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\section{Introduction}
Counting functions of various sequences of positive integers have been extensively studied in number theory. A special case of great interest is that in which the sequence is the image of some arithmetic function. It is an easy consequence of the prime number theorem that a number $n\leq x$ can have at most $(1+o(1))\frac{\log x}{\log\log x}$ prime factors; therefore, if we denote by $\omega(n)=\sum_{p|n}1$ the number of prime divisors of $n$, we get
$$
\#\{\o(n): n\leq x \}=(1+o(1))\frac{\log x}{\log\log x}.
$$
The question becomes much more complex if we consider the divisor function $\tau(n)=\sum_{d|n}1$. In 1951, Erd\H{o}s and Mirsky \cite{EM} proved that
$$
\#\{\tau(n): n\leq x \} = \exp\left(\left(\frac{2\pi\sqrt2}{\sqrt3}+o(1)\right)\frac{(\log x)^{1/2}}{\log\log x} \right),
$$
while it is not hard to see that $\max_{n\leq x}\tau(n)=\exp((\log2+o(1))\frac{\log x}{\log\log x})$ (see, for example, \cite{Ten}, Theorem I.5.4). Many papers were also devoted to the study of totients, that is, the numbers which are values of Euler's totient function $\varphi(n)=\#\{1\leq k\leq n: (k,n)=1 \}$. We just mention that Maier and Pomerance \cite{MP} (see this paper for the history of the question and references as well) in 1988 showed that
$$
\#\{\varphi(n): n\leq x \} = \frac{x}{\log x}\exp((C+o(1))(\log\log\log x)^2),
$$
and that the exact order of magnitude of the quantity $\#\{\varphi(n): n\leq x \}$ was found by Ford \cite{F} in 1998.
In the present paper we study counting functions of sequences of positive integers with the following special multiplicative structure. For a function $f\colon \mathbb{N}\to\mathbb{N}$, define
$$
N^{\times}_{f}(x)=\#\{n\leq x: n=kf(k) \mbox{ for some $k$} \}.
$$
Note that all of the functions $\tau$, $\omega$, $\varphi$ have large typical values: all but $o(x)$ numbers $k\leq x$ have $\o(k)\asymp \log\log x$ (due to Hardy and Ramanujan \cite{HR}); hence, $\tau(n)\geq 2^{\o(n)}$ is usually also large, and, finally, $\varphi(k)\gg k/\log\log k$ for all $k$. Then it is easy to see that the corresponding counting functions $N^{\times}_{f}(x)$ for these $f$ are $o(x)$. A very natural question arises: what are their orders of magnitude?
We give the answers for all of three mentioned choices of $f$. Firstly, we find the exact order of magnitude of $N^{\times}_{\tau}(x)$.
\begin{theorem}\label{th1.1}
We have
$$
N^{\times}_{\tau}(x) \asymp \frac{x}{(\log x)^{1/2}}.
$$
\end{theorem}
Note that the map $k\mapsto k\tau(k)$ is not injective: we have $18\tau(18)=27\tau(27)$, and therefore, $18k\tau(18k)=27k\tau(27k)$ whenever $(k,6)=1$. Thus (as one can easily see from the proof of the lower bound) there is a positive proportion of the representable numbers which have at least two representations. This circumstance makes us think that it should be hard to find the asymptotics for $N^{\times}_{\tau}(x)$. However, our approach is well suited in the following cases where the map $k\mapsto kf(k)$ is an injection. Let $A\geq2$ be a fixed integer, and define $f_1(n)=A^{\omega(n)}$ and $f_2(n)=A^{\Omega(n)}$ (here $\O(n)=\sum_{p^{\a}|n}1$ is the number of prime factors of $n$ counted with multiplicity); then, making some technical changes in the proof of Theorem \ref{th1.1} (and using Theorem 6.5 of \cite{Ten} in the case of $f_2(n)$), one can show that
$$
N^{\times}_{f_i}(x)=(c_i(A)+o(1))\frac{x}{(\log x)^{1-1/A}}, \quad i=1,2,
$$
where
$$
c_1(A)=\frac{1}{\Gamma(1/A)}\prod_p\left(1+\frac{1}{A(p-1)}\right)\left(1-\frac1p\right)^{1/A},
$$
and
$$
c_2(A)=\frac{1}{\Gamma(1/A)}\prod_p\left(1-\frac{1}{Ap}\right)^{-1}\left(1-\frac1p\right)^{1/A}.
$$
Related results appear in \cite{BR} and \cite{LS}. In \cite{BR}, it is shown that if $\mu>0$ and $g(n)$ is a positive multiplicative function such that $g(n)\gg n^{-1/16}$ and $g(p)=1/\mu$ holds for all primes $p$, then there exists a positive constant $C$ (depending on $g$) such that
$$
\sum_{kg(k)\le x} 1=C x(\log x)^{\mu-1}+O_{\mu}(x\exp(-C(\log x)^{3/5} (\log\log x)^{-1/5})).
$$
In particular, the above result applies to $g(n)=\tau(n)$ with $\mu=1/2$ and to $g(n)=A^{\omega(n)}$ and $A^{\Omega(n)}$ with $\mu=1/A$.
The paper \cite{LS} gives the order of magnitude of the counting function of the set of positive integers $n$ which are divisible by $A^{\omega(n)}$.
\medskip
Secondly, we study the case $f(n)=\o(n)$.
\begin{theorem}\label{th1.2}
We have
$$
N^{\times}_{\omega}(x) = \frac{x}{\log\log x} + O\left(\frac{x(\log\log\log x)^{1/2}(\log\log\log\log x)^2}{(\log\log x)^{3/2}}\right).
$$
\end{theorem}
The map $k\mapsto k\o(k)$ is also not injective: for any prime $q\geq5$, we have $18q=9q\o(9q)=6q\o(6q)$. However, it turns out be very close to injective one, in the sense that the number of pairs $(k_1,k_2)$ with $k_1\neq k_2$ and $k_1\o(k_1)=k_2\o(k_2)$ is relatively small. This allows us to find the asymptotics for $N^{\times}_{\o}$.
The proof of this theorem can be easily adopted to include the case $f(n)=\O(n)$: we have the same asymptotics for $N^{\times}_{\Omega}$ as well.
Finally, we study the case $f=\varphi$. It turns out that the map $n\mapsto n\varphi(n)$ is an injection (see Section \ref{s4} for the details), and thus clearly $N^{\times}_{\varphi}(x)\geq \lfloor x^{1/2} \rfloor$. On the other hand, it is well-known that $\sum_{n\leq x}n/\varphi(n)\ll x$ (see, for example, [Mur], Exercise 4.4.12), and therefore for any $\varepsilon>0$ Markov's inequality implies that $\#\{n\leq x: \varphi(n)/n\leq \varepsilon \} \ll \varepsilon x$, which gives
\begin{multline}\label{1.1}
N^{\times}_{\varphi}(x) \leq x^{1/2}+\sum_{j\geq0}\#\{n\in[2^jx^{1/2},2^{j+1}x^{1/2}]: \varphi(n)\leq 2^{-j}x^{1/2} \} \\
\leq x^{1/2}+\sum_{j\geq0}\#\{n\leq 2^{j+1}x^{1/2}: \frac{\varphi(n)}{n}\leq 4^{-j} \}
\ll x^{1/2}+\sum_{j\geq0}x^{1/2}2^{-j} \ll x^{1/2}.
\end{multline}
So, we see that $N^{\times}_{\varphi}(x)\asymp x^{1/2}$. The asymptotic behaviour of $N^{\times}_{\varphi}(x)$ is given in the following theorem.
\begin{theorem}\label{th1.3}
We have
$$
N^{\times}_{\varphi}(x) = c_0x^{1/2}+O(x^{1/2}\exp(-c\sqrt{\log x\log\log x})),
$$
where $c_0=\prod_p\left(1+\frac{1}{p\,\left(p-1+\sqrt{p^2-p}\right)}\right)=1.365...$ and $c>0$ is an absolute constant.
\end{theorem}
It is worth mentioning that this last problem is very close to counting totient numbers up to $x$ with multiplicity. Let $r(n)=\#\{m\in \mathbb{N}: n=\varphi(m)\}$; in 1972, Bateman \cite{Bat} showed that
$$
\#\{n\in\mathbb{N}: \varphi(n)\leq x\} = \sum_{n\leq x}r(n)=\frac{\zeta(2)\zeta(3)}{\zeta(6)}x+O\left(x\exp(-c\sqrt{\log x\log\log x})\right)
$$
(here and in what follows $c$ stands for an absolute positive constant which may vary from line to line), and Balazard and Tenenbaum \cite{BT} in 1998 improved the error term to
$$
O\left(x\exp(-c(\log x)^{3/5}(\log\log x)^{-1/5})\right),
$$
which is also the best known error term in the prime number theorem, due to Korobov \cite{Kor} and Vinogradov \cite{Vin}. It is very likely that the machinery of \cite{BT} may allow us to get the error term of the same shape in Theorem \ref{th1.3}, but we wanted to keep the paper short and self-contained, and thus decided to use a simpler argument which gives our result.
\medskip
In Section \ref{s2}, we prove Theorem \ref{th1.1}; the main ingredients here are the asymptotics for the number of positive integers $k\leq x$ with a given value of $\o(k)$
and the asymptotics for the number of such square-free positive integers. Section \ref{s3} is devoted to the proof of Theorem \ref{th1.2}, which relies on the fact that the values $k\omega(k)$ are usually distinct for typical $k\leq x/\log\log x$. In Section \ref{s4}, we use the method of contour integration to prove Theorem \ref{th1.3}.
\bigskip
\textbf{Notation.} We use Vinogradov's $\ll$ notation: $F\ll G$ (as well as $F=O(G)$ and $G\gg F$) means that there exists an absolute constant $C>0$ such that $|F|\leq CG$; also we write $F\asymp G$ if $G\ll F\ll G$. We use $\lfloor u\rfloor$ to denote the largest integer not exceeding $u$, and we let $(a,b)$ be the greatest common divisor of integers $a$ and $b$.
\bigskip
\textbf{Acknowledgements}. The authors thank Kevin Ford and Sergei Konyagin for helpful comments. Mikhail Gabdullin is supported in part by Young Russian Mathematics award. The work of Vitalii Iudelevich was supported by the Theoretical Physics and Mathematics Advancement Foundation ``BASIS''.
\section{Proof of Theorem \ref{th1.1}}\label{s2}
We will need the following estimates.
\begin{lem}\label{lem2.1}
Let $Q(\a)=\a\log\a-\a+1$ and $\a_0>1$. Then
$$
\#\{n\leq x: \o(n)\leq \a\log\log x\} \ll x(\log x)^{-Q(\a)}
$$
for any $\a\in(0,1)$, and
$$
\#\{n\leq x: \o(n)\geq \a\log\log x\} \ll_{\a_0} x(\log x)^{-Q(\a)}
$$
for any $\a\in(1,\a_0]$.
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
See \cite{HT}, Exercise 04.
\end{proof}
Let $\pi_l(x)=\#\{n\leq x: \o(n)=l \}$ and $\pi_l^*(x)=\#\{n\leq x: \o(n)=l \mbox{ and $n$ is square-free} \}$.
\begin{lem}\label{lem2.2}
Let $B>A>0$ be fixed. Then, for $x\geq3$ and $A\log\log x \leq l\leq B\log\log x$,
$$
\pi^*_l(x) \asymp \pi_l(x) \asymp \frac{x}{\log x}\frac{(\log\log x)^{l-1}}{(l-1)!}.
$$
\end{lem}
\begin{proof} Theorem II.6.4 of \cite{Ten} asserts that, for any $B>0$, $x\geq3$, and $1\leq l\leq B\log\log x$, we have (see the formula (6.18))
\begin{equation}\label{2.1}
\pi_l(x)=\frac{x}{\log x}\frac{(\log\log x)^{l-1}}{(l-1)!}\left\{\lambda\left(\frac{l-1}{\log\log x}\right)+O\left(\frac{l}{(\log\log x)^2}\right)\right\},
\end{equation}
where
$$
\lambda(z)=\frac{1}{\Gamma(z+1)}\prod_p\left(1+\frac{z}{p-1}\right)\left(1-\frac1p\right)^z
$$
is an entire function. Thus, if $A\log\log x\leq l\leq B\log\log x$, then $\lambda\left(\frac{l-1}{\log\log x}\right)\asymp 1$, and the claim for $\pi_l(x)$ follows.
The bounds for $\pi^*_l(x)$ follow from the analogue of (\ref{2.1}) for $\pi_l^*$, which can be proved similarly to Theorem II.6.4 in the book \cite{Ten}: starting with the function $$
\sum_{n=1}^{\infty}\frac{\mu^2(n)z^{\o(n)}}{n^s}
$$
(here $\mu$ is the M\"obius function) instead of
$$
\sum_{n=1}^{\infty}\frac{z^{\o(n)}}{n^s},
$$
and applying Theorems 5.2 and 6.3 of \cite{Ten}, we get
$$
\pi^*_l(x)=\frac{x}{\log x}\frac{(\log\log x)^{l-1}}{(l-1)!}\left\{\lambda^*\left(\frac{l-1}{\log\log x}\right)+O\left(\frac{l}{(\log\log x)^2}\right)\right\},
$$
where
$$
\lambda^*(z)=\frac{1}{\Gamma(z+1)}\prod_p\left(1+\frac{z}{p}\right)\left(1-\frac1p\right)^z
$$
is another entire function. Again, if $A\log\log x\leq l\leq B\log\log x$, then $\lambda^*\left(\frac{l-1}{\log\log x}\right)\asymp 1$. This concludes the proof of the lemma.
\end{proof}
Now we are ready to prove Theorem \ref{th1.1}. We may assume that $x$ is large enough. We first prove the upper bound. For each representable $n\leq x$, we fix a $k$ with $k\tau(k)=n$; clearly, for any such $k$ we have $k2^{\o(k)}\leq k\tau(k)\leq x$. Thus
\begin{equation}\label{2.2}
N^{\times}_{\tau}(x) \leq \sum_{l\geq1} \pi_l(x/2^l)+1.
\end{equation}
Note that this sum is finite, since $\omega(k)\leq (1+o(1))\frac{\log x}{\log\log x}$ for any $k\leq x$. Let $y=\log\log x$. Lemma \ref{lem2.1} implies that
$$
\sum_{l\leq 0.1y}\pi_l(x/2^l) \leq \#\{k\leq x: \o(k)\leq 0.1y\} \leq x(\log x)^{-Q(0.1)} \ll \frac{x}{(\log x)^{0.6}},
$$
and we have
$$
\sum_{l\geq y}\pi_l(x/2^l) \leq \sum_{l\geq y}x/2^l \ll \frac{x}{2^y}\leq \frac{x}{(\log x)^{0.6}}.
$$
Using these two estimates and Lemma \ref{lem2.2} with $A=0.1$ and $B=1.1$, we get from (\ref{2.2})
\begin{multline*}
N^{\times}_{\tau}(x) \leq \sum_{0.1y\leq l \leq y}\pi_l(x/2^l)+O\left(\frac{x}{(\log x)^{0.6}}\right) \ll \frac{x}{\log x}\sum_{0.1y \leq l\leq
y} \frac{y^{l-1}}{2^l(l-1)!}+O\left(\frac{x}{(\log x)^{0.6}}\right)
\\=\frac{x}{2(\log x)^{1/2}}+O\left(\frac{x}{(\log x)^{1/2}}\sum_{|l-y/2|\geq 0.4y}\frac{(y/2)^{l}e^{-y/2}}{l!} + \frac{x}{(\log x)^{0.6}}\right),
\end{multline*}
since $y^{l-1}/(l-1)!\asymp y^l/l!$ for any $l\asymp y$. It is well-known (see, for example, (0.23) and (0.24) in \cite{HT}) that, for a Poisson random variable $\xi$ with parameter $y_0$, we have $\P(\xi\leq \a y_0)\leq e^{-Q(\a)y_0}$ for any $0\leq \a\leq 1$, and $\P(\xi \geq \a y_0)\leq e^{-Q(\a)y_0}$ for any $\a\geq 1$ (with $Q(\a)$ defined in Lemma \ref{lem2.1}). Using this with $y_0=y/2$, we get
$$
\sum_{|l-y/2|\geq 0.4y}\frac{(y/2)^le^{-y/2}}{l!} \leq e^{-Q(0.2)y/2}+e^{-Q(1.8)y/2} \ll (\log x)^{-0.1},
$$
and the required upper bound for $N^{\times}_{\tau}(x)$ follows from the previous estimate.
To prove the lower bound, we note that if $k_1$ and $k_2$ are two distinct square-free numbers, then $k_1\tau(k_1)$ and $k_2\tau(k_2)$ are also distinct. Using Lemma \ref{lem2.2} and arguing as above, we have
$$
N^{\times}_{\tau}(x)\geq \sum_{l\geq1}\pi^*_l(x/2^l) \gg \frac{x}{\log x}\sum_{0.1y \leq l\leq y} \frac{y^l}{2^ll!} \gg \frac{x}{(\log x)^{1/2}}.
$$
This completes the proof of Theorem \ref{th1.1}.
\section{Proof of Theorem 1.2}\label{s3}
We need the following classical estimate.
\begin{lem}\label{lem3.1}
For any $0\leq \psi\leq \sqrt{\log\log x}$, we have
$$
\#\{k\leq x: |\o(k)-\log\log x|> \psi\sqrt{\log\log x}\} \ll xe^{-\frac13\psi^2}.
$$
\end{lem}
\begin{proof} For the function $Q(\a)=\a\log\a-\a+1$, we have $|Q(1+\varepsilon)|\geq \varepsilon^2/3$ whenever $|\varepsilon|\leq1$. Now the claim follows from Lemma \ref{lem2.1} applied to $\a=1\pm \psi/\sqrt{\log\log x}$.
\end{proof}
To prove Theorem \ref{th1.2}, let us consider the following set of numbers. We assume that $x$ is large enough, and set\footnote{In this section, we use for brevity the notation $\log_2x=\log\log x$, $\log_3x=\log\log\log x$, etc.} $\psi=10(\log_3x)^{1/2}$. We define $K$ to be the set of positive integers $k$ such that
\begin{itemize}
\item[(i)] \qquad $k\o(k)\leq x$;
\item[(ii)] \qquad $|\o(k)-\log\log x|\leq \psi(\log\log x)^{1/2}$.
\end{itemize}
\smallskip
Now we briefly describe the idea of the proof. Firstly, due to Lemma \ref{lem3.1}, most numbers obey (ii), and thus, while counting the representable $n\leq x$, we can restrict our attention to those which are images of $k\in K$. Next, we show that the number of $n\leq x$ having more than one such representation is negligible. Therefore, $N^{\times}_{\omega}(x)\approx |K|$, and it remains to write down the asymptotics for $|K|$, which is $(1+o(1))\frac{x}{\log\log x}$.
We turn to the details. The application of Lemma \ref{lem3.1} gives us
\begin{multline}\label{3.1}
\#\{k: k\o(k)\leq x \mbox { and } k\notin K\} \leq \#\left\{k\leq x: k \mbox{ violates (ii)} \right\} \\
\ll x\exp(-\psi^2/3)
\ll \frac{x}{(\log\log x)^2}.
\end{multline}
Therefore,
\begin{equation}\label{3.2}
N^{\times}_{\omega}(x)=\#\{n\leq x: n=k\o(k) \mbox{ for some } k\in K\} + O\left(\frac{x}{(\log\log x)^2}\right).
\end{equation}
Let us call a number $n\leq x$ \textit{bad} if $n=k\o(k)=k'\o(k')$ for some distinct $k, k'\in K$; clearly, in this case $\o(k)$ and $\o(k')$ are distinct as well. Suppose we are given a bad $n$. Without less of generality, we may assume that
\begin{equation}\label{3.3}
\o(\o(k))\geq \o(\o(k')).
\end{equation}
Let $d=(k,k')$ and $t=(\o(k),\o(k'))$. The equality
$$
\frac{k\o(k)}{dt}=\frac{k'\o(k')}{dt}
$$
implies that
$$
k=d\frac{\o(k')}{t}, \quad k'=d\frac{\o(k)}{t};
$$
therefore,
$$
\o(k)\leq \o(d)+\o(\o(k')) \leq \o(k')+\o(\o(k))
$$
and, similarly,
$$
\o(k') \leq \o(k)+\o(\o(k')).
$$
So, setting $u=\o(k')-\o(k)$, by (\ref{3.3}), (ii), and the bound $\o(m)\ll \log m$ (say) for all $m\in \mathbb{N}$, we have
\begin{equation}\label{3.4}
0<|u|\leq \o(\o(k))\ll \log_3 x.
\end{equation}
Note also that $t|u$ and, hence, $t\leq \o(\o(k))$. Let $w=\o(k)$. Since
$$
n=\frac{d\o(k')\o(k)}{t}=\frac{dw(w+u)}{t},
$$
we see that the number of bad $n$ does not exceed the number of the four-tuples $(w,t,d,u)$ under consideration. Let us fix $w$ and $t$. Then (ii) and (\ref{3.4}) implies that $w+u\asymp w$. Therefore, there are at most
$$
\frac{xt}{w(w+u)} \ll \frac{xt}{w^2} \ll \frac{xt}{(\log_2x)^2}
$$
possible values of $d$. Further, by (\ref{3.4}) there are
$$
\ll \frac{\o(w)}{t}
$$
possible values of $u$. Finally, there are at most $\max_{1\leq u\leq \o(w)} \tau(u) \leq \o(w)$ options for $t$ for any fixed $w$. Combining all of this, we see that the number of bad $n$ does not exceed
$$
\frac{x}{(\log_2x)^2}\sum_{a\leq w\leq b}\o^2(w),
$$
where $a=\log_2x-\psi(\log_2x)^{1/2}$ and $b=\log_2x+\psi(\log_2x)^{1/2}$. Since
$$
\o(w)=\sum_{p|w: p\leq b^{1/10}} 1 + O(1)
$$
for any $w\in[a,b]$, and $b-a>b^{1/5}$, we find that
\begin{multline*}
\sum_{a\leq w\leq b}\o^2(w) = \sum_{p,q \leq b^{1/10}: \, p\neq q}\frac{b-a}{pq}+O\left(\sum_{p\leq b^{1/10}}\frac{b-a}{p}+(b-a)\right) \\
\ll (b-a)(\log_4x)^2\ll \psi(\log_2x)^{1/2}(\log_4x)^2.
\end{multline*}
Thus, the number of bad $n$ is
$$
\ll \frac{x(\log_3x)^{1/2}(\log_4x)^2}{(\log_2x)^{3/2}}.
$$
Now it follows from (\ref{3.2}) that
\begin{equation}\label{3.5}
N_{\o}^{\times}(x)=|K|+O\left(\frac{x(\log_3x)^{1/2}(\log_4x)^2}{(\log_2x)^{3/2}}\right).
\end{equation}
Finally, we work with $|K|$. By (i) and (ii), any $k\in K$ does not exceed
$$
\frac{x}{\log_2 x-\psi(\log_2 x)^{1/2}}=\frac{x}{\log_2 x}+O\left(\frac{x(\log_3x)^{1/2}}{(\log_2 x)^{3/2}}\right),
$$
and thus
$$
|K|\leq \frac{x}{\log_2 x}+O\left(\frac{x(\log_3x)^{1/2}}{(\log_2 x)^{3/2}}\right).
$$
On the other hand, any $k$ not exceeding
$$
\frac{x}{\log_2 x+\psi(\log_2 x)^{1/2}}=\frac{x}{\log_2 x}-O\left(\frac{x(\log_3x)^{1/2}}{(\log_2 x)^{3/2}}\right)
$$
and obeying (ii), belongs to $K$. Using the bound (\ref{3.1}), we find that
$$
|K|\geq \frac{x}{\log_2 x}-O\left(\frac{x(\log_3x)^{1/2}}{(\log_2 x)^{3/2}}\right).
$$
So
$$
|K|=\frac{x}{\log_2 x}+O\left(\frac{x(\log_3x)^{1/2}}{(\log_2 x)^{3/2}}\right),
$$
and now Theorem \ref{th1.2} follows from (\ref{3.5}).
\section{Proof of Theorem 1.3}\label{s4}
We first note that the map $k\mapsto k\varphi(k)$ is an injection. Indeed, let $n=k\varphi(k)=l\varphi(l)$ and $p=P^+(n)$; then it is easy to see that $P^+(k)=P^+(l)=p$ and $p$ occurs in $k$ and $l$ in the same power, say, $\a$. Thus we can divide the equality $k\varphi(k)=l\varphi(l)$ by $p^{2\a-1}(p-1)$ and get $k'\varphi(k')=l'\varphi(l')$, where $k'=k/p^{\a}$ and $l'=l/p^{\a}$ are coprime to $p$. Arguing in the same manner, we obtain $k=l$ after a finite number of steps.
Now we consider the function
\begin{equation*}
F(s)=\prod_{p}\left(1+\frac{1}{(p\varphi(p))^s}+\frac{1}{(p^2\varphi(p^2))^s}+\frac{1}{(p^3\varphi(p^3))^s}+\ldots \right);
\end{equation*}
since $\varphi(p^{\a})\asymp p^\a$, we see that $F(s)$ absolutely converges in $\R s>1/2$. Denote
$$
A=\{n\in\mathbb{N}: n=k\varphi(k) \mbox { for some } k\}.
$$
Since any $n$ has at most one such representation, we have
$$
F(s)=\sum_{n=1}^{\infty}\frac{\mathbb{I}(n\in A)}{n^s}.
$$
Further,
\begin{multline}\label{4.1}
F(s)=\prod_p\left(1+\frac{1}{(p-1)^s}\left(\frac{1}{p^s}+\frac{1}{p^{3s}}+
\frac{1}{p^{5s}}+\ldots\right)\right)\\
=\prod_p\left(1+\frac{1}{(p-1)^sp^s(1-p^{-2s})}\right)=\zeta(2s)G(s),
\end{multline}
where $\zeta(s)$ is the Riemann zeta-function and
\begin{equation}\label{4.2}
G(s)=\prod_p\left(1+\frac{p^s-(p-1)^s}{p^{2s}(p-1)^s}\right).
\end{equation}
Since $p^s-(p-1)^s=s\int_{p-1}^pu^{s-1}du$, for any $s$ with $\R s=\sigma>0$ we have $$
\left|\frac{p^s-(p-1)^s}{p^{2s}(p-1)^s}\right|\ll |s|p^{-(1+2\sigma)}.
$$
Thus, $G(s)$ is analytic in $\R s>0$.
We use Perron's formula to find the asymptotics of $\int_1^xN^{\times}_{\varphi}(u)du=\int_1^x\#\{n\leq u: n\in A\}du$, which will imply the asymptotics for $N^{\times}_{\varphi}(x)$.
\begin{lem}[Perron's formula; see \cite{KV}, Appendix, \S5, Theorem 2]\label{lem4.1}
Let
$$
F(s)=\sum_{n=1}^{\infty}\frac{a(n)}{n^s}
$$
be a Dirichlet series which absolutely converges in $\R s >a_0\geq0$ and $A(u)=\sum_{n\leq u}a(n)$. For $b>a_0$, define
$$
B(b)=\int_1^{\infty}\frac{|A(u)|}{u^{b+1}}du.
$$
Then, for all $x\geq2$ and $T\geq2$,
$$
\int_1^xA(u)du=\frac{1}{2\pi i}\int_{b-iT}^{b+iT}\frac{F(s)x^{s+1}}{s(s+1)}ds+R(x),
$$
where
$$
R(x) \ll B(b)\frac{x^{b+1}}{T}+2^b\left(\frac{x\log x}{T}+\log T\right)\max_{x/2\leq u\leq 3x/2}|A(u)|.
$$
and the implied constant is absolute.
\end{lem}
We apply this for $a(n)=\mathbb{I}(n\in A)$ (so $A(x)=N^{\times}_{\varphi}(x)$), $a_0=1/2$, large enough $x$, and $b=1/2+1/\log x$; we also assume that $10\leq T\leq x$. Let us estimate the error term $R(x)$. By (\ref{1.1}), we have $A(u)\ll u^{1/2}$ and hence,
$$
B(b)\ll \int_1^{\infty}\frac{du}{u^{b+1/2}} \ll \log x
$$
and $R(x)\ll \frac{x^{3/2}\log x}{T}$. Thus, by Lemma \ref{lem4.1} and (\ref{4.1}),
\begin{equation}\label{4.3}
\int_1^xA(u)du=\frac{1}{2\pi i}\int_{b-iT}^{b+iT}\frac{\zeta(2s)G(s)x^{s+1}}{s(s+1)}ds+O\left(\frac{x^{3/2}\log x}{T}\right).
\end{equation}
We compute this integral using Cauchy's theorem. Setting
$$
a=\frac12-\frac{\log\log T}{5\log T},
$$
consider the contour $\Gamma=\Gamma_1\cup\Gamma_2\cup\Gamma_3\cup\Gamma_4$, where $\Gamma_1=[b+iT,a+iT]$, $\Gamma_2=[a+iT,a-iT]$, $\Gamma_3=[a-iT,b-iT]$, $\Gamma_4=[b-iT,b+iT]$. We also write
$$
I_i=\int_{\Gamma_i}\frac{\zeta(2s)G(s)x^{s+1}}{s(s+1)}ds
$$
for $1\leq i\leq 4$. It is easy to see that the integrand has one simple pole at the point $s=1/2$ and, since
$$
\zeta(2s)=\frac{1}{2(s-1/2)}(1+o(1))
$$
as $s\to1/2$, we have
$$
\int_{\Gamma}\frac{\zeta(2s)G(s)x^{s+1}}{s(s+1)}ds = \res_{s=1/2}\frac{\zeta(2s)G(s)x^{s+1}}{s(s+1)} = \frac{G(1/2)x^{3/2}}{3/2}=\frac23G(1/2)x^{3/2}.
$$
Hence, (\ref{4.3}) implies
\begin{equation}\label{4.4}
\int_1^xA(u)du=\frac23G(1/2)x^{3/2}+O\left(|I_1|+|I_2|+|I_3|+\frac{x^{3/2}\log x}{T}\right).
\end{equation}
Now we estimate the integrals in the error term.
Firstly, we estimate the function $G(s)$ for $s\in \Gamma_1\cup\Gamma_2\cup\Gamma_3$ with $|t|\geq2$. Since
$$
p^s-(p-1)^s=s\int_{p-1}^pu^{s-1}ds,
$$
for any $s$ with $\sigma=\R s\in(0,1)$ we have
$$
|p^s-(p-1)^s|\leq \min\{2p^{\sigma}, |s|(p-1)^{\sigma-1} \}.
$$
Clearly, the first bound is better iff $p\ll |s|\asymp |t|$. Thus, from the definition (\ref{4.2}) of $G(s)$ we get
$$
|G(s)|\leq \prod_{p\leq |t|}\left(1+O(p^{-2\sigma})\right) \prod_{p>|t|}\left(1+O\left(|t|p^{-1-2\sigma}\right)\right),
$$
and, since $\sigma\geq a=1/2-\log\log T/(5\log T)$,
$$
\log |G(s)| \ll \sum_{p\leq |t|}p^{-2a} + |t|\sum_{p>|t|}p^{-1-2a}.
$$
Since $|t|\leq T$, for any $p\leq |t|$ we get $p^{-2a}\leq p^{-1}(\log T)^{0.4}$. Thus,
$$
\log |G(s)| \ll (\log T)^{0.4}\sum_{p\leq |t|}p^{-1} + |t|^{1-2a} \ll (\log T)^{1/2}
$$
and, hence,
$$
|G(s)| \leq \exp(O((\log T)^{1/2}))
$$
for any $s\in \Gamma_1\cup\Gamma_2\cup\Gamma_3$. We also need the following well-known bound for the Riemann zeta-function [see \cite{KV}, Theorem 2 of Chapter IV]: for small enough positive $\gamma_1$ and $\sigma\geq 1-\gamma_1/(\log|t|)^{2/3}$, $|t|\geq2$, we have
$$
\zeta(\sigma+it)=O\left(\log^{2/3}|t|\right).
$$
Using these bounds, we get
$$
\max\{|I_1|, |I_3|\} \ll \int_a^b\frac{(\log T)^{2/3}\exp(O((\log T)^{1/2}))x^{1+\sigma}}{T^2}d\sigma \ll \frac{x^{3/2}}{T},
$$
and
$$
|I_2| \ll x^{1+a}e^{O((\log T)^{1/2})}\left(\int_2^{T}\frac{(\log t)^{2/3}}{t^2}dt +O(1)\right) \ll x^{3/2-\log\log T/(5\log T)}e^{O((\log T)^{1/2})}.
$$
So, we have from (\ref{4.4})
$$
\int_1^xA(u)du = \frac23G(1/2)x^{3/2}+O\left(\frac{x^{3/2}\log x}{T} + x^{3/2-\log\log T/(5\log T)} e^{O((\log T)^{1/2})}\right).
$$
Choosing $T=\exp(c(\log x \log\log x)^{1/2})$ for some $c>0$, we have
\begin{equation}\label{4.5}
\int_1^xA(u)du = \frac23G(1/2)x^{3/2}+O\left(x^{3/2}\exp(-c_1(\log x \log\log x)^{1/2}) \right)
\end{equation}
for some $c_1>0$, and simple calculations show that
$$
G(1/2)=\prod_p\left(1+\frac{1}{p(p-1+\sqrt{p^2-p})}\right)=1.365...
$$
Now we complete the proof by the standard ``differentiation'' of the above asymptotic formula. Let $1\leq h\leq x/2$. Then
$$
\int_{x-h}^xA(u)du \leq hA(x) \leq \int_x^{x+h}A(u)du.
$$
On the other hand, (\ref{4.5}) implies
$$
\int_x^{x+h}A(u)du=\frac23G(1/2)\left((x+h)^{3/2}-x^{3/2}\right)+O\left(x^{3/2}\exp(-c_1(\log x \log\log x)^{1/2})\right),
$$
and it is easy to see that
$$
(x+h)^{3/2}-x^{3/2}=x^{3/2}\left(\frac{3h}{2x}+O\left(\frac{h^2}{x^2}\right)\right)=\frac32x^{1/2}h+O\left(\frac{h^2}{x}\right).
$$
The last three estimates yield
$$
A(x)\leq G(1/2)x^{1/2}+O\left(\frac{h}{x^{1/2}}+\frac{x^{3/2}\exp(-c_1(\log x \log\log x)^{1/2})}{h}\right).
$$
Now we choose $h=x\exp(-0.5c_1(\log x \log\log x)^{1/2})$ and obtain
$$
A(x)\leq G(1/2)x^{1/2}+O\left(x^{1/2}\exp(-0.5c_1(\log x \log\log x)^{1/2})\right).
$$
Similarly, one can show that
$$
A(x)\geq G(1/2)x^{1/2}+O\left(x^{1/2}\exp(-0.5c_1(\log x \log\log x)^{1/2})\right).
$$
This completes the proof.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
| 4,604
|
<?php
/**
* RateLimitExceeded exception - Indicates that your user has hit the DataSift API rate limit.
