade over to it.\n\n\"Wait,\" said Brand. \"What if there's more leeches in there?\"\n\nI stopped. Data just smiled, though. He pulled a yellow plastic folded thing out of his backpack and pulled a cord\u2014and the thing began to inflate into a life raft. But the thing is, it didn't stop, it just kept getting bigger and bigger, until _BAM_ , it exploded just like all the rest of his inventions.\n\nThe sound bounced around the cavern walls, setting off a small rumbling from above us. Tiny pieces of earth fell from the ceiling, shuddered down the walls, and plopped into the water. Then it got quiet again. Then we started wading toward the ship.\n\nI talked as we walked. \"Willy had it all planned out, you know? He was waitin' for us. For anybody who was smart enough to figure out his tricks. And we were smart enough.\"\n\n\"And lucky enough,\" said Brand.\n\n\"What do you guys mean?\" said Andy.\n\n\"Don't you get it?\" I said. \"He's been waitin' for us for three hundred years. I'll bet you anything he's waitin' up there right now. It's like... he wants to invite us aboard.\"\n\nWe walked past the ship's figurehead\u2014the wood carving of a beautiful lady, usually sticking out the bowsprit. Now she was on her back in the water, caught on a craggy rock. For just a second I had this flash of us being like her\u2014trapped down here forever, within hearing of freedom, never able to break free. Just a flash and then it was gone, and we kept walkin' to the ship. And then I flashed on Captain Hook, chasing Smee up to the crow's nest to look out for Pan, who was sure to be sneaking up just like we were.\n\nAll of a sudden Stef turned to Mouth, who was right behind her, and glared at him kind of hacked off. \"Watch your hands. Touch me again and I'll bop you a good one.\"\n\nMouth looked kind of puzzled and just shrugged. I figured it was his old innocent \"Who, me?\" business. I figured wrong.\n\nA few seconds later Stef got really red in the face and turned on Mouth and said, \"I warned you,\" and lifted her hand to slap him, and in the second it took her hand to come around, this giant squid shot up out of the water between them, and no lie, she slapped the squid.\n\nIt had this giant bloodshot eye, it was so gross, kind of pinkish-gray, and one of its tentacles was wrapped around Stef's thigh, kinda tickling toward her crotch, which was why she assumed it was Mouth.\n\nThe squid wasn't crazy about being slapped, either. It slapped her right back, knocking her three feet away, into the water. I mean, the thing was huge. And then, like it was letting us know what was what, it slapped the water with another tentacle. Sounded like a cracking whip.\n\nI don't know how you'd feel in a situation like that, but it scared the shit out of me. I mean, I knew the thing was a giant squid, but I still screamed, \"What is that?\"\n\n\"Giant sushi!\" shouted Data. He immediately went for his backpack.\n\nThe giant eye moved just above the surface, and Hook's crocodile never looked so mean. Another arm grabbed Andy around the waist, pulling her toward its disgusting beak-mouth. And another arm got me around the ankle. The thing opened its beak to gobble on Andy's leg... and that's when Data struck.\n\nHe'd pulled his cassette deck from the backpack, turned it on, and cranked it up. It was Talking Heads, doing \"Burning Down the House,\" full volume, twin speakers, rockin' on. He threw the cassette player into the squid's mouth.\n\nThe squid reeled back, man, it was blown away. I don't think it had ever had an up-close experience with New Wave like this. The chorus reverberated through its body, heavy on the bass. It trembled. It quivered. It shaked, rattled, and rolled. It let go of us and shot away in a craze, movin' to the beat for sure, until it disappeared into the far corners.\n\n\"Put another dime in the jukebox, baby,\" said Mouth.\n\nWe didn't wait around for the flipside. We ran like hell to the ship. Looking up at it, there, from the chest-high water, was like looking up at a skyscraper, it looked that tall. I didn't feel much like waiting for the elevator, though\u2014for one thing, the batteries in Data's tape deck weren't gonna last forever\u2014so I found a dangling rope and started climbing, using cracks in the old wood for foot-holds. The others followed me.\n\n\"Watch out for splinters,\" I called back. \"This wood's really old\u2014one jab and you're in for lockjaw or spinal meningitis....\" I figured Mom would've been glad I said that. And I wanted her to be proud of me even if I didn't\u2014especially if I didn't\u2014make it out of here alive. It made me realize, though, how different it was down here from up there, back home. Back there we worried about stuff like flu and tetanus shots and gas mileage and Excedrin headaches and stuff. Down here it was a different world. It was life and death, and wonder and romance, and bottomless pits and legendary riches. You had to be light on your feet down here and quick on the draw. Back there all you had to be was easy on the mustard. You know what I mean? I mean, it's no wonder I was sick so much back home.\n\nWe arrived on deck. It was listing some, but we could stand okay without having to hang on to anything, so for a minute we just looked around. The rigging was all in place, like sheets of giant spiderwebs\u2014and there were _real_ spiderwebs everywhere, too, which looked a lot like sheets of miniature rigging. For a second I couldn't tell if I was big or small.\n\nThe deck was full of all sorts of stuff. Rope, wicker baskets, decayed Oriental rugs and pillows, cannonballs, pots and pitchers, a few boulders that looked like they'd fallen from the ceiling and partly stove in the planking. Any minute I expected to see the ghost of Captain Blood.\n\nSwords and knives hung on a weapons rack near the main cabin, just below the limp Jolly Roger. Brand and Mouth checked it out while I went up to the raised rear deck to look around. Stef and Andy shouted that they'd found a trapdoor, but it was fastened shut with chains. Data located some kind of ventilator or somethin' and started climbin' down it head first.\n\nI roamed around the upper deck until I backed into the steering wheel\u2014with a pirate's skeleton still hangin' on to the big wooden spokes. He was a party pirate once, by the look of his clothes, but he hadn't died at any party. He had daggers stuck in _both_ of his eyes.\n\nI kinda screamed. I mean, I don't remember exactly screaming, but a few seconds later everyone joined me, so I must've said _something._\n\nStef pulled one of the knives out\u2014did I say she was one tough lady? Anyway, we examined it and found out pretty quick that the handle was lined with small, sparkling jewels\u2014rubies, diamonds, and emeralds.\n\n\"Think these are real?\" Andy asked.\n\n\"If they are,\" I said, \"I'll make a necklace out of 'em for you.\"\n\nShe smiled and ruffled my hair. I wouldn't have minded somethin' else, but I figured I'd take a rain check. I mean, if the gems _were_ real, then this was the start of my Golden Time, and _all_ the kids at school would wanna hang out with me. Andy, too. And if the gems _weren't_ real... well, this was still the best adventure _I'd_ ever been on, and no matter what else happened, we'd talk about it for the rest of our lives. That thought was cut short by Data's shout.\n\nWe ran to his voice to find him stuck halfway down the ventilator shaft, his feet sticking out of the top, kicking away. Mouth and Brand each grabbed one leg and pulled. Instead of pulling Data out of the ventilator, though, they only pulled the ventilator out of the deck, with Data still inside it. This left a big hole in the deck. Andy stuck her head down into it.\n\nShe pulled it out a few seconds later, coughing with dust. \"Can't see anything from up here,\" she said. She immediately lowered herself down into the hole, and the others immediately followed. I think the amazingness, the just total coolness of this ship actually being here, had finally made us all brave. Or at least boldish.\n\nI went down last. I took a puff on my mist inhaler first, though. Not that I needed it. It just seemed like good luck or old times' sake or just in case. Like that.\n\nIt was dark down here, but not so bad once our eyes got used to it. Really it just _seemed_ darker, I think, because everything was covered in this like thick layer of dust. The dust of centuries. I always wanted to be able to say that. The dust of centuries.\n\nThere were kegs down here, for powder or rum, I guess. There were a couple more skeletons, too\u2014lying in the corner with their bones all falling over and into each other, and a couple knives mixed in, like they'd had a major scuffle.\n\nWe stuck close together; moving through the dust like one of those industrial rug cleaners my dad used at the museum.\n\nThe museum. That's what this was like. One of those huge dioramas, with a ship, and sailors loading booty, and gooney birds on the shore, and local plant life, and a recording of a guy tellin' you about it when you pushed a button. Except now we were in the diorama. We were the Goonies.\n\nSomething in the ceiling caught my eye. Kind of a yellow glow shining through the dust.\n\n\"Hey, cool,\" I said, \"look at that.\"\n\nWe cleared away some of the dust with our hands, and the glow got brighter. Some junk fell, just dirt mostly, and what was left was a bunch of loose boards with a kind of yellowy light coming through the cracks.\n\n\"Great,\" said Mouth. \"We found Three Mile Island.\"\n\nI saw another riddle, though, this time carved into the beam holding up the ceiling, beside the thin slats of wood. Mouth read.\n\nYe Intruders beware,\n\nCrushing death and grief,\n\nSoaked with blood,\n\nOf the trespassing thief.\n\n\"That's the first riddle,\" said Data. \"From the attic.\"\n\nHe was right. We were back at the beginning again. Journey's end. I got real excited, I mean, whatever it was, this was it. I stood up on a bench and pulled at one of the loose boards in the ceiling. Pulled, hung, bounced... the whole ship creaked a little. I didn't care, though. I kept at it, until finally the board snapped and came down on me in bits, with a handfull of debris in the bargain.\n\nA glaring shaft of light poured through the rectangular opening. Golden, almost neon light. Everyone started pullin' at boards until pretty soon there was a big opening, and I was so excited, I couldn't wait another second, so I jumped up, grabbed the lip of the hole, and pulled myself into the room above us.\n\nIt was unbelievable.\n\nIt was magical.\n\nIt was a garden of jewels.\n\nThe room positively shimmered with every color of the rainbow, off a copperish beam of sunshine that shone in through the windows from a hole in the outer rocks somewhere, shone in on the most mountainous collection of riches I'd ever heard of. I'd _never_ heard of.\n\nIn the center of the room was a table. Upon it were golden coins, doubloons, pieces of eight. Delicately carved trees of gold with leaves of emeralds, flowers of sapphires. Rosebushes of rubies. A half moon made of diamonds, suspended in the air above fields of pearls, bushes of jade.\n\nHundreds of other items were scattered throughout and around this fantastic garden. Drinking goblets, necklaces, rings, bracelets, crowns. Crowns! Honest-to-God royal somebody's king's crowns!\n\nTrunks full of coins, pendants, bejeweled belts, earrings, tiaras, buttons. Tapestries crumpled in a corner, sewn with golden thread. Capes, dresses encrusted with gemstones, crystal balls, silver mirrors.\n\nMounds of uncut, unset stones\u2014rubies, garnets, star sapphires, opals, diamonds...\n\nMy heart was beating faster.\n\n\"What is it?\" I heard someone down below me ask. \"What's up there?\"\n\nTreasure.\n\nUncountable pirate treasure.\n\nAnd sitting around the table, two on each side and one at each end, were pirates.\n\nPirate skeletons, actually. Long dead, violently dead.\n\nThe two facing me had knives in each other's hearts. The one at the foot had his cutlass skewered into the belly of the man to his left, and that man had his pistol pointed at the swordsman's chest, where the breastbone looked shattered by the leaden ball.\n\nThe buccaneer to the left of the man who'd been run through still had a hatchet buried in his neck\u2014 _through_ his neck, actually\u2014and wedged tightly into the back of the chair.\n\nAnd to his left, seated at the head of the table, presiding over this bloody, bloodless feast for three centuries, grinning, with a silver goblet in his right hand and a black leather patch over his left eye, was...\n\nOne-Eyed Willy.\n\nWaitin' just for me.\n\n# **CHAPTER 9**\n\n**_The First Goony... Willy's Last Will... Fratelli Again... Walking the Plank... The Rescue... The Cave-in... We See Light... Chester Copperpot's Last Flare...On the Beach... Setting Sail._**\n\nThe rest of the kids scrambled up and gaped a while as I walked slowly over to the head of the table.\n\nI stood there facing him, with all these jumbled feelings\u2014admiration, respect, awe, wonder. Familiarity.\n\nI spoke to him. \"Hello. I'm Mike Walsh. These are my friends. You've been expecting us, and well, here we are. We made it, Willy. All in one piece, too\u2014so far...\"\n\nThere was a bunch of stuff on the table in front of him. A small pile of the most perfect gemstones, an open book, a scale imbalanced by gold coin on one side, ingots on the other... and a bottle with a rubber bulb on one end and a kind of mouthpiece thing on the other that as soon as I saw it I knew it was a breathalizer mist inhaler.\n\nSo Willy had asthma, too.\n\nI stood closer to him. Me standing and him sitting, we were face-to-face now, starin' at each other like long-lost cousins. Soul mates. Like he was my ancestor. Like I was his reincarnation. Like he'd called me here from some astral plane he was floatin' on, called me here so we could stand face-to-face and maybe talk to each other 'bout bein' a pirate and bein' a kid or maybe how bein' a pirate was _like_ bein' a kid, like maybe it was a way of hangin' on to bein' a kid. And then I thought maybe that's what I was doin' down here all along\u2014tryin' to hang on to bein' a kid.\n\nAnd that's just what Willy was doin' down here these three hundred years. Hangin' on to that for all of us.\n\nWith great respect and even greater curiosity, I lifted his eyepatch\u2014like maybe if I looked into that eye, I could see something special about him. About us.\n\nThere was no eye socket.\n\nIt was solid skull. Solid bone.\n\nLike the bone of the forehead came down all smooth, and then, when it got to the place where the eye was supposed to be, it was just more flat, hard bone. No socket there for an eye even to be.\n\nSo even in life, he'd never had an eye there. He wore the patch over empty skin, to make people _think_ he'd once had an eye there that he'd _lost._ But he'd never even been born with an eye there.