*
* @category DataSift
* @package PHP-client
* @author Stuart Dallas <stuart@3ft9.com>
* @license http://www.debian.org/misc/bsd.license BSD License (3 Clause)
* @link http://www.mediasift.com
* @see Exception
*/
class DataSift_Exception_RateLimitExceeded extends Exception
{
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 1,509
|
Q: Insurance Question Skipping Issue - Unity C# I'm making a sort of quiz game using C# in Unity where the questions have to come in a certain order after pressing a button. My issue is that questions are being skipped, and instead of questions going in order 1, 2, 3, 4; they're instead going like 1, 4 thereby skipping questions 2 and 3 entirely.
I'm not at all familiar with C# or Unity, and even with coding, I'd say I have an intermediate understanding with it. So I'm not exactly understanding what the issue is. I've tried googling it but I haven't seen anything that related to my issue.
using System.Collections;
using System.Collections.Generic;
using UnityEngine;
using UnityEngine.UI;
public class ClickingButtons : MonoBehaviour
{
public Button LeftButton;
public Button RightButton;
public Text LeftText;
public Text RightText;
public Text PlaceholderText;
int i = 0;
public void Start()
{
LeftText.text = "Male";
RightText.text = "Female";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you a male or a female?";
}
public void SetTextLeft(string text)
{
if (i == 0 )
{
i++;
LeftText.text = "Yes";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you married?";
RightText.text = "No";
}
if (i == 1){
i++;
PlaceholderText.text = "Do you have any kids?";
}
}
public void SetTextRight(string text)
{
if (i == 0)
{
i++;
LeftText.text = "Yes";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you married?";
RightText.text = "No";
}
if (i == 1){
i++;
PlaceholderText.text = "Do you have any kids?";
}
}
}
This is where I believe where the problem lies:
public void Start()
{
LeftText.text = "Male";
RightText.text = "Female";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you a male or a female?";
}
public void SetTextLeft(string text)
{
if (i == 0 )
{
i++;
LeftText.text = "Yes";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you married?";
RightText.text = "No";
}
if (i == 1){
i++;
PlaceholderText.text = "Do you have any kids?";
}
}
public void SetTextRight(string text)
{
if (i == 0)
{
i++;
LeftText.text = "Yes";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you married?";
RightText.text = "No";
}
if (i == 1){
i++;
PlaceholderText.text = "Do you have any kids?";
}
}
I'm sure the issue is an easy one to fix, but I'm just not understanding it.
A: This looks like a logical problem to me.
public void SetTextLeft(string text)
{
if (i == 0 )
{
i++;
}
if (i == 1)
{
i++;
}
}
I removed the question-specific code to call out the issue, but you check if i == 0 and then increment within that if statement. Then you do another if statement checking if i == 1. You can kind of see that the logical problem in that.
Here's the pseudo-logic
i = 0
if i == 0
i = 1
if i == 1
i = 2
etc...
So the logic will continue incrementing i until there are no more if statements.
What you likely want is a switch-case statement or if-else statements. Here's two examples:
switch(i)
{
case 0:
i++;
// show question 0
break;
case 1:
i++;
// show question 1
break;
case 2:
i++;
// show question 2
break;
}
or you can use an if-else like this
if (i == 0)
{
i++;
// show question 0;
}
else if (i == 1)
{
i++;
// show question 1;
}
else if (i == 2)
{
i++;
// show question 2;
}
A: I think the i++ is causing all your if conditions to be considered true.
Use an else if or better a switch statement.
I would also rename i to something indicating its purpose, e.g. _questionNumber.
Switch-case
public void SetTextLeft(string text)
{
switch (i)
{
case 0:
LeftText.text = "Yes";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you married?";
RightText.text = "No";
break;
case 1:
PlaceholderText.text = "Do you have any kids?";
break;
default:
throw new Exception("unexpected question number");
}
}
If-else
public void SetTextLeft(string text)
{
if (i == 0)
{
i++;
LeftText.text = "Yes";
PlaceholderText.text = "Are you married?";
RightText.text = "No";
}
else if (i == 1)
{
i++;
PlaceholderText.text = "Do you have any kids?";
}
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
}
| 5,202
|
In this section you will find important DNS resource records for polytek.com. SOA records, Name Server records, and MX records are included when available. Additional supporting data includes serial numbers, refresh rates, retry times, TTL, priority, and length to expire will be shown.
Get the polytek.com WHOIS at whoisly.com.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 2,168
|
\section{Introduction}
This paper introduces a new class of noncommutative spheres and discusses
the associated quantum symmetry groups. The quantization of classical
spheres was initiated in the work of Podle\'s \cite{podles87sphere,podles95spheresym}.
The theory of various noncommutative spheres and their quantum symmetries
has been then remarkably developed in the past decades (see for example
\cite{conneslandi01sphere,connesduboisviolette02sphere,goswami09qsymsphere,banicagoswami10qsymsphere,banica15complexsphere,banica16spheredual,banica17spherenote}
and references therein).
In a recent work \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}, Speicher and Weber
introduced a new class of noncommutative spheres with partial commutation
relations, and computed the corresponding quantum symmetry group.
This also leads to new versions of quantum orthogonal groups which
do not interpolate between the classical and universal versions of
orthogonal groups.
In this note we will continue the project proposed by \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}.
We will discuss the complex versions of noncommutative spheres with
partial commutation relations. We will compute the quantum symmetry
groups of these objects. Compared to the real case studied in \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg},
the complex case involves more subtlety such as the mixture of normal
and non-normal generators. Similarly as in the real case, we obtain
new examples of quantum unitary groups with partial commutation relations.
We refer to Section 2 for all details.
On the other hand, we also answer some unsolved problems in \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}
regarding the real case. In \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}, by virtue
of the mixture of independences in quantum probability, some quantum
orthogonal groups with partial commutation relations are introduced.
However the geometric aspects of these quantum groups were not clear
in their work. In this note we will construct some quantum tuples
of noncommutative spheres so that the corresponding quantum symmetry
groups are exactly those studied in \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}.
The result will be given in Section 3.
\section{The noncommutative complex spheres and quantum symmetries}
In this section we let $\varepsilon=(\varepsilon_{ij})_{i,j\in\{1,\ldots,n\}}$
and $\eta=(\eta_{kl})_{k,l\in\{1,\ldots,n\}}$ be two symmetric matrices
with $\varepsilon_{ij}\in\{0,1\}$, $\varepsilon_{ii}=0$ and $\eta_{kl}\in\{0,1\}$.
\subsection{Noncommutative complex $(\varepsilon,\eta)$-spheres}
We consider the universal C{*}-algebra
\[
C^{*}(x_{1},\ldots,x_{n}\mid\sum_{i=1}^{n}x_{i}^{*}x_{i}=\sum_{i=1}^{n}x_{i}x_{i}^{*}=1,x_{i}x_{j}=x_{j}x_{i}\text{ if }\varepsilon_{ij}=1,x_{i}^{*}x_{j}=x_{j}x_{i}^{*}\text{ if }\eta_{ij}=1).
\]
As an intuitive notation, we denote the above C{*}-algebra by $C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})$
and we say that $S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}$ is a \emph{noncommutative
complex $(\varepsilon,\eta)$-sphere}. Note that if all non-diagonal
entries of $\varepsilon$ and all entries of $\eta$ are $1$, then
we obtain the algebra $C(S_{\mathbb{C}}^{n-1})$ of continuous functions
over the complex sphere $S_{\mathbb{C}}^{n-1}\subset\mathbb{C}^{n}$.
If all entries of $\varepsilon$ and $\eta$ are $0$, we get the
Banica's free version of complex spheres in \cite{banica15complexsphere}.
Compared to the real spheres studied in \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg},
we consider two matrices $\varepsilon$ and $\eta$ rather than one
in order to include the case where the generators $x_{i}$ are non-normal.
Note that the diagonal entries of $\eta$ are related to the normality
of the generators. We give the following remarks.
\begin{lem}
\label{lem:normal}\emph{(1) }Let $1\leq i\leq n$. If $x_{i}$ is
normal (in other words if $\eta_{ii}=1$), then for any $j$,
\[
x_{i}x_{j}=x_{j}x_{i}\quad\text{iff}\quad x_{i}^{*}x_{j}=x_{j}x_{i}^{*}.
\]
\emph{(2)} Let $1\leq i\leq n$. If $\varepsilon_{ij}=\eta_{ij}=1$
for all $j\neq i$ with $\eta_{jj}=0$, then $x_{i}$ is normal.\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
The assertion (1) follows immediately from the Fuglede theorem (see
for example \cite[12.16]{rudin91functbook}). Let us prove the assertion
(2). Without loss of generality let us assume that $\eta_{ii}=0$
for $1\leq i\leq k$, $\eta_{ii}=1$ for $k+1\leq i\leq n$, and $\varepsilon_{1j}=\eta_{1j}=1$
for $2\leq j\leq k$, and show that $x_{1}$ is normal.
Note that
\[
\sum_{i=1}^{k}x_{i}^{*}x_{i}=1-\sum_{i=k+1}^{n}x_{i}^{*}x_{i}=1-\sum_{i=k+1}^{n}x_{i}x_{i}^{*}=\sum_{i=1}^{k}x_{i}x_{i}^{*}.
\]
Then we set
\[
a=\sum_{i=1}^{k}x_{i}^{*}x_{i}=\sum_{i=1}^{k}x_{i}x_{i}^{*},\quad b=\sum_{i=2}^{k}x_{i}^{*}x_{i},\quad c=\sum_{i=2}^{k}x_{i}x_{i}^{*}.
\]
We have
\[
x_{1}^{*}x_{1}+b=x_{1}x_{1}^{*}+c=a.
\]
So
\begin{equation}
x_{1}^{*}x_{1}-x_{1}x_{1}^{*}=c-b.\label{eq:c-b}
\end{equation}
Since $\varepsilon_{1j}=\eta_{1j}=1$ for $2\leq j\leq k$, we see
that $x_{1}$ commutes with $b$ and $c$, and in particular by \eqref{eq:c-b},
\[
x_{1}(x_{1}^{*}x_{1}-x_{1}x_{1}^{*})=(x_{1}^{*}x_{1}-x_{1}x_{1}^{*})x_{1}.
\]
Then by Putnam's theorem (see for example \cite[Coroallary 2.2.10]{sakai91oadyn}),
$x_{1}$ is normal.
\end{proof}
By virtue of Lemma \ref{lem:normal}, we make the convention that
\begin{equation}
\varepsilon_{ij}=\eta_{ij},\quad\text{if }\eta_{ii}=1\text{ or }\eta_{jj}=1.\label{eq:convention eta}
\end{equation}
and for each $i$ with $\eta_{ii}=0$, there exists $j\neq i$ with
$\eta_{jj}=0$ such that
\begin{equation}
\varepsilon_{ij}=0\text{ or }\eta_{ij}=0.\label{eq:convention eta 2}
\end{equation}
For simplicity, we say that the pair $(\varepsilon,\eta)$ is \emph{regular}
if \eqref{eq:convention eta} and \eqref{eq:convention eta 2} hold.
According to the above lemma, for any non regular pair $(\varepsilon,\eta)$
we may always find a regular one which associates the same sphere.
So we will only consider the regular case.
\begin{rem}
\label{rem:normal}By the above lemma, if all the generators $x_{i}$
are normal ($\eta_{ii}=1$ for all $1\leq i\leq n$), the C{*}-algebra
$C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})$ can be simply determined
by the entries of $\varepsilon$, that is,
\[
C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})=C^{*}(x_{1},\ldots,x_{n}\mid x_{i}^{*}x_{i}=x_{i}x_{i}^{*},\sum_{i=1}^{n}x_{i}^{*}x_{i}=1,x_{i}x_{j}=x_{j}x_{i}\text{ if }\varepsilon_{ij}=1).
\]
However, if some generators $x_{i}$ are not normal, it is still worth
considering two different matrices $\varepsilon,\eta$ rather than
one since there exist non-trivial representations of $C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})$
with $\varepsilon_{ij}\neq\eta_{ij}$. For instance, take
\[
\varepsilon=\begin{bmatrix}0 & 1\\
1 & 0
\end{bmatrix},\quad\eta=\begin{bmatrix}0 & 0\\
0 & 0
\end{bmatrix},
\]
then there exists a representation
\[
\pi:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{1})\to\mathbb{M}_{4}(\mathbb{C}),\quad\pi(x_{1})=a,\pi(x_{2})=b
\]
such that $a$ and $b$ are not normal and
\[
ab=ba(\neq0),\ ab^{*}\neq b^{*}a.
\]
Indeed, it suffices to take
\[
a=\begin{bmatrix}0 & 0 & 0\\
0 & 0 & 0\\
1 & 0 & 0\\
& & & \frac{\sqrt{2}}{2}
\end{bmatrix},\quad b=\begin{bmatrix}0 & 0 & 0\\
1 & 0 & 0\\
0 & 1 & 0\\
& & & \frac{\sqrt{2}}{2}
\end{bmatrix}.
\]
\end{rem}
\subsection{Quantum symmetries}
Now we introduce the corresponding quantum groups. We refer to \cite{woronowicz87matrix,woronowicz1998note,timmermann08qgbook}
for any unexplained notation and terminology on compact matrix quantum
groups. Define the universal C{*}-algebra
\[
C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta})=C^{*}(u_{ij},i,j=1,\ldots,n\mid u\text{ and }\bar{u}\text{ are unitary, }R^{\varepsilon}\text{ and }R_{*}^{\eta}\text{ hold}),
\]
where $R^{\varepsilon}$ are the relations
\[
u_{ik}u_{jl}=\begin{cases}
u_{jl}u_{ik} & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=1} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=1}}\\
u_{jk}u_{il} & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=1} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=0}}\\
u_{il}u_{jk} & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=0} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=1}}
\end{cases},
\]
and $R_{*}^{\eta}$ are the relations
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}=u_{jl}u_{ik}^{*},\quad\text{if }\eta_{ij}=\eta_{kl}=1,\label{eq:11}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}=0,\ u_{ik}u_{jl}^{*}=0,\quad\text{if }\eta_{ij}=1,\eta_{kl}=0,k\neq l,\label{eq:zero l}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}=0,\ u_{ik}u_{jl}^{*}=0,\quad\text{if }\eta_{ij}=0,\eta_{kl}=1,i\neq j,\label{eq:zero r}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}=u_{il}^{*}u_{jl}=u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}=u_{jl}u_{il}^{*},\quad\text{if }\eta_{ij}=1,\eta_{kk}=\eta_{ll}=0,\label{eq:eq kk}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
u_{ki}^{*}u_{kj}=u_{li}^{*}u_{lj}=u_{kj}u_{ki}^{*}=u_{lj}u_{li}^{*},\quad\text{if }\eta_{ij}=1,\eta_{kk}=\eta_{ll}=0.\label{eq:eq kk left}
\end{equation}
So for $\eta_{ij}=1$ we may define
\begin{equation}
X_{ij}=u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}=u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*},\quad Y_{ij}=u_{ki}^{*}u_{kj}=u_{kj}u_{ki}^{*},\label{eq:xij yij}
\end{equation}
where $k$ is any index satisfying $\eta_{kk}=0$. Note that this
definition does not depend on the choice of $k$ by virtue of \eqref{eq:eq kk}
and \eqref{eq:eq kk left}.
We consider the comultiplication defined by
\[
\begin{array}{cccc}
\Delta: & C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}) & \to & C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta})\otimes C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta})\\
& u_{ij} & \mapsto & \sum_{k=1}^{n}u_{ik}\otimes u_{kj}
\end{array}.
\]
Note that if all non-diagonal entries of $\varepsilon$ and all entries
of $\eta$ are $1$, then we obtain the usual unitary group $U_{n}$
of degree $n$. If all entries of $\varepsilon$ and $\eta$ are $0$,
we get the free unitary group $(C(U_{n}^{+}),\Delta)$ introduced
by Shuzhou Wang \cite{vandalewang96universal}.
\begin{prop}
\label{prop:is cmqg}$U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}$ is a compact matrix
quantum group.\end{prop}
\begin{proof}
It suffices to prove that $\Delta$ defines a $*$-homomorphism on
$C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta})$. By the universality of $C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta})$,
it remains to verify that the elements $u_{ij}'\coloneqq\Delta(u_{ij})$,
$1\leq i,j\leq n$ satisfy the relations in the definition of $C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta})$.
It is routine to see that the matrix $u'=[u_{ij}']$ and its conjugate
are unitary. The verification for $R^{\varepsilon}$ follows the same
pattern as in \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}, and we omit the details.
We are left with verifying the relations $R_{*}^{\eta}$.
In order to prove \eqref{eq:11} for $u_{ij}'$, we assume that $\eta_{ij}=\eta_{kl}=1$.
We have
\begin{align*}
u_{ik}'^{*}u_{jl}' & =\sum_{1\leq r,p\leq n}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{pl}.
\end{align*}
By \eqref{eq:zero l} and \eqref{eq:zero r}, we see that $u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}=u_{rk}^{*}u_{pl}=0$
if $p\neq r$ and $\eta_{rp}=0$. Hence together with \eqref{eq:xij yij}
the above equality can be rewritten as
\begin{align*}
u_{ik}'^{*}u_{jl}' & =\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{pl}+\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=0}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jr}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{rl}\\
& =\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{pl}+|\{r:\eta_{rr}=0\}|X_{ij}\otimes Y_{kl}\\
& =\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{jp}u_{ir}^{*}\otimes u_{pl}u_{rk}^{*}+|\{r:\eta_{rr}=0\}|X_{ij}\otimes Y_{kl},
\end{align*}
where the last equality follows from $\eqref{eq:11}$. Similarly we
have
\[
u_{jl}'u_{ik}'^{*}=\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{jp}u_{ir}^{*}\otimes u_{pl}u_{rk}^{*}+|\{r:\eta_{rr}=0\}|X_{ij}\otimes Y_{kl}.
\]
Thus we obtain $u_{ik}'^{*}u_{jl}'=u_{jl}'u_{ik}'^{*}$.
For \eqref{eq:zero l}, assume that $\eta_{ij}=1,\eta_{kl}=0$ with
$k\neq l$. Then for any pair $(r,p)$ with $r\neq p$, or for $p=r$
with $\eta_{rr}=1$, either $u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}=0$ or $u_{rk}^{*}u_{pl}=0$
according to \eqref{eq:zero l}. Hence we have
\begin{align*}
u_{ik}'^{*}u_{jl}' & =\sum_{1\leq r,p\leq n}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{pl}=\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=0}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jr}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{rl}\\
& =X_{ij}\otimes(\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=0}u_{rk}^{*}u_{rl})=X_{ij}\otimes(0-\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=1}u_{rk}^{*}u_{rl})=0,
\end{align*}
where the last equality follows from the fact that $u_{rk}^{*}u_{rl}=0$
for $\eta_{rr}=1$ according to \eqref{eq:zero l}. In the same way
we see that $u_{ik}'u_{jl}'^{*}=0$. The case $\eta_{ij}=0,\eta_{kl}=1,i\neq j$
is similar.
It remains to deal with the relations \eqref{eq:eq kk} and \eqref{eq:eq kk left}.
Assume that $\eta_{ij}=1$ and $\eta_{kk}=0$. We have
\begin{align*}
u_{ik}'^{*}u_{jk}' & =\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{pk}+\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=0}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{pk}\\
& =\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes X_{rp}+\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=0}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jr}\otimes u_{rk}^{*}u_{rk} & \text{by \eqref{eq:zero l}}\\
& =\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{ir}^{*}u_{jp}\otimes X_{rp}+X_{ij}\otimes(1-\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=1}u_{rk}^{*}u_{rk})\\
& =\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{jp}u_{ir}^{*}\otimes X_{rp}+X_{ij}\otimes(1-\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=1}X_{rr}). & \text{by\eqref{eq:11}}
\end{align*}
Similarly we obtain
\[
u_{jk}'u_{ik}'^{*}=\sum_{r,p:\eta_{rp}=1}u_{jp}u_{ir}^{*}\otimes X_{rp}+X_{ij}\otimes(1-\sum_{r:\eta_{rr}=1}X_{rr}),
\]
which yields that $u_{ik}'^{*}u_{jk}'=u_{jk}'u_{ik}'^{*}$. Moreover,
we note that the right hand side of the above formula does not depend
on $k$. Therefore we see that for $\eta_{ll}=0$, we have
\[
u_{ik}'^{*}u_{jk}'=u_{il}'^{*}u_{jl}'=u_{jk}'u_{ik}'^{*}=u_{jl}'u_{il}'^{*},
\]
as desired. The case for \eqref{eq:eq kk left} is similar.
\end{proof}
Now we will prove that $U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}$ is the quantum
symmetry group of $S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}$. We refer
to \cite[Remark 4.10]{speicherweber16epsilinqg} for more explanation
on the notion of quantum symmetries in our setting.
\begin{thm}
Assume that $(\varepsilon,\eta)$ is regular. Then $U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}$
is the quantum symmetry group of $S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}$,
in the sense that $U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}$ acts on $S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}$
by homomorphisms
\[
\alpha,\beta:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})\to C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta})\otimes C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}),
\]
\[
\alpha(x_{i})=\sum_{j}u_{ij}\otimes x_{j},\quad\beta(x_{i})=\sum_{k}u_{ki}\otimes x_{k},
\]
and for any compact matrix quantum group $\mathbb{G}$ acting on $S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}$
in the above way, $\mathbb{G}$ is a compact matrix quantum subgroup
of $U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}$.\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
Following the same pattern as in the proof of Proposition \ref{prop:is cmqg},
it is easy to check that the actions $\alpha$ and $\beta$ for $U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}$
exist. In the following we only prove the maximality. In other words,
let $\mathbb{G}$ be another $n\times n$ compact matrix quantum group
with matrix coefficients $\{u_{ij}:1\leq i,j\leq n\}$, acting on
$S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}$ via the actions
\[
\alpha',\beta':C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})\to C(\mathbb{G})\otimes C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}),
\]
\[
\alpha'(x_{i})=\sum_{j}u_{ij}\otimes x_{j},\quad\beta'(x_{i})=\sum_{k}u_{ki}\otimes x_{k}.
\]
We need to show that the unitary conditions and the relations $R^{\varepsilon}$
and $R_{*}^{\eta}$ hold for the generators $u_{ij}$. Let us verify
the relations $R_{*}^{\eta}$. To this end, for any $k,l$ with $k\neq l$,
we introduce the homomorphism
\[
\pi_{kl}:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})\to C(S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{1}),\quad\pi_{kl}(x_{k})=x_{1},\pi_{kl}(x_{l})=x_{2},\pi_{kl}(x_{i})=0,\ i\neq k,l
\]
where $\tilde{\varepsilon}_{12}=\varepsilon_{kl}$, $\tilde{\eta}_{12}=\eta_{kl}$,
$\tilde{\eta}_{11}=\eta_{kk}$, $\tilde{\eta}_{22}=\eta_{ll}$.
Take $i,j$ with $\eta_{ij}=1$. In particular, for any $k,l$ with
$k\neq l$, we have
\[
(\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{kl})\circ\alpha'(x_{i}^{*}x_{j})=(\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{kl})\circ\alpha'(x_{j}x_{i}^{*}),
\]
which means
\begin{align*}
& u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}\otimes x_{1}^{*}x_{2}+u_{il}^{*}u_{jk}\otimes x_{2}^{*}x_{1}+u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}\otimes x_{1}^{*}x_{1}+u_{il}^{*}u_{jl}\otimes x_{2}^{*}x_{2}\\
=\ & u_{jl}u_{ik}^{*}\otimes x_{2}x_{1}^{*}+u_{jk}u_{il}^{*}\otimes x_{1}x_{2}^{*}+u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}\otimes x_{1}x_{1}^{*}+u_{jl}u_{il}^{*}\otimes x_{2}x_{2}^{*}.
\end{align*}
By definition, $x_{1}\mapsto-x_{1}$ gives a homomorphism of $C(S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{1})$,
so the above equality still hold when replacing $x_{1}$ by $-x_{1}$.
Combing these two equalities we obtain
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}\otimes x_{1}^{*}x_{2}+u_{il}^{*}u_{jk}\otimes x_{2}^{*}x_{1}=u_{jl}u_{ik}^{*}\otimes x_{2}x_{1}^{*}+u_{jk}u_{il}^{*}\otimes x_{1}x_{2}^{*},\label{eq:key eq1}
\end{equation}
\[
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}\otimes x_{1}^{*}x_{1}+u_{il}^{*}u_{jl}\otimes x_{2}^{*}x_{2}=u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}\otimes x_{1}x_{1}^{*}+u_{jl}u_{il}^{*}\otimes x_{2}x_{2}^{*}.
\]
Recall that $x_{1}^{*}x_{1}+x_{2}^{*}x_{2}=x_{1}x_{1}^{*}+x_{2}x_{2}^{*}=1$.
The second equality above can be written as
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}-u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}+(u_{il}^{*}u_{jl}-u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk})\otimes x_{2}^{*}x_{2}+(u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}-u_{jl}u_{il}^{*})\otimes x_{2}x_{2}^{*}=0.\label{eq:key2}
\end{equation}
It is obvious to see that the unit element $1$ is linearly independent
from $\{x_{2}^{*}x_{2},x_{2}x_{2}^{*}\}$. Therefore we have
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}=u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}.\label{eq:11bis pf}
\end{equation}
Now we prove \eqref{eq:11}. Assume $k\neq l$ and $\eta_{kl}=1$.
In this case we consider the torus $\mathbb{T}^{2}=\{(z_{1},z_{2})\in\mathbb{C}^{2}:|z_{1}|=|z_{2}|=1\}$,
and we have a homomorphism
\[
\pi_{\mathbb{T}^{2}}:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{1})\to C(\mathbb{T}^{2}),\quad\pi_{\mathbb{T}^{2}}(x_{1})=f_{1},\pi_{\mathbb{T}^{2}}(x_{2})=f_{2},
\]
where $f_{i}(z_{1},z_{2})=\frac{\sqrt{2}z_{i}}{2}$ ($i=1,2$) are
the coordinate functions. Applying $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{\mathbb{T}^{2}}$
to \eqref{eq:key eq1}, we have
\[
(u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}-u_{jl}u_{ik}^{*})\otimes\bar{f}_{1}f_{2}-(u_{jk}u_{il}^{*}-u_{il}^{*}u_{jk})\otimes f_{1}\bar{f}_{2}=0.
\]
Note that $\bar{f}_{1}f_{2}$ and $f_{1}\bar{f}_{2}$ are linearly
independent. Therefore we obtain
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}=u_{jl}u_{ik}^{*},\quad u_{jk}u_{il}^{*}=u_{il}^{*}u_{jk}.\label{eq:11 pf}
\end{equation}
Together with \eqref{eq:11bis pf} we obtain \eqref{eq:11}.
For \eqref{eq:zero l}, we assume $k\neq l$ and $\eta_{kl}=0$. If
$\varepsilon_{kl}=0$, we consider the full group C{*}-algebra $C^{*}(\mathbb{F}_{2})$
of the free group with two generators. Denote by $u_{1},u_{2}$ the
corresponding free unitary generators. Note that $u_{1}$ and $u_{2}$
are normal. We have a homomorphism
\begin{equation}
\pi_{\mathbb{F}_{2}}:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{1})\to C^{*}(\mathbb{F}_{2}),\quad\pi_{\mathbb{F}_{2}}(x_{1})=\frac{\sqrt{2}}{2}u_{1},\pi_{\mathbb{F}_{2}}(x_{2})=\frac{\sqrt{2}}{2}u_{2}.\label{eq:pf free gp}
\end{equation}
Note that the elements $u_{1}^{*}u_{2},u_{1}u_{2}^{*},u_{2}^{*}u_{1},u_{2}u_{1}^{*}$
are linearly independent. Therefore, applying $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{\mathbb{F}_{2}}$
to \eqref{eq:key eq1}, we have
\[
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}=u_{il}^{*}u_{jk}=u_{jl}u_{ik}^{*}=u_{jk}u_{il}^{*}=0.
\]
If $\varepsilon_{kl}=1$, then by our convention \eqref{eq:convention eta}
we have $\eta_{kk}=\eta_{ll}=0$. Then we have a homomorphism given
in Remark \ref{rem:normal}
\begin{equation}
\pi:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{1})\to\mathbb{M}_{4}(\mathbb{C}),\quad\pi(x_{1})=a,\pi(x_{2})=b.\label{eq:pf 44}
\end{equation}
Here we see from Remark \ref{rem:normal} that the elements $a^{*}b,ab^{*},b^{*}a,ba^{*}$
are linearly independent. So applying $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi$ to
\eqref{eq:key eq1}, we have
\[
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jl}=u_{il}^{*}u_{jk}=u_{jl}u_{ik}^{*}=u_{jk}u_{il}^{*}=0.
\]
Thus we proved \eqref{eq:zero l} as desired. By performing similar
computations for $\beta'$, we also obtain the relation \eqref{eq:zero r}.
For \eqref{eq:eq kk}, assume $\eta_{kk}=\eta_{ll}=0$. We will divide
the discussions into two cases: (a) there exists $1\leq m\leq n$
with $\eta_{mm}=0$ such that $\varepsilon_{km}\eta_{km}=0$ or $\varepsilon_{lm}\eta_{lm}=0$;
(b) otherwise. First suppose that (a) holds. We will consider the
Without loss of generality we assume $\varepsilon_{km}\eta_{km}=0$.
If $\eta_{km}=0$, again we apply the above homomorphism $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi$
to \eqref{eq:key2} with $l$ replaced by $m$. Note that the elements
$b^{*}b$ and $bb^{*}$ are linearly independent in $\mathbb{M}_{4}(\mathbb{C})$.
Hence we obtain
\[
u_{im}^{*}u_{jm}-u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}=u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}-u_{jm}u_{im}^{*}=0.
\]
Together with \eqref{eq:11bis pf} we obtain
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk}=u_{im}^{*}u_{jm}=u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}=u_{jm}u_{im}^{*}.\label{eq:ijkm}
\end{equation}
If $\varepsilon_{kl}=0$, it suffices to consider the noncommutative
sphere $S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\eta},\tilde{\varepsilon}}^{1}$ instead
of $S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{1}$, and replace
$x_{1}$ by its adjoint $x_{1}^{*}$ in \eqref{eq:pf 44}. Then the
same arguments as before yield the relation \eqref{eq:ijkm}. Similarly
we also get
\[
u_{il}^{*}u_{jl}=u_{im}^{*}u_{jm}=u_{jl}u_{il}^{*}=u_{jm}u_{im}^{*}.
\]
Combining \eqref{eq:ijkm}, we obtain the desired relation \eqref{eq:eq kk}.
Now suppose that (b) holds. In particular $\varepsilon_{kl}=\eta_{kl}=1$.