\n\nHe'd turned a handicap into a down card. Into a thing of romance.\n\nAnd then I thought of all the goony contraptions he'd devised to keep people away and how they were just like the contraptions I made to open my gate or Data made to keep away bullies. And I thought of how he was one of society's rejects, and of his sense of humor, and his fold-in map. And I thought of his bad eye and my bad lungs.\n\n\"One-Eyed Willy,\" I said as I replaced the patch, \"you were the first Goony.\"\n\nMeanwhile the other guys were in pig heaven, stuffing gems into their pockets, socks, bags. Laughing and shouting. All except Mouth, who was speechless for the first time in his life.\n\nAndy and Stef were trying the rings and necklaces and jeweled combs. Data put on a crown, but it slipped down around his ears. Brand was shovelin' booty into his pants, his shirt, even his underwear. Mouth came over and started to grab for the pile sitting in front of Willy. I stopped him, though. \"That's his,\" I said. \"Don't mess with it.\"\n\nMouth shrugged and went for easier pickings on the floor.\n\nI held a huge perfect ruby up to the light. \"Dad's gonna die when he sees this stuff,\" I said. It made me feel calm for the first time since this whole thing began. \"He's finally gonna get some sleep tonight.\"\n\nBrand called out, \"Don't take anything you can't carry!\" Seemed to me like a dumb thing to say\u2014I mean, if we couldn't carry something, how would we take it? \"We'll come back for bigger stuff later,\" he added. I was about to mention we weren't _outta_ there yet but decided not to bum everybody out. Instead I just emptied my marble bag and started filling it up with gems. Not the biggest ones. I went for choice.\n\nMy collection took me around the room, and back to Willy's side, where my eye was once more drawn to the book that lay open on the table before him. It was written in longhand. Beside it sat a moth-eaten quill pen and a dried-out inkwell.\n\n\"Hey, Mouth, c'mere and translate somethin',\" I said.\n\nHe came over to where I was standing and looked down at the book. \"'Dear Abby... '\" he read.\n\n\"Gimme a break,\" I told him.\n\n\"Okay, okay,\" he said, and hunkered down to really try to read the pages the book was open to.\n\nAnd here's what it said, minus the words Mouth couldn't read or understand:\n\n\"... would never have thought these men of seafaring heart to be so small in spirit and [ ]. For after the [ ] British sealed us in these three years ago, it was the fairest company a gentleman could ask in this our domain. Riches beyond [ ] and [ ].And then the women died, every one, in childbirth or [ ] and the men fell to [ ]. Some wanted to leave, but I could not, as captain, permit such desertion, so these men were [ ], [ ], [ ] the temptations of [ ] and began much fighting over the gold. We all were kings and still they fought. Three I beheaded to teach them [ ], and of Jilbahr I had to eat his heart for breakfast, to teach the others. After that there was order again. We drank and slept together. We were family once again, as no [ ] until Reno went mad, and [ ], [ ] no one left but my five loyal lieutenants, who joined me here to come to terms. Yet in less time than a [ ] they killed each other at my table while I watched with a great sadness. For many a lonely month I walked my [ ] and thought of [ ]. Nay, this cannot be, said I, they are not dead\u2014it was but a trick these merry soldiers have played on me, to chastise me for my harsh disciplines. But no trick rotted their corpses at my table. I made to bargain with God, whom I had forsaken many these devilish years, and I told Him that if only He would send me the company of men, I would give a third of my gold to them and a third to the church. Yet nothing came to pass, so when I promised all my earthly treasure to the church, which caused me [ ]. I fell next into a [ ] rage, for my despair made me [ ]. I set traps to keep all men out of my kingdom, for now I hated all things and loved only my gold and myself and [ ]. And now the years have passed and I am not such a [ ]. I have accepted my place here in [ ] for it is proper that such a one as I would [ ]. I rue the misfortunes I have begot, I rue the world that seemed so careless. But do not think thee I rue my life, nor half a sun my time in this sacred place. Yet still there be time for reflection and [ ]. For since there be here now none to hear me, so will I speak to thee\u2014thee in me that I have lost. Thou, thou Boy, hast taken sail from my soul, and it is to thee that I appeal for my redemption and my [ ]. Be thou strong before the mast and rejoice in thy bold youth\u2014but then return to me, thou, that I may at last rest. And when thou hast returned and returned to me that boy who wast me, then to thine own manhood mayest thou go.\n\nI sit here now at my table with my guests. I await my next visitor with joy, and with the passion of a shared secret. I shall not move from this seat of honor until my honored and awaited visitor arrives, for to him I will my final will and testament which is [ ]. Take here what thee will. What was mine now is thine. Yet if thee take it all, do thou get it all\u2014all the running from shadows, the [ ] greed, which hungers more, the more it is sated, the friendless old age, the grave of deep waters. Take rather that which is suited to the treasure thine own heart seeks and seek not for treasure cold and shiny, lest it lead thee to far caverns and chain thee there on a throne of waves, thou King of Empty Wishes.\n\nWilliam B. Pordobel\n\nthis 25th day of October, 1684\n\nWe just stood there a minute when Mouth finished reading, kinda solemn. I tried to turn back some pages, to read more, but the whole book crumbled in my fingers.\n\n\"Smooth move,\" said Mouth.\n\n\"C'mon, hurry it up, guys,\" said Stef. \"Those creepos still might be after us....\"\n\n\"What're we gonna do?\" said Andy.\n\n\"I know,\" I said. \"The Hardy Boys did this once....\"\n\nThe others went back to stuffing their pockets as I outlined my plan. \"We can leave a trail of this stuff, leadin' to one of those skeleton caves. Then, if the Fratellis are still around, they'll follow the trail, while we hide in another cave and fake 'em out. Then we can make a run for it.\"\n\n\"That's a good plan.\"\n\nWe turned instantly to the door.\n\nIt was Mama standing there, smiling, with her boys. \"Real good plan,\" she went on.\n\nJake and Francis had swords from above deck. Mama still had her gun, which she pointed at us.\n\nI felt pretty scared, but Data just sorta freaked out. \"That's it!\" he screamed. \"This is war! We will not be taken alive!\"\n\nNow I, for one, was willing to be taken alive, but Data meant business. He shouted, \"Intimidator!\" and pulled one of his cords.\n\nHis arms and legs began to expand, like he was growing muscles, and then lifts in his shoes elevated, and for a second he _did_ look kind of intimidating, sort of like when the guy turned into a werewolf in _The Howling_ , or like the Incredible Hulk. But then his muscles kept growing, just like the life raft, until they all exploded and brought him back down to size.\n\nDidn't phase him a bit, though. \"Optional Bully Buster!\" he screamed, and pulled another cord. In a second all these flash cubes he had tied to his coat began flashing, but they shorted out right away, I guess because of all the water we'd been in.\n\nSo Data started pulling every cord on his body, while the rest of us just kinda stood there watching, sorta stunned. Green smoke filled his pants and coat but didn't go anywhere else. G.I. Joe toys popped out of his sleeves, firing tiny projectiles that hit the floor. Ball bearings rolled out of his cuffs. Bottle rockets, sparklers, firecrackers, bells\u2014everything was shooting out of Data's body, but nothing was working. It was like a junk explosion.\n\nThe Fratellis were enjoying the show. \"This kid's better than Fourth of July in Asbury Park,\" said Jake.\n\nThere was suddenly a shower of sparks as Data short-circuited. Everyone flinched, and a big spark hit Mama's hand and she dropped her gun, and we ran like hell.\n\nOut the door, across the top deck. The Fratellis were right behind us, though, and tackled us in a sec. We were down and surrounded, with swords at our throats, when Mama walked over, slow and angry.\n\n\"Up on your feet,\" she said.\n\nWe got up.\n\n\"Now go on,\" she said, \"empty out all those goodies from downstairs. Move it!\"\n\nWe emptied our shirts and pants. Jewels and coins rolled onto the deck. The Fratellis were droolin' so much, I wanted to offer 'em a tissue.\n\nMama walked over to Mouth and stared at him real hard. \"You got awful quiet all of a sudden.\"\n\nMouth just smiled with his mouth closed.\n\n\"C'mon, chum, open your yap,\" said Mama.\n\nMouth opened mouth, and about a pint of gemstones spilled out. Then Mama stuck her fingers inside and pulled out another three feet of beaded pearls. Mouth shrugged.\n\n\"That about it, ladies and gents?\" she asked, super polite.\n\nWe all looked down at the floor.\n\nShe nodded to her sons. \"Tie 'em up,\" she said, which they did. And when we were tied, they stood us in line at the edge of the deck. Right next to this diving-board thing that stuck out over the water. Sort of a plank.\n\nMama smiled. \"You wanna play pirate? We'll play pirate.\"\n\nThe plank stuck way out over what looked like a deep section of water. No squid in sight. Yet. But it was still kind of churned up from what had happened with him before.\n\nMama paced back and forth in front of us, sword in hand, like a pirate queen.\n\n\"You know, I've always wanted to do this,\" she said. \"Since I was a little girl. Wanted to have a bunch of snot-ass punks at my mercy and make 'em walk the plank. Me and my band of pirates. So, let's see, now, who's first? Who wants to help a grandma out with her dream come true? Who wants to belly-up and squirm for me so I can\u2014\"\n\nAndy kicked her in the shins, hard. \"You gross old witch,\" she shouted.\n\nMama fell to the floor in pain but stood up before Jake or Francis could help her. Her eyes glimmered, and she brought the tip of her sword to Andy's throat. \"Move it, sweetie,\" she growled.\n\nSlowly Andy moved toward the board, then stepped out onto the plank at a little prodding from Mama Fratelli's cutlass. We just watched. I felt totally helpless and kind of sick. Andy looked so scared, and Mama looked so demented. It was like a bad dream you couldn't wake from. I started to cry.\n\nAndy walked to the end of the plank. She looked down. The surface of the water sparkled below. The brothers held us at knife point, facing the water, making us watch. Andy tried to say something, but her throat must've been as dry as mine. Mama was right behind her.\n\n\"Hold your breath, sweetie,\" cackled the old witch, and jabbed Andy with the blade.\n\nAndy jumped.\n\nAnd fell.\n\nShe splashed into the water.\n\nShe was gone.\n\n\"No!\" cried out Brand. He ran forward, out of line, and before anyone could stop him, his hands still tied, he leaped over the rail and followed her down to the murky depths.\n\n\"Brand!\" I yelled. But he was already under water, he couldn't hear.\n\nI closed my eyes. I didn't want to see them drown, or see the squid eat them, or see their heads bashed in on the shoal, or see sharks smell blood and come in, or see Mama's smile or Mouth's fear, or the jewels on the deck, or anything. All I wanted to see was my parents and my house, and the only way I was ever going to see that was to close my eyes.\n\nAll I could hear was Mama Fratelli's cold, scabby voice. \"Two down. Who's next?\"\n\nThey tied Mouth and Stef together, back to back. I heard Stef whisper, \"How long can you hold your breath?\"\n\n\"An hour,\" bragged Mouth. \"Hour of Power, they call me.\"\n\n\"Be serious for once.\"\n\n\"Actually... about ten seconds. _You_ were the one who was always champion of that underwater shit.\"\n\n\"Clarke?\" she whispered. \"When you run out of air, just turn your face to me and I'll share whatever I've got left.\"\n\nMouth looked really moved, you know, but the jerky Fratellis didn't give him a chance to say anything nice back. Mama just herded them over to the plank and pushed them to the edge. They lost their balance trying to avoid the sword's point and wobbled and started toppling over.\n\nThat's when we all heard the scream.\n\nNot scared or wacked out. More like a Tarzan scream or a Crimson Pirate scream. More like a battle cry.\n\nWe looked up to see Sloth swinging down from the mast. I mean, I didn't know his name was Sloth then, that's just what Chunk told me later. He wore a pirate hat and had a sword strapped to his waist, and he swung down on this heavy-duty rope and scooped up Mouth and Stef before they hit the water. Then he gave another bellow and kept swinging back up the deck, where he put them down like a box of candy.\n\nThen he faced Mama and his brothers, and growled that first animal growl I'd heard the day before in the lighthouse. Then he flexed all his muscles, and his shirt ripped and his chest bulged, and I swear I've never seen a better body in my life. It was totally awesome.\n\n\"Hunk city,\" said Stef. And she'd been around.\n\nWith everyone's attention directed at this giganto pirate monster standing between us and the Fratellis, nobody much noticed Chunk climb over the side behind us. He picked up a knife off the floor and started cutting my bonds.\n\n\"Chunk?\" I whispered.\n\n\"Captain Chunk to you,\" he said softly, and kept cutting.\n\nMeanwhile Mama pointed her boys at Sloth. \"Get him,\" she ordered.\n\nJake and Francis came slowly forward, swords extended. Sloth set himself like a defensive lineman. Francis swung his sword. Sloth ducked, came up holding Francis over his head, and threw his creepy brother all the way over to the foredeck. Francis landed with a crash, out cold.\n\nChunk got me free, and both of us went to work on the other kids' knots.\n\nAs soon as Jake got over his surprise at Sloth's swift move, he lunged for the big guy with his saber. And then I'll be damned if they didn't have a swordfight.\n\nMy dad told me once about these kids called idiot savants, who are like born totally out-to-lunch about everything, except they each have one thing that they're a genius in. Like sometimes a kid like can't even tie his own shoes, but he's a musical genius and he plays concertos on the piano. Or maybe a kid can't talk or read or feed himself, but he might be a math genius and spends all his time writing equations and calculations and stuff.\n\nI think Sloth was a swordfight idiot savant.