By the convention \eqref{eq:convention eta 2}, we take $m\neq m'$
with $\eta_{mm}=\eta_{m'm'}=0$ such that $\varepsilon_{km}\eta_{km}=0$
and $\varepsilon_{lm'}\eta_{lm'}=0$. In this case, instead of $\pi_{kl}$
we consider a homomorphism $\pi_{klmm'}:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})\to C(S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{3})$
with some suitable $(\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta})$ which sends
$x_{k},x_{l},x_{m},x_{m'}$ to $x_{1},x_{2},x_{3},x_{4}$ in a similar
way. Then arguing similarly as in \eqref{eq:key2} and combining \eqref{eq:11bis pf},
we have
\begin{align*}
0 & =(u_{il}^{*}u_{jl}-u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk})\otimes x_{2}^{*}x_{2}+(u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}-u_{jl}u_{il}^{*})\otimes x_{2}x_{2}^{*}\\
& \qquad+(u_{im}^{*}u_{jm}-u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk})\otimes x_{3}^{*}x_{3}+(u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}-u_{jm}u_{im}^{*})\otimes x_{3}x_{3}^{*}\\
\; & \qquad+(u_{im'}^{*}u_{jm'}-u_{ik}^{*}u_{jk})\otimes x_{4}^{*}x_{4}+(u_{jk}u_{ik}^{*}-u_{jm'}u_{im'}^{*})\otimes x_{4}x_{4}^{*}.
\end{align*}
We keep the notation of $a$ and $b$ in the representation $\pi$
as before. We consider the direct sum representation
\[
\tilde{\pi}:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{3})\to\mathbb{M}_{4}(\mathbb{C})\oplus\mathbb{M}_{4}(\mathbb{C}),\quad x_{1}\mapsto(a,0),x_{3}\mapsto(b,0),x_{2}\mapsto(0,a),x_{4}\mapsto(0,b).
\]
Then arguing as before by linear independence we obtain the desired
relation \eqref{eq:eq kk}
The relation \eqref{eq:eq kk left} follows similarly as above by
computations for $\beta'$.
The relations $R^{\varepsilon}$ can be proved by similar arguments
as in the proof of \cite[Theorem 4.7]{speicherweber16epsilinqg}.
The only non-obvious ingredient is that $x_{k}x_{l}$ and $x_{l}x_{k}$
are linearly independent for any choice of $\eta$ whenever $\varepsilon_{kl}=0$.
However this follows similarly as what we did for $\{x_{k}^{*}x_{l},x_{l}x_{k}^{*}\}$
in the case $\eta_{kl}=0$. Indeed, as is pointed out before, it suffices
to consider the noncommutative sphere $S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\eta},\tilde{\varepsilon}}^{1}$
instead of $S_{\mathbb{C},\tilde{\varepsilon},\tilde{\eta}}^{1}$,
and replace $x_{1}$ by its adjoint $x_{1}^{*}$ in \eqref{eq:pf free gp}
and \eqref{eq:pf 44}. We leave the details to the reader.
In the end we show that $u$ and $\bar{u}$ are unitary. We have
\begin{equation}
1\otimes1=\alpha'(\sum_{i=1}^{n}x_{i}^{*}x_{i})=\sum_{k,l=1}^{n}\sum_{i=1}^{n}u_{ik}^{*}u_{il}\otimes x_{k}^{*}x_{l}.\label{eq:unitary pf}
\end{equation}
Take an arbitrary $1\leq k\leq n$. Consider the circle $\mathbb{T}=\{z\in\mathbb{C}:|z|=1\}$
and the homomorphism
\[
\pi_{k}:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})\to C(\mathbb{T}),\quad\pi_{k}(x_{k})=f,\pi_{k}(x_{i})=0,\ i\neq k,
\]
where $f(z)=z,z\in\mathbb{T}$. Applying $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{k}$
to the equality \eqref{eq:unitary pf} we obtain
\begin{equation}
\sum_{i=1}^{n}u_{ik}^{*}u_{ik}=1.\label{eq:unitary bis}
\end{equation}
Together with \eqref{eq:unitary pf} this also implies that
\[
\sum_{1\leq k,l\leq n,k\neq l}\sum_{i=1}^{n}u_{ik}^{*}u_{il}\otimes x_{k}^{*}x_{l}=0.
\]
Take arbitrary $1\leq k,l\leq n$ with $k\neq l$ and consider the
homomorphism $\pi_{kl}$ introduced before. Applying $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{kl}$
to the above equality, we get
\[
\sum_{i=1}^{n}u_{ik}^{*}u_{il}\otimes x_{1}^{*}x_{2}+\sum_{i=1}^{n}u_{il}^{*}u_{ik}\otimes x_{2}^{*}x_{1}=0.
\]
We have already seen that $x_{1}^{*}x_{2}$ and $x_{2}^{*}x_{1}$
are linearly independent in terms of the homomorphism $\pi_{\mathbb{T}^{2}}$.
Hence we deduce that
\[
\sum_{i=1}^{n}u_{ik}^{*}u_{il}=0.
\]
Together with \eqref{eq:unitary bis} we see that $u^{*}u=1$. Considering
the action on $x_{i}x_{i}^{*}$, we see also that $uu^{*}=1$. Hence
$u$ is unitary. Similar arguments for $\beta$ yield that $\bar{u}$
is unitary. Therefore the proof is finished.
\end{proof}
\begin{rem}
It is easy to see that there is a homomorphism
\[
\phi:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1})\to C(U_{n}^{\varepsilon,\eta}),\quad x_{i}\mapsto u_{i1}.
\]
Intuitively speaking, the sphere $S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{n-1}$
can be viewed as a quantum space determined by the relations of the
first column of the quantum symmetry group which acts on it. A complete
theory towards this direction, in the setting of easy quantum groups,
has been recently developed by \cite{jungweber18qspace}. In general,
it is unclear whether the natural homomorphism in the form of $\phi$
is injective (see the comments in \cite[Section 2]{jungweber18qspace}).
Here we may provide a non-isomorphic example in our setting of mixed
relations. More precisely, let $n=2$ and
\[
\varepsilon=\begin{bmatrix}0 & 0\\
0 & 0
\end{bmatrix},\quad\eta=\begin{bmatrix}0 & 1\\
1 & 0
\end{bmatrix},
\]
Then the natural homomorphism
\[
\phi:C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{1})\to C(U_{2}^{\varepsilon,\eta}),\quad x_{i}\mapsto u_{i1},\ i=1,2
\]
is non-injective. Indeed, since $\eta_{11}=\eta_{22}=0$, by the unitary
condition of $u$ and $\bar{u}$ we have
\[
0=u_{11}u_{21}^{*}+u_{12}u_{22}^{*}=2X_{12}.
\]
In particular
\[
\phi(x_{1}x_{2}^{*})=u_{11}u_{21}^{*}=X_{12}=0.
\]
However, we have $x_{1}x_{2}^{*}\neq0$. Indeed, consider the matrices
$a,b$ given in Remark \ref{rem:normal}. Then instead of $\pi$,
there is a representation
\[
\pi':C(S_{\mathbb{C},\varepsilon,\eta}^{1})\to\mathbb{M}_{4}(\mathbb{C}),\quad\pi(x_{1})=a,\pi(x_{2})=b^{*},
\]
and
\[
\pi(x_{1}x_{2}^{*})=ab=\begin{bmatrix}0\\
& 0\\
& & 0\\
& & & \frac{1}{2}
\end{bmatrix}\neq0.
\]
Therefore $\phi$ is not injective.
\end{rem}
\section{Remarks on the orthogonal cases}
In this section we would like to discuss some related questions appeared
in \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}. In \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}
another version of commutation relations for quantum orthogonal groups
is proposed. More precisely, we consider the corresponding quantum
group given by the universal C{*}-algebra
\[
C(\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon})=C^{*}(u_{ij},i,j=1,\ldots,n\mid u_{ij}=u_{ij}^{*},\ u\text{ is orthogonal, }\mathring{R}^{\varepsilon}\text{ holds}),
\]
where $\mathring{R}^{\varepsilon}$ denotes the relations
\[
u_{ik}u_{jl}=\begin{cases}
u_{jl}u_{ik} & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=1} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=1}}\\
0 & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=1} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=0}}\\
0 & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=0} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=1}}
\end{cases}.
\]
(Recall the convention that $\varepsilon_{ii}=0$ for all $1\leq i\leq n$.)
The quantum space on which $\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$ acts
maximally was left unsolved in \cite{speicherweber16epsilinqg}. In
the following we will briefly answer this question in terms of quantum
tuples of noncommutative spheres, inspired by \cite{jungweber18qspace}.
Consider the universal C{*}-algebra $C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon})$
generated by $x_{ij},i,j=1,\ldots,n$ with relations
\[
x_{ij}=x_{ij}^{*},\ \sum_{i}x_{ik}x_{il}=\delta_{kl},
\]
and
\[
x_{ik}x_{jl}=\begin{cases}
x_{jl}x_{ik} & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=1} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=1}}\\
0 & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=1} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=0}}\\
0 & \text{if \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{ij}=0} and \ensuremath{\varepsilon_{kl}=1}}
\end{cases}.
\]
We remark that in the case where $\varepsilon_{ij}=1$ for all $i\neq j$,
we see that $\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$ equals the classical
hyperoctahedral group $H_{n}$, and $\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$
is simply the space of $n\times n$ orthogonal matrices with cubic
columns. Note that the set of cubic vectors $I_{n}\subset\mathbb{R}^{n}$
consists of the points $(0,\ldots,0,\pm1,0,\ldots,0)$ on each axis
of $\mathbb{R}^{n}$. It is well-know that $H_{n}$ is the symmetry
group of $I_{n}$. If $\varepsilon_{ij}=0$ for all $i,j$, then $\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$
is the free quantum orthogonal group $O_{n}^{+}$ introduced in \cite{vandalewang96universal}
(see also \cite{banicaspeicher09liberation}), and $\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$
is the partition quantum space $X_{n,n}(\Pi)$ introduced in \cite{jungweber18qspace},
where in our setting $\Pi$ is the set of non-crossing pair partitions.
\begin{thm}
$\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$ is the quantum symmetry group of
$\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$, in the sense that $\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$
acts on $\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$ by homomorphisms
\[
\alpha,\beta:C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon})\to C(\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon})\otimes C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}),
\]
\[
\alpha(x_{ik})=\sum_{j}u_{ij}\otimes x_{jk},\quad\beta(x_{ik})=\sum_{j}u_{ji}\otimes x_{jk},
\]
and for any compact matrix quantum group $\mathbb{G}$ acting on $\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$
in the above way, $\mathbb{G}$ is a compact matrix quantum subgroup
of $\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$.\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
We first check that the actions $\alpha$ and $\beta$ are well-defined.
It is a standard argument to see that $\alpha(x_{ij})=\alpha(x_{ij})^{*}$
and $\sum_{i}\alpha(x_{ik})\alpha(x_{il})=\delta_{kl}$ using the
orthogonal relations of $\mathring{O}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$. Also, according
to the relations $\mathring{R}^{\varepsilon}$, for $\varepsilon_{ij}=1,\varepsilon_{kl}=1$,
\[
\alpha(x_{ik})\alpha(x_{jl})=\sum_{p,q:\varepsilon_{pq}=1}u_{ip}u_{jq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{ql}=\sum_{p,q:\varepsilon_{pq}=1}u_{jq}u_{ip}\otimes x_{ql}x_{pk}=\alpha(x_{jl})\alpha(x_{ik}),
\]
and for $\varepsilon_{ij}=0,\varepsilon_{kl}=1$,
\[
\alpha(x_{ik})\alpha(x_{jl})=\sum_{p,q:\varepsilon_{pq}=0}u_{ip}u_{jq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{ql}=0,
\]
and for $\varepsilon_{ij}=1,\varepsilon_{kl}=0$,
\[
\alpha(x_{ik})\alpha(x_{jl})=\sum_{p,q:\varepsilon_{pq}=1}u_{ip}u_{jq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{ql}=0.
\]
Thus $\alpha$ is a well-defined homomorphism. Similarly we see that
the action $\beta$ exists as well.
Now assume that $\mathbb{G}$ is an arbitrary compact matrix quantum
group acting on $\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}$ by homomorphisms
\[
\alpha',\beta':C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon})\to C(\mathbb{G})\otimes C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon}),
\]
\[
\alpha'(x_{ik})=\sum_{j}u_{ij}\otimes x_{jk},\quad\beta'(x_{ik})=\sum_{j}u_{ji}\otimes x_{jk}.
\]
Note that the diagonal C{*}-subalgebra generated by $\{x_{ii}:1\leq i\leq n\}$
in $C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon})$ satisfies the relations $x_{ii}x_{jj}=x_{jj}x_{ii}$
for $\varepsilon_{ij}=1$. Restricting the homomorphisms $\alpha'$
and $\beta'$ to this subalgebra, the similar arguments as in \cite[Theorem 4.7]{speicherweber16epsilinqg}
yield that the generators $u_{ij}$ are self-adjoint, and the relation
$u_{ik}u_{jl}=u_{jl}u_{ik}$ for $\varepsilon_{ij}=\varepsilon_{kl}=1$
still holds, for which we omit the details. Now consider the case
$\varepsilon_{ij}=1,\varepsilon_{kl}=0$. We have a priori
\begin{equation}
0=\alpha'(x_{ik}x_{jk})=\sum_{p,q=1}^{n}u_{ip}u_{jq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{qk}=\sum_{p,q:\varepsilon_{pq}=0}u_{ip}u_{jq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{qk},\label{eq:o}
\end{equation}
where we applied the relations $x_{pk}x_{qk}=0$ for $\varepsilon_{pq}=1$
since $\varepsilon_{kk}=0$. If $k=l$, it is easy to see that there
exists a homomorphism $\pi_{1}:C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon})\to\mathbb{C}$
such that $\pi_{1}(x_{kk})=1$ and $\pi_{1}(x_{k'k})=0$ for $k'\neq k$.
Applying the homomorphism $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{1}$, the equality
\eqref{eq:o} yields
\begin{equation}
u_{ik}u_{jk}=0.\label{eq:o pf 0}
\end{equation}
If $k\neq l$, we consider the surjective homomorphism $\pi_{O_{2}^{+}}:C(\mathbb{X}_{n}^{\varepsilon})\to C(O_{2}^{+})$
such that
\[
\mathrm{id}_{\mathbb{M}_{2}}\otimes\pi_{O_{2}^{+}}\left(\begin{bmatrix}x_{kk} & x_{kl}\\
x_{lk} & x_{ll}
\end{bmatrix}\right)=\begin{bmatrix}v_{11} & v_{12}\\
v_{21} & v_{22}
\end{bmatrix},
\]
where $v$ is the usual defining matrix of $C(O_{2}^{+})$. Applying
the homomorphism $\mathrm{id}\otimes\pi_{1}$, the equality \eqref{eq:o}
yields
\[
u_{ik}u_{jl}\otimes v_{11}v_{21}+u_{il}u_{jk}\otimes v_{21}v_{11}+u_{ik}u_{jk}\otimes v_{11}^{2}+u_{il}u_{jl}\otimes v_{21}^{2}=0.
\]
Moreover, together with \eqref{eq:o pf 0}, we see that
\[
u_{ik}u_{jl}\otimes v_{11}v_{21}+u_{il}u_{jk}\otimes v_{21}v_{11}=0.
\]
It is well-known that $v_{1j}v_{2j}$ and $v_{21}v_{11}$ are linearly
independent (see for example a simple matrix model in \cite[Theorem 3.9]{banica17spherenote}).
Hence we have
\[
u_{ik}u_{jl}=u_{il}u_{jk}=0.
\]
Continuing the similar arguments for the action $\beta'$, we obtain
completely the relations $\mathring{R}^{\varepsilon}$.
Now the orthogonal relations for $\mathbb{G}$ follows easily. Note
that we have $\sum_{i}x_{ik}^{2}=1$ for all $k$. Therefore
\begin{align*}
1\otimes1 & =\alpha'(\sum_{i}x_{ik}^{2})=\sum_{p\neq q}\sum_{i}u_{ip}u_{iq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{qk}+\sum_{p}\sum_{i}u_{ip}^{2}\otimes x_{pk}^{2}\\
& =\sum_{p\neq q:\varepsilon_{pq}=0}\sum_{i}u_{ip}u_{iq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{qk}+\sum_{p}\sum_{i}u_{ip}^{2}\otimes x_{pk}^{2}.
\end{align*}
Using the homomorphism $\pi_{1}$ as above, we deduce that $\sum_{i}u_{ik}^{2}=1$,
and hence
\[
\sum_{p\neq q:\varepsilon_{pq}=0}\sum_{i}u_{ip}u_{iq}\otimes x_{pk}x_{qk}=0.
\]
For $k\neq l$ with $\varepsilon_{kl}=0$, we use the homomorphism
$\pi_{O_{2}^{+}}$ as above and we obtain $\sum_{i}u_{ik}u_{il}=0$.
And for $\varepsilon_{kl}=1$, we see from the relation $\mathring{R}^{\varepsilon}$
that $\sum_{i}u_{ik}u_{il}=\sum_{i}0=0$. Repeating the similar arguments
with the action $\beta'$, we prove that $u$ is orthogonal. The proof
is complete.
\end{proof}
\subsection*{Acknowledgement }
The author would like to thank Stefan Jung and Moritz Weber for helpful
discussions. He would also like to thank the anonymous referee for
his careful reading and valuable suggestions on the preprint version.
The author was funded by the ERC Advanced Grant on Non-Commutative
Distributions in Free Probability, held by Roland Speicher.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
| 2,335
|
\section{Introduction}
High-performance reconfigurable antenna technologies are collectively emerging as a viable option for smartphones, mobile hotspots, and portable computers \cite{huff2004directional,roach2007comparative,yang2009frequency,rajagopalan2009rf,huff2010frequency}.
Reconfigurable antennas can be employed in a number of ways to increase the connectivity profile and robustness of wireless communication channels, and they create new and promising opportunities for the engineering of superior communication schemes.
Such antennas are designed to intentionally and reversibly alter the character of their performance-governing electromagnetic fields.
As a result, they are able to modify the directional and polarization properties of their radiation patterns and thereby change the spatiotemporal characteristics of the communication channels they induce.
Beyond the basic properties of reconfigurable antennas, it is interesting to note that manipulations of radiation patterns can be automated through rapid feedback and triggered by events such as deep fades and successive decoding failures \cite{panagamuwa2006frequency,piazza2008design,mahanfar2008smart,daly2010beamsteering}.
This enables the implementation of closed-loop systems with the cognitive ability to seamlessly adapt to evolving electromagnetic environments and interference conditions.
The capacity to provide these features in (near) real time is primarily determined by the speed and complexity of the reconfiguration mechanisms used to facilitate electromagnetic agility within the reconfigurable antenna structures.
This highlights a natural tradeoff between the potential benefits of a configuration change and the downtime associated with each transformation event.
Although reconfigurable antennas have been and continue to be the subject of concerted research efforts in the antennas and propagation community, a detailed analysis of their repercussions on the foundations of wireless communications is still lacking.
Key to the widespread adoption of such technologies, aside from miniaturization, is provable gains in terms of capacity, delay-throughput profile and network connectivity~\cite{gouaiming}.
This article seeks to address the need for better understanding the impact of adaptive antenna systems.
From a conceptual point of view, fast reconfigurable antennas can be employed to establish ancillary virtual links between two devices.
In a slow fading channel~\cite[p.~31]{TseFWC1111206}, as the quality of the current channel degrades, it may become advantageous to transition to an alternate antenna state and, consequently, to another channel realization.
We envision slow fading scenarios in delay-sensitive applications such as mobile real-time video or gaming in an urban environment.
This added flexibility at the physical layer is likely to boost the perceived performance of delay-sensitive applications over channels with memory.
Indeed, several studies document the fact that channel variations are particularly detrimental to delay-constrained communications \cite{Kim2000tnet,Berry2002tit,wu2003effective,Laourine2010twcom}.
Channel memory further exacerbates this situation, as it increases the propensity for prolonged deep fades \cite{Liu2007tit,parag2013code}.
Thus, having the capability to jump to a different virtual channel seems an attractive option in these circumstances.
To carry our analysis of reconfigurable systems, we leverage several results that have appeared in the literature in the past.
First, we adopt a class for channels with memory similar to the finite-state channel model proposed by Gilbert and Elliott~\cite{gilbert1960capacity,elliott1963estimates}.
The delay-sensitive aspect of the problem is captured through a queueing formulation whose solution is obtained, partly, by applying techniques originally developed by Neuts~\cite{Neuts0824782836,Neuts0486683427,hajek1982birth}.
The conceptual bridge between the physical layer and the queueing system is provided by error correcting codes and the availability of feedback.
The framework presented below parallels some of our previous work~\cite{parag2013code,kumar2013firstpassage}.
The incorporation of reconfigurable antennas into the problem setting and the insights provided by our analysis are novel.
This sheds new lights on the potential benefits of adaptive antenna systems and their application to delay-sensitive communication over wireless channels.
Special attention is given to the realistic scenario where the channel state is not known perfectly at the receiver.
Rather, it must be inferred from available observations.
In this latter case, the optimization problem becomes a partially observable decision process.
This forces the controller to make decisions based on an estimated distribution over the channel state.
This problem is cast into a dynamic programming framework with limited state knowledge.
Known system dynamics and partial observations are combined at every step to update the estimated distribution and, subsequently, take action.
The remainder of this article is organized as follows.
The system components, along with a mathematical abstraction for reconfigurable antennas, are described in Section~\ref{section:SystemModel}.
Two modes of operation are considered, a classical system with a static antenna structure and an adaptive implementation with the ability to reconfigure the RF front-end depending on the channel state.
The evolution of these two competing schemes is characterized in Section~\ref{section:QueueingBehavior}, where we analyze their queueing behaviors.
This gives rise to various performance criteria, including throughput, mean waiting time and the probability of the queue exceeding a certain threshold.
Pertinent numerical examples are presented in Section~\ref{section:NumericalResults}.
Finally, concluding remarks and avenues of future research are discussed in the last section.
\section{System Model}
\label{section:SystemModel}
In this study, we consider one side of the communication process.
That is, information flows from a transmitter to a destination.
An eventual assumption on the availability of feedback will necessarily imply the presence of a reverse link.
Nonetheless, for the sake of simplicity, we focus on a single direction with the understanding that a similar analysis can be applied to the reverse link.
We keep the descriptions of the system model to a minimum and refer the reader to \cite{parag2013code,kumar2013firstpassage} for an elaborate exposition.
As mentioned above, overall system performance is assessed using a queueing formulation.
The state of the queue at the source is governed by arrivals and departures.
The evolution of the queue is modeled as a discrete-time stochastic process that is synchronized with codeword transmissions.
Specifically, during each codeword cycle, we assume that a data packet arrives with probability $\gamma$, independently of other time instants.
The number of information bits per data packet, denoted by $L$, is also random and possesses a geometric distribution with parameter $\rho$.
We emphasize that this arrival process is carefully selected to facilitate analysis.
Since this article is primarily concerned with identifying the relative benefits of reconfigurable antennas over traditional implementations, adhering to a specific arrival profile is unlikely to affect the nature of our subsequent results.
\subsection{Traditional Implementation}
\label{section:TraditionalImplementation}
We begin our discussion of the queueing system with a mathematical description of the channel model associated with a fixed antenna configuration.
This communication channel can operate in one of several modes, designated by $\mathcal{C} = \{ 1, \ldots, k \}$.
The evolution of the channel forms a time-homogeneous Markov process and its probability transition matrix is denoted by
\begin{equation} \label{equation:StateTransition}
\mathbf{B} = \begin{bmatrix}
b_{11} & b_{12} & \cdots & b_{1k} \\
b_{21} & b_{22} & \cdots & b_{2k} \\
\vdots & \vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
b_{k1} & b_{k2} & \cdots & b_{kk} \end{bmatrix} ,
\end{equation}
where $b_{ij}$ symbolizes the probability of jumping to state~$j$ given that the chain is currently in state~$i$.
That is, $\mathbf{B}$ is a right stochastic matrix.
We also assume that the Markov chain governing this finite-state channel is aperiodic and irreducible.
When in state~$i$, the probability that a bit sent by the source is received faithfully at the destination is equal to $1 - \varepsilon_i$; this bit is consequently erased with probability $\varepsilon_i$.
The elements of the state space $\mathcal{C}$ are indexed in such a way that $i < j$ implies $\varepsilon_i \geq \varepsilon_j$.
In its simplest non-trivial instantiation, this finite-state channel with memory can take on two possible states.
This specific model is known as the Gilbert-Elliott channel~\cite{gilbert1960capacity,elliott1963estimates}, and is illustrated in Fig.~\ref{figure:GilbertElliott}.
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\input{Figures/ErasureChannel1}
\caption{A finite-state channel with memory is used to model the operation of a wireless link at the bit level.
For illustrative purposes, the channel is depicted with only two states, a form known as the Gilbert-Elliott channel.}
\label{figure:GilbertElliott}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
Finite-state channels have been employed to model wireless connections in the past, and techniques aimed at selecting representative model parameters are available~\cite{Wang1995tvt,Sadeghi2008spm}.
The adverse effects of channel uncertainty are countered by the communication system using error-control coding.
Data segments are first encoded at the source and then transmitted in the form of codewords to the destination.
As discussed above, individual symbols may or may not be received at the destination depending on the realization of the finite-state channel.
Decoding is executed on a per codeword basis.
We assume that code performance is governed solely by the number of erasures that occur during a transmission interval.
Obtaining a distribution for the number of such erasures, conditioned on the initial state of the channel, is therefore highly desirable.
There exist various strategies to compute such distributions.
Finding the distribution of the channel states and then computing the conditional distribution of the number of erasures is a possible approach~\cite{Wilhelmsson-com99}.
Alternatively, one can employ generating functions and product of matrices with polynomial entries to derive these quantities \cite{parag2013code,kumar2013firstpassage}.
At this point, it suffices to point out that
\begin{equation} \label{equation:NumberOfErasures}
\Pr (E = e, C_{N+1} = j | C_1 = i)
\end{equation}
can be computed efficiently.
Above, $E$ denotes the number of erasures within a block, $C_n$ represents the state of the channel at time $n$, and $N$ denotes the length of a codeword.
We consider a standard and powerful approach to model forward error correction~\cite{Gallager0471290483}.
Every codebook is created using a random binary parity-check matrix $\mathbf{H}$ of size $(N-K) \times N$.
The admissible codewords are the elements of the nullspace of $\mathbf{H}$.
Decoding at the receiver is executed using a maximum likelihood decision rule.
The ensuing probability of decoding failure, conditioned on $e$ erasures, is then given by
\begin{equation} \label{equation:DecodingFailure}
P_{\mathrm{f}}(N-K,e)
= 1 - \prod_{i=0}^{e-1} \left( 1- 2^{i-(N-K)} \right)
\end{equation}
where $N$ is the code length and $K$ designates the number of information bits per codeword~\cite{Richardson0521852293}.
Accounting for channel states, the conditional probability of decoding failure at the destination, which we represent by $P_{\mathrm{df}}(j ; i)$, is equal to
\begin{equation*}
P_{\mathrm{df}}(j ; i)=\sum_{e=0}^N P_{\mathrm{f}}(N-K,e)
\Pr \left( E=e, C_{N+1} = j | C_1 = i \right) .
\end{equation*}
Similarly, the conditional probability of decoding success, labeled $P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j ; i)$, can be written as
\begin{equation*}
\begin{split}
&P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j ; i)\\
&=\sum_{e=0}^N (1 - P_{\mathrm{f}}(N-K,e)) \Pr \left( E=e, C_{N+1} = j | C_1 = i \right) .
\end{split}
\end{equation*}
Thus, combining \eqref{equation:NumberOfErasures} and \eqref{equation:DecodingFailure}, we obtain the probability of transition to state $j$ with or without decoding success, conditioned on the channel being in state $i$.
Collectively, these probabilities underlie the evolution of the queueing system; this is described next.
To conform with our block encoding scheme, a data packet of length $L$ must be divided into $M = \lceil L / K \rceil$ segments, each of size $K$.
The ending segment of a packet is zero-padded, if needed.
Note that $M$ is too a geometric random variable, albeit with parameter
\begin{equation} \label{equation:RhoR}
\rho_r = \sum_{\ell = 1}^{K} (1 - \rho)^{\ell - 1} \rho
= 1 - (1 - \rho)^{K} .
\end{equation}
These segments are successively encoded into codewords of length $N$ and sent over the finite-state channel.
Upon successful decoding, the destination acknowledges reception of the information and the corresponding segment is discarded from the source buffer.
On the other hand, when transmission fails, the source is notified.
The leading data segment is then immediately re-encoded and transmitted once again over the wireless channel.
This process continues until successful reception of the codeword at the destination.
The number of packets awaiting transmission is selected as the state of the queue.
This perspective reflects our inclination towards delay-sensitive communications.
An alternate formulation would take the number of segments awaiting transmission as the state of the queue.
This latter option would be more appropriate to evaluate the size of the memory necessary to store information at the source, at the expense of a less accurate delay characterization.
It is worth reemphasizing that, in our framework, a packet departs from the transmit buffer whenever a codeword is decoded successfully at the destination and the corresponding segment is the last parcel of information of the lead packet.
Throughout, we use $Q_s$ to identify the state of the queue at discrete-time $s$.
Although the stochastic process $\{ Q_s \}$ does not possess the Markov property, the channel state and the queue length at the onset of a codeword cycle, jointly designated by $Y_s = ( C_{sN + 1}, Q_s)$, form a Markov chain \cite{parag2013code}, \cite[Theorem~1]{kumar2013firstpassage}.
For the sake of completeness, we give a brief argument for this in the following.
The sampled channel process $\{C_{sN+1}\}_{s=0}^\infty$ is clearly Markov since $\{C_n\}$ is a Markov process.
Consider the process $Q_s$.
According to our problem formulation, $Q_{s+1}$ is either $Q_s-1$, $Q_s$ or $Q_{s}+1$ depending on whether the decoding is a success, the segment is the last parcel of the data packet, and there is an arrival.
Conditional on the channel state $C_{sN+1}$, the success of a decoding does not depend on previous channel states and queue levels, but on the generated codebook and the realizations of the channel during the transmission of codeword $s$.
Since the length of a data packet is a geometric random variable, due to its memoryless property, whether the segment is the last parcel of the data packet does not depend on the previous queue transitions.
Moreover, the arrival process is Bernoulli, which is again memoryless.
These observations together imply that the cascaded process $\{(C_{sN+1},Q_s)\}$ is Markovian.
The transition probabilities for this Markov chain can be calculated as follows.
Suppose that the queue is non-empty, i.e., $Y_s = (i, q)$ where $q > 0$.
The admissible values for $Q_{s+1}$ are $\{ q-1, q, q+1 \}$.
Several factors can affect the evolution of the queue over time: the arrival of a new packet, the successful decoding of a codeword and whether or not this latter codeword is the last segment of a data packet.
The only scenario that leads to a decrease in the queue is having no arrival and one packet departure.
Recall that a packet departure occurs when a codeword is successfully decoded and the corresponding segment is the last parcel of information of the lead data packet.
This yields
\begin{equation*}
\begin{split}
\mu_{ij} &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, q-1) | Y_s = (i, q) ) \\
&= (1 - \gamma) P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j ; i) \rho_r .
\end{split}
\end{equation*}
For the queue length to remain at a specific level, departures and arrivals must be balanced.
In particular, there can be either no departure and no arrival, or one departure and one arrival,
\begin{equation*}
\begin{split}
\kappa_{ij} &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, q) | Y_s = (i, q) ) \\
&= (1 - \gamma) \left( P_{\mathrm{df}}(j ; i)
+ P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j ; i) (1 - \rho_r) \right) \\
&+ \gamma P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j ; i) \rho_r .
\end{split}
\end{equation*}
Finally, the queue length increases whenever a packet arrives and no departure occurs,
\begin{equation*}
\begin{split}
\lambda_{ij} &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, q+1) | Y_s = (i, q) ) \\
&= \gamma \left( P_{\mathrm{df}}(j ; i)
+ P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j ; i) (1 - \rho_r) \right) .
\end{split}
\end{equation*}
When the queue is empty, $Q_s = 0$, similar arguments apply, except that there can be no departures,
\begin{align*}
\kappa_{ij}^0 &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, 0) | Y_s = (i, 0) ) \\
&= (1 - \gamma) \Pr (C_{(s+1)N+1} = j | C_{sN+1} = i) \\
\lambda_{ij}^0 &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, 1) | Y_s = (i, 0) ) \\
&= \gamma \Pr (C_{(s+1)N+1} = j | C_{sN+1} = i) .
\end{align*}
Possible transitions for a non-empty queue at level~$q$ are depicted in Fig~\ref{figure:TransitionsSet}.
Again, for simplicity, the diagram assumes a two-state channel at the physical layer.
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\input{Figures/TransitionsSet}
\caption{Possible transitions with partial labeling for a queueing system built upon a two-state channel model and operating using a fixed antenna configuration.
Self-transitions are intentionally omitted.}
\label{figure:TransitionsSet}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\subsection{Adaptive Antenna Implementation}
Although series of carefully designed experiments in anechoic chambers have been reported previously in the literature on reconfigurable antennas~\cite{panagamuwa2006frequency,roach2007comparative,yang2009frequency}, establishing accurate mathematical models for particular system implementations can be a daunting task.