\n\nThey went at it up the deck and down, in the rigging and on the rails, advancing and retreating and lunging and parrying and clanging away like real pirates. I mean, Jake was no slouch, but he was no Sloth, either. Sloth was just something beautiful to behold. I don't know, maybe he learned it from all the old pirate movies on TV or something. I mean, that's all he did, watch TV, right?\n\nAnyway, while that was goin' on, we got Data untied, and the others, too. As soon as Data was free, he screamed, \"Pinchers of Peril!\" and fired his clapping teeth right at Jake.\n\nThose Pinchers of Peril, man, they're Data's only invention that ever worked much. They shot out this time and clamped down right on Jake's crotch. Doubled him over. Sloth grabbed the sword from him and broke it in two and blasted him in the chin with a right uppercut that sent him skidding across the deck into a pile of cannonballs. Out for the count.\n\nMama was just standin' there watchin' it all, real upset, like her party was wrecked or she hated seeing her children fight or something.\n\nWe all ran to the rail. Andy and Brand were wading in the water right below us. \"C'mon, jump!\" called Brand.\n\n\"How'd you get loose?\" I shouted. Boy, was I ever glad to see them.\n\n\"Cut my ropes on a broken bottle, and then I cut Andy's and pulled her to shallow water. Now quit yappin' and _c'mon_!\"\n\nThe other guys began jumpin' over the side. I turned back to see about Sloth and Mama. They were facing off near the hold, Sloth growling, Mama pointing her sword.\n\n\"Okay,\" she was saying, \"so maybe I treated you bad, keepin' you locked up in that little room. It was for your own good, though.\"\n\nSloth growled louder and took another step toward her. Mama looked scared.\n\n\"I ain't always been bad to you, though,\" she said. \"Don't you remember? When you were little? We had some good times then. Remember when I used to sing you to sleep?\"\n\nSloth grabbed the sword out of her hand and threw it overboard. Then he picked up Mama and carried her to the rail, ready to throw _her_ overboard. She began to sing, though. \"Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock...\"\n\nSloth stopped. Listening. He got this sweet, gentle smile on his face, like he was rememberin' a real warm memory, and he began to rock her in his arms.\n\nSeemed like he was gettin' second thoughts about what a creep his mom was, which didn't seem like such a good deal for us.\n\n\"Mikey, c'mon!\" shouted Mouth. They were already halfway across the lagoon. Nothin' more I could do here, so I jumped.\n\nI started wading as soon as I hit the water. Up top I heard Mama singin', \"When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall...\"\n\nAnd Sloth dropped her into the water. And then _he_ sang, in this really grotty voice, \"And down will come baby, cradle and all.\"\n\nMama went under, and I took off as fast as I could, half swimming, half running. The rest of the guys were near the far shore already. Sloth climbed the rigging, grabbed hold of a rope, and swung out over the water, landing even farther than me. He made it to the shore a little before I did, and we all huddled there for a few seconds, catching our breath and figuring what to do next.\n\nI saw Mama climb back onto the ship\u2014so that was one thing we didn't have to worry about immediately, at least. They weren't coming after us right away.\n\nAnd we were safe. And we'd found the treasure, and I'd found Willy, and we were all safe.\n\nI looked us all over, and my gaze came to rest on this totally weird demento in a pirate hat two sizes too small.\n\nChunk stepped forward. \"Guys, this is Sloth. He's just like us. A reject.\"\n\nSloth smiled and growled real low.\n\n\"What are we gonna do now?\" said Mouth.\n\n\"I thought I saw some light comin' from behind those rocks over there,\" said Chunk. We started workin' our way around the edge of the cavern, over these huge rocks, into the water sometimes, and then out. It was bringin' us closer to the ship again, which made me kinda nervous.\n\nAll of a sudden I heard a loud clanking and looked up to see this trapdoor on deck fly open, and Willy's skeleton hoisted up to stand in front of the wheel. The opening trapdoor hit a cannonball, though, which rolled down a track until it hit a beam, which fell over, releasing, a bunch of loose rocks onto a balance that dislodged a bigger beam that was tied into the support system of a whole section of wall, causing the wall to start to collapse.\n\nThe whole cavern shuddered and rumbled. Big sections of ceiling began caving in, dropping rocks down on the ship, on the water. On us. We ran toward where Chunk said was light.\n\nAn entire curve of wall crumbled away, leaving an enormous opening, high up, on the other side of the ship. An opening to daylight.\n\nWind filled the sails, and the ship half righted itself, just as the Fratellis ran up on deck. The tilting threw them across the floor to the rail, where stones and rubble rained down on them.\n\nThe ancient anchor began raising on some reactivated pulley system, its rusted chains groaning in all the other noise. This caused some additional lurching, which tossed the Fratellis overboard.\n\nIt was like an earthquake. The ground was breaking up, the walls cracking, rocks crashing to the ground, the whole place shaking so bad, you could hardly stand.\n\nAnd then we saw the exit. Light at the end of a long tunnel, light to the outside. We ran for it.\n\nThe Fratellis were moving in our direction but not getting very far. They were being pelted with rocks and dirt, and the lagoon was getting wavy now, too.\n\nWe made it to the tunnel entrance, but it started collapsing, like everything else. Boulders clunked down in front of it, earth started shifting, piling up. We all held back, except Sloth, who went right on ahead. Went up to the entrance and held his arms out against the walls and wedged his back up against the low ceiling. And held the damn thing up!\n\n\" _Rrwrgh_ ,\" he said to us, and it was pretty clear what he meant. One by one we crawled between his legs, into the tunnel. The rocks kept comin' down everywhere, man, but he didn't flinch, didn't move a muscle.\n\nChunk was the last one in. He called back, \"Sloth, c'mon, take my hand, you come, too!\"\n\nSloth still didn't move, though. He just kept starin' out at the lagoon. I followed his eye. He was lookin' at his mama and his brothers, in the water, half-drowned, struggling for their lives. He was probably thinkin' about all the shit they'd dumped on him all those years and how he was finally gonna be free of it, but then I guess he must've thought about how he loved them, too, and they were part of each other, I guess the way I feel about Brand even when he's being a royal pain in the ass.\n\nAnyway, I thought all that because Sloth just turned his head toward Chunk, with a tear in his good eye, and said, \"Mom,\" and gave Chunk like a little kiss on the cheek and then turned and stepped back into the cavern, back to his family\n\n\"Sloth! No!\" called Chunk. But too late. Falling boulders sealed off the entrance forever.\n\nAnd that's not all.\n\nThe exit to the daylight was buried in the same moment.\n\nWe were sealed in the tunnel.\n\nNo way out.\n\nWell, obviously Brand started freaking right away.\n\n\"We gotta get outta here,\" he said in this real thin voice.\n\nNo lie. The ground was still rumbling, stones were falling in on us\u2014it was like major bad news.\n\nBrand's voice was getting louder. \"Data, we need one of your lights!\"\n\nData fumbled in his backpack for one of Chester Copperpot's flares, then lit a match, then lit the flare. The sparking light just showed us that the situation was even worse than we'd imagined\u2014the tunnel was smaller, dirt was filling in at both ends like there was no tomorrow. Like there wasn't even any tonight.\n\nAnd that wasn't all. In the dim flickering light Data noticed something funny about the flare. \"Hey, this isn't a road flare,\" he said. \"It's... it's... dynamite!\"\n\nHe dropped it, and we all ran to the near end of the tunnel, crying, huddling, and shouting. The stick just lay there, its wick sparking lower, ten feet away. Suddenly Data jumped up, ran over to it, carried it to the far end of the tunnel, stuck it in a crack there where the earth just kept falling in, and ran back to us. We all closed our eyes, held our ears, and pretended it was an air raid drill.\n\nThere was a giant BOOM, and the ground shook even more, and more dirt fell. When it quieted some, I opened my eyes to find a large hole blown in the wall.\n\nBeyond the hole was ocean.\n\nWe ran like crazy through the hole and stumbled out into a little rocky alcove, just as the entire passageway collapsed in a cloud of rock dust.\n\nPebbled beach spread out in two directions, and the great Pacific Ocean washed up on our feet.\n\nIt was over.\n\nThe heavy rumblings changed to muffled echoes in the background, like it was already a memory or a daydream. Willy's caverns and tunnels were being buried forever. Only his story was left.\n\nI breathed in the fresh sea air and looked at us. Bruised, scratched, dirty, and tattered. We'd been through so much, so together. It made me feel... strong. Like we weren't Goony kids anymore. Like we were heroic.\n\nI took another deep breath, and I don't know what it was, but somehow I just knew my asthma was gone, too\u2014buried in the tunnels somewhere.\n\nWe hugged and cheered and jumped up and down and like were totally stoked, except Chunk was kind of bummed out about losing Sloth. That's when he told us about _his_ adventures.\n\nI told you most of it already. Him and Sloth went into the skull tunnel right after the Fratellis and followed them down the river to that giant, foggy lake. Chunk said Sloth had a real hard time handling the fog\u2014he just sat in the middle of their raft, all hunkered down, sort of whimpering and tryin' to swat at the mist like it was flies on his neck. Chunk said he just sat there and comforted the big guy the whole time\u2014petted his back and scratched behind his ears and sang him jingles of all the TV commercials he could remember, especially food commercials. So Sloth started doin' better by the end and even started singin' along with Chunk a little, like a regular hootenanny.\n\nAnyway, they finally made it across the lake, and the fog lifted, just like for us, and they tiptoed over the mast through the cave of rushing waters and up into the organ chamber, too. It turned out that the entire floor of the organ chamber _didn't_ fall away\u2014there was still a little lip of ledge around the wall from the entrance to the exit, and they inched over it and made it to the water slides and into the lagoon.\n\nAnd then, in the lagoon, they saw the Fratellis sneaking up on us, so they snuck up on the Fratellis, and the rest, as they say, is history.\n\nWe started walkin' up the beach, talkin' all at once about everything, and it wasn't a minute before two Beach Patrol guys in a dune buggy zoomed around the bend and tore over to us. One of 'em ran up, while the other one was sayin' on his walkie-talkie, \"I don't know where they came from, they weren't here a minute ago,\" and the one who ran up was sayin' to us, \"You kids all right?\"\n\nThey took us to the Ranger station down the beach, and it looked like Disaster Central. The place was packed with cops, reporters, ambulances, rubberneckers, coast guard. And parents.\n\nMom rushed up and hugged me, with the arm that wasn't broken, and Dad hugged Brand and said, \"Where have you been?\" But he didn't sound angry like I thought. Even Rosalita was standing there, crossin' herself to beat the band.\n\nI felt kind of embarrassed. \"Hi, Mom. I guess we're in deep, huh?\"\n\nShe just cried and hugged me again, though, and then she started unbuttoning my shirt and told Rosalita to help her get me out of these wet clothes and into some dry ones they'd brought.\n\nI just let myself be passed around for a while. I watched Chunk regroup with _his_ parents. You couldn't miss 'em, they were the same shape and wore the same clothes as Chunk, down to the same tacky Hawaiian shirts. After their hugs were over, his mom gave him a cardboard box wrapped in tinfoil.\n\n\"Lawrence, we were so worried,\" she said. \"Here, darling, I wrapped supper for you. It's your favorite....\"\n\nChunk ripped the foil away, and there it was\u2014a Domino's Pizza with the works.\n\nWhen Data's family finished with their first round of hugs and kisses, Data's father stepped back and pushed a button on his chest, which released a snap on the camera around his neck, so the lens cap flipped open and the shutter clicked and a flash went off, all automatically.\n\n\"Dad, you're the greatest inventor,\" said Data, and hugged him again.\n\n\"And you're my greatest invention,\" said his father.\n\nI saw Mouth talkin' to Stef over by themselves, 'cause their parents weren't there yet. \"I just wanna say... well, you know, you were gonna save my life, and I... well, I... just wanna say... thanks.\"\n\n\"What?\" she said. Her eyes got real wide. \"What was that?\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" he said real fast, so it was hard to hear.\n\n\"Was that _you_ talkin'?\" she said, kind of shocked. \"Wow. You know, Mouth, you sound kinda nice... when your mouth doesn't screw it up.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"You know, Stef, you look kinda pretty... when your face doesn't screw it up.\" Then he laughed. \"Hey, kidding. Just kidding.\"\n\nI saw Andy with her mom and dad. They were wrappin' her in a cashmere sweater and scolding her for doin' such a terrible thing to them, as if it had anything to do with them. But parents are just like that, sometimes\u2014kinda self-centered.\n\nAndy came up to me then, while all the parents were signing some forms or something. She smiled at me. \"Mikey, you just keep kissing girls the way you do, and the parts of you that don't work so well are going to catch up to the parts that do.\"\n\nThat was when I realized that she knew it was me who'd kissed her in the cave. I don't know if she knew it then, but she knew it now. She knew it, and she liked it.\n\nI guess it's like Willy said, I was on my way to being a man now. It felt okay, too. Especially now, the way Andy was lookin' at me.\n\nBrand walked up before I could say anything and put his arm around her. I didn't want to deflate his ego, though, or undermine his psychological defenses or anything like that. You know? So I didn't say anything about me and Andy. I figured we were all adult enough to handle it, but why hurt someone if you don't need to, especially a friend, right?\n\nSo I let 'em just walk away together. Made me feel a little like Humphrey Bogart at the end of _Casablanca_.\n\nI heard Brand say to her, \"Okay, so what's it gonna be? You a full-time Goony? Or a part-time Goony?