Given that this article only offers a preliminary investigation on the topic, we make simplifying assumptions that are somewhat favorable to RF-agile devices.
The rationale behind this reasoning is to gain insight without risking to prematurely discard a technology that may eventually lead to significant gains.
We postulate that reconfigurable antennas have a large number of possible configurations, and we assume that the wireless channels induced by these configurations are independent from one another.
This is more likely to apply to situations where devices are embedded in rich scattering environments.
A direct implication of these two hypotheses is that a wireless device equipped with a reconfigurable antenna can always elect to switch to a different virtual channel.
Furthermore, once this transformation is accomplished, the probability that the wireless channel occupies a particular state becomes equal to the stationary probability of this same state.
The second aspect of reconfigurable antennas that warrants attention is the latency of the morphing process.
The amount of time necessary to execute an antenna reconfiguration depends heavily on the physics underlying the process.
Envisioned technologies related to our present investigation include electronic switches, microelectromechanical systems (MEMS) and microfluidic devices.
Collectively, these various techniques embody a range of options in terms of latency, efficiency and power consumption.
They also offer fundamentally different mechanisms that can provide measurable tradeoffs between speed, power handling, linearity and overall complexity.
Moreover, they each feature a compact form factor suitable for mobile devices.
Based on the state-of-the-art for these mechanisms, it is reasonable to assume that reconfiguration latency is no greater than a typical codeword cycle (on the order of 4.615~ms).
In our analysis, we assume that triggering an antenna reconfiguration event results in the loss of one codeword transmission opportunity;
no segment can be decoded at the completion of the corresponding transmission interval and, as such, there cannot be a departure from the queue.
This is the price to pay for the opportunity to access a fresh channel realization.
We note that, although not pursued in this article, it is possible to extend the ensuing analysis to scenarios where there is a loss of more than one codeword transmission opportunity per reconfiguration event.
We consider static control policies for antenna handling that are based solely on channel state.
Furthermore, we look at hierarchical structures: if channel state $i$ is deemed deficient enough to initiate a channel reconfiguration, then channel state $j$ will also trigger a reconfiguration whenever $j \leq i$.
While it may be possible to create idiosyncratic channel probability transition matrices for which this class of policies is highly suboptimal, hierarchical structures are expected to work well for realistic channel models derived from empirical observations.
Implicit to these control policies is channel state knowledge at the source; this construction again favors adaptive systems.
More pragmatic schemes would have to employ state estimates or trigger a reconfiguration based on the number of successive failed decoding attempts.
In Section-\ref{subsection:POMDPPerspective}, we consider policies based on the estimated channel state distribution and compare the performance of the two competing implementations.
When the channel state is deemed satisfactory, no reconfiguration takes place and the transition probabilities defined in Section~\ref{section:TraditionalImplementation} apply.
On the other hand, when a system reconfiguration is initiated, the transition probabilities become
\begin{align*}
\tilde{\mu}_{ij} &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, q-1) | Y_s = (i, q) ) = 0 \\
\tilde{\kappa}_{ij} &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, q) | Y_s = (i, q) )
= (1 - \gamma) p_C (j) \\
\tilde{\lambda}_{ij} &= \Pr ( Y_{s+1} = (j, q+1) | Y_s = (i, q) )
= \gamma p_C (j) ,
\end{align*}
where $p_C (\cdot)$ is the marginal probability distribution of the individual wireless channels.
We emphasize that these probabilities are completely determined by the latter stationary distribution and the probability of a packet arrival.
In a similar fashion, we have
\begin{xalignat*}{2}
\tilde{\kappa}_{ij}^0 &= (1 - \gamma) p_C (j) &
\tilde{\lambda}_{ij}^0 &= \gamma p_C (j)
\end{xalignat*}
whenever a reconfiguration event is sparked from an empty queue.
Figure~\ref{figure:TransitionsReconf} presents a level-transition diagram for a two-state channel where an antenna reconfiguration is prompted whenever the channel state lies in the lowest level at the onset of a codeword cycle.
It may be instructive to compare this graph with Fig.~\ref{figure:TransitionsSet}, whose labels embody the operation of a communication system with a static antenna structure.
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\input{Figures/TransitionsReconf}
\caption{In this diagram, the two-state antenna system evolves unaltered while in state $(c_2, q)$; whereas an antenna reconfiguration is initiated whenever the system enters state $(c_1, q)$.
The reconfiguration process alters the transition probability of the system, as designated by the tildes.}
\label{figure:TransitionsReconf}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
This completes the description of the queueing systems, with and without reconfigurable antenna structures.
In both cases, the state space for the discrete-time packetized system is $\mathcal{C} \times \mathbb{N}_0$.
Each implementation will be stable provided that the average arrival rate is less than its expected service rate.
When this is the case, the underlying Markov chain is positive recurrent and it admits a stationary distribution~\cite{Bremaud0387985093}.
In the next section, we further discuss stability conditions and we provide means to compute invariant distributions.
This is performed by linking the mathematical formulation of our problem to classical queueing results.
\section{Queueing Behavior}
\label{section:QueueingBehavior}
Recall that a new data packet arrives at the source at time~$s$ with probability~$\gamma$.
Moreover, the number of segments contained in any packet is a geometric random variable with parameter $\rho_r$, as described in \eqref{equation:RhoR}.
The expected arrival rate in segments per block is then given by
\begin{equation*}
\gamma \mathrm{E} \left[ M \right]
= \frac{\gamma}{\rho_r} .
\end{equation*}
The expected service rate depends on the communication scheme employed.
In the traditional implementation with static antennas, the progression of the wireless channel is unaltered at the codeword boundaries.
The throughput in segments per block can be expressed as
\begin{equation}
\label{equation:ServiceRateSet}
\sum_{i \in \mathcal{C}} \sum_{j \in \mathcal{C}}
P_{\mathrm{ds}} (j ; i) p_C (i) ,
\end{equation}
where $p_C (\cdot)$ represents the stationary channel distribution associated with matrix
\begin{equation} \label{equation:TransitionMatrixN}
\mathbf{B}^N = \begin{bmatrix}
b_{11}^{(N)} & b_{12}^{(N)} & \cdots & b_{1k}^{(N)} \\
b_{21}^{(N)} & b_{22}^{(N)} & \cdots & b_{2k}^{(N)} \\
\vdots & \vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
b_{k1}^{(N)} & b_{k2}^{(N)} & \cdots & b_{kk}^{(N)}
\end{bmatrix} .
\end{equation}
We stress that, since $\mathbf{B}$ is assumed irreducible and aperiodic, its invariant distribution $p_C(\cdot)$ exists and is unique~\cite{Norris0521633966}.
This distribution is also invariant for probability transition matrix $\mathbf{B}^N$, which justifies its use in \eqref{equation:ServiceRateSet}.
Obtaining the probability transition matrix for the adaptive architecture with reconfigurable antennas is a slightly more involved task.
Let $\mathcal{C}^{\dagger} = \{ \ell, \ldots, k \}$ represent the collection of channel states judged suitable for data transmission.
Then, necessarily, the set $\mathcal{C} \setminus \mathcal{C}^{\dagger}$ contains all the channel states for which a reconfiguration command is issued.
In view of this partitioning, we gather that the probability transition matrix for the channel state at the onset of a codeword cycle is
\begin{equation}
\tilde{\mathbf{B}}^{(N)} = \begin{bmatrix}
p_C(1) & p_C(2) & \cdots & p_C(k) \\
\vdots & \vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
p_C(1) & p_C(2) & \cdots & p_C(k) \\
b_{\ell 1}^{(N)} & b_{\ell 2}^{(N)} & \cdots & b_{\ell k}^{(N)} \\
\vdots & \vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
b_{k1}^{(N)} & b_{k2}^{(N)} & \cdots & b_{kk}^{(N)}
\end{bmatrix} .
\end{equation}
We point out that matrix entry $b_{ij}^{(N)}$ is implicitly defined in \eqref{equation:TransitionMatrixN}.
Given that successful decoding is only possible when a codeword is sent, we can write the throughput for the adaptive system as
\begin{equation*}
\sum_{i \in \mathcal{C}^{\dagger}} \sum_{j \in \mathcal{C}}
P_{\mathrm{ds}} (j ; i) \tilde{p}_C (i) ,
\end{equation*}
where $\tilde{p}_C (\cdot)$ is the invariant distribution associated with probability transition matrix $\tilde{\mathbf{B}}^{(N)}$.
When the average arrival rate is strictly less than the expected service rate, Foster's criteria guarantees that the corresponding Markov chain is positive recurrent~\cite[p.~167]{Bremaud0387985093}.
It is instructive to point out that channel memory and channel quality can greatly influence the expected service rate of a communication system.
This phenomenon is rooted in the subtle interactions between channel output sequences and the probability of decoding success at the destination.
This is illustrated through numerical examples in the next section.
The channel state and the queue length at the onset of a codeword cycle, $Y_s = (C_{sN+1}, Q_s)$, jointly form a stochastic process with a countably infinite state space.
A natural ordering for its elements is the following,
\begin{equation*}
(1, 0), \ldots, (k, 0),
(1, 1), \ldots, (k, 1),
(1, 2), \ldots
\end{equation*}
Collectively, the subset of states
\begin{equation*}
\left\{ (1, q), \ldots, (k, q) \right\}
\end{equation*}
is known as the $q$th level of the chain.
Using this ordering and the level abstraction, we can introduce a probability transition operator $\mathbf{T}$ for aggregate chain $\{ Y_s \}$,
\begin{equation} \label{equation:OperatorT}
\mathbf{T} = \left( \begin{array}{ccccc}
\mathbf{C}_1 & \mathbf{C}_2 & \mathbf{0} & \mathbf{0} & \cdots \\
\mathbf{A}_0 & \mathbf{A}_1 & \mathbf{A}_2 & \mathbf{0} & \cdots \\
\mathbf{0} & \mathbf{A}_0 & \mathbf{A}_1 & \mathbf{A}_2 & \cdots \\
\mathbf{0} & \mathbf{0} & \mathbf{A}_0 & \mathbf{A}_1 & \cdots \\
\vdots & \vdots & \vdots & \vdots & \ddots
\end{array} \right) .
\end{equation}
In the case of a fixed antenna configuration, the submatrices $\mathbf{A}_0, \mathbf{A}_1, \mathbf{A}_2$ are given by
\begin{xalignat*}{2}
\mathbf{A}_0 &= \begin{bmatrix} \mu_{11} & \cdots & \mu_{1k} \\
\vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
\mu_{k1} & \cdots & \mu_{kk} \end{bmatrix} &
\mathbf{A}_1 &= \begin{bmatrix} \kappa_{11} & \cdots & \kappa_{1k} \\
\vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
\kappa_{k1} & \cdots & \kappa_{kk} \end{bmatrix} \\
\mathbf{A}_2 &= \begin{bmatrix} \lambda_{11} & \cdots & \lambda_{1k} \\
\vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
\lambda_{k1} & \cdots & \lambda_{kk} \end{bmatrix} .
\end{xalignat*}
When the queue is empty, the block transitions are governed by matrices
\begin{xalignat*}{2}
\mathbf{C}_1 &= \begin{bmatrix} \kappa_{11}^0 & \cdots & \kappa_{1k}^0 \\
\vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
\kappa_{k1}^0 & \cdots & \kappa_{kk}^0 \end{bmatrix} &
\mathbf{C}_2 &= \begin{bmatrix} \lambda_{11}^0 & \cdots & \lambda_{1k}^0 \\
\vdots & \ddots & \vdots \\
\lambda_{k1}^0 & \cdots & \lambda_{kk}^0 \end{bmatrix} .
\end{xalignat*}
These definitions have analog counterparts for systems with reconfigurable antennas; the appropriate entries are simply replaced by their homologues,
\begin{equation*}
\tilde{\mu}_{ij},~\tilde{\kappa}_{ij},~\tilde{\lambda}_{ij},
~\tilde{\kappa}_{ij}^0 \text{ and } \tilde{\lambda}_{ij}^0.
\end{equation*}
In both scenarios, with and without adaptation, the ensuing Markov chains belong to the class of random processes with repetitive structures~\cite{Neuts0486683427}.
One can find the stationary distribution associated with $\mathbf{T}$ by inspecting the substochastic matrix $\mathbf{U}$ whose entry $u_{ij}$ denotes the probability that, starting from state $(1, i)$, the Markov chain $\{ Y_s \}$ first re-enters level one through $(1,j)$ and does so without visiting any state at level zero.
A probabilistic path-counting argument leads to Proposition~\ref{proposition:TabooProbability} \cite[Theorem~4.2]{parag2013code}.
\begin{proposition} \label{proposition:TabooProbability}
Define $\mathbf{U}_1 = \mathbf{A}_1$.
The iterative expression
\begin{equation*}
\mathbf{U}_{m+1} =
\mathbf{A}_1 + \mathbf{A}_2 \left( \mathbf{I} - \mathbf{U}_m \right)^{-1} \mathbf{A}_0
\end{equation*}
is well-defined for all $m \in \mathbb{N}$; its limit exists and
\begin{equation*}
\lim_{m \rightarrow \infty} \mathbf{U}_m
= \mathbf{U} .
\end{equation*}
\end{proposition}
Let $\pi$ represent the invariant distribution of the augmented Markov chain, and denote the subcomponents associated with level~$q$ by $\pi_q$,
\begin{equation*}
\pi_q = \left( \Pr(Y = (1, q)), \ldots, \Pr (Y = (k, q)) \right) .
\end{equation*}
\begin{proposition} \label{proposition:InvariantDistribution}
Define $\mathbf{R} = \mathbf{A}_2 (\mathbf{I} - \mathbf{U})^{-1}$ and recall that the entries of $\pi$ are non-negative and sum up to one.
The invariant distribution induced by $\mathbf{T}$ is entirely determined through the following relations,
\begin{equation} \label{equation:ReducedMatrix}
\begin{bmatrix} \pi_0 & \pi_1 \end{bmatrix}
\begin{bmatrix} \mathbf{C}_1 & \mathbf{C}_2 \\
\mathbf{A}_0 & \mathbf{A}_1 + \mathbf{R} \mathbf{A}_0 \end{bmatrix}
= \begin{bmatrix} \pi_0 & \pi_1 \end{bmatrix}
\end{equation}
and $\pi_q = \pi_1 \mathbf{R}^{q-1}$ for $q \geq 1$.
\end{proposition}
Propositions~\ref{proposition:TabooProbability} and~\ref{proposition:InvariantDistribution} provide an algorithmic blueprint to compute the stationary distribution of the augmented Markov chain:
obtain $\mathbf{U}$ through repeated iterations;
compute $\mathbf{R}$ and form irreducible and aperiodic probability transition matrix
\begin{equation*}
\begin{bmatrix} \mathbf{C}_1 & \mathbf{C}_2 \\
\mathbf{A}_0 & \mathbf{A}_1 + \mathbf{R} \mathbf{A}_0 \end{bmatrix} ;
\end{equation*}
find its invariant distribution;
append missing values of $\pi$ using $\pi_q = \pi_1 \mathbf{R}^{q-1}$ and normalize.
\section{Performance Evaluation}
\label{section:PerformanceEvaluation}
Once the stationary distribution is acquired, we can compute several performance criteria of interest.
In this article, we examine the average delay, the probability that the queue length exceeds a certain threshold and the decay rate of the queue occupancy.
First, we note that the expected queue length is given by
\begin{equation} \label{equation:MeanQueueLength}
\sum_{q=0}^{\infty} q \pi_q \cdot \mathbf{1}
= \pi_1 \left( \sum_{q=1}^{\infty}
q \mathbf{R}^{q-1} \right) \cdot \mathbf{1} ,
\end{equation}
where $\mathbf{1}$ is a column vector of all ones.
Using Little's formula, we deduce that the mean waiting time in the queue is simply \eqref{equation:MeanQueueLength} divided by expected arrival rate $\gamma$
\begin{equation*}
\frac{1}{\gamma} \pi_1 \left( \sum_{q=1}^{\infty}
q \mathbf{R}^{q-1} \right) \cdot \mathbf{1} .
\end{equation*}
The decay rate of the queue occupancy can be written as
\begin{equation} \label{equation:taildecay}
\lim_{\tau \rightarrow \infty} \frac{1}{\tau} \log \Pr(Q \geq \tau)
= \log \varrho(\mathbf{R}) ,
\end{equation}
where $\varrho(\mathbf{R})$ is the spectral radius of $\mathbf{R}$;
and its complementary cumulative distribution function is determined by the finite sum
\begin{equation*}
\Pr(Q > \tau)
= 1 - \sum_{q=0}^{\lfloor \tau \rfloor} \pi_q \cdot \mathbf{1} .
\end{equation*}
\subsection{Partially Observable Systems}
\label{subsection:POMDPPerspective}
Up to this point, we have looked at the possible benefits of reconfigurable antenna systems by comparing the performance of specific policies using various optimization objectives, e.g., throughput, average delay, queue threshold violation.
To offer a different perspective, we study the communication process in a decision theoretic framework in which the exact state of the channel is unknown.
At the onset of every codeword, the transmitter has the freedom to select an appropriate code-rate or it can trigger an antenna reconfiguration when the channel quality is deemed deficient.
The exact state of the channel is hidden from the transmitter, yet the device can estimate it from the acknowledgements of previous transmission attempts.
In this latter scenario, the objective is to maximize the amount of information transmitted in the long run.
The formulation of a \emph{partially observable Markov decision process} (POMDP) is immediate.
A distinguishing feature of the proposed framework is that it naturally incorporates state estimation, code rate selection, antenna reconfiguration and throughput maximization.
We note that the transmitter must base its actions on past observations.
To act optimally, it is sufficient, surprisingly, to summarize previous observations into a \emph{belief state} \cite{smallwood1973optimal}.
One such choice for the belief state is the probability distribution of the channel state conditioned on the past observations.
Whenever the transmitter takes an action and collects an observation, this belief state must be updated.
We refer the reader to \cite{kaelbling_planning_1998} for the notation and solution methodologies for POMDPs.
Below, we formally define the quantities involved in our problem formulation.
A partially-observable Markov decision process consists of a tuple $(\mathcal{C}, \mathcal{B}, \mathcal{A}, \mathcal{O}, \mathcal{T}, \mathcal{R}, \Omega)$, as described below.
\begin{itemize}
\item As before, $\mathcal{C}$ represents the set of admissible channel states, $\{ 1, \ldots, k \}$, and $C_n$ denotes the realization of the channel at time instant $n$.
\item $\mathcal{B} \subset [0,1]^{k}$ is the collection of prior distributions (or \emph{belief states}) on the channel state at the transmitter.
The belief at time instant $n$ is written as $B_n$.
\item $\mathcal{A}$ is the space of actions, which includes different code rates and the reconfiguration event.
Code rates of the form $a/N$, $1 \leq a \leq N$, $a \in \mathbb{N}$ are valid options.
We index the code-rate $a/N$ with $a$, and a reconfiguration event is labeled by $0$.
The action at time instant $n$ is denoted by $A_n$.
\item $\mathcal{O}$ denotes the set of observations; these assume the form of an ACK or NACK obtained form the receiver.
The observation at time instant $n$ is denoted by $O_n$.
\item $\Omega : \mathcal{B} \times \mathcal{A} \times \mathcal{O} \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^{+}$ is the observation function which gives, for each action and a belief state, the probability of making an observation.
\item $\mathcal{T}: \mathcal{B} \times \mathcal{A} \times \mathcal{O} \rightarrow \mathcal{B}$ denotes the transition function which produces, for each action and an observation, the updated belief state as a function of the previous belief state.
\item $\mathcal{R}: \mathcal{B} \times \mathcal{A} \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^{+}$ gives the reward received for the corresponding action.
For our problem, this is the number of transmitted information bits, if any, normalized by the length of a codeword and weighted by the probability of the successful reception.
\end{itemize}
Having established a proper framework, we proceed with the computation of the quantities $\Omega$, $\mathcal{T}$, $\mathcal{R}$ for our problem.
By definition, the observation function is given by
\begin{equation*}
\Omega(\psi, a, o) = \Pr (O_{n+1}=o | B_n=\psi, A_n=a) ,
\end{equation*}
and, hence,
\begin{equation*}
\Omega(\psi, a, o)
= \begin{cases} \psi \mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{ds}} \mathbf{1}, & o = \mathrm{ACK} \\
\psi \mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{df}} \mathbf{1}, & o = \mathrm{NACK} \end{cases}
\end{equation*}
for $a \neq 0$.
The matrices $\mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{ds}}$ and $\mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{df}}$ are given entrywise by
\begin{align*}
[\mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{ds}}]_{ij} &= P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j;i)
& [\mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{df}}]_{ij} &= 1-P_{\mathrm{ds}}(j;i) .
\end{align*}
When a reconfiguration request is issued, we invariably get $\Omega(\psi, 0, \mathrm{ACK}) = 0$ and $\Omega(\psi, 0, \mathrm{NACK}) = 1$.
The transfer function $\mathcal{T}$ updates the current belief state based on the action taken and the observation made.
That is,
\begin{align*}
[\mathcal{T}(\psi,a,o)]_{i}=\Pr \left( C_{n+1}=i | B_n=\psi, O_n=o, A_n=a \right) .
\end{align*}
This can be reduced to
\begin{align*}
[\mathcal{T}(\psi,a,o)]_{i}=\frac{\Pr \left( C_{n+1}=i, O_n=o | A_n=a, B_n=\psi \right)}{\Pr \left( O_n=o | A_n=a, B_n=\psi \right)} .
\end{align*}
Writing the above equation compactly, for $a \neq 0$, we get
\begin{align*}
\mathcal{T}(\psi,a,\mathrm{ACK})
&= \frac{\psi \mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{ds}}}{\psi \mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{ds}} \mathbf{1}}
&\mathcal{T}(\psi,a,\mathrm{NACK})
&= \frac{\psi \mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{df}}}{\psi \mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{df}} \mathbf{1}} .
\end{align*}
For the reconfiguration event, which we assume leads to a new virtual channel, we obtain
\begin{equation*}
\mathcal{T}(\psi,0,\mathrm{ACK})
= \mathcal{T}(\psi,0,\mathrm{NACK}) = p_{C} .
\end{equation*}
The reward function is the expected number of information bits received at the destination under state $\psi$ upon action $a$, normalized by the length of a codeword,
\begin{equation*}
\mathcal{R} (\psi, a) = \tfrac{a}{N} \psi \mathbf{P}_{\mathrm{ds}} \mathbf{1} .
\end{equation*}
We define an $n$-step policy $\Delta_n=\{\delta_1,\dots,\delta_n\}$ as a collection of $n$ functions that map each belief state in $\mathcal{B}$ to an action from $\mathcal{A}$.
The expected discounted reward function $V_{\Delta_n,n}:\mathcal{B}\rightarrow \mathbb{R}^{+}$ is given by
\begin{align*}
V_{\Delta_n,n}(\psi) &= \mathrm{E} \left[ \sum_{t=1}^{n} \beta^{t-1} \mathcal{R} (B_t,\delta_t(B_t)) \right] ,
\end{align*}
where $B_1=\psi$.
Intuitively, $V_{\Delta_n,n}$ denotes the expected rewards received by executing the policy $\Delta_n$ for $n$-steps.
However, the rewards procured in the future are discounted by a factor of $\beta < 1$ each time.
In a delay-sensitive system, the discount factor can be thought of as penalizing the information bits that will be transmitted in the future.
Still, this is a standard approach that ensures convergence and the existence of a solution.
The $n$-step finite horizon value function is defined as the maximum of $V_{\Delta_n,n}$ over all the policies,
\begin{align*}
V_{n} = \max_{\Delta_n} V_{\Delta_n,n} .
\end{align*}
By the \emph{principle of optimality}, the finite horizon value functions satisfy~\cite{bertsekas2005dynamic}
\begin{equation*}
\begin{split}
V_{n}(\psi)
= \max_{a \in \mathcal{A}} \Big[ & \mathcal{R}(\psi,a) \\
&+ \beta \sum \limits_{o\in\mathcal{O}} \Omega(o,\psi,a)
V_{n-1}(\mathcal{T}(\psi,o,a)) \Big] .
\end{split}
\end{equation*}
Similarly, the infinite horizon value function is defined as
\begin{equation*}
V(\psi) = \max_{\Delta} \mathrm{E} \left[ \sum_{t=1}^{\infty} \beta^{t-1} \mathcal{R} (B_t,\delta_t(B_t)) \right] ,
\end{equation*}
where $B_1=\psi$ and $\Delta$ is a sequence of functions $\{\delta_t\}_{t=1}^{\infty}$ which map each belief state to an action.
The optimal policy $\Delta^{*}$ that maximizes the above equation is a stationary policy~\cite{sondik1978optimal}.
That is $\Delta^{*}=\{ \delta_t=\delta^{*} \}_{t=1}^{\infty}$ for some function $\delta^{*}: \mathcal{B} \rightarrow \mathcal{A}$.
The infinite horizon value function can be approximated by a finite horizon value function according to~\cite[Theorem~3]{sondik1978optimal}
\begin{equation*}
V(\psi) = \lim_{n \rightarrow \infty} V_n(\psi) .
\end{equation*}
In the next section, we use these performance criteria to show that time-dependencies in the underlying physical channel can adversely affect the behavior of a queueing system.
Moreover, having the ability to reconfigure an antenna structure at appropriate moments can help mitigate the undesirable effects of channel memory.
\section{Numerical Results}
\label{section:NumericalResults}
Although the methodology introduced above applies to a broad class of finite-state erasure channels with memory, our numerical study focuses mostly on the two-state Gilbert-Elliott model depicted in Fig.~\ref{figure:GilbertElliott}, and finite-state channels derived from quantizing Rayleigh fading channels \cite{Wang1995tvt,Zhang1999tcom}.
These models capture many of the features associated with wireless environments such as uncertainty, fading and channel memory.
Yet, they remain simple enough for a straightforward exposition of our findings.
Overall, these models provide valuable insights about the operation of wireless communication systems without being overly intricate, which gives ground for their adoption.
This is especially relevant for a first characterization of the potential benefits associated with reconfigurable antenna structures.
\subsection{Gilbert-Elliott Model}
This channel model captures the bursty nature of a wireless environment and has received a fair amount of attention in the literature.
The choice of a hierarchical control policy for the Gilbert-Elliott channel with side information is straightforward.
The only non-trivial candidate is the adaptive policy where the source triggers an antenna reconfiguration whenever the state of the channel is $1$ at the onset of a codeword transmission.
The performance of this adaptive scheme is compared with the operation of a static system where the antenna structure is fixed and codewords are sent at every opportunity.
For the Gilbert-Elliott channel model, the stochastic matrix $\mathbf{B}$ reduces to
\begin{equation*}
\mathbf{B} = \left[ \begin{array}{cc} b_{11} & b_{12} \\
b_{21} & b_{22} \end{array} \right] ,
\end{equation*}
and it has only two degrees of freedom.
One possible way to portray these degrees of freedom is to talk about the stationary probabilities of the states,
\begin{xalignat*}{2}
\Pr (C = 1) &= \frac{b_{21}}{b_{12} + b_{21}} &
\Pr (C = 2) &= \frac{b_{12}}{b_{12} + b_{21}} ,
\end{xalignat*}
and channel memory;
this is the approach we use throughout.
The memory of a Gilbert-Elliott channel can be expressed at the symbol level using $1 - b_{12} - b_{21}$.
An equivalent way to characterize memory is to consider changes at the codeword level,
\begin{equation} \label{equation:ChannelMemoryParameter}
1 - b_{12}^{(N)} - b_{21}^{(N)}
= \left( 1 - b_{12} - b_{21} \right)^N
\in [0, 1) .
\end{equation}
It is typically more insightful to plot results using the latter scaling and, as such, this is the unit we employ in our figures.
Additional system parameters are selected to approximate the operation of a typical communication link.
The block length is set to $N = 114$.
New packets arrive at the source with probability $\gamma = 0.20$, and their expected length is $\rho^{-1} = 195$ bits.
Based on a 4.615~ms codeword cycle, this yields a lightly loaded connection at roughly 8.45~kbps;
these are realistic numbers for digital telephony.
We assess the performance of our competing systems when operating over erasure channels with an erasure probability equal to 20 percent.
We first explore the impact of channel memory on overall performance.
We study a channel model with $b_{12} = 4 b_{21}$, $\varepsilon_1 = 0.5$ and $\varepsilon_2 = 0.125$.
Channel correlation over time is varied progressively from the memoryless case to a very slow fading profile.
Note that the value of $K$ is throughput optimized for every parameter set and system implementation, leading to a fair comparison between schemes.
Figure~\ref{figure:ThroughputChannelMemory} displays maximum throughput in bits per channel use as a function of the memory coefficient defined in \eqref{equation:ChannelMemoryParameter}.
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/TPutMem_e1=0.5_e2=0.125}
\caption{The throughput of a traditional communication system is compared to that of an adaptive system with a switching policy that triggers an antenna reconfiguration whenever the channel is in state $1$.
As channel memory increases, the performance of the reconfigurable system surpasses the maximum service rate of the traditional implementation.}
\label{figure:ThroughputChannelMemory}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
When channel memory is small, the communication system with a fixed antenna structure performs better.
In particular, if the mixing time of the Gilbert-Elliott channel is shorter than a codeword transmission cycle, then reconfiguration offers little rewards.
It is therefore more profitable to send codewords constantly.
On the other hand, as the memory coefficient approaches one, the channel can get stuck in a bad fade for a prolonged period of time.
This phenomenon almost certainly guarantees decoding failure at the next attempt.
This prompts the RF front-end to trigger a reconfiguration and seek a more auspicious channel realization.
The crossover point in Fig.~\ref{figure:ThroughputChannelMemory} is approximately $0.28$.
Interestingly, at this crossover point, the expected sojourn time in state $1$ is approximately $113$~bits, which is very close to the actual block length.
Similar curves can be generated for other parameter sets.
Each of these curves identifies a crossover point in terms of channel memory and erasure probability where the throughput of the adaptive system overtakes the expected service rate of the traditional implementation.
Plotting these points delineates the boundary of two regions, one where a static system with a fixed antenna structure performs better and a second region where the adaptive system delivers enhanced performance.
This is illustrated in Fig.~\ref{figure:RegionBoundary}.
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/Crossover}
\caption{
System parameters determine which implementation delivers better throughput, the static system with a fixed antenna structure (Static) or the switching scheme with reconfigurable antennas (Switch).
Correlation and fade differentiation are advantageous to the RF-agile switching scheme.
In this figure, the probability of erasure is set at $0.20$ and $\varepsilon_2 = (1 - \varepsilon_1)/4$.
}
\label{figure:RegionBoundary}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
We immediately see from this figure that channel correlation over time favors reconfigurable antennas.
In addition, experiencing vastly different channel qualities over the various fade levels benefits adaptive implementations.
Altogether, the capabilities of reconfigurable antenna systems seem better suited to harsh wireless environments.
We supplement the preceding results by investigating the performance of the two competing systems in relation to mean waiting time.
This latter criterion is appropriate for lightly loaded connections and delay-sensitive applications such as mobile telephony and video conferencing.
Again, we maintain the average rate of bit erasure at 20 percent, and we set the conditional probabilities of erasure to $\varepsilon_1 = 0.5$ and $\varepsilon_2 = 0.125$.
As before, we vary the channel memory coefficient to first produce a memoryless process followed by increasingly correlated erasure sequences.
Figure~\ref{figure:MeanWaitingTime} plots the mean waiting time at the source as a function of memory.
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/ExpWaitTimeMem_e1=0.5_e2=0.125_g=0.2}
\caption{Mean waiting times for traditional and switching systems are plotted as functions of channel memory;
a smaller waiting time is desirable.
When the channel is weakly correlated over time, the system with a fixed antenna configuration performs better.
On the other hand, in slow fading scenarios, the adaptive implementation with a reconfigurable antenna structure becomes advantageous.}
\label{figure:MeanWaitingTime}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
The crossover point where the switching system with a reconfigurable antenna structure overtakes the static implementation is approximately the same as in the case of throughput.
In fact, preliminary results indicate that similar behavior can be observed for various parameter sets and different optimization criteria including mean waiting time, asymptotic decay rate in queue occupancy and threshold violation probability.
This robustness may be attributable to the simplicity of the Gilbert-Elliott model and may not hold for more complex channel models.
This observation warrants further research.
In practice, this suggests that good performance can be achieved with RF-agile antenna structures by identifying regions where reconfiguration should take place.
The system can then estimate the current state of the channel and decide, according to its local map, whether or not a reconfiguration event should be triggered.
\subsection{Rayleigh Fading Approximation by Finite-State Channel}
In this section, we turn our attention to an 8-state channel derived from the Rayleigh fading model.
In a landmark article~\cite{Wang1995tvt}, the authors describe a structured methodology to construct finite-state Markov models from Rayleigh channels.
We refer the reader to \cite{Wang1995tvt,Zhang1999tcom} for the details.
The parameters we select for the model are the following: average SNR of $-5$ dB, at a transmission rate of $10^5$ bits per second.
For the 8-state channel, the erasure probabilities $\{ \varepsilon_i \}$ are given by $0.4244$, $0.3591$, $0.3134$, $0.2732$, $0.2348$, $0.1954$, $0.1512$, $0.0879$ for $i = 1, 2, \ldots, 8$, respectively.
This gives an average erasure rate of $0.2549$.
The remaining parameters in our system model are the same as before: $N=114$, $\gamma=0.2$, $\rho^{-1}=195$.
We study the performance of our two competing systems by varying the Doppler frequency in the Rayleigh fading channel model.
Figures~\ref{figure:TPut_Rayleigh_8State} and \ref{figure:ExpWaitTime_Rayleigh_8State} show the throughput and average waiting time, respectively, as a function of the Doppler frequency.
The solid line is associated with the fixed antenna system.
The dashed lines correspond to the reconfigurable antenna system with different switching policies.
The loosely dashed red line corresponds to the policy that triggers an antenna reconfiguration when the channel is in states $\{ 1, 2, 3 \}$, while the dashed blue and densely dashed green lines correspond to $\{1,2,3,4\}$, $\{1,2,3,4,5\}$, respectively.
We note that a slow fading channel corresponds to a small Doppler frequency.
The key insights obtained from Gilbert-Elliott channel appear to hold here as well, that is, in a slow fading channel, having a reconfigurable antenna counteracts the adverse effects of a deep fade.
\begin{figure}
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/TPut_Rayleigh_8State}
\caption{Throughput of the standard and reconfigurable systems for an 8-state Markov model derived from a Rayleigh fading channel.
The solid line corresponds to the fixed antenna system; and the dashed lines, to reconfigurable antenna systems with different switching policies.
The switching sets for the loosely dashed red line, dashed blue line, and densely dashed green line are $\{ 1, 2, 3 \}$, $\{ 1, 2, 3, 4 \}$ and $\{ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 \}$, respectively.
A small Doppler frequency characterizes a slow fading channel.
}
\label{figure:TPut_Rayleigh_8State}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[ht!]
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/ExpWaitTime_Rayleigh_8State}
\caption{Mean waiting time of the standard and reconfigurable systems for an 8-state Markov model derived from a Rayleigh fading channel.
The solid line is associated with the fixed antenna system.
The dashed lines represent the performance of the reconfigurable systems described in the previous figure.}
\label{figure:ExpWaitTime_Rayleigh_8State}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\subsection{POMDP Formulation}
Figure~\ref{figure:POMDP_2state} shows the numerical analysis of a two-state channel from the POMDP perspective presented in Section \ref{subsection:POMDPPerspective}.
The parameters for the analysis are: $\varepsilon_1=1$, $\varepsilon_2=0$, a channel memory coefficient of $0.3$, an average erasure rate of 20\%, and discount factor $\beta=0.9$.
For this two-state channel, the belief vector lies in a two-dimensional simplex.
Yet, since the two elements in the belief vector sum to one, only the second coefficient is kept, namely the belief that the channel is in a good state.
More precisely, Fig.~\ref{figure:POMDP_2state} displays the decision regions (optimal action to choose, i.e., $\delta^{*}$) as a function of the belief that the channel is in a good state.
We observe that the optimal policy is a threshold based policy partitioning the belief space.
The optimal code rate is monotonically increasing as a function of belief state.
Figure~\ref{figure:POMDP_3state} shows a similar analysis for a three-state channel with a transition probability matrix
\begin{align*}
\mathbf{B} = \begin{bmatrix}
0.998 & 0.002 & 0 \\
0.001 & 0.998 & 0.001 \\
0 & 0.002 & 0.998
\end{bmatrix} ,
\end{align*}
and erasure values $\varepsilon_1=1$, $\varepsilon_2=0.15$, $\varepsilon_3=0$.
This gives an average erasure rate of 20\% and a channel memory coefficient of $0.8$.
The discount factor used for the computation of the infinite horizon value function is $\beta=0.9$.
Figure~\ref{figure:MeanValueFunction_2state} plots the expected value function averaged over the belief space for a two-state channel with $\varepsilon_1=1$, $\varepsilon_2=0$, an average erasure rate of 20\%, and discount factor $\beta=0.9$.
In the high memory regime, whenever the channel is in bad state, successful receptions in the fixed antenna system are heavily delayed.
Since, the delayed rewards are discounted by a factor of $\beta=0.9$, the average value function is small in this regime for this system.
On the contrary, in the reconfigurable antenna system, prolonged bad channel states can be circumvented by issuing a reconfiguration event and thereafter transmitting during the prolonged good channel states, thus exploiting the benefits of high channel memory.
This explains the large gap between the mean value functions of the two systems in this regime.
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/POMDP_2state}
\caption{
This figure shows the choice of optimal code rate versus the belief that the channel is in good state.
Consistent with intuition, when the transmitter is more confident that the channel is in good state, it can use a high rate code.
Conversely, when the transmitter is certain that the channel is in bad state, reconfiguring the antenna is beneficial.
We note that the optimal code rate is a threshold based policy, partitioning the belief space.
}
\label{figure:POMDP_2state}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/POMDP_3state}
\caption{This figure shows the choice of optimal code rate according to the belief.
The darkest region corresponds to the belief space where a reconfiguration event is beneficial.
The region in white corresponds to the belief space where using a code rate of $1$ is beneficial.
The regions in gray correspond to different code rates; lighter regions map to higher rates.}
\label{figure:POMDP_3state}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[tb!]
\begin{center}
\setlength\tikzheight{5cm}
\setlength\tikzwidth{6.5cm}
\input{Figures/MeanValueFunction_2state}
\caption{Comparing the mean value functions for the traditional and reconfigurable antenna systems.
The greater flexibility of the adaptive system yields a dominating performance curve.
Adaptation pays off in harsh environments where performance is strictly better.}
\label{figure:MeanValueFunction_2state}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\vspace{-0.3cm}
\section{Concluding Remarks}
\label{section:ConcludingRemarks}
This preliminary study offers supporting evidence to the claim that reconfigurable antenna structures can improve the performance of communication systems significantly.
For the reconfiguration process to be beneficial, the potential rewards of a reconfiguration event must offset the costs of a loss of a codeword transmission opportunity.
Two conditions appear to influence this balance.
The coherence time of the physical channel must be on the order of the codeword cycle or longer.
Furthermore, the quality of the channel must vary significantly over the different fade levels.
Slow fading channels appear to be great prospects for reconfigurable antenna systems with adaptive control policies.
Future studies should address practical issues such as complexity and power efficiency.
Once side information becomes available at the transmitter, power control and scheduling can be employed in conjunction with reconfigurable antenna structures.
Extending the queueing formulation to account for these techniques is an interesting goal.
Also, the postulate that virtual channels are independent from one another should be explored through empirical measurements.
A strong positive correlation among virtual channels could reduce the expected returns of a reconfiguration event.
These are promising avenues of future research that may broaden the application potential of reconfigurable antennas and help improve the performance of wireless communication systems.
\vspace{-0.2cm}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
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\section{}
We have all come to accept that spacetime is curved.
Yet the idea that space is topologically connected still meets with
resistance.
One is no more exotic than the other.
In the true spirit of Einstein's revolution,
gravity is a theory of geometry and geometry has two
facets: curvature {\it and} topology.
The big bang paradigm forces us to consider the topology of the universe.
As best as we can ascertain, when the universe
was created both gravity
and quantum mechanics were at work.
Any theory which incorporates gravity and quantum mechanics must
assign a topology to the universe.
String theory is currently the most powerful model which naturally
hosts gravity in a unified framework.
It should not be overlooked that in string theory there are six extra
dimensions all of which must be topologically compact.
In order to create a viable low-energy theory, the internal dimensions
are finite Calabi-Yau manifolds.
We naturally wonder why
a universe would be created with
six compact dimensions and four infinite ones.
A more equitable beginning might create all spatial dimensions compact
and of comparable size. Six dynamically squeeze down while the
other
three inflate. In fact, it is dynamically possible for inflation of
$3$-space to
be kinetically driven by the contraction of internal dimensions
\cite{jin}.
Whatever mechanism stabilizes the internal dimensions at a small size
would likewise stabilize the external dimensions at an inversely large
size.
Topology need not be at odds with inflation.
Another interesting possibility is that the topology itself naturally
selects the expansion of $3$-dimensions and the contraction of $6$. The
topology can create boundary contributions to an effective
cosmological constant. The sign and magnitude of the vacuum energy
depends on the topology and it is
conceivable that it selects three dimensions for expansion and three
for contraction in a kind of inside/out inflation.
In the wake of the recent observational evidence
that there is a cosmological constant today, the pursuit of
these calculations is worthwhile. Perhaps
we are still inflating as the vacuum energy tracks the topology
scale.
Our quest to measure the large-scale curvature of the universe may
also produce a measurement of the topology.
(For a review and a collection of papers see \cite{{lum},{volume}}.)
Topological lensing of the cosmic microwave background (CMB) results in
multiple images of the same points in different directions.
Pattern formation in the universe's hot and cold
spots reveals the global topology
\cite{{lsdsb},{lbbs}}.
Just as with gravitational lensing,
the location, number and distribution of repeated points will allow
the reconstruction of the geometry.
The circles of Ref. \cite{css} are specific
collections of topologically lensed
points.
\begin{figure}[tbp]
\centerline{{\quad\quad\quad
\psfig{file=thurs_ant.ps,width=2.5in}}}
\vskip 15truept
\caption{The correlation of every point on the sky with its opposite
in the finite Thurston manifold.
}
\label{thurs_ant}
\end{figure}
We demonstrate topological pattern formation
with the Thurston space,
popular in homage to the Thurston person \cite{thurs}.
The space corresponds to $m003(-2,3)$ in the {\it SnapPea}
census \cite{snap}.
A CMB map of the sky does not immediately reveal the geometry.
If we scan the sky for correlations between points we can draw out
the hidden pattern. There are an infinite number of possible
correlated spheres. The sphere of fig.\ \ref{thurs_ant} is antipody;
the correlation of
every point on the sky with its opposite point,
\begin{equation}
A(\hat n)=\left <
{\delta T(\hat n)\over T}{\delta T(-\hat n)\over T}\right >.
\end{equation}
In an infinite universe, light originating from opposite directions
would be totally uncorrelated. The ensemble
average antipodal correlation would produce a monopole with no
structure.
In a finite universe by contrast, light which is received from
opposite directions may in fact have originated from the same location
and simply took different paths around the finite cosmos.
The antipody map would then show structure as it caught the recurrence
of near or identical sources. Again, the analogy with gravitational
lensing is apparent.
We estimate antipody following the method of
Ref.\ \cite{lsdsb}.
We take the correlation between two points to be
the correlation they would have in an unconnected, infinite space given their
minimum separation.
The curvature is everywhere negative and the spectrum of fluctuations
are
taken to be flat and Gaussian, even in the absence of inflation.
This is justified on a compact, hyperbolic space
since, according to the tenents of quantum chaos,
the amplitude of quantum fluctuations are drawn
from a Gaussian random ensemble with a flat spectrum consistent with
random matrix theory.
To find the minimum distance
we move the points under comparison back
into
the fundamental domain using the generators for the compact manifold.
The result for the Thurston space with $\Omega_o=0.3$ is shown in
fig.\ \ref{thurs_ant}.
Notice the interesting arcs of correlated points. Clearly there is
topological lensing at work. Arcs were also found under antipody for
the Weeks space in Ref.\ \cite{lsdsb}.
If antipody were a symmetry of the space then at least some circles
of correlated points representing the intersection of copies of the
surface of last scatter with itself
would have been located \cite{css}, as were found for
the
Best space \cite{lsdsb}.
Antipody is by definition symmetric under a rotation by $\pi$ and so
the back of the sphere is identical to the front.
\begin{figure}[tbp]
\centerline{{\quad\quad\quad
\psfig{file=origin.ps,width=2.5in}}}
\vskip 15truept
\caption{The correlation of one point on the sky with the rest of the
sphere in the Thurston space. There is a tri-fold symmetry apparent
in the middle of the sphere.
}
\label{origin}
\end{figure}
There are an infinite number of correlated spheres which can
be used to systematically reconstruct the geometry of the fundamental
domain. Another example is a correlation of one point in the sky with
the rest of the sphere,
\begin{equation}
C_P(\hat n)=\left
<{\delta T(\hat n_P)\over T}{\delta T(\hat n)\over T}\right >.
\end{equation}
This selects out recurrent images of the one
point. In an unconnected, infinite space, the sphere would only
show one spot, namely the
correlation of the point with itself. In fig.\ \ref{origin}
we have a kaleidescope of
images providing detailed information on the underlying space.
There is a trifold symmetry in fig.\ \ref{origin}. Notice that there
is a band of points moving from the middle upward
vertically which then bends over to the left and that this band repeats twice
making
an overall three-pronged swirl emanating from the middle of the figure.
Since this correlated sphere is not symmetric under $\pi$, we also
show
the back of the sphere in fig.\ \ref{origin_back}. A different
pattern emerges but still with the tri-fold symmetry. There is a
three-leaf arrangement of spots in the center of the figure.
We need the improved resolution and signal-to-noise of the future
satellite missions MAP and {\it Planck Surveyor} to observe
topological pattern formation. High resolution information will be
critical in distinguishing fictitious correlations from real spots.
Beyond the CMB, a finite universe would sculpt the distribution
of structure on the largest scales. Even if we never see repeated
images of galaxies or clusters of galaxies,
the physical distribution of matter
could be shaped by the shape of space.
The topological identifications select discrete modes and the modes
themselves can in turn trace the identifications. The result is an overall
web of primordial fluctuations in the gravitational potential
specific to the finite space.
A web-like distribution of matter
would then be inherent
in the initial primordial spectrum \cite{lb}.
This is different from the structureless
distribution of points one would
expect in an infinite cosmos.
\begin{figure}[tbp]
\centerline{{\quad\quad\quad
\psfig{file=origin_back.ps,width=2.5in}}}
\vskip 15truept
\caption{The back of fig.\ \ref{origin}.
The tri-fold symmetry is again apparent
with the three-leaf pattern in the middle of the sphere.
}
\label{origin_back}
\end{figure}
We close with the
more fanciful possibility that even time is compact.
If time is compact, every event would repeat precisely as set by the age of
the universe.
Only a universe which is able to naturally return to its own infancy could be
consistent with a closed time loop.
A big crunch which
feeds another big bang could allow
our entire history to repeat. The same galaxies form
and the same stars and planets and people.
Even a proponent of free will can see that at the
very least we would be limited in the choices we are or are not free to make.
We would live out the same lives, make the same choices, make the same
mistakes.
Of course, in a quantum creation of the universe,
different galaxies would form in different locations composed of different
stars and new planets.
We would not be here but chances are,
someone would.
Even if our CMB sky does not look like the Thurston pattern, perhaps
someone's does.
\bigskip
\bigskip
JL thanks the participants and organizers of CTP98.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
| 5,206
|
// This is a part of the Microsoft Foundation Classes C++ library.
// Copyright (C) Microsoft Corporation
// All rights reserved.
//
// This source code is only intended as a supplement to the
// Microsoft Foundation Classes Reference and related
// electronic documentation provided with the library.
// See these sources for detailed information regarding the
// Microsoft Foundation Classes product.
#pragma once
#include "afxcontrolbarutil.h"
#include "afxpane.h"
#ifdef _AFX_PACKING
#pragma pack(push, _AFX_PACKING)
#endif
#ifdef _AFX_MINREBUILD
#pragma component(minrebuild, off)
#endif
class CMFCAutoHideButton;
class CDockablePane;
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
// CMFCAutoHideBar window
class CMFCAutoHideBar : public CPane
{
friend class CMFCVisualManagerVS2008;
DECLARE_DYNCREATE(CMFCAutoHideBar)
// Construction
public:
CMFCAutoHideBar();
// Attributes
public:
AFX_IMPORT_DATA static int m_nShowAHWndDelay;
// Operations
public:
CMFCAutoHideButton* AddAutoHideWindow(CDockablePane* pAutoHideWnd, DWORD dwAlignment);
BOOL RemoveAutoHideWindow(CDockablePane* pAutoHideWnd);
BOOL ShowAutoHideWindow(CDockablePane* pAutoHideWnd, BOOL bShow, BOOL bDelay);
void UpdateVisibleState();
int GetVisibleCount();
virtual CSize CalcFixedLayout(BOOL bStretch, BOOL bHorz);
virtual CSize StretchPane(int nLength, BOOL bVert);
virtual void SetActiveInGroup(BOOL bActive);
void SetRecentVisibleState(BOOL bState) { m_bRecentVisibleState = bState; }
void UnSetAutoHideMode(CDockablePane* pFirstBarInGroup);
CDockablePane* GetFirstAHWindow();
AFX_IMPORT_DATA static CRuntimeClass* m_pAutoHideButtonRTS;
virtual BOOL OnShowControlBarMenu(CPoint /*point*/) { return FALSE; }
virtual BOOL AllowShowOnPaneMenu() const { return FALSE; }
// Overrides
public:
virtual BOOL Create(LPCTSTR lpszClassName, DWORD dwStyle, const RECT& rect, CWnd* pParentWnd, UINT nID, DWORD dwControlBarStyle = AFX_DEFAULT_PANE_STYLE, CCreateContext* pContext = NULL);
// Implementation
public:
virtual ~CMFCAutoHideBar();
protected:
//{{AFX_MSG(CMFCAutoHideBar)
afx_msg int OnCreate(LPCREATESTRUCT lpCreateStruct);
afx_msg void OnMouseMove(UINT nFlags, CPoint point);
afx_msg void OnNcDestroy();
afx_msg void OnTimer(UINT_PTR nIDEvent);
afx_msg void OnLButtonDown(UINT nFlags, CPoint point);
//}}AFX_MSG
afx_msg LRESULT OnMouseLeave(WPARAM,LPARAM);
DECLARE_MESSAGE_MAP()
CMFCAutoHideButton* ButtonFromPoint (CPoint pt);
CMFCAutoHideButton* ButtonFromAutoHideWindow (CDockablePane* pWnd);
void CleanUpAutoHideButtons();
virtual void DoPaint(CDC* pDC);
protected:
CObList m_lstAutoHideButtons;
CMFCAutoHideButton* m_pLastActiveButton;
CMFCAutoHideButton* m_pHighlightedButton;
BOOL m_bReadyToDisplayAHWnd;
UINT_PTR m_nDisplayAHWndTimerID;
private:
BOOL m_bTracked;
};
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
#ifdef _AFX_MINREBUILD
#pragma component(minrebuild, on)
#endif
#ifdef _AFX_PACKING
#pragma pack(pop)
#endif
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 4,884
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Tessa Hall
I came to TEFL through one-to-one teaching as a student in Oxford, and went on to teach classes of all levels and ages at the British Institute in Seville and back in the UK. After returning to Oxford University to write a DPhil on Lawrence Durrell, I got a job in the ELT Division of Oxford University Press which gave me an excellent training in ELT publishing. I then became a freelance editor and writer and over the years have edited or written the components of more ELT courses than I can remember!
I am an experienced copywriter and business (particularly web) writer. This keeps me up to date with digital and online developments which I find invaluable for my ELT writing. In addition, I'm a stained glass artist so I have a keen interest in design, images and the whole aesthetic learning environment. More generally, I am interested in all the ways in which pleasure can be added to the learning process to make it more rewarding for students, particularly those who may not be academically gifted.
I am now the proud author of The Big Picture Beginner Student's Book and Workbook.
Martyn Hobbs
Martyn Hobbs is an EFL writer of course books, readers and videos. He has been involved in ELT for around 30 years, teaching in Italy and the UK. He lived and taught in Florence, Italy for more than 10 years, both for the university and private language schools. He also regularly taught international classes in the UK. He returned to Britain to work in ELT publishing where he was the Commissioning Script Editor for OUP.
Martyn believes in making learning interesting, involving and fun, and tries to bring to his writing the qualities he found so important in teaching and motivating classes. He is the co-author of various successful courses with Julia Starr Keddle, including Get Real and For Real (Helbling), Your Space (CUP), Activate (Balberry) and Oxford English for Careers: Commerce (OUP). He has also written levels of Star Players (Richmond)and Real Life (Pearson). His latest course for Richmond is Thumbs Up! for which he and Julia wrote the upper three levels.
Martyn has also written the scripts for many videos including English File, Headway, Total English and Inside Out – as well, of course, for his own courses!
Martyn has a particular interest in stories in all their forms – from short stories and novels to scripts for the theatre and cinema. A graduate in English Literature, he is also a prize-winning playwright and film screenplay writer, recently winning a prestigious award from the Arts Council for a screenplay. Two of his plays were staged at the Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh (the first one won a Fringe First award at the Edinburgh Festival), and a third play was commissioned in Florence, Italy, and performed in Italian.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 713
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Q: Converting data queried from Hive Tables to JSON or any other single line format I have HTML content in one of the columns , I would like to query that column
and convert that to a single line string to be able to pass it to a script.
In the below query I would like to convert 'Body.Content' as a single line . As this content contains a lot of new line characters and tabs , whereas SampleHive.exe will get the input as only single line separated with tabs for each argument.
SELECT TRANSFORM (Body.Content, DateTimeReceived, Importance) USING 'SampleHive.exe' AS (Content string, DateTimeReceived string, Importance string) FROM message_table LIMIT 1;
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
}
| 7,145
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schemata
========
A NodeJS package and command line tool for analyzing and transforming data in JSON and flat files.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 6,559
|
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|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 1,441
|
è una serie televisiva anime animata da J.C.Staff, prodotta da Genco e Geneon, e diretta da Tatsuyuki Nagai. L'anime è stato trasmesso su TV Aichi e KBS dal 10 gennaio al 27 marzo 2012, mentre il manga, disegnato da Pepako Dokuta, ha cominciato la serializzazione nel numero di marzo 2012 della rivista Dengeki Daioh di ASCII Media Works.
Trama
Una notte, mentre prova la sua videocamera da 8mm, Kaito Kirishima viene coinvolto in una misteriosa esplosione, ma si risveglia il giorno dopo perfettamente in salute e senza ricordarsi nulla di quello che è successo. Senza dare molto peso all'incidente, va a scuola e, insieme ai suoi amici, decide di girare un film durante l'estate coinvolgendo due studentesse più grandi, la nuova arrivata Ichika Takatsuki e la strana Remon Yamano. Per uno strano scherzo del destino, Ichika, in realtà un'aliena precipitata sulla Terra, comincia a vivere con Kaito quando sua sorella deve andare a lavorare all'estero.
Personaggi
Principali
Doppiato da: Nobunaga Shimazaki (ed. giapponese)
Kaito è il protagonista maschile e frequenta il primo anno del liceo. Ama filmare qualsiasi cosa con la cinepresa a manovella da 8mm che ha ereditato dal nonno; per questa sua passione, molti lo chiamano "il regista". Sembra consapevole dei sentimenti che Kanna prova per lui, ma s'innamora di Ichika Takatsuki. Sogna spesso ad occhi aperti di parlare con Ichika, lasciandosi sfuggire esclamazioni ad alta voce. Quando lei gli rivela la sua vera identità, Kaito non ne rimane sorpreso perché sospettava provenisse dallo spazio; in seguito, si confessano i sentimenti reciproci e iniziano a uscire insieme. Prima che Ichika parte per tornare al suo pianeta, le promette che l'amerà per sempre. Prima di diplomarsi, Kaito e i suoi amici riescono a finire il film che stavano girando, nel quale si vede che Ichika è riuscita a tornare sulla Terra di nuovo.
Doppiata da: Haruka Tomatsu (ed. giapponese)
Ichika è la protagonista femminile ed è un'aliena la cui nave spaziale è precipitata sulla Terra, causando ferite fatali a Kaito. Dato che le sue cellule sono nanomacchine che hanno l'abilità di guarire, Ichika guarisce il ragazzo passandogli le sue cellule tramite un bacio e resta con lui all'inizio per assicurarsi che stia bene. Non essendo abituata alla vita sulla Terra, il suo comportamento è molto strano, ma riesce a correggersi in fretta per nascondere almeno la sua natura aliena. Gentile e amichevole, frequenta il terzo anno allo stesso liceo di Kaito. Quando confessa la sua vera identità agli amici, nessuno ne sembra particolarmente preoccupato; con l'aiuto di Kanna, Ichika si dichiara a Kaito e iniziano a uscire insieme. Alla fine della serie riparte per il suo pianeta, ma riesce in seguito a tornare sulla Terra.
Doppiata da: Kaori Ishihara (ed. giapponese)
Kanna è una ragazza socievole ed è amica intima di Kaito, per il quale ha una cotta: la sorella del ragazzo ne è a conoscenza e incoraggia una relazione tra loro. È amica d'infanzia di Tetsuro; aiuta Ichika a dichiararsi a Kaito, anche a scapito dei propri sentimenti. Alla fine, anche lei si dichiara a Kaito pur sapendo che lui ama Ichika, e accetta il suo rifiuto con un sorriso.
Doppiato da: Hideki Ogihara (ed. giapponese)
Tetsuro è l'amico di Kaito e Kanna ed è innamorato di quest'ultima, ma incoraggia i sentimenti della ragazza per Kaito. È molto esperto di ragazze e sviluppa un rapporto molto stretto con Mio Kitahara dopo aver saputo dei suoi problemi e della cotta che ha per lui. Alla fine si dichiara a Kanna, pur sapendo che lei lo rifiuterà, perché non vuole avere rimpianti.
Doppiata da: Kana Asumi (ed. giapponese)
Mio è l'amica di Kanna e ha una cotta per Tetsuro. Gira per casa nuda e non ama indossare biancheria intima. Quando qualcuno le fa delle domande, dice che la sua famiglia è nudista. Dolce e innocente, dopo essersi dichiarata a Tetsuro si taglia i capelli.
Doppiata da: Yukari Tamura (ed. giapponese)
Remon è una studentessa del terzo anno ed è fredda nei confronti delle altre persone, ma fa subito amicizia con Ichika. È birichina e ambigua e, per aver detto di aver scritto un copione per George Lucas a Hollywood, finisce per scrivere il film. È un agente dei Men in Black, infiltratasi a scuola per spiare Ichika.
Altri personaggi
Doppiato da: Rina Hidaka (ed. giapponese)
Rinon è un compagno di Ichika ed è una piccola forma di vita aliena e l'interfaccia organica computerizzata della nave di Ichika. Quando Ichika torna al suo pianeta, Rinon resta con Remon all'agenzia dei MIB.
Doppiata da: Aya Hisakawa (ed. giapponese)
Mandami è la sorella maggiore di Kaito e si occupa di lui da quando sono morti i suoi genitori e piange facilmente.
Doppiata da: Fuyuka Ōura (ed. giapponese)
Manami è la sorella maggiore di Tetsuro ed è sposata con Satoshi Ogura, con il quale litiga spesso e per questo passa molto tempo a casa del fratello.
Doppiata da: Ai Kayano (ed. giapponese)
Kaori è una compagna di classe di Kaito alle elementari e ha una cotta per lui.
Doppiata da: Yuka Iguchi (ed. giapponese)
Chiharu è l'amica di Kaori ed è innamorata di Tetsuro.
Doppiata da: Yui Horie (ed. giapponese)
Emika è la sorella di Ichika e arriva sulla Terra per riportarla indietro.
Anime
L'anime, diretto da Tatsuyuki Nagai, animato da J.C.Staff e prodotto da Genco e Geneon, è andato in onda dal 10 gennaio al 27 marzo 2012 sulle reti TV Aichi e KBS. La composizione della serie fu a cura di Yōsuke Kuroda con il character designer di Taraku Uon e Masayoshi Tanaka. La colonna sonora è stata prodotta principalmente da Maiko Iuchi e dal gruppo I've Sound. La sigla di apertura è "Sign" cantato da Ray, con testi scritti da Kotoko e composti da Shinji Orito. La sigla finale è "Vidro Moyō" (ビードロ模様) cantato da Nagi Yanagi. Ai 12 episodi della serie, viene accompagnato un OVA pubblicato il 29 agosto 2014.
Episodi
Note
Altri progetti
Collegamenti esterni
Anime con sceneggiature originali
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|
Saint-Amour es una película franco-belga de comedia dirigida por Benoît Delépine y Gustave de Kervern.
Sinopsis
La historia de un padre y un hijo, agricultores, cuyas relaciones son conflictivas. En un intento de forjar una nueva relación, se van de la ruta del vino, con un taxi parisino, cruzando la salida de la Feria Agrícola.
Reparto
Gérard Depardieu
Benoît Poelvoorde
Céline Sallette como Venus.
Vincent Lacoste como Mike.
Chiara Mastroianni
Ana Girardot
Andréa Ferréol
Michel Houellebecq
Izïa Higelin
Gustave Kervern
Ovidie como el Agente de bienes raíces.
Solène Rigot
Xavier Mathieu
Yvonne Gradelet
Referencias
Enlaces externos
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{
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| 4,533
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Synagoga w Przeworsku – nieistniejąca renesansowa synagoga, która znajdowała się między pl. Mickiewicza i ulicą Kazimierzowską na Starym Mieście w Przeworsku.
Historia i architektura
Synagogę wzniesiono w latach 1626-1629. Usytuowana była między pl. Mickiewicza a ul. Kazimierzowską. Przy jej wznoszeniu zastosowano tzw. styl narodowy (podobnie jak w synagogach we Lwowie i Żółkwi), oparty na przepisach Talmudu. Budynek wzniesiony z kamienia i cegły posiadał skarpy i był pokryty renesansowym dachem. Obiekt składał się z części głównej, mieszczącej salę modlitewną, kruchty w formie przybudówki i przedsionka, które były podświetlone dwunastoma półkoliście przesklepionymi oknami. Nad kruchtą znajdowała się galeria dla kobiet (babiniec), połączona otworami z główną salą o wymiarach w świetle ścian 18,2 x 12,4 mo osi dłuższej zorientowanej wschód-zachód. Około poł. XIX wzniesiono przybudówkę od strony ulicy Kazimierzowskiej. Po pożarze w 1761 wykonano sufit z drewna imitujący strop. W 1892 na zlecenie Komisji do Badań Historii Sztuki w Polsce podczas wizji lokalnej opisano i narysowano niektóre fragmenty synagogi. W 1927 podczas remontu pokryto dach nad salą główną blachą ocynkowaną i zmieniono konstrukcję dachową nad krużgankiem. Synagogę wraz z wyposażeniem spalili hitlerowcy 12 września 1939, a ruiny po wojnie rozebrano.
Wyposażenie
W środku sali modlitewnej znajdowała się kwadratowa bima, w formie 4 słupów zakończonych sklepieniem tworzącym baldachim. Pod nią mieściła się geniza (schowek na nieużywane już zwoje tory). Na ścianie, naprzeciw wejścia urządzono aron ha-kodesz. W przedsionku znajdowała się kuna, czyli małe wgłębienie w murze z hakami, do których przywiązywano skazanego, aby wymierzyć mu karę.
Wśród sprzętów znajdujących się w synagodze należy wyróżnić mosiężne menory i blachy naścienne, bogato rzeźbioną koronę na torze, zasłonę przed szafą ołtarzową z polskim orłem (parochet).
Galeria
Przypisy
Bibliografia
Linki zewnętrzne
Synagoga na portalu Wirtualny Sztetl
Architektura judaizmu w Przeworsku
Przeworsk
Obiekty sakralne w Przeworsku
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"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
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| 2,423
|
/*
https://oj.leetcode.com/problems/lru-cache/
LRU Cache
Design and implement a data structure for Least Recently Used (LRU) cache. It should support the following operations: get and set.
get(key) - Get the value (will always be positive) of the key if the key exists in the cache, otherwise return -1.
set(key, value) - Set or insert the value if the key is not already present. When the cache reached its capacity, it should invalidate the least recently used item before inserting a new item.
*/
#include "04_lru_cache.h"
using namespace std;
LRUCache::LRUCache(int capacity){
entries = new LRUCacheEntry[capacity];
for (int i=0; i<capacity; i++)
_freeEntries.push_back(entries+i);
head = new LRUCacheEntry;
tail = new LRUCacheEntry;
head->prev = NULL;
head->next = tail;
tail->next = NULL;
tail->prev = head;
}
LRUCache::~LRUCache()
{
delete head;
delete tail;
delete [] entries;
}
int LRUCache::get(int key){
LRUCacheEntry* node = _mapping[key];
if(node)
{
detach(node);
attach(node);
return node->data;
}
else return -1;
}
void LRUCache::set(int key, int data){
LRUCacheEntry* node = _mapping[key];
if(node)
{
// refresh the link list
detach(node);
node->data = data;
attach(node);
}
else{
if ( _freeEntries.empty() )
{
node = tail->prev;
detach(node);
_mapping.erase(node->key);
node->data = data;
node->key = key;
_mapping[key] = node;
attach(node);
}
else{
node = _freeEntries.back();
_freeEntries.pop_back();
node->key = key;
node->data = data;
_mapping[key] = node;
attach(node);
}
}
}
void LRUCache::detach(LRUCacheEntry* node)
{
node->prev->next = node->next;
node->next->prev = node->prev;
}
void LRUCache::attach(LRUCacheEntry* node)
{
node->next = head->next;
node->prev = head;
head->next = node;
node->next->prev = node;
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 9,889
|
De Andorrese parlementsverkiezingen 2015 werden gehouden op 1 maart 2015. Alle 28 raadsleden werden verkozen. De helft werd verkozen ter vertegenwoordiging van de parochies (twee raadsleden per parochie). De andere helft werd gekozen van een nationale lijst.