\"\n\n\"I'm a lifetime Goony,\" she said, and kissed him the way she used to kiss me. On their way to catch the plane to Lisbon.\n\nI coughed, so I didn't have to hear what they were saying, and then from reflex, because I was coughing, I got my mist inhaler out of my jacket and was about to take a puff, when I realized... I didn't need it anymore. So I tossed it. More growin' up.\n\nI noticed my dad watchin' me, and I saw him smile.\n\nAll of a sudden there was a big commotion, and the cops and paramedics ran to the shoreline. And what do you think?\n\nThere was Sloth, walkin' out of the ocean, dragging Mama, Jake, and Francis, all of them totally waterlogged.\n\nThe police took Mama and the boys into custody right away, but Chunk was the first one to Sloth. \"Sloth! Sloth!\" he shouted.\n\nSloth gave a happy grunt and picked Chunk up in the air for a big Sloth-hug. Chunk held out his box of dinner to share. \"Look, Sloth. Have some.\"\n\nThere was this great look of instant recognition on Sloth's face, and he immediately started singing the Domino's Pizza jingle. Then he devoured a slice in a single gulp.\n\nChunk's parents got over to 'em by then, and they didn't look too thrilled.\n\nChunk spoke up. \"His name is Sloth, and he's my new friend. And Dad? If they take away our house and we have to move to New York... I thought maybe we could adopt him? 'Cause they're gonna take his mom to prison for sure, so they'd just put him in a home somewhere, and that wouldn't be any good for him, and he's my friend. So maybe we could adopt him and get him a job with the New York Jets or with the Rangers as head goalie? Now, I been thinkin' it out, and...\"\n\nSloth, meanwhile, destroyed another slice of pizza and, let loose a volcanic belch. Chunk's parents just looked kinda glazed.\n\nMr. Perkins and Troy drove up, then, in a big white Cadillac convertible. They came over to where me and Dad were standing. Mr. Perkins was waving a paper at us\u2014that guy never missed an opportunity to be the jerk in every crowd.\n\n\"Trying to avoid me, eh, Walsh? Well, running away from your problems won't solve them. Neither will this little beach party. Midnight tonight is your deadline, and the sun's nearly down, so let's sign these papers and get it over with.\"\n\n\"Please, Mr. Perkins,\" Dad said, \"if you could just hold off\u2014\"\n\n\"Hold off? Walsh, your home is blocking the start of our first fairway. We've got to begin with you.\"\n\n\"But if you just give me a little more time, I might find\u2014\"\n\n\"C'mon, Walsh,\" piped up Troy, that chip off the old blockhead, \"my daddy doesn't have all day. There's fifty more houses to trash after yours.\"\n\nDad looked at the papers, then reached into his pocket and took out his Promotene mist inhaler\u2014oh yeah, did I mention that my dad, had asthma, too?\n\nIt made me so sad to see him beaten like this. I felt like somehow it was my fault. \"I'm sorry, Dad. We had our hands on the future, but... we blew it.\"\n\nDad looked like he was gonna start bawling any second. But in some weird way he looked real strong, and sure of himself, too. I don't remember seeing him look much like that before.\n\nHe looked down at me and said, \"You and Brand are back. Safe. With your mother and me. That makes us the richest people in Cauldron Point.\"\n\nAnd then you know what he did? He threw away _his_ mist inhaler. I guess maybe he'd grown up a little over the past day, too.\n\n\"Walsh?\" said Perkins. \"You're _looking_ at the richest people in Cauldron Point. Now sign it.\"\n\nTroy propped the paper against his father's back and whipped out a fancy fountain pen. \"Here,\" he said to my dad, \"use my pen. I'll even let you keep it as a souvenir.\"\n\nThe crowd seemed to know what was going on, and I was suddenly aware that everything got a lot quieter. Everyone was watchin' us. I think my dad trembled a little.\n\nI heard Data whisper, \"I sure am gonna miss bein' a Goony.\"\n\nThe wind was blowing. The sun was setting. I remember everything about that moment. The way the blanket was wrapped around me for warmth, the sadness in Mom's eye as she watched Dad take the pen from Troy. The way it was so quiet, you could hear someone cough, and someone else rubbing his hands together. The way the salt air smelled, with the coolness coming on, and the long shadows and the gritty sand in my hair and the way my tears tasted.\n\nAnd I felt so close to everyone here. There was so much love and loyalty, it was like hard to even work up a big hate against these ignorant clods who had money and now had our houses but who somehow seemed so pathetic and pitiful for everything they didn't have.\n\n\"Sign,\" Perkins said again. It sounded like a sound an insect makes.\n\nI remember the way the Fratellis looked, handcuffed to a patrol wagon. I remember the way Rosalita looked, trying to keep from being sad by folding my wet clothes on a big rock. I remember the look of shock on her face as Dad started to sign, and suddenly started shouting in Spanish.\n\nIt made Dad pause, her shouting. Made the whole crowd look at her. She just kept shouting.\n\nI heard Stef say to Mouth, \"Okay, Mr. Mouth\u2014what's she saying?\"\n\nMouth listened carefully, but he wasn't like real good at understanding _spoken_ Spanish. \"Don't... sit down... no... don't shoot... no... don't throw up... no... don't _sign_!\"\n\nI heard him before Dad did. As Mouth and Stef ran up I grabbed the paper out of Dad's hand, so the fountain pen kind of dribbled down Mr. Perkins's back.\n\nRosalita ran over, then, carrying what she'd found in my pants when she was folding 'em on the rock\u2014my bag of marbles. Except it wasn't marbles in it anymore. Remember?\n\n\"Look,\" whispered Chunk at Rosalita's cupped hands.\n\nIt was jewels.\n\nRubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires. All choice. All sparkling like an extraterrestrial fire in the rays of the setting sun.\n\nDad turned to Mr. Perkins. \"I don't think I'll be signing anything today, Mr. Perkins.\" Then he tore the contract in two.\n\nThe crowd cheered.\n\nThe Goonies all formed a huddle, and gave each other a huge Goony hug.\n\nSuddenly the police couldn't hold back the reporters anymore, and they rushed forward, snapping pictures of us and asking a million questions.\n\n\"Are those stones real? How the hell did you kids...\"\n\n\"What happened out there? Were your lives in danger?\"\n\nData talked first. \"Well, the giant squid was pretty bad....\"\n\nAndy said, \"But walking the plank was even scarier....\"\n\n\"Walking the plank?\" said one reporter with that adult know-it-all sound in his voice.\n\n\"Well, see, we found this pirate ship,\" said Brand.\n\n\"And when we tried to take the treasure...\" added Chunk.\n\nBut the sheriff arrived just then, and he hadn't seen the jewels yet, but he had experience with Chunk's powers of description. \"You tellin' more stories, Lawrence?\" he said.\n\n\"Wait,\" said Chunk, \"this time I'm really tellin' the truth, sheriff, honest....\"\n\nThe sheriff nodded patiently and turned his head a second to give Chunk some time to think up another one, but when he turned his head, he saw something in the distance. Out on the water. \"Holy Mother of God,\" he whispered. And then, louder, \"Look!\"\n\nWe all looked toward the sea. And we saw the ship.\n\nSailing free, to the horizon, the last edge of the sun just dipping below the line.\n\nWilly was going home, too.