De Democraten voor Andorra verloren vijf zetels, maar behielden hun absolute meerderheid. De Sociaaldemocratische Partij (die samen met o.a. de Groenen in een coalitie zaten) halveerden. De nieuwe Liberalen van Andorra, die eerder waren afgesplitst van de democraten, haalden acht zetels. De eveneens nieuwe SDP haalde twee zetels.
Deelnemende partijen
Nationale lijst
Vier partijen deden mee op de nationale lijst, even veel als vier jaar geleden. Ten opzichte van toen deden twee nieuwe partijen mee: de Liberalen van Andorra (eerder actief als Liberale Partij van Andorra) en Sociaaldemocratie en Vooruitgang. Daarentegen deed Andorra voor Verandering niet mee aan deze verkiezing. De Groenen van Andorra deden niet onafhankelijk mee, maar zaten in een coalitie die geleid werd door de Sociaaldemocratische Partij.
Parochies
Dezelfde vier partijen deden ook mee in de parochies. Ten opzichte van vier jaar terug deed de Laurediaanse Unie niet mee, maar vormden ze een coalitie met de Liberalen van Andorra in Sant Julià de Lòria. De Liberalen vormden in enkele andere parochies ook coalities met lokale partijen, net als de Democraten voor Andorra.
Verkiezingsuitslag
De verkiezingen werden gewonnen door de Democraten voor Andorra van regeringsleider Antoni Martí. Ze verloren weliswaar vijf van hun twintig zetels, maar behielden een absolute meerderheid.
Nationale lijst
De helft van de zetels werd gekozen door middel van evenredige vertegenwoordiging op een nationale lijst. Restzetels werden verdeeld door de methode van de grootste overschotten. De Democraten van Andorra (5,18) hadden zo recht op vijf zetels, de Liberalen van Andorra (3,88) en de Coalitie Samen (3,29) hadden recht op drie zetels en Sociaaldemocratie en Vooruitgang (1,64) had recht op één zetel. De twee restzetels gingen naar de partijen met het grootste getal 'achter de komma': de Liberalen van Andorra en Sociaaldemocratie en Vooruitgang.
Parochies
De andere helft van de zetels werd gekozen in de parochies. Elke parochie vormde een kiesdistrict. De partij die in een parochie het meeste stemmen kreeg kreeg twee zetels. Niet alle partijen deden mee in elke parochie: in Canillo deden de Liberalen van Andorra en Sociaaldemocratie en Vooruitgang niet mee. Die laatste deed ook niet mee in La Massana. Daarnaast vormden enkele partijen een coalitie in sommige parochies:
De Democraten voor Andorra vormden een coalitie met Samen voor Vooruitgang in Encamp, met Gemeenschappelijke Actie van Ordino in Ordino, met de Beweging van La Massana in La Massana en met de Coalitie van Onafhankelijken in Andorra la Vella.
De Liberalen van Andorra vormde een coalitie met de Laurediaanse Unie in Sant Julià de Lòria en met onafhankelijke kandidaten in Encamp, Ordino en La Massana.
De winnende partij per parochie is hieronder in het vet aangegeven. Coalities zijn aangegeven met een asterisk (*).
Verkozen kandidaten
De volgende 28 kandidaten werden verkozen in de Algemene Raad der Valleien:
Externe link
Website verkiezingen
Andorra, parlement
Parlementsverkiezingen 2015
|
{
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| 1,496
|
import sys
import os.path
import re
# Check if argument exists
if len(sys.argv) < 2:
print('Give me a file! }:C')
exit(0)
# Get first argument as input file name
input_file_name = str(sys.argv[1])
# Check if file name suffix is '.lhs'
if len(input_file_name) < 4 or input_file_name[-4:] != '.lhs':
print('I don\'t like this file')
exit(0)
else:
output_file_name = input_file_name[:-4] + '.hs'
# Get execution directory
dir_path = os.path.dirname(os.path.realpath(__file__))
# Check if file exists
if not os.path.isfile(input_file_name): # in current dir
if os.path.isfile(dir_path + '\\' + input_file_name): # in exec dir
input_file_name = dir_path + '\\' + input_file_name
output_file_name = dir_path + '\\' + output_file_name
else:
print('I can\'t see this shit')
exit(0)
# Open files
input_file = open(input_file_name, 'r')
output_file = open(output_file_name, 'w')
# Read input file
lines = input_file.readlines()
# Write line by line
for line in lines:
if len(line) <= 1: # empty line
output_file.write(line)
elif line[0] == '>': # code
output_file.write(line[2:])
else: # comment
m = re.search('[0-9a-zA-Z]', line) # search for first alphanumeric symbol
if m:
line = ('').join(list(line)[m.start():])
output_file.write('-- ' + line)
else: # if there is no alphanumeric
output_file.write('\n')
print('Nya! :3')
# Close files
input_file.close()
output_file.close()
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 8,518
|
{"url":"https:\/\/hal.inria.fr\/hal-01394241","text":"# On the Robustness of Multiscale Hybrid-Mixed Methods\n\nAbstract : In this work we prove uniform convergence of the Multiscale Hybrid-Mixed (MHM for short) finite element method for second order elliptic problems with rough periodic coefficients. The MHM method is shown to avoid resonance errors without adopting oversampling techniques. In particular, we establish that the discretization error for the primal variable in the broken $H 1$ and $L$2 norms are $O(h + \u03b5 \u03b4)$ and $O(h 2 + h \u03b5 \u03b4)$, respectively, and for the dual variable is $O(h + \u03b5 \u03b4)$ in the $H$(div; \u00b7) norm, where $0 < \u03b4 \u2264 1\/2$ (depending on regularity). Such results rely on sharpened asymptotic expansion error estimates for the elliptic models with prescribed Dirichlet, Neumann or mixed boundary conditions.\nKeywords :\nDocument type :\nJournal articles\nDomain :\n\nCited literature [36 references]\n\nhttps:\/\/hal.inria.fr\/hal-01394241\nContributor : frederic valentin Connect in order to contact the contributor\nSubmitted on : Tuesday, November 8, 2016 - 11:30:04 PM\nLast modification on : Wednesday, November 3, 2021 - 4:13:45 AM\n\n### File\n\nParValVerf.pdf\nFiles produced by the author(s)\n\n### Citation\n\nDiego Paredes, Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric Valentin, Henrique M Versieux. On the Robustness of Multiscale Hybrid-Mixed Methods. Mathematics of Computation, American Mathematical Society, 2016, pp.1 - 1. \u27e810.1090\/mcom\/3108\u27e9. \u27e8hal-01394241\u27e9\n\nRecord views","date":"2022-06-29 06:36:18","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.27096936106681824, \"perplexity\": 2891.4963694378566}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2022-27\/segments\/1656103624904.34\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20220629054527-20220629084527-00683.warc.gz\"}"}
| null | null |
\subsubsection{#1} }
\renewcommand {\ss}[1] { \subsection{#1} }
\newcommand{\als}[1]{\begin{align*}#1\end{align*}}
\newcommand{\all}[2]{\begin{align}\label{#2} #1\end{align}}
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\AtBeginDocument{\let\textlabel\label}
\begin{document}
\title{Quantum Recommendation Systems}
\author{
Iordanis Kerenidis \thanks{
CNRS, IRIF, Universit\'e Paris Diderot, Paris, France and
Centre for Quantum Technologies, National University of Singapore, Singapore.
Email: {\tt jkeren@liafa.univ-paris-diderot.fr}.}
\and
Anupam Prakash \thanks{Centre for Quantum Technologies and School of Physical and Mathematical Sciences, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore.
Email: { \tt aprakash@ntu.edu.sg}.}
}
\maketitle
\begin{abstract}
A recommendation system uses the past purchases or ratings of $n$ products by a group of $m$ users, in order to provide personalized recommendations to individual users. The information is modeled as an $m \times n$ preference matrix which is assumed to have a good \rankk approximation, for a small constant $k$.
In this work, we present a quantum algorithm for recommendation systems that has running time $O(\text{poly}(k)\text{polylog}(mn))$. All known classical algorithms for recommendation systems that work through reconstructing an approximation of the preference matrix run in time polynomial in the matrix dimension. Our algorithm provides good recommendations by sampling efficiently from an approximation of the preference matrix, without reconstructing the entire matrix. For this, we design an efficient quantum procedure to project a given vector onto the row space of a given matrix. This is the first algorithm for recommendation systems that runs in time polylogarithmic in the dimensions of the matrix and provides an example of a quantum machine learning algorithm for a real world application.
\end{abstract}
\section{Introduction}
A recommendation system uses information about past purchases or ratings of products by a group of users in order to provide personalized recommendations to individual users. More precisely, we assume there are $m$ users, for example clients of an online platform like Amazon or Netflix, each of whom have some inherent preference or utility about $n$ products, for example books, movies etc. The user preferences are modeled by an $m \times n$ matrix $P$, where the element $P_{ij}$ denotes how much the user $i$ values product $j$. If the preference matrix $P$ had been known in advance, it would have been easy to make good recommendations to the users by selecting elements of this matrix with high value. However, this matrix is not known a priori. Information about $P$ arrives in an online manner each time a user buys a product, writes a review, or fills out a survey. A recommendation system tries to utilize the already known information about all users in order to suggest products to individual users that have high utility for them and can eventually lead to a purchase.
There has been an extensive body of work on recommendation systems, since it is a very interesting theoretical problem and also of great importance to the industry. We cite the works of \cite{AFKMS01, PTRV98, DKR02, APPT05} who studied the problem in a combinatorial or linear algebraic fashion. There has also been a series of works in the machine learning community many of them inspired by a practical challenge by Netflix on real world data \cite{KBV09, BK07, BK11}.
We next discuss the low rank assumption on the preference matrix underlying recommendation systems and the
way this assumption is used to perform matrix reconstruction in classical recommendation systems. We then describe the
computational model for our quantum recommendation algorithm that is based on matrix sampling and compare
it to classical recommendation algorithms based on matrix reconstruction. We provide a high level overview of our algorithm
in section \ref{oneone} and then, we compare it with previous work on quantum machine learning in section \ref{onetwo}.
\paragraph*{The low-rank assumption.}
The underlying assumption in recommendation systems is that one can infer information about a specific user from the information about all other users because, in some sense, the majority of users belong to some well-defined ``types". In other words, most people's likes are not unique but fall into one of a small number of categories. Hence, we can aggregate the information of ``similar" users to predict which products have high utility for an individual user.
More formally, the assumption in recommendation systems is that the preference matrix $P$ can be well approximated (according to some distance measure) by a low-rank matrix. There are different reasons why this assumption is indeed justified. First, from a philosophical and cognitive science perspective, it is believed that there are few inherent reasons why people buy or not a product: the price, the quality, the popularity, the brand recognition, etc. (see for example \cite{AFKMS01, R79}). Each user can be thought of as weighing these small number of properties differently but still, his preference for a product can be computed by checking how the product scores in these properties. Such a model produces a matrix $P$ which has a good \rankk approximation, for a small $k$, which can be thought of as a constant independent of the number of users $m$ or the number of products $n$.
Moreover, a number of theoretical models of users have been proposed in the literature which give rise to a matrix with good low-rank approximation. For example, if one assumes that the users belong to a small number of ``types", where a type can be thought of as an archetypical user, and then each individual user belonging to this type is some noisy version of this archetypical user, then the matrix has a good low-rank approximation \cite{DKR02, PTRV98}. In addition, preference matrices that come from real data have been found to have rank asymptotically much smaller than the size of the matrix.
For these reasons, the assumption that the matrix $P$ has a good low-rank approximation has been widely used in the literature. In fact, if we examine this assumption more carefully, we find that in order to justify that the recommendation system provides high-value recommendations, we assume that users ``belong" to a small number of user types and also that they agree with these types on the high-value elements. For contradiction, imagine that there are $k$ types of users, where each type has very few high-value elements and many small value elements. Then, the users who belong to each type can agree on all the small value elements and have completely different high-value elements. In other words, even though the matrix is low-rank, the recommendations would be of no quality. Hence, the assumption that has been implicitly made, either by philosophical reasons or by modeling the users, is that there are $k$ types of users and the users of each type ``agree" on the high-value elements.
\vspace{-0.3cm}
\paragraph*{Recommendations by Matrix Reconstruction.}
One of the most powerful and common ways to provide competitive recommendation systems is through a procedure called matrix reconstruction. In this framework, we assume that there exists a hidden matrix $A$, in our case the preference matrix,
which can be well approximated by a low-rank matrix. The reconstruction algorithm gets as input a number of samples from $A$, in our case the previous data about the users' preferences, and outputs a \rankk matrix with the guarantee that it is ``close" to $A$ according to some measure (for example, the $2$- or the Frobenius norm). For example, the reconstruction algorithm can perform a Singular Value Decomposition on the subsample matrix $\widehat{A}$, where $\widehat{A}$ agrees with $A$ on known samples and is $0$ on the remaining entries, and output the projection of $\widehat{A}$ onto the space spanned by its top-$k$ singular vectors. The ``closeness" property guarantees that the recommendation system will select an element that with high probability corresponds to a high-value element in the matrix $A$ and hence it is a good recommendation (\cite{DKR02, AFKMS01}). Another commonly used algorithm for matrix reconstruction is a variant of
alternating minimization, this has been successful in practice \cite{KBV09} and has been recently analyzed theoretically \cite{JNS13}. Note that all known algorithms for matrix reconstruction require time polynomial in the matrix dimensions.
An important remark is that matrix reconstruction is a harder task than recommendation systems, in the sense that a good recommendation system only needs to output a high value element of the matrix and not the entire matrix \cite{RU12, GT05}. Nevertheless, classical algorithms perform a reconstruction of the entire matrix as the resources required for finding high value elements are the same as the resources
needed for full reconstruction.
\vspace{-0.3cm}
\paragraph*{Computational resources and performance.}
In order to make a precise comparison between classical recommendation systems and our proposed system, we discuss more explicitly the computational resources in recommendation systems.
We are interested in systems that arise in the real world, for example on Amazon or Netflix, where the number of users can be about 100 million and the products around one million.
For such large systems, storing the entire preference matrix or doing heavy computations every time a user comes into the system is prohibitive.
The memory model for an online recommendation system is the following. A data structure is maintained
that contains the information that arrives into the system in the form of elements $P_{ij}$ of the preference matrix. We require that the time needed to write the tuple $(i,j,P_{ij})$ into the memory data structure and to read it out is polylogarithmic in the matrix dimensions. In addition, we require that the total memory required is linear (up to polylogarithmic terms) in the number of entries of the preference matrix that have arrived into the system. For example, one could store the elements $(i,j,P_{ij})$ in an ordered list.
Most classical recommendation systems use a two stage approach. The first stage involves preprocessing the data stored in memory. For example, a matrix reconstruction algorithm can be performed during the preprocessing stage to produce and store a low-rank approximation of the preference matrix. This computation takes time polynomial in the matrix dimensions, $\mbox{poly}(mn)$, and the stored output is the \topk row singular vectors that need space $O(nk)$.
The second stage is an online computation that is performed when a user comes into the system. For example, one can project the row of the subsample matrix that corresponds to this user onto the already stored \topk row singular vectors of the matrix and output a high value element in time $O(nk)$.
The goal is to minimize the time needed to provide an online recommendation while at the same time keeping the time and the extra memory needed for the preprocessing reasonable. In general, the preprocessing time is polynomial in the dimensions of the preference matrix, i.e. $\mbox{poly}(mn)$, the extra memory is $O(nk)$, while the time for the online recommendation is $O(nk)$. Note that in real world applications, it is prohibitive to have a system where the preprocessing uses memory $O(mn)$, even though with such large memory the online recommendation problem becomes trivial as all the answers can be pre-computed and stored.
A recommendation system performs well, when with high probability and for most users it outputs a recommendation that is good for a user.
The performance of our recommendation system is similar to previous classical recommendation systems based on matrix reconstruction and depends on how good the low-rank approximation of the matrix is. Our algorithm works for any matrix, but as in the classical case, it guarantees good recommendations only when the matrix has a good low-rank approximation.
\subsection{Our results} \label{oneone}
In this section, we provide a high level overview of our quantum recommendation algorithm
which requires time polylogarithmic in the matrix dimensions and polynomial only in the rank of the matrix, which as we have argued is assumed to be much smaller than the dimension of the matrix. This is the first algorithm for recommendation systems with complexity polylogarithmic in the matrix dimensions.
\vspace{-0.3cm}
\paragraph*{Our model.}
First, we describe a simple and general model for online recommendation systems.
We start with a hidden preference matrix $T$, where the element $T_{ij}$ takes values 0 or 1 and indicates whether
product $j$ is "good" for user $i$. Such boolean matrices arise naturally in a "thumbs up / thumbs down" system, where users can declare whether they like or not a certain product. We can also easily construct such matrices from non-boolean preference matrices. For each user, we split the products into two categories, the ``good" and the ``bad" recommendations, based on the matrix entries. This categorization can be done in different ways and we do not have to impose any constraints. For example, good recommendations can be every product with value higher than a threshold or the 100 products with the highest values etc.
Our assumption is that the matrix $T$ has a good low-rank approximation. The reasons that justify this assumption are the ones used already in the literature. As before, we believe that there is a small number of user types, and within each type the users ``agree" on the high-value elements. This modelling of the users gives rise to a matrix $T$ with a good low-rank approximation.
Once we have defined the matrix $T$, then any algorithm that reconstructs a matrix close to $T$, will provide a good recommendation, since $T$ is the indicator matrix of good recommendations.
\vspace{-0.3cm}
\paragraph*{Recommendations by Matrix Sampling.}
The low-rank approximation of the matrix $T$ can be computed as follows: first, define the matrix $\widehat{T}$, where with some probability each element of $\widehat{T}$ is equal to the corresponding element in $T$ normalized and otherwise it is zero. This matrix, that we call a subsample matrix, corresponds to the information the recommendation system has already gathered about the matrix $T$. Then, by performing a Singular Value Decomposition and computing the projection of this matrix to its \topk row singular vectors, we compute a matrix $\widehat{T}_k$ which can be proven to be close to the matrix $T$, as long as $T$ had a good \rankk approximation.
As we remarked, in principle, we do not need to explicitly compute the entire matrix $\widehat{T}_k$.
It is sufficient to be able to sample from the matrix $\widehat{T}_k$ which is close to $T$. Since $T$ is a 0-1 matrix, sampling from $\widehat{T}_k$ means finding with high probability a 1-element in $T$. By the fact that $T$ indicates the good recommendations, our algorithm will output a good recommendation with high probability.
Hence, we reduce the question of providing good recommendations to being able to sample from the matrix $\widehat{T}_k$. In fact, since we want to be able to recommend products to any specific user $i$, we need to be able, given an index $i$, to sample from the $i$-th row of the matrix $\widehat{T}_k$, denoted by $ ( \widehat{T}_k )_i$,
i.e. output an element $( \widehat{T}_k )_{ij}$ with probability $| ( \widehat{T}_k )_{ij}|^2 / \norm{( \widehat{T}_k )_i}^2$. Note that the row $( \widehat{T}_k)_i$ is the projection of the row $\widehat{T}_i$ onto the \topk row singular vectors of $\widehat{T}$.
\vspace{-0.3cm}
\paragraph*{An efficient quantum algorithm for Matrix Sampling.}
Here is where quantum computing becomes useful: we design a quantum procedure that samples from the row $ ( \widehat{T}_k )_i$ in time $\mbox{polylog}(m n)$. Note that the quantum algorithm does not output the row $ ( \widehat{T}_k )_i$, which by itself would take time linear in the dimension $n$, but only samples from this row. But this is exactly what is needed for recommendation systems: Sample a high-value element of the row, rather than explicitly output the entire row. More precisely, we describe an efficient quantum procedure that takes as input a vector, a matrix, and a threshold parameter
and generates the quantum state corresponding to the projection of the vector onto the space spanned by the row singular vectors of the matrix whose corresponding singular value is greater than the threshold.
From the outcome of this procedure it is clear how to sample a product by just measuring the quantum state in the computational basis.
\subsection{Comparisons with related work.} \label{onetwo}
The development of quantum algorithms for linear algebra was initiated by the breakthrough algorithm of Harrow, Hassidim, Lloyd \cite{HHL09}. The HHL algorithm takes as input a sparse (the number of non zero entries in each row of the matrix is polylogarithmic) and well-conditioned system of linear equations and in time polylogarithmic in the dimension of the system outputs a quantum state which corresponds to the classical solution of the system. Note that this algorithm does not explicitly output the classical solution, nevertheless, the quantum state enables one to sample from the solution vector. This is a very powerful algorithm and
has been very influential in recent times, where several works \cite{LMR13, LMR13a, LMR13b} obtained quantum algorithms for machine learning problems based on similar assumptions. However, when looking at these applications, one needs to be extremely careful about two things: first, the assumptions that one needs to make on the input in order to achieve efficient running time, since, for example, the running time of the HHL algorithm is polylogarithmic only when the matrix is well conditioned (i.e. the minimum singular value is at least inverse polynomially big) and sparse; and second, whether the quantum algorithm solves the original classical problem or a weaker variant to account for the fact that the classical solution is not given explicitly but is encoded in a quantum state \cite{A15,LMR13b}. In addition, we mention a recent but orthogonal proposal to use techniques inspired by the structure of quantum theory for classical recommender systems \cite{S16}.
Let us be more explicit about our algorithm's assumptions. We assume the data is stored in a classical data structure which enables the quantum algorithm to efficiently create superpositions of rows of the subsample matrix. The HHL algorithm also needs to be able to efficiently construct quantum states from classical vectors given as inputs. In the Appendix,
we describe a classical data structure for storing the matrix $\widehat{T}$. The data structure maintains some extra information about the matrix entries, so that, the total memory needed is linear (up to polylogarithmic terms) in the number of entries in the subsample matrix, the data entry time remains polylogarithmic in the matrix dimensions, and an algorithm with quantum access to the data structure can create the necessary superpositions in polylogarithmic time. Note also, that even in the case the data has been stored as a normal array or list, we can preprocess it in linear time to construct our needed data structure. Thus, our quantum algorithm works under the same memory model as any other quantum query algorithm (e.g. Grover's algorithm): it assumes that there exists a classical data structure to which we can make quantum queries.
Overall, our system retains the necessary properties for the data entry and retrieval stage. Moreover, the classical complexity of matrix reconstruction does not change given the new data structure.
Importantly, in our system, we do not perform any preprocessing nor do we need any extra memory. Our recommendation algorithm just performs an online computation that requires time $\mbox{poly}(k)\mbox{polylog}(mn)$. This can be viewed as exponentially smaller than the classical time if the rank $k$ is a small
constant and the matrix dimensions are of the same order.
Unlike the HHL algorithm, our running time does not depend on the sparsity of the input matrix nor on its condition number, i.e. its smallest singular value. In other words, we do not make any additional assumptions about the classical data
beyond the low rank approximation assumptions made by classical recommendation systems.
It is also crucial to note that we have not changed what one needs to output, as was the case for the HHL algorithm and its applications, where instead of explicitly outputting a classical solution, they construct a quantum state that corresponds to this solution. We have instead described a real world application, where the ability to sample from the solution is precisely what is needed.
The rest of this paper is organized as follows. We introduce some preliminaries in section 2. In sections 3 and 4
we show that sampling from an approximate reconstruction of the matrix $T$ suffices to provide good recommendations and that if the sub-samples $\widehat{T}$ are uniformly distributed then projecting onto
the top $k$ singular vectors of $\widehat{T}$ is an approximate reconstruction for $T$. In section 5 we describe
an efficient quantum algorithm for projecting a vector onto the space of singular vectors of $\widehat{T}$ whose corresponding singular values are greater than a threshold. In section 6 we combine these components to obtain a quantum recommendation algorithm and analyze its performance and running time.
\section{Preliminaries}
\subsection{Linear algebra}
The set $\{ 1, 2, \cdots, n\}$ is denoted by $[n]$, the standard basis vectors in $\mathbb{R}^{n}$ are denoted by $e_{i}, i \in [n]$.
For any matrix $A\in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$, the Frobenius norm is defined as $\norm{A}_{F}^{2}= \sum_{ij} A_{ij}^{2} = \sum_{i} \sigma_{i}^{2}$, where $\sigma_{i}$ are the singular values. We also say that we sample from the matrix $A$ when we pick an element $(i,j)$ with probability $|A_{ij}|^2/\norm{A}_F^2$, and write $(i,j) \sim A$. For a vector $x \in \mathbb{R}^n$ we denote the norm $\norm{x} ^2 = \sum_{i} x_i^2$.
The matrix $A$ is unitary if $AA^{*}=A^{*}A=I$, the eigenvalues of a unitary matrix
have unit norm. A matrix $P \in \mathbb{R}^{n \times n}$ is a projector if $P^{2}=P$. If $A$ is a matrix with orthonormal columns,
then $AA^{t}$ is the projector onto the column space of $A$.
\textbf{Singular value decomposition:}
The singular value decomposition of $A\in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$ is a decomposition of the form $A=U\Sigma V^{t}$ where
$U \in \mathbb{R}^{m\times m}, V\in \mathbb{R}^{n\times n}$ are unitary and $\Sigma \in \mathbb{R}{m \times n}$ is a diagonal matrix with positive entries.
The $SVD$ can be written as $A = \sum_{i \in [r]} \sigma_{i} u_{i} v_{i}^{t}$ where $r$ is the rank of $A$.
The column and the row singular vectors $u_{i}$ and $v_{i}$ are the columns of $U$ and $V$ respectively. The Moore Penrose pseudo-inverse is
defined as $A^{+} = V \Sigma^{+} U^{t}$, where $A^{+} = \sum_{i\in [r]} \frac{1}{\sigma_{i}} v_{i} u_{i}^{t}$.
It follows that $AA^{+}$ is the projection onto the column space $Col(A)$ while $A^{+}A$ is the projection onto the row space $Row(A)$. The truncation of $A$ to the space of the singular vectors that correspond to the $k$ largest singular values is denoted by $A_{k}$, that is $A_{k}= \sum_{i \in [k]} \sigma_{i} u_{i} v_{i}^{t}$. We denote by $A_{ \geq \sigma}$ the projection of the matrix $A$ onto the space spanned by the singular vectors whose corresponding singular value is bigger than $\sigma$, that is $A_{\geq \sigma}= \sum_{i : \sigma_i \geq \sigma} \sigma_{i} u_{i} v_{i}^{t}$.
\subsection{Quantum information}
We use the standard bra-ket notation to denote quantum states.
We use the following encoding for representing $n$ dimensional vectors by quantum states,
\begin{defn} \label{vstate}
The vector state $\ket{x}$ for $x \in \mathbb{R}^{n}$ is defined as $\frac{1}{\norm{x} } \sum_{i\in [n]} x_{i} \ket{i}$.
\end{defn}
\noindent
In case $x \in \mathbb{R}^{mn}$, we can either see it as a vector in this space or as a matrix with dimensions $m \times n$ and then we can equivalently write
$\frac{1}{\norm{x} } \sum_{i\in [m], j \in [n]} x_{ij} \ket{i,j}$.
A quantum measurement $(POVM)$ is a collection of positive operators
$M_{a} \succeq 0$ such that $\sum_{a} M_{a} =I_{n}$. The probability of obtaining outcome $a$
when state $\ket{\phi}$ is measured is $Tr(\braket{\phi} {M_{a}\phi})$.
If $\ket{x}$ is measured in the standard basis, then outcome $i$ is observed with probability
$x_{i}^{2}/\norm{x}^{2}$.
We also use a well-known quantum algorithm called phase estimation. The phase estimation algorithm estimates the eigenvalues of a
unitary operator $U$ with additive error $\epsilon$ in time $O( T(U) \log n /\epsilon)$ if $T(U)$ is the time required to implement the
unitary $U$.
\begin{theorem} \label{pest}
{\em Phase estimation \cite{K95}}: Let $U$ be a unitary operator, with eigenvectors $\ket{v_j}$ and eigenvalues $e^{ \iota \theta_{j}}$ for $\theta_{j} \in [-\pi, \pi]$, i.e. we have $U\ket{v_{j}} = e^{ \iota \theta_{j}} \ket{v_{j}}$ for $j \in [n]$. For a precision parameter $\epsilon >0$, there exists a quantum algorithm that runs in time $O( T(U) \log n /\epsilon)$ and with probability $1-1/\emph{poly}(n)$
maps a state $\ket{\phi} = \sum_{j \in [n]} \alpha_{j} \ket{v_{j}}$
to the state $\sum_{j \in [n]} \alpha_{j} \ket{v_{j}}\ket{ \overline{\theta_{j}} }$ such that $\overline{\theta_{j}} \in \theta_{j} \pm \epsilon$ for all $j\in [n]$.
\end{theorem}
Note that we use $\iota$ to denote the imaginary unit $i$ to avoid confusion with summation indices.
The analysis of phase estimation shows that the algorithm outputs a discrete valued estimate for each eigenvalue
that is within additive error $\epsilon$ with probability at least $0.8$, the probability is boosted to $1- 1/\text{poly}(n)$ by repeating $O(\log n)$ times and choosing the most frequent estimate.
\section{A model for recommendation systems}
\ss{The preference matrix}
We define a simple and general model for recommendation systems.
We define a {\em preference matrix } $T$ of size $m \times n$, where every row corresponds to a user, every column to a product, and the element $T_{ij}$ is 0 or 1 and denotes whether product $j$ is a good recommendation for user $i$ or not.
\begin{defn}
A product $j$ is a good recommendation for user $i$ iff $T_{ij} =1$, otherwise it is bad. We also write it as the pair $(i,j)$ is a good or bad recommendation.
\end{defn}
Such matrices arise in systems where the information the users enter is binary, for example in a "thumbs up / thumbs down" system. We can also construct such matrices from more general preference matrices where the users use a star system to grade the products. One can imagine, for example, that the good recommendations could be the products for which the user has a preference higher than a threshold, or the hundred products with highest preference etc.
\subsection{Sampling an approximation of the preference matrix}
Note that sampling from the preference matrix $T$ would always yield a good recommendation, since the products that correspond to bad recommendations have probability 0. This remains true even when we want to sample from a specific row of the matrix in order to provide a recommendation to a specific user.
Our goal now is to show that sampling from a matrix that is close to the matrix $T$ under the Frobenius norm yields good recommendations with high probability for most users.
\begin{lemma}\label{matrix}
Let $\widetilde{T}$ be an approximation of the matrix $T$ such that
$ \norm{ T - \widetilde{T} }_{F} \leq \epsilon \norm{ T }_F$.
Then, the probability a sample according to $\widetilde{T}$ is a bad recommendation is
\[
\Pr_{(i,j) \sim \widetilde{T}} [(i,j) \mbox{ bad} ] \leq \left( \frac{\epsilon}{1-\epsilon} \right)^2
\]
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
By the theorem's assumption and triangle inequality, we have
\[
(1+\epsilon)\norm{T}_F \geq \norm{\widetilde{T}}_F \geq (1-\epsilon)\norm{T}_F.
\]
We can rewrite the approximation guarantee as
\al{
\epsilon^2 \norm{ T }^2_F \geq \norm{ T - \widetilde{T} }_{F}^2 = \sum_{(i,j):good} (1 - \widetilde{T}_{ij})^{2} + \sum_{(i,j):bad} \tilde{T}_{ij}^2 \geq \sum_{(i,j):bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2
}
The probability that sampling from $\widetilde{T}$ provides a bad recommendation is
\al{
\Pr [(i,j) \mbox{ bad}]= \frac{ \sum_{(i,j):bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2}{\norm{ \widetilde{T}} ^2_F} \leq \frac{ \sum_{(i,j):bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2}{ (1-\epsilon)^2 \norm{ T} ^2_F} \leq \left( \frac{\epsilon}{1-\epsilon} \right)^2.
}
\end{proof}
The above can be rewritten as follows denoting the $i$-th row of $T$ by $T_{i}$,
\begin{equation}\label{lemma}
\Pr[(i,j) \mbox{ bad}] = \frac{ \sum_{(i,j):bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2}{\norm{ \widetilde{T}} ^2_F} = \sum_{i \in [m]} \frac{ \norm{\widetilde{T}_{i}}^{2}_{F} }{ \norm{ \widetilde{T} } ^2_F} \cdot \frac{\sum_{j:(i,j) bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2}{ \norm{\widetilde{T}_{i}}^{2}_{F} } \leq
\left( \frac{\epsilon}{1-\epsilon} \right)^2.
\end{equation}
We can see that the above lemma provides the guarantee that the probability of a bad recommendation for an average user is small, where the average is weighted according to the weight of each row. In other words, if we care more about users that have many products they like and less for users that like almost nothing, then the sampling already guarantees good performance.
While this might be sufficient in some scenarios, it would be nice to also have a guarantee that the recommendation is good for most users, where now every user has the same importance. Note that only with the closeness guarantee in the Frobenius norm, this may not be true, since imagine the case where almost all rows of the matrix $T$ have extremely few 1s and a few rows have almost all 1s. In this case, it might be that the approximation matrix is close to the preference matrix according to the Frobenius norm, nevertheless the recommendation system provides good recommendations only for the very heavy users and bad ones for almost everyone else.
Hence, if we would like to show that the recommendation system provides good recommendations for most users, then we need to assume that most users are ``typical", meaning that the number of products that are good recommendations for them is close to the average. We cannot expect to provide good recommendations for example to users that like almost nothing. One way to enforce this property is, for example, to define good recommendations for each user as the 100 top products, irrespective of how high their utilities are or whether there are even more good products for some users. In what follows we prove our results in most generality, where we introduce parameters for how many users are typical and how far from the average the number of good recommendations of a typical user can be.
\begin{theorem}\label{rec}
Let $T$ be an $m \times n$ matrix. Let $S$ be a subset of rows of size $|S| \geq (1-\zeta)m$ (for $\zeta>0$) such that for all $i \in S$,
\begin{equation}\label{assumption}
\frac{1}{1+\gamma}\frac{\norm{ T} _F^2}{m} \leq \norm { T_{i} }^{2} \leq (1+\gamma) \frac{\norm{ T} _F^2}{m}
\end{equation}
for some $\gamma>0$.
Let $\widetilde{T}$ be an approximation of the matrix $T$ such that $ \norm{ T - \widetilde{T} }_{F} \leq \epsilon \norm{ T }_F$.
Then, there exists a subset $S' \subseteq S$ of size at least $(1-\delta-\zeta)m$ (for $\delta>0$), such that on average over the users in $S'$, the probability that a sample from the row $\widetilde{T}_{i}$ is a bad recommendation is
\[ \Pr_{i \sim \mathcal{U}_{S'}, j \sim \widetilde{T}_i}[(i,j) \emph{ bad}] \leq \frac{\left( \frac{\epsilon(1+\epsilon)}{1-\epsilon} \right)^2}{ \left( 1/\sqrt{1+\gamma} - \epsilon/\sqrt{\delta}\right)^2 (1-\delta - \zeta)}.
\]
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
We first use the guarantee that the matrices $T$ and $\widetilde{T}$ are close in the Frobenius norm to conclude that there exist at least $(1-\delta)m$ users for which
\begin{equation} \label{frob}
\norm{ T_{i}-\widetilde{T}_{i} } ^2 \leq \frac{\epsilon^2 \norm{ T }^2_F}{\delta m}.
\end{equation}
If not, summing the error of the strictly more than $\delta m$ users for which equation \ref{frob} is false we get the following contradiction,
\[
\norm{ T - \widetilde{T} } _{F}^2 > \delta m \frac{\epsilon^2 \norm{ T }^2_F}{\delta m} > \epsilon^2 \norm{ T }^2_F.
\]
Then, at least $(1-\delta-\zeta)m$ users both satisfy equation \ref{frob} and belong to the set $S$. Denote this set by $S'$.
Using equations \eqref{assumption} and \eqref{frob} and the triangle inequality $\norm{ \widetilde{T}_{i}} \geq \norm{T_{i}} - \norm{ T_{i}- \widetilde{T}_{i}}$, we have that for all users in $S'$
\begin{equation}\label{normS}
\norm{ \widetilde{T}_{i}}^{2}_{F} \geq \frac{\norm{T}_{F}^{2}}{m} \en{ \frac{1}{\sqrt{1+\gamma}} - \frac{\epsilon}{\sqrt{\delta}} }^{2} \geq \frac{\norm{\widetilde{T}}_{F}^{2}}{(1+\epsilon)^2 m} \en{ \frac{1}{\sqrt{1+\gamma}} - \frac{\epsilon}{\sqrt{\delta}} }^{2}.
\end{equation}
We now use equations \eqref{lemma} and \eqref{normS} and have
\begin{equation}\label{final}
\left( \frac{\epsilon}{1-\epsilon} \right)^2 \geq \sum_{i \in [m]} \frac{ \norm{ \widetilde{T}_{i}}^{2}_F }{\norm{ \widetilde{T}} ^2_F} \cdot \frac{\sum_{j:(i,j) bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2}{ \norm{ \widetilde{T}_{i}}^{2}_F}\geq
\frac{\left( 1/\sqrt{1+\gamma} - \epsilon/\sqrt{\delta}\right)^2}{(1+\epsilon)^2 m} \sum_{i \in {S'}} \frac{\sum_{j:(i,j) bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2}{ \norm{ \widetilde{T}_{i}}^{2}_F}.
\end{equation}
We are now ready to conclude that,
\[
\Pr_{i \sim \mathcal{U}_{S'}, j \sim \widetilde{T}_i}[(i,j) \mbox{ bad}] = \frac{1}{|S'|}\sum_{i \in S'} \frac{\sum_{j:(i,j) bad} \widetilde{T}_{ij}^2}{ \norm{ \widetilde{T}_{i}}^{2}_F}
\leq \frac{\left( \frac{\epsilon(1+\epsilon)}{1-\epsilon} \right)^2}{ \left( 1/\sqrt{1+\gamma} - \epsilon/\sqrt{\delta}\right)^2 (1-\delta-\zeta)}.
\]
\end{proof}
We note that by taking reasonable values for the parameters, the error does not increase much from the original error. For example, if we assume that $90\%$ of the users have preferences between $1/1.1$ and $1.1$ times the average, then the error over the typical users has increased by at most a factor of $1.5$.
Note also that we can easily make the quality of the recommendation system even better if we are willing to recommend a small number of products, instead of just one, and are satisfied if at least one of them is a good recommendation. This is in fact what happens in practical systems.
\section{Matrix Sampling}
We showed in the previous section that providing good recommendations reduces to being able to sample from a matrix $\widetilde{T}$ which is a good approximation to the recommendation matrix $T$ in the Frobenius norm. We will now define the approximation matrix $\widetilde{T}$, by extending known matrix reconstruction techniques. The reconstruction algorithms provides good guarantees under the assumption that the recommendation matrix $T$ has a good $k$-rank approximation for a small $k$, i.e. $\norm{T-T_k}_F \leq \epsilon \norm{T}_F$ (for some small constant $\epsilon \geq 0$).
Let us now briefly describe the matrix reconstruction algorithms. In general, the input to the reconstruction algorithm is a subsample of some matrix $A$. There are quite a few different ways of subsampling a matrix, for example, sampling each element of the matrix with some probability or sampling rows and/or columns of the matrix according to some distribution. We present here in more detail the first case as is described in the work of Achlioptas and McSherry \cite{AM01}. Each element of the matrix $A$ that has size $m \times n$ is sampled with probability $p$ and rescaled so as to obtain the random matrix $\widehat{A}$ where each element is equal to $\widehat{A}_{ij}=A_{ij}/p$ with probability $p$ and 0 otherwise. Note that $E[\widehat{A}]=A$ and that it is assumed that $k$ and $\norm{A}_F$ are known.
The reconstruction algorithm computes the projection of the input matrix $\widehat{A}$ onto its $k$-top singular vectors; we denote the projection
by $\widehat{A}_k$. The analysis of the algorithm shows that the approximation error $\norm{A - \widehat{A}_{k}}$ is not much bigger than $\norm{A - A_{k}}$. Projecting onto the top $k$ singular vectors of the subsampled matrix $\widehat{A}$ thus suffices to reconstruct a matrix approximating $A$.
The intuition for the analysis is that $\widehat{A}$ is a matrix whose entries are independent random variables, thus with high probability the top $k$ spectrum of $\widehat{A}$ will be close to the one of its expectation matrix $E[\widehat{A}]=A$. This intuition was proven in \cite{AM01}.
\begin{theorem}\label{AM}
\cite{AM01} Let $A\in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$ be a matrix and $b=\max_{ij} A_{ij}$.
Define the matrix $\widehat{A}$ to be a random matrix obtained by subsampling with probability
$p = 16 n b^2 / (\eta \norm{A}_F)^2$ (for $\eta>0$) and rescaling, that is $\widehat{A}_{ij} = A_{ij}/p$ with probability $p$ and $0$ otherwise. With probability at least
$1- exp(-19 (\log n)^{4})$ we have for any $k$
\al{ \label{Achl}
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{k}}_{F} &\leq \norm{A-A_k}_F + 3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \norm{A}_F.
}
\end{theorem}
Here, we will need to extend this result in order to be able to use it together with our quantum procedure.
First, we will consider the matrix which is not the projection on the $k$-top singular vectors, but the projection on the singular vectors whose corresponding singular values are larger than a threshold. For any matrix $A$ and any $\sigma \geq 0$, we denote by $A_{ \geq \sigma}$ the projection of the matrix $A$ onto the space spanned by the singular vectors whose corresponding singular value is bigger than $\sigma$.
Intuitively, since the spectrum of the matrix is highly concentrated on the top $k$ singular vectors, then the corresponding singular values should be of order $O(\frac{\norm{A}_F}{\sqrt{k}})$.
Note that we do not use anything about how the matrix $\widehat{A}$ was generated, only that it satisfies equation \ref{Achl}. Hence our results hold for other matrix reconstruction algorithms as well, as long as we have a similar guarantee in the Frobenius norm.
\begin{theorem}\label{sigma}
Let $A\in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$ be a matrix such that $\max_{ij} A_{ij}=1$.
Define the matrix $\widehat{A}$ to be a random matrix obtained by subsampling with probability
$p = 16 n/ \eta^{2} (\norm{A}_F)^2$ (for $\eta>0$) and rescaling, that is $\widehat{A}_{ij} = A_{ij}/p$ with probability $p$ and $0$ otherwise. Let $\mu>0$ a threshold parameter and denote $\sigma=\sqrt{ \frac{\mu}{k}}||\widehat{A}||_F$. With probability at least
$1- exp(-19 (\log n)^{4})$ we have
\al{
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} &\leq \norm{A-A_k}_F + (3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \mu^{-1/4}+\sqrt{\mu/p}) \norm{A}_F.
}
If $\norm{A-A_k}_F \leq \epsilon \norm{A}_F$ for some $\epsilon >0$ and $\norm{A}_{F} \geq \frac{ 36\sqrt{2} (nk)^{1/2}} { \epsilon^{3}}$ then we can choose $\eta, \mu$ such that $ \norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} \leq 3\epsilon \norm{A}_F$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
Let $\sigma_i$ denote the singular values of $\widehat{A}$. Let $\ell$ the largest integer for which $\sigma_\ell \geq \sqrt{ \frac{\mu}{k}}||\widehat{A}||_F$. Note that $\ell \leq \frac{k}{\mu}$. Then, by theorem \ref{AM}, we have
\begin{eqnarray*}
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} = \norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\ell}}_{F}
\leq \norm{A- A_{\ell}}_{F}+ 3\sqrt{ \eta} \ell^{1/4} \norm{A}_F .
\end{eqnarray*}
Define the random variable $X= \sum_{i,j} \widehat{A}_{ij}^{2}$ so that $X= \norm{\widehat{A}}_{F}^{2}$ and
$E[X ] = \norm{A}_{F}^{2}/p$. The random variables $\widehat{A}_{ij}$ are independent, using the Chernoff bounds
we have $\Pr [ \norm{\widehat{A}}_{F}^{2} > (1+ \beta) \norm{A}_{F}^{2}/p ] \leq e^{-\beta^{2} \norm{A}_{F}^{2}/3p}$
for $\beta \in [0, 1]$. The probability that $\norm{\widehat{A}}_{F}^{2} > 2\norm{A}_{F}^{2}/p$ is exponentially small.
We distinguish two cases.
If $\ell \geq k$, then $ \norm{A - A_\ell}_F \leq \norm{A - A_k}_F,$ since $A_\ell$ contains more of the singular vectors of $A$.
If $k > \ell$, then $ \norm{A - A_\ell}_F \leq \norm{A - A_k}_F + \norm{A_k-A_\ell}_F$, which dominates the two cases. For the second term we have $ \norm{A_k-A_\ell}_F^2 = \sum_{i=\ell+1}^k \sigma_i^2 \leq k \frac{\mu}{k}\norm{\widehat{A}}_F^2 \leq \frac{2\mu}{p} \norm{A}_F^2$.
Hence,
\[
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} \leq \norm{A-A_k}_F + (3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \mu^{-1/4}+\sqrt{2\mu/p}) \norm{A}_F.
\]
\noindent
If $\norm{A-A_k}_F \leq \epsilon \norm{A}_F$, for some $\epsilon \geq 0$ then we choose $\mu = \epsilon^{2} p/2$ and we can select any $\eta \leq \frac{2n^{1/4} \epsilon^{3/2}} { 3 (2k)^{1/4} \norm{A}_{F}^{1/2}}$ so that
$3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \mu^{-1/4} \leq \epsilon$ and the overall error $ \norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} \leq 3\epsilon \norm{A}_F$. Indeed,
\als{
3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \mu^{-1/4} = \frac{ 3\eta^{1/2} (2k)^{1/4} }{\epsilon^{1/2} p^{1/4} } = \frac{ 3\eta \norm{A}_{F}^{1/2} (2k)^{1/4} }{2\epsilon^{1/2} n^{1/4} } \leq \epsilon
}
Note that for this choice of $\mu$ and $\eta$, the sampling probability must be at least $p \geq \frac{ 36\sqrt{2} (nk)^{1/2}} { \norm{A}_{F} \epsilon^{3}}$, the assumption in the theorem statement ensures that $p\leq 1$.
\end{proof}
Our quantum procedure will almost produce this projection. In fact, we will need to consider a family of matrices which denote the projection of the matrix $A$ onto the space spanned by the union of the singular vectors whose corresponding singular value is bigger than $\sigma$ and also some subset of singular vectors whose corresponding singular value is in the interval $[(1-\kappa)\sigma, \sigma)$. Think of $\kappa$ as a constant, for example $1/3$. This subset could be empty, all such singular vectors, or any in-between subset. We denote by$A_{\geq \sigma, \kappa}$ any matrix in this family.
The final theorem we will need is the following
\begin{theorem}\label{sigmakappa}
Let $A\in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$ be a matrix and $\max_{ij} A_{ij}=1$.
Define the matrix $\widehat{A}$ to be a random matrix obtained by subsampling with probability
$p = 16 n / (\eta \norm{A}_F)^2$ and rescaling, that is $\widehat{A}_{ij} = A_{ij}/p$ with probability $p$ and $0$ otherwise. Let $\mu>0$ a threshold parameter and denote $\sigma=\sqrt{ \frac{\mu}{k}}||\widehat{A}||_F$. Let $\kappa >0$ a precision parameter.
With probability at least
$1- exp(-19 (\log n)^{4})$,
\al{
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}}_{F} \leq 3\norm{A-A_k}_F +
\left( 3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \mu^{-1/4}(2+(1-\kappa)^{-1/2})+(3-\kappa)\sqrt{2\mu/p}\right) \norm{A}_F.
}
If $\norm{A-A_k}_F \leq \epsilon \norm{A}_F$ for some $\epsilon >0$ and $\norm{A}_{F} \geq \frac{ 36\sqrt{2} (nk)^{1/2}} { \epsilon^{3}}$ then we can choose $\eta, \mu$ such that $ \norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma, \kappa}}_{F} \leq 9\epsilon \norm{A}_F$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
We have
\begin{eqnarray*}
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}}_{F} & \leq & \norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} + \norm{\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}}_{F} \\
& \leq &
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} + \norm{\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}-\widehat{A}_{\geq (1-\kappa)\sigma}}_{F}\\
& \leq & \norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} + \norm{A- \widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_F+ \norm{A- \widehat{A}_{\geq (1-\kappa)\sigma}}_{F}\\
& \leq & 2 \norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} + \norm{A- \widehat{A}_{\geq (1-\kappa)\sigma}}_{F}.\\
\end{eqnarray*}
We use Theorem \ref{sigma} to bound the first term as
\[
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma}}_{F} \leq \norm{A-A_k}_F + (3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \mu^{-1/4}+\sqrt{2\mu/p}) \norm{A}_F
\]
For the second term, we can reapply Theorem \ref{sigma} where now we need to rename $\mu$ as $(1-\kappa)^2\mu$ and have
\[
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq (1-\kappa)\sigma}}_{F} \leq \norm{A-A_k}_F + (3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} (1-\kappa)^{-1/2}\mu^{-1/4}+(1-\kappa)\sqrt{2\mu/p}) \norm{A}_F.
\]
Overall we have
\[
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}}_{F} \leq 3\norm{A-A_k}_F +
\left( 3\sqrt{ \eta} k^{1/4} \mu^{-1/4}(2+(1-\kappa)^{-1/2})+(3-\kappa)\sqrt{2\mu/p}\right) \norm{A}_F.
\]
Let $\norm{A-A_k}_F \leq \epsilon \norm{A}_F$, for some $\epsilon \geq 0$.
We choose $\kappa=1/3$, $\mu = \epsilon^{2} p/2$ and we can select any $\eta \leq \frac{2n^{1/4} \epsilon^{3/2}} { 3 (2k)^{1/4} \norm{A}_{F}^{1/2}}$ to have
\begin{equation}\label{9epsilon}
\norm{A-\widehat{A}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}}_{F} \leq 3\epsilon \norm{A}_F + \left(2\epsilon+\frac{\epsilon}{\sqrt{1-\kappa}}+(3-\kappa)\epsilon\right) \norm{A}_F \leq 9 \epsilon \norm{A}_F.
\end{equation}
As in theorem \ref{sigma}, the sampling probability must be at least $p \geq \frac{ 36\sqrt{2} (nk)^{1/2}} { \norm{A}_{F} \epsilon^{3}}$.
\end{proof}
We have shown that the task of providing good recommendations for a user $i$ reduces to being able to sample from the $i$-th row of the matrix $\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}$, in other words sample from the projection of the $i$-th row of $\widehat{T}$ onto the space spanned by all row singular vectors with singular values higher than $\sigma$ and possibly some more row singular vectors with singular values in the interval $[(1-\kappa)\sigma, \sigma)$.
In the following section, we show a quantum procedure, such that given a vector (e.g. the $i$-th row of $\widehat{T}$), a matrix (e.g. the matrix $\widehat{T}$), and parameters $\sigma$ and $\kappa$, outputs the quantum state $\ket{(\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa})_i}$, which allows one to sample from this row by measuring in the computational basis. The algorithm runs in time polylogarihmic in the matrix dimensions and polynomial in $k$, since it depends inverse polynomially in $\sigma$, which in our case is inverse polynomial in $k$.
\section{Quantum projections in polylogarithmic time}
The main quantum primitive required for the recommendation system is a quantum projection algorithm that
runs in time polylogarithmic in the matrix dimensions.
\subsection{The data structure}
The input to the quantum procedure is a vector $x \in \mathbb{R}^n$ and a matrix $A \in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$.
We assume that the input is stored in a classical data structure such that an algorithm that has quantum access to the data structure can create the quantum state $\ket{x}$ corresponding to the vector $x$ and the quantum states $\ket{A_i}$ corresponding to each row $A_i$ of the matrix $A$, in time $\mbox{polylog}(mn)$.
It is in fact possible to design a data structure for a matrix $A$ that supports the efficient construction of the quantum states $\ket{A_i}$. Moreover, we can ensure that the size of the data structure is optimal (up to polylogarithmic factors), and the data entry time, i.e. the time to store a new entry $(i, j, A_{ij})$ that arrives in the system is just $\mbox{polylog}(mn)$. Note that just writing down the entry takes logarithmic time.
\begin{theorem}\label{datastr}
Let $A\in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$ be a matrix. Entries $(i, j, A_{ij})$ arrive in the system in an arbitrary order and $w$ denotes the number of entries that have already arrived in the system. There exists a data structure to store the entries of $A$ with the following properties:
\begin{enumerate}[i.]
\item The size of the data structure is $O(w\cdot\log^2(mn))$.
\item The time to store a new entry $(i,j,A_{ij})$ is $O(\log^2(mn))$.
\item A quantum algorithm that has quantum access to the data structure can
perform the mapping $\widetilde{U}:\ket{i}\ket{0} \to \ket{i} \ket{A_i}$, for $i \in [m]$,
corresponding to the rows of the matrix currently stored in memory and the mapping $\widetilde{V}:\ket{0}\ket{j} \to \ket{\widetilde{A}} \ket{j}$, for $j \in [n]$,
where $\widetilde{A} \in \mathbb{R}^{m}$ has entries $\widetilde{A}_{i} = \norm{A_{i}} $ in time $\emph{polylog}(mn)$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{theorem}
The explicit description of the data structure is given in the appendix. Basically, for each row of the matrix, that we view as a vector in $\mathbb{R}^n$, we store an array of $2n$ values as a full binary tree of $n$ leaves. The leaves hold the individual amplitudes of the vector and each internal node holds the sum of the squares of the amplitudes of the leaves rooted on this node. For each entry added to the tree, we need to update $\log(n)$ nodes in the tree. The same data structure can of course be used for the vector $x$ as well. One need not use a fixed array of size $2n$ for this construction, but only ordered lists of size equal to the entries that have already arrived in the system.Alternative solutions for vector state preparation are possible, another solution based on a modified memory is described in \cite{P14}.
\subsection{Quantum Singular Value Estimation}
The second tool required for the projection algorithm is an efficient quantum algorithm for singular value estimation. In the singular value estimation problem we are given a matrix $A$ such that the vector states corresponding to its row vectors can be prepared efficiently. Given a state $\ket{x}=\sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{v_{i}} $ for an arbitrary vector $x\in \mathbb{R}^{n}$ the task is to estimate the singular values corresponding to each singular vector in coherent superposition. Note that we take the basis $\{v_i\}$ to span the entire space by including singular vectors with singular value 0.
\begin{theorem} \label{tsve}
Let $A \in \mathbb{R}^{m \times n}$ be a matrix with singular value decomposition $A= \sum_{i} \sigma_{i} u_{i} v_{i}^{t}$ stored in the data structure in theorem \ref{datastr}. Let $\epsilon>0$ be the precision parameter. There is an algorithm with running time $O(\emph{polylog}(mn)/\epsilon)$ that performs the mapping $\sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{v_{i}}
\to \sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{v_{i}} \ket{ \overline{\sigma_{i}}}$, where $\overline{\sigma_{i}} \in \sigma_{i} \pm \epsilon \norm{A}_{F}$ for all $i$ with probability at least $1- 1/\emph{poly}(n)$.
\end{theorem}
Here, we present a quantum singular value estimation algorithm, in the same flavor as the quantum walk based algorithm by Childs \cite{C10} for estimating eigenvalues of a matrix, and show that given quantum access to the data structure from theorem \ref{datastr}, our algorithm runs in time $O(\text{polylog} (mn)/\epsilon)$.
A different quantum algorithm for singular value estimation can be based on the work of \cite{LMR13} with running time $O(\text{polylog} (mn)/\epsilon^{3})$, and for which a coherence analysis was shown in \cite{P14}.
The idea for our singular value estimation algorithm is to find isometries $P \in \mathbb{R}^{mn \times m}$ and $Q \in \mathbb{R}^{mn \times n}$ that can be efficiently applied, and such that $\frac{A}{\norm{A}_{F}}=P^{t}Q$. Using $P$ and $Q$, we define a unitary matrix $W$ acting on $\mathbb{R}^{mn}$, which is also efficiently implementable and such that the row singular vector $v_i$ of $A$ with singular value $\sigma_i$ is mapped to an eigenvector $Qv_i$ of $W$ with eigenvalue $e^{\iota \theta_{i}}$ such that $\cos(\theta_{i}/2)= \sigma_{i}/\norm{A}_{F}$ (note that $\cos(\theta_{i}/2)>0$ as $\theta_{i} \in [-\pi, \pi]$).
The algorithm consists of the following steps: first, map the input vector $\sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{v_{i}}
$ to $\sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{Qv_{i}}$ by applying $Q$; then, use phase estimation as in theorem \ref{pest} with
unitary $W$ to compute an estimate of the eigenvalues $\theta_{i}$ and hence of the singular values $\sigma_{i} = \norm{A}_F \cos(\theta_{i}/2)$; and finally undo $Q$ to recover the state $\sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{v_{i}}\ket{\sigma_i}$. This procedure is described in algorithm \ref{algqsve}.
It remains to show how to construct the mappings $P,Q$ and the unitary $W$ that satisfy all the properties mentioned above that are required for the quantum singular value estimation algorithm.
\begin{lemma} \label{l53}
Let $A \in \mathbb{R}^{m \times n}$ be a matrix with singular value decomposition $A= \sum_{i} \sigma_{i} u_{i} v_{i}^{t}$ stored in the data structure in theorem \ref{datastr}. Then, there exist matrices $P \in \mathbb{R}^{mn \times m}, Q \in \mathbb{R}^{mn \times n}$ such that
\begin{enumerate}[i.]
\item The matrices $P,Q$ are a factorization of $A$, i.e. $\frac{A}{\norm{A}_{F}} = P^{t} Q$. Moreover, $P^{t}P=I_{m}$, $Q^{t}Q=I_{n}$, and multiplication by $P,Q$, i.e. the mappings $\ket{y} \to \ket{Py}$ and $\ket{x} \to \ket{Qx}$ can be performed in time $O(\emph{polylog} (mn))$.
\item The unitary $W=U \cdot V$, where $U,V$ are the reflections $U= 2PP^{t} - I_{mn}$ and $V= 2QQ^{t} - I_{mn}$ can be implemented in time $O(\emph{polylog} (mn))$.
\item The isometry $Q : \mathbb{R}^n \to \mathbb{R}^{mn}$ maps a row singular vector $v_i$ of $A$ with singular value $\sigma_i$ to an eigenvector $Qv_i$ of $W$ with eigenvalue $e^{\iota \theta_{i}}$ such that $\cos(\theta_{i}/2)= \sigma_{i}/\norm{A}_{F}$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
Let $P \in \mathbb{R}^{mn \times m}$ be a matrix with column vectors $e_{i} \otimes \frac{A_{i}}{\norm{A_{i}}}$ for $i \in [m]$. In quantum notation multiplication by $P$ can be expressed as
\[
\ket{Pe_{i}} = \ket{i, A_{i}} = \frac{1}{\norm{A_i}} \sum_{j\in [n]} A_{ij} \ket{i,j}, \quad \mbox{ for } i \in [m].
\]
Let $\widetilde{A} \in \mathbb{R}^{m}$ be the vector of Frobenius norms of the rows of the matrix $A$, that is $\widetilde{A}_{i} = \norm{A_{i}}$ for $i \in [m]$. Let $Q \in \mathbb{R}^{mn \times n}$ be a matrix with column vectors $\frac{\widetilde{A}}{\norm{A}_{F}} \otimes e_{j}$ for $j \in [n]$. In quantum notation multiplication by $Q$ can be expressed as
\[
\ket{Qe_{j}} = \ket{\widetilde{A}, j} = \frac{1}{\norm{A}_F} \sum_{i \in [m]} \norm{A_i} \ket{i,j}, \quad \mbox{ for } j \in [n].
\]
The factorization $A=P^{t}Q$ follows easily by expressing the matrix product in quantum notation,
\[
(P^{t} Q)_{ij} = \braket{ i, A_{i}} { \widetilde{A}, j } = \frac{ \norm{A_{i}} } {\norm{A}_{F}} \frac{ A_{ij} } { \norm{A_{i}} } = \frac{A_{ij} } {\norm{A}_{F} }.
\]
The columns of $P, Q$ are orthonormal by definition so $P^{t} P= I_{m}$ and $Q^{t} Q =I_{n}$. Multiplication by $P$
and $Q$ can be implemented in time $\text{polylog}(mn)$ using quantum access to the data structure from theorem \ref{datastr},
\all{
\ket{y} &\to \ket{y, 0^{\lceil \log n \rceil } } = \sum_{i \in [m]} y_{i}\ket{i, 0^{\lceil \log n \rceil } } \xrightarrow{\widetilde{U}} \sum_{i \in [m]} y_{i}\ket{i, A_{i} } = \ket{Py} \notag \\
\ket{x} &\to \ket{0^{\lceil \log m \rceil }, x } = \sum_{j \in [n]} x_{j}\ket{0^{\lceil \log m \rceil }, j } \xrightarrow{\widetilde{V}} \sum_{j \in [n]} x_{j}\ket{\widetilde{A}, j } = \ket{Qx}.
} {ds1}
To show (ii), note that the unitary $U$ is a reflection in $Col(P)$ and can be implemented as $U=\widetilde{U}R_{1}\widetilde{U}^{-1}$ where
$\widetilde{U}$ is the unitary in first line of equation \eqref{ds1} and $R_{1}$ is the reflection in the space $\ket{y, 0^{\lceil \log n \rceil } }$ for $y \in \mathbb{R}^m$.
It can be implemented as a reflection conditioned on the second register being in state $\ket{0^{\lceil \log n \rceil }}$. The unitary
$V$ is a reflection in $Col(Q)$ and can be implemented analogously as $V=\widetilde{V}R_{0}\widetilde{V}^{-1}$ where
$\widehat{V}$ is the unitary in the second line of equation \eqref{ds1} and $R_{0}$ is the reflection in the space $\ket{0^{\lceil \log m \rceil }, x }$
for $x \in \mathbb{R}^{n}$.
It remains to show that $Qv_{i}$ is an eigenvector for $W$ with eigenvalue $e^{\iota \theta_{i}}$ such that
$\cos(\theta_{i}/2) = \sigma_{i}/\norm{A}_{F}$. For every pair of singular vectors $(u_{i}, v_{i})$ of $A$, we define the two dimensional subspaces $\mathcal{W}_{i}=Span(Pu_{i}, Qv_{i})$
and let $\theta_{i}/2 \in [-\pi/2, \pi/2]$ be the angle between $Pu_{i}$
and $\pm Qv_{i}$. Note that $\mathcal{W}_{i}$ is an eigenspace for $W$ which acts on it as a rotation by $\pm \theta_{i}$, since $W$ is a reflection in the column space of $Q$ followed by a reflection in the column space of $P$. Moreover, the relation $\cos(\theta_{i}/2) = \sigma_{i}/\norm{A}_{F}$
is a consequence of the factorization in lemma \ref{l53}, since we have
\al{
PP^{t} Q v_{i} = \frac{PA v_{i}}{ \norm{A}_{F}} = \frac{\sigma_{i}}{\norm{A}_{F} } Pu_{i} \quad \mbox{and} \quad
QQ^{t} P u_{i} = \frac{QA^{t} u_{i}}{ \norm{A}_{F}} = \frac{\sigma_{i}}{\norm{A}_{F} } Qv_{i}.
}
\end{proof}
Using the primitives from the preceding lemma, we next describe the singular value estimation algorithm and analyze it to prove
theorem \ref{tsve}.
\begin{algorithm}[H]
\caption{Quantum singular value estimation} \label{algqsve}
\begin{algorithmic}[1]
\REQUIRE $A \in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$, $x \in \mathbb{R}^{n}$ in the data structure from theorem \ref{datastr}, precision parameter $\epsilon>0$. \\
\begin{enumerate}
\item Create $\ket{x} = \sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{v_{i}}$. \\
\item Append a first register $\ket{0^{\lceil \log m \rceil }}$ and create the state $\ket{Qx} = \sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{Qv_{i}}$ as in eq. \eqref{ds1}. \\
\item Perform phase estimation
with precision parameter $2\epsilon >0$
on the input $\ket{Qx}$ for the unitary $W=U\cdot V$ where
$U,V$ are the unitaries in lemma \ref{l53} and obtain $\sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{Qv_{i}, \overline{\theta_{i}} } $.
\item Compute $\overline{\sigma_{i}} = \cos(\overline{\theta_{i}}/2) \norm{A}_{F}$ where
$\overline{\theta_{i}}$ is the estimate from phase estimation, and uncompute the
output of the phase estimation. \notag \\
\item Apply the inverse of the transformation in step $2$ to obtain $\sum_{i} \alpha_{i} \ket{v_{i} } \ket{\overline{\sigma_{i}}}$. \notag \\
\end{enumerate}
\end{algorithmic}
\end{algorithm}
\paragraph{Analysis}
The phase estimation procedure \cite{K95} with unitary $W$ and precision parameter $\epsilon$ on input $\ket{Qv_{i}}$ produces an estimate
such that $|\overline{\theta_{i}} - \theta_{i} | \leq 2\epsilon$. The estimate for the singular value is $\overline{\sigma_{i}}= \cos(\overline{\theta_{i}}/2)\norm{A}_{F}$. The error
in estimating $\sigma_{i}= \cos(\theta_{i}/2)\norm{A}_{F}$ can be bounded as follows,
\al{
|\overline{\sigma_{i} } - \sigma_{i} | = | \cos(\theta_{i}/2) - \cos(\overline{\theta_{i}}/2) | \norm{A}_{F}\leq \sin(\phi) \frac{|\overline{\theta_{i}} - \theta_{i}|}{2} \norm{A}_{F} \leq \epsilon \norm{A}_{F}
}
where $\phi \in [\theta_{i}/2 - \epsilon, \theta_{i}/2 + \epsilon]$.