\n\n\"Thank you, One-Eyed Willy,\" I whispered. And I know he heard me. 'Cause I was the melody in _his_ head that finally set him free, just like he was the melody in mine.\n\nAnd everyone on that beach watched him sail away. Nobody moved or said a word, until the ship was just a dot on the horizon.\n\nAnd then it was gone.\n\n# **Epilogue**\n\nOne last thing I wanted to say.\n\nI got to read the police report on the Fratellis, and this is what happened, according to Mama.\n\nAfter we jumped ship she woke up Jake and Francis and took 'em to the captain's cabin, to gloat over their find. And the first thing Mama grabbed for was the gold on the scales in front of Willy. Willy's gold.\n\nWell, it turned out that that tipped the scales, and the side of the balance that dropped was attached to a string that pulled a clasp that set off the whole booby trap that hoisted Willy up to the wheel and knocked away the support beams in the cavern that started the cave-in that was their downfall.\n\nSo what I wanted to say was, if you try to take stuff that belongs to someone else, you don't get what you thought you were getting, you get what you ought to have got.\n\nBut if you take what someone's trying to give you while you were askin' for what you thought you wanted, you end up gettin' a lot more than you knew was there in the first place.\n\nWilly taught me that.\n\n# **Afterword**\n\n**_Astoria Herald_ , Morning Edition, Sunday, October 25**\n\nThe Hillside Country Club last night had what board chairman Elgin Perkins described as a \"major plumbing disaster.\" All the main shower areas developed significant leaks, back-pressure in the sewage pipes caused toilets to overflow, sometimes explosively, spigots were \"literally wrenched from their fittings and pulled into the walls.\" Several members complained of minor injuries. The entire system had to be shut down, and the areas involved will not be reopened until further notice. Perkins later joked, \"If I believed in the supernatural, I'd say a poltergeist was at work here.\"\n\nThe plumbing contractor responsible for the original installation could not be reached for comment.\n\n**_Astoria Evening Standard_ , Tuesday, October 26**\n\nThe Board of Trustees of the Hillside Country Club Corporation was blocked in court today from foreclosing on lands near the dock area of Astoria and evicting its tenants. Community representative Andrew Walsh has obtained a restraining order from Judge Turteltaub, preventing the Hillside group from moving in tractors until the deeds in question are examined and ownership more clearly defined. Walsh states that the community has the right of first refusal on the property, and he now claims to have cash to purchase it outright.\n\nHillside Board Chairman Elgin Perkins has said he will appeal the matter to a higher court.\n\n**_Astoria Evening Standard_ , Monday, October 27**\n\nSeven Cauldron Point children, missing since Saturday, were found, wet but unharmed, last night on a deserted beach near Hillside. Accounts of the disappearance, by the children, were so strange that some authorities suspected drug use among them\u2014a charge they vehemently denied. They had with them a large number of purportedly high-quality precious stones but could offer no explanation of how the gems came to be in their possession, other than a fantastic story involving \"squids, pirates, and skeletons.\"\n\nThe stones have been appraised independently. Their value is undisclosed.\n\nThe appearance of the children was linked with the apprehension of the Fratelli mob. Jake Fratelli, who escaped from the state penitentiary Saturday morning, has been sought by police in six counties. All three Fratellis denied knowledge of the missing children or the jewels. They are currently being held without bail at the Hillside Detention Center.\n\n**_Astoria Herald_ , Wednesday, October 28**\n\nEscaped convict Jake Fratelli returned to state prison today, pending trial with his mother (Mama) and brother (Francis) on six counts of counterfeiting, one count of arson, three counts of unlawful use of weapons, two counts of murder, and twenty-two counts of child abuse relating to Mama Fratelli's youngest son, whose name has been withheld.\n\nJake has apparently agreed to turn state's evidence on a drug ring whose members have been posing as FBI agents and other law-enforcement officials in order to confiscate large quantities of narcotics from local dealers. Fratelli will be granted immunity from prosecution on this charge and may plead guilty to manslaughter on the murder counts, in return for his testimony.\n\n**_Astoria Evening Standard_ , Thursday, October 29**\n\nReports of an unusual, unmarked ship sighted off the coast of Astoria last Sunday night have continued coming in all week. Flying an old \"skull and crossbones\" insignia, it eluded coast guard craft as heavy fog prevented further pursuit after sunset.\n\nOfficials feel it may be one of the vessels used by a local drug ring to smuggle narcotics into the Back Bay area.\n\nAnyone having information relating to the fugitive boat, please contact the sheriff's office or this paper.\n\n**_Astoria Herald_ , Friday, October 30**\n\nThe Hillside Country Club today was purchased for an undisclosed cash amount, by a group calling itself the \"Friends of the Goon Docks.\" Chairman of the consortium, Andrew Walsh, has stated that the current country club golf course will be razed, to make way for low-income housing. Asked about the fate of the remainder of the country club, Walsh stated that the matter was being investigated, but possibilities included plans for a new historical museum, a children's center, a fish market, a plumbing supply house, a Chinese restaurant, and a public-access invention laboratory.\n\nPrevious owner Elgin Perkins was unavailable for comment.\n\n**_Astoria Evening Standard_ , Saturday, October 31**\n\nThe annual Cauldron Point Halloween Gala will be put on by the C.P.J.C.'s tonight at Reingold Hall, at 8 P.M. The theme will be _Pirates of the Pacific_ , and all proceeds will go to the Orphan's Home.\n\nMichael Walsh will give a special address.\n\n**_Astoria Herald_ , Morning Edition, Saturday, December 30**\n\nMr. and Mrs Jerry Cohen are pleased to announce the Bar Mitzvah of their recently adopted son, Jason Sloth Cohen, at Temple Beth Solomon, today at 11 A.M. Reception to follow at the Goondock Recreation Center (formerly Hillside Country Club). \n\n# **The Goonies are looking for hidden treasure. What they find is a heap of trouble!**\n\nIt's summer in the small seaport town of Astoria and The Goonies are restless. Big developers threaten to take over the town. Then Mikey finds an old pirate map and the kids take off to find the loot that can save their neighborhood.\n\nBut they never counted on skeletons with swords, a booby-trapped underground passage and the murderous ex-con, all of whom want the Goonies' heads.\n\nBut they took a vow to stick together through thick and thin...and that's lucky for them, because the most incredible time of their lives is about to begin....\n\n**Take the oath. Join the adventure.**\n\n\"THE GOONIES.\"\n\nStory by STEVEN SPIELBERG Screenplay by CHRIS COLUMBUS Music by DAVE GRUSIN Executive Producers STEVEN SPIELRERG \u2022 FRANK MARSHALL \u2022 KATHLEEN KENNEDY Produced by RICHARD DONNER and HARVEY BERNHARD Directed by RICHARD DONNER \n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}