Algorithm \ref{algqsve} therefore produces an additive error $\epsilon \norm{A}_{F}$ estimate of the singular values, the running time is $O(\text{polylog}(mn)/\epsilon)$ by theorem \ref{pest} as the unitary $W$ is implemented in time $O(\text{polylog}(mn))$ by lemma
\ref{l53}. This concludes the proof of theorem \ref{tsve}.
One can define an algorithm for singular value estimation with input $\ket{y}=\sum_{i} \beta_{i} \ket{u_{i}}$. where $u_i$ are the column singular vectors, by using the operator $P$ from lemma \ref{l53} instead of $Q$ in algorithm \ref{algqsve}. The correctness follows from the same argument as above.
\subsection{Quantum projection with threshold} \label{qp}
Let $A = \sum_{i} \sigma_i u_i v_i^t$. We recall that $A_{\geq \sigma} = \sum_{\sigma_{i} \geq \sigma} \sigma_i u_i v_i^t$ is the projection of the matrix $A$ onto the space spanned by the singular vectors whose singular values are bigger than $\sigma$. Also, $A_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}$ is the projection of the matrix $A$ onto the space spanned by the union of the singular vectors whose corresponding singular values is bigger than $\sigma$ and some subset of singular vectors whose corresponding singular values are in the interval $[(1-\kappa)\sigma,\sigma)$.
Algorithm \ref{projection} presents a quantum algorithm that given access to vector state $x$, a matrix $A$ and parameters $\sigma,\kappa$, outputs the state $\ket{A^+_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} A_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} x}$, namely
the projection of $x$ onto the subspace spanned by the union of the row singular vectors whose corresponding singular values are bigger than $\sigma$ and some subset of row singular vectors whose corresponding singular values are in the interval $[(1-\kappa)\sigma,\sigma)$.
For simplicity, we present the algorithm without a stopping condition and we will compute the expected running time. By stopping the algorithm after a number of iterations which is $\log(n)$ times more than the expected one, we can easily construct an algorithm with worst-case running time guarantees and whose correctness probability has only decreased by a factor of $(1-1/\text{poly}(n))$.
Let $\{v_i\}$ denote an orthonormal basis for $\mathbb{R}^n$ that includes all row singular vectors of the matrix $A$.
We think of $\kappa$ as a constant, for example $1/3$.
\begin{algorithm}[H]\label{projection}
\caption{Quantum projection with threshold}
\begin{algorithmic}[1]
\REQUIRE $A \in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$, $x \in \mathbb{R}^{n}$ in the data structure from Theorem \ref{datastr}; parameters $\sigma,\kappa >0$. \vspace{0.2cm}
\begin{enumerate}
\item Create $\ket{x} = \sum_i \alpha_i \ket{v_i}$. \notag \\
\item Apply the singular value estimation on $\ket{x}$ with precision $\epsilon \hat{=} \frac{\kappa}{2} \frac{ \sigma}{\norm{A}_F}$ to obtain the state
\[
\sum_i \alpha_i \ket{v_i}\ket{\overline{\sigma}_i}
\]
\item Apply on a second new register the unitary $V$ that maps $\ket{t}\ket{0} \mapsto \ket{t}\ket{1}$ if $t < \sigma - \frac{\kappa}{2} \sigma$ and $\ket{t}\ket{0} \mapsto \ket{t}\ket{0}$ otherwise, to get the state
\[
\sum_{i \in S} \alpha_i \ket{v_i}\ket{\overline{\sigma}_i}\ket{0} + \sum_{i \in \overline{S}} \alpha_i \ket{v_i}\ket{\overline{\sigma}_i}\ket{1},
\]
where $S$ is the union of all $i$'s such that $\sigma_i \geq \sigma$ and some $i$'s with $\sigma_i \in [(1-\kappa)\sigma,\sigma)$.
\item Apply the singular value estimation on the above state to erase the second register
\[
\sum_{i \in S} \alpha_i \ket{v_i}\ket{0} + \sum_{i \in \overline{S}} \alpha_i \ket{v_i}\ket{1} =
\beta
\ket{A^+_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} A_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} x} \ket{0} +
\sqrt{1-|\beta|^2}
\ket{A^+_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} A_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} x}^\bot \ket{1},
\]
with $ \beta = \frac{|| A^+_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} A_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} x||}{\norm{x} }$.
\item Measure the second register in the standard basis. If the outcome is $\ket{0}$, output the first register and exit. Otherwise repeat step 1.
\end{enumerate}
\end{algorithmic}
\end{algorithm}
For the running time, note that the singular value estimation takes time $O(\text{polylog}(mn)/\epsilon)$, while the probability we obtain $\ket{0}$ in step 5 is
$\frac{||A^+_{\geq\sigma,\kappa} A_{\geq\sigma,\kappa} x||^{2} }{\norm{x} ^2} \geq \frac{||A^+_{\geq\sigma} A_{\geq\sigma} x||^{2}}{\norm{x} ^2}$.
\begin{theorem} \label{aqproj}
Algorithm \ref{projection} outputs $\ket{A^+_{\geq\sigma,\kappa} A_{\geq\sigma,\kappa} x}$ with probability at least $1 - 1/\emph{poly}(n)$ and in expected time $O(\frac{ \emph{polylog}(mn) \norm{A}_F \norm{x} ^2}{\sigma ||A_{\geq\sigma} A_{\geq\sigma} ^{+} x||^2})$.
\end{theorem}
It is important to notice that the running time of the quantum projection algorithm depends only on the threshold $\sigma$ (which we will take to be of the order $\frac{\norm{A}_F}{\sqrt{k}}$) and not on the condition number of $A$ which may be very large. We will also show in the next section that in the recommendation systems, for most users the ratio $\frac{||A^+_{\geq\sigma} A_{\geq\sigma} x||^{2}}{\norm{x} ^2}$ is constant. This will conclude the analysis and show that the running time of the quantum recommendation system is polynomial in $k$ and polylogarithmic in the matrix dimensions.
One could also use amplitude amplification to improve the running time of algorithm \ref{projection}, once a careful error analysis is performed as the reflections are not exact. As we will see that the $\frac{||A^+_{\geq\sigma} A_{\geq\sigma} x||^{2}}{\norm{x} ^2}$ is constant for most users, this will not change asymptotically the running time of the algorithm and hence we omit the analysis.
\section{Quantum recommendation systems}
We have all the necessary ingredients to describe the quantum algorithm that provides good recommendations for a user $i$ and that runs in time polylogarithmic in the dimensions of the preference matrix and polynomial in the rank $k$. As we said, in recommendation systems we assume that for the matrix $T$ we have $\norm{T - {T}_k}_F \leq \epsilon ||T||_F$ for some small approximation parameter $\epsilon$ and small rank $k$ (no more than 100). In the algorithm below, as in the classical recommendation systems, we assume we know $k$ but in fact we just need to have a good estimate for it.
Note again that we do not put a stopping condition to the algorithm and we compute the expected running time. Again we can turn this into an algorithm with worst-case running time guarantees by stopping after running for $\log(n)$ times more than the expected running time, and the correctness probability has only decreased by a factor of $1-1/\text{poly}(n)$.
\begin{algorithm}[H]
\caption{Quantum recommendation algorithm.} \label{qproj}
\label{lpp}
\begin{algorithmic}[1]
\REQUIRE A subsample matrix $\widehat{T}\in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$ (with sampling probability $p$) stored in the data structure from Theorem \ref{datastr} and satisfying the conditions in Theorem \ref{sigmakappa}; a user index $i$.
\STATE Apply the quantum projection procedure \ref{projection} with the matrix $\widehat{T}$, the vector corresponding to the $i$-th row $\widehat{T}_i$, with $\sigma=\sqrt{\frac{\epsilon^2 p}{2k}}\norm{\widehat{T}}_F $ and
$\kappa=1/3$. \\
The algorithm runs in expected time $O(\text{polylog}(mn)\sqrt{k} \norm{\widehat{T}_i}^2 / \sqrt{p} \norm{\widehat{T}^+_{\geq\sigma} \widehat{T}_{\geq\sigma} \widehat{T}_i }^2)$ and returns with probability at least $1-1/\text{poly}(n)$ the state
$\ket{\widehat{T}^+_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} \widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} \widehat{T}_i}$.
\STATE Measure the above state in the computational basis to get a product $j$.
\end{algorithmic}
\end{algorithm}
\subsection{Analysis}
\paragraph{Correctness}
Let us check the correctness of the algorithm.
Note that
$\widehat{T}^+_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} \widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa} \widehat{T}_i = (\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa})_i$, i.e. the $i$-th row of the matrix $\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}$. Hence, the quantum projection procedure outputs with probability at least $1-1/\text{poly}(n)$ the state $\ket{(\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa})_i}$, meaning that our quantum recommendation algorithm with high probability outputs a product by sampling the $i$-th row of the matrix $\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}$.
By Theorem \ref{sigmakappa}, and by setting the parameters appropriately to get equation \eqref{9epsilon}, we have that with probability at least $1- exp(-19 (\log n)^{4})$,
\[
\norm{T-\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}}_F \leq 9\epsilon \norm{T}_F.
\]
In this case, we can apply Theorem \ref{rec} with matrix $\widetilde{T}=\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}$ to show that there exists a subset of users $S' $ of size at least $(1-\delta-\zeta)m$ (for $\delta>0$), such that on average over the users in $S'$, the probability that our quantum algorithm provides a bad recommendation is
\[ \Pr_{i \sim \mathcal{U}_{S'}, j \sim (\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa})_i}[(i,j) \text{ bad}] \leq \frac{\left( \frac{9\epsilon(1+9\epsilon)}{1-9\epsilon} \right)^2}{ \left( 1/\sqrt{1+\gamma} - 9\epsilon/\sqrt{\delta}\right)^2 (1-\delta - \zeta)}.
\]
\paragraph{Expected running time}
We prove the following theorem
\begin{theorem}
For at least $(1-\xi)(1-\delta-\zeta)m$ users in the subset $S'$, we have that the expected running time of Algorithm \ref{lpp} is $O(\emph{polylog}(mn)\emph{poly}(k))$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
First, by the conditions of Theorem \ref{sigmakappa}, we must have $p \geq \frac{ 36\sqrt{2} (nk)^{1/2}} { \norm{A}_{F} \epsilon^{3}}$. That is the theorem works even for a $p$ which is sub-constant. However, in order to have the desired running time, we need to take $p$ to be some constant, meaning that we need to subsample a constant fraction of the matrix elements. This is also the case for classical recommendation systems \cite{AFKMS01, DKR02}.
Second, we need to show that for most users the term $W_i \equiv \frac{||\widehat{T}_i||^2}{ ||(\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa})_i||^2}$ that appears in the running time of the quantum projection algorithm is a constant. This is to be expected, since most typical rows of the matrix project very well onto the space spanned by the top singular vectors, since the spectrum of the matrix is well concentrated on the space of the top singular vectors.
As in Theorem \ref{rec}, we focus on the users in the subset $S'$, with $|S'| \geq (1-\delta - \zeta)m$, for which equations \ref{assumption} and \ref{normS} hold. For these users we can use equation \ref{normS}
with the matrix $\widetilde{T} = \widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa}$ and error $9\epsilon$. We have
\begin{eqnarray*}
E_{i \in S'}[W_i] & = & E_{i \in S'}[\frac{||\widehat{T}_i||^2} { ||(\widehat{T}_{\geq \sigma,\kappa})_i||^2}]
\leq
\frac{E_{i \in S'}[||\widehat{T}_i||^2]}{\frac{\norm{\widehat{T}}_{F}^{2}}{(1+\epsilon)^2m} \en{ \frac{1}{\sqrt{1+\gamma}} - \frac{9\epsilon}{\sqrt{\delta}} }^{2}}
\leq \frac{\frac{||\widehat{T}||_F^2}{(1-\delta-\zeta)m}}{\frac{\norm{\widehat{T}}_{F}^{2}}{(1+\epsilon)^2m} \en{ \frac{1}{\sqrt{1+\gamma}} -\frac{9\epsilon}{\sqrt{\delta}} }^{2}} \\
& \leq & \frac{(1+\epsilon)^2}{ (1-\delta-\zeta)\en{ \frac{1}{\sqrt{1+\gamma}} - \frac{9\epsilon}{\sqrt{\delta}} }^{2}}.
\end{eqnarray*}
By Markov's inequality, for at least $(1-\xi)|S'|$ users in $S'$ we have $W_i \leq \frac{(1+\epsilon)^2}{\xi (1-\delta-\zeta)\en{\frac{1}{\sqrt{1+\gamma}} - \frac{9\epsilon}{\sqrt{\delta}} }^{2}}$, which for appropriate parameters is a constant.
Hence, for at least $(1-\xi)(1-\delta - \zeta)m$ users, the quantum recommendation algorithm has an expected running time of $O(\text{poly}(k)\text{polylog}(mn))$ and produces good recommendations with high probability. As we said we can easily turn this into a worst-case running time, by stopping after running $\log (n)$ times more than the expected running time and hence decreasing the correctness only by a factor of $1-1/\text{poly}(n)$.
\end{proof}
\subsection*{Acknowledgements:} IK was partially supported by projects ANR RDAM, ERC QCC and EU QAlgo.
AP was supported by the Singapore National Research Foundation under NRF RF Award No. NRF-NRFF2013-13.
\bibliographystyle{IEEEtranS}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
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| 3,122
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{"url":"https:\/\/byjus.com\/question-answer\/photosynthesis-of-a-carbohydrate-in-plants-is-given-by-chemical-equation-6c-o-2-6\/","text":"Question\n\n# Photosynthesis of a carbohydrate in plants is given by chemical equation:\u00a0$$6C{ O }_{ 2 }+6{ H }_{ 2 }O\\longrightarrow { C }_{ 6 }{ H }_{ 12 }{ O }_{ 6 }+6{ O }_{ 2 }$$If you have net result as:$$6C{ O }_{ 2 }+6{ H }_{ 2 }O\\longrightarrow { C }_{ 6 }{ H }_{ 12 }{ O }_{ 6 }+6{ O }_{ 2 }$$Check whether this reaction is correct or not.\n\nSolution\n\n## No, $${O}_{2}$$ (product is from $${ H }_{ 2 }O$$ (reactant), hence $$12{ H }_{ 2 }O$$ is taken as reactant. It is confirmed by taking isotopic $${O}^{18}$$ when all $${O}^{18}$$ appear in $${O}_{2}$$.$$6C{ O }_{ 2 }+6{ H }_{ 2 }{ O }^{ 18 }\\longrightarrow { C }_{ 6 }{ H }_{ 12 }{ O }_{ 6 }+6{ H }_{ 2 }O+6{ { O }_{ 2 } }^{ 18 }$$Biology\n\nSuggest Corrections\n\n0\n\nSimilar questions\nView More\n\nPeople also searched for\nView More","date":"2022-01-19 04:15:14","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.5975214838981628, \"perplexity\": 6582.305785339591}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2022-05\/segments\/1642320301263.50\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20220119033421-20220119063421-00429.warc.gz\"}"}
| null | null |
\section{Introduction}
Orthogonal time frequency and space (OTFS) is a new two dimensional (2D) modulation technique that transforms information symbols in the delay-Doppler domain to the familiar time-frequency domain by spreading all the information symbols (e.g., QAM) over both time and frequency to achieve maximum {\em effective}\footnote{Effective diversity introduced for OTFS in \cite{effDiv} is a more meaningful measure of the actual diversity at practical SNR values, when the number of transmitted symbols is large.} diversity \cite{Hadani,effDiv}. As a result, a time-frequency selective channel due to multipath fading and mobility, is converted into a {\em separable} and {\em quasi-orthogonal} interaction, where all received information symbols experience roughly the same localized impairment \cite{Hadani}. Hence, for each information symbol, the received components in all the delay-Doppler diversity branches can be separated and coherently combined.
OTFS can also be interpreted as a two-dimensional code division multiple access (CDMA) scheme, where information symbols are spread in both time and frequency, differently from conventional CDMA systems \cite{Hadani}.
In direct sequence CDMA operating in a multipath fading channel, a rake receiver works by combining the delayed components (or echoes) of the transmitted symbols extracted by using matched filters tuned to the respective delay shifts. Similarly, in the case of OTFS, the received delay shifted and Doppler shifted components of the transmitted information symbols can be extracted and coherently combined using linear diversity combining techniques to improve the SNR of the accumulated signal.
Diversity combining techniques are well studied in the literature starting from Brennan's paper on linear diversity combining \cite{MRC0}. Rake receivers for time domain combining using a variety of linear combining schemes like maximal ratio combining (MRC), equal gain combining (EGC) and selection combining (SC) are discussed in \cite{MRC01,MRC1}. MRC is shown to be optimal in the case of correlated and uncorrelated branches, even for unequal noise and interference power in the branches \cite{MRC2}. Moreover, iterative rake combining schemes and its variants are shown to combat inter-symbol interference better and are well investigated in the literature for CDMA systems \cite{GS1}.
In this paper, we propose an iterative rake receiver for the OTFS system using the maximal ratio combining scheme. Following \cite{WCNC_paper}, we group the delay-Doppler grid symbols into vectors according to their delay index and reformulate the input-output relation between the transmitted and received frames in terms of these transmitted and received vectors. By placing some null symbols (zero-padding (ZP)) in the delay-Doppler domain we arrive at a reduced input-output relation, which allows the use of the maximal ratio combining to design a low complexity detector for OTFS. The overhead of the null guard symbols, needed for the proposed detection scheme, also allows to insert pilot symbols at no additional cost \cite{Ravi3}. These null symbols in the delay-Doppler domain act as interleaved ZP guard bands in the time-domain. Taking advantage of this interleaved time-domain ZP, we further present an alternate low complexity time-domain MRC based detection for OTFS.
OTFS with the ZP guard band as mentioned above is similar to the Doppler-resilient orthogonal signal division multiplexing (D-OSDM) scheme recently proposed in \cite{D-OSDM} for under water acoustic channels \cite{UWA-channel} which is modelled as relatively faster time-varying as compared to the vehicular channel model assumption \cite{EVA}. Even though the information symbols in both schemes are transmitted in the delay-Doppler domain, the main advantage of the general OTFS transceiver structure is the provision to insert arbitrary frequency domain windowing, which is not a part of the D-OSDM scheme. Windowing allows OTFS to select a subset of sub-carriers for transmission and reception, which is particularly useful in multi-user communication schemes.
The rest of the paper is organized as follows. In Section II, we discuss the system model and derive the input-output relation in the vector form. To understand the operation of the proposed detector, we look at the input-output relation in delay-time and time domains in Section III. In Section IV, the proposed MRC based iterative rake detector, its low complexity implementation and the conditions for convergence are described. In Section V, we propose further improvements to the rake detector providing faster convergence and better error performance. The simulation results are given in Section VI followed by a discussion on the complexity of the proposed algorithm in Section VII. Section VIII contains our concluding remarks and future research directions.
\section{OTFS System Model}
\subsection{Notations}
The following notations will be followed in this paper: $a$, $\bf{a}$, ${\bf A}$ represent a scalar, vector, and matrix, respectively; ${\bf a}(n)$ and ${\bf A}(m,n)$ represent the $n$-th and $(m,n)$-th element of ${\bf a}$ and ${\bf A}$, respectively; ${\bf A}^\dag$, ${\bf A}^*$ and ${\bf A}^n$ represent the Hermitian transpose, complex conjugate and $n$-th power of ${\bf A}$. The set of $M \times N$ dimensional matrices with complex entries are denoted by ${\mathbb{C}}^{N \times M}$. Let $\circledast$ represent circular convolution, $\otimes$, the Kronecker product, $\circ$, the Hadamard product (i.e., the element wise multiplication) and, $\oslash$, the Hadamard division (i.e., the element wise division). Let $|\mathcal{S}|$ denote the cardinality of the set $\mathcal{S}$, $\mathrm{tr}(A)$, the trace of the square matrix ${\bf A}$, vec$({\bf A})$, the column-wise vectorization of the matrix ${\bf A}$ and ${\rm vec}_{N,M}^{-1}({\bf a})$ is the matrix formed by folding a vector ${\bf a}$ into a $N\times M$ matrix by filling it column wise. Let ${\bf F}_N$ be the normalized $N$ point discrete Fourier transform (DFT) matrix with elements ${\bf F}_N(i,k)=N^{-1/2}{\rm e}^{-j2\pi ik/N}$ and ${\bf F}_N^{\dag}$ the inverse discrete Fourier transform (IDFT) matrix, ${\bf I}_M$, the $M \times M$ identity matrix. The vectors ${\bf 0}_N$ and ${\bf 1}_N$ denote a $N$ length column vector of zeros and ones, respectively. The scalar $z={\rm e}^{\frac{j2\pi}{MN}}$.
\subsection{Transmitter and Receiver Operation}
The transmitter and receiver operations for the general OTFS system are described in \cite{Ravi2,farhang}. We will be using the following matrix/vector representation throughout the paper. Let ${\bf X}$, ${\bf Y}$ $\in \mathbb{C}^{M \times N}$ be the transmitted and received two-dimensional delay-Doppler grid, forming a {\em frame} of $M \times N$ $\mathcal{Q}$-QAM symbols, with unit average energy.
Let ${\bf x}_m, {\bf y}_m \in \mathbb{C}^{N \times 1}$ be column vectors containing the symbols in the $m$-th row of ${\bf X}$ and ${\bf Y}$, respectively:
${\bf x}_m$ = $[{\bf X}(m,0), {\bf X}(m,1), \cdots, {\bf X}(m,N-1)]^\text{T}$ and ${\bf y}_m$ = $[{\bf Y}(m,0), {\bf Y}(m,1), \cdots, {\bf Y}(m,N-1)]^\text{T}$, where $m$ and $n$ denote the delay (row) and Doppler (column) indices, respectively, in the two-dimensional grid. The total frame duration and bandwidth of the transmitted OTFS signal frame are $T_f=NT$ and $B = M \Delta f$, respectively.
We consider the case where $T\Delta f=1$, i.e., the OTFS signal is critically sampled for any pulse shaping waveform.
\subsubsection{Basic OTFS Transmitter and Receiver}
The delay-Doppler domain symbols in ${\bf X}$ is converted to the time-frequency domain $({\bf X}_{\rm tf})$ using the inverse symplectic fast Fourier transform (ISFFT) operation.
\begin{equation}
{\bf X}_{\rm tf}={{\bf F}} _M\cdot{{\bf X}}\cdot{{\bf F}} _N^{\dag}
\label{Xtf}
\end{equation}
The "Heisenberg transform modulator" generates the time domain signal from the time-frequency samples using an M-point IFFT along with the pulse-shaping waveform $g_{\rm tx}(t)$. The transmitted signal can be written as
\begin{equation} {{\bf S}} = {{\bf G}} _{\rm tx}\cdot ({{\bf F}} _M^{\dag}\cdot{\bf X}_{\rm tf}) = {{\bf G}} _{\rm tx}\cdot({{\bf X}}\cdot{{\bf F}} _N^{\dag})\end{equation}
where the diagonal matrix ${\bf G}_{\rm tx}$ has the samples of $g_{\rm tx}(t)$ as its entries: ${\bf G}_{\rm tx}=\text{diag}[g_{\rm tx}(0),g_{\rm tx}(T/M),\ldots,g_{\rm tx}((M-1)T/M)]\in\mathcal{C}^{M\times M}$. Let $\thicktilde{\bf X}$
be the matrix containing the delay-time samples before applying pulse shaping waveform and is related to the delay-Doppler domain symbols as
\begin{align}&{\thicktilde{\bf X}}^{\rm T}=[\thicktilde{\bf x}_0, \ldots, \thicktilde{\bf x}_{M-1}]={{\bf F}} _N^{\dag}[{\bf x}_0, \ldots, {\bf x}_{M-1}]={{\bf F}} _N^{\dag}\cdot{\bf X}^{\rm T}.\label{OTFS_mod} \end{align}
The time domain vector ${\bf s} \in \mathcal{C}^{NM \times 1}$, to be transmitted into the physical channel can be written as
\begin{align}
{\bf s}=\text{vec}({\bf G}_{\rm tx}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf X}).
\label{dt_to_dd_tx}
\end{align}
These samples are pulse shaped and transmitted as a continuous time signal $s(t)$.
At the receiver, the delay-time samples are obtained from the sampled received time domain waveform ${\bf r} \in \mathbb{C}^{NM\times 1}$ as
\begin{align}
\thicktilde{\bf Y}=\text{vec}_{N,M}^{-1}\!\left(({\bf I}_M\otimes{\bf G}_{\rm rx})\cdot{\bf r}\right),
\label{dt_to_dd_rx}
\end{align}
where the diagonal matrix ${\bf G}_{\rm rx}$ has the samples of $g_{\rm rx}(t)$ as its entries: ${\bf G}_{\rm rx}=\text{diag}[g_{\rm rx}(0),g_{\rm rx}(T/M),\ldots,g_{\rm rx}((M-1)T/M)]\in\mathcal{C}^{M\times M}$ is the pulse shaping filter at the receiver. The received delay-Doppler and delay-time domain symbols are related as
\begin{align}
&{{\bf Y}}^{\rm T}=[{\bf y}_0, \ldots, {\bf y}_{M-1}]={{\bf F}} _N[\thicktilde{\bf y}_0, \ldots, \thicktilde{\bf y}_{M-1}]={\bf F}_N\cdot\thicktilde{\bf Y}^{\rm T}. \label{dt2dd_rx}
\end{align}
\subsubsection{Rectangular pulse shaping waveforms}
\begin{figure*}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=17 0 0 10,clip,height=8.0in,width=7.2in]{ZP_OTFS_system.eps}
\vspace{-2mm}\caption{Discrete baseband model of the ZP-OTFS system for $N=6,M=8$ for (a) transmitter (b) receiver and (c) the discrete delay-Doppler channel at the set of discrete delay tap indices $\mathcal{L}=\{0,1,2\}.$ The samples shown using the same colour in (c) represent the Doppler response in the same delay tap. In (b), two versions of the proposed Rake receiver are presented (see Section IV). The receiver chain on the top part of (b) operates directly in the information symbol domain, i.e., the delay-Doppler domain (see Algorithm 1 in Section IV.A) and the bottom part of (b) is the faster version (see Algorithm 2 in Section IV.B) which operates in the delay-time domain.}
\label{OTFSsys}}
\end{figure*}
In this paper, we consider rectangular transmit and received pulse shaping waveforms which is equivalent to time-domain windowing, i.e., ${\bf G}_{\rm tx}={\bf G}_{\rm rx}={\bf I}_M$.\footnote{In general, the pulse shaping waveforms $({\bf G}_{\rm tx})$ could be circulant matrices (equivalent to time-domain filtering).}
The transmitted and received time domain discrete samples ${\bf s,r}$ can then be written in terms of the delay-time samples $\thicktilde{\bf x}_m $ and $\thicktilde{\bf y}_m$ as
\begin{align}
{\bf s}(m+nM)=\thicktilde{\bf x}_m(n), \nonumber \\
{\bf r}(m+nM)=\thicktilde{\bf y}_m(n).
\label{r2y_relation}
\end{align}
In this case, the transmitted and received discrete time domain signal samples can be related to the delay-Doppler domain information symbols as
\begin{align}
&{\bf s}=\text{vec}({\bf X}\cdot{\bf F}_N^{\dag}) \quad\text{and}\quad{\bf r}=\text{vec}({\bf Y}\cdot{\bf F}_N^{\dag}). \label{Zak}
\end{align}
The operation in (\ref{Zak}) in the literature is known as the inverse discrete Zak transform \cite{Hadani2}.
The simplified transmitter and receiver baseband equivalent model for rectangular pulse shaping waveforms and {\em two} MRC based detection methods (to be discussed in Section IV) are shown in Fig. \ref{OTFSsys} (a) and (b). The last $l_{\rm max}$ symbol vectors (rows) of the transmitted delay-Doppler grid, where $l_{\rm max}$ is the maximum channel delay spread index, are made zero to avoid inter-block interference in the time-domain. These zero vectors aid in reducing the complexity of detection for OTFS (explained in Section III-B) by allowing parallel processing of the $N$ independent time domain blocks of duration $T$.
For the rest of the paper, to differentiate with the basic OTFS scheme, as discussed in \cite{Hadani,Ravi2}, we refer to the above scheme including zero padding as the ZP-OTFS. Our main motivation behind adding the delay-Doppler domain ZP is the design of a low complexity detector for OTFS, \cite{WCNC_paper}. Adding a ZP along the delay dimension in the OTFS delay-Doppler grid can be seen as analogous to the time-domain CP or ZP added in orthogonal frequency division multiplexing (OFDM), which allows the design of a single tap equalizer in the time-frequency domain, and hence contribute to reduction in detector complexity. Moreover, in OTFS, the ZP can be used as guard band for the pilot in the delay-Doppler domain \cite{Ravi3}, and hence reduction in detector complexity can be achieved at little cost, which is convenient for the ZP-OTFS system.
\subsection{Continuous Time Baseband Channel Model}
Consider a baseband equivalent channel model\footnote{We do not consider the effects of carrier frequency and antenna gains in this paper.} with $P$ propagation paths, where $h_i$ is the complex {\em path gain}, $\ell_i$ and $\kappa_i$ are the {\em normalized delay shift} and {\em normalized Doppler shift}, respectively, associated with the $i$-th path, where $\ell_i,\kappa_i \in \mathbb{R}$ are not necessarily integers.
The actual delay and Doppler shift for the $i$-th path is given by $\tau_i=\frac{\ell_i}{M\Delta f}< \tau_{\max}=\frac{\ell_{\max}}{M\Delta f}$, $\nu_i=\frac{\kappa_i}{NT}$ with $|\nu_i|<\nu_{\max}$.
We assume that the channel is {\em under-spread}, i.e., $\tau_{\max}{\nu_{\max}} \ll 1$. Under the under-spread assumption, $\ell_{\max}<M$ and the normalized Doppler shifts $-N/2<\kappa_i<N/2$. Since the number of channel coefficients $P$ in the delay-Doppler domain is typically limited, the channel response has a sparse representation \cite{Hadani,Ravi2}:
\begin{equation}
\label{eq:channel}
h(\tau, \nu) = \sum _{i=1}^{P} h_i \delta (\tau -\tau _i) \delta (\nu -\nu _i).
\end{equation}
Alternatively, we can write,
\begin{equation}
\label{eq:channel1}
h(\tau, \n
) = \sum _{\ell \in \mathcal{L}^{\prime}} \sum _{\kappa \in \mathcal{K}_{\ell}} {\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa) \delta (\tau -{\ell}T/M) \delta (\nu -{\kappa}{\Delta f}/N)
\end{equation}
where $\mathcal{L}^{\prime}=\{\ell_i \}$ is the set of $L^{\prime}=|\mathcal{L}^{\prime}|$ distinct {\em normalized delay shifts} among the $P$ paths in the delay-Doppler domain, $\mathcal{K}_{\ell}=\{ \kappa_i\mid \ell=\ell_i\}$ is the set of {\em normalized Doppler shifts} for each path with {\em normalized delay shift} $\ell_i$, and
\begin{align} {\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa) = \left. \left\lbrace \begin{array}{ll} h_i, & \text{if } \ell=\ell_i \text{ and } \kappa=\kappa_i \\ 0, & \text{otherwise.} \end{array}\right. \right.
\label{4}
\end{align}
is the $\ell$-th delay tap {\em Doppler response}. The magnitude of a {\em Doppler response} function ${\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa)$ evaluated at integer delay and Doppler shifts is shown in Fig. \ref{OTFSsys}.
The corresponding continuous time-varying channel impulse response function can be written, for all $\ell \in \mathcal{L}^{\prime}$, as
\begin{align}
g(\tau,t)&= \int_\nu h(\tau,\nu){\rm e}^{j2\pi\nu (t-\tau)}\, d\nu \label{gttau}.
\end{align}
Substituting (\ref{4}) into (\ref{gttau}) and evaluating (\ref{gttau}) at $\tau=\ell T/M$, we get,
\begin{align}
g(\ell T/M,t)&=\sum_{\kappa \in \mathcal{K}_{\ell}} {\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa){\rm e}^{j2\pi\kappa\frac{\Delta f}{N} (t-\ell T/M)}
\label{td_cont}
\end{align}
which represents the {\em delay-time channel response}, for all $\ell \in \mathcal{L}^{\prime}$.
\subsection{Discrete Time Baseband Channel Model}
At the transmitter, the OTFS frame of bandwidth $B=M\Delta f$ is up-converted to a carrier frequency $f_c$ to occupy a pass band channel, assuming $f_c \gg B$. At the receiver, the channel impaired signal is down-converted to baseband and sampled at $M\Delta f$ Hz, thereby limiting the received waveform to $NM$ complex samples. Therefore, from a communication system design point of view, it is convenient to have a discrete baseband equivalent representation of the system, \cite{Wireless_book}.
In the previous section, we looked at the continuous time model of the channel. The discrete time model is obtained by sampling the received waveform $r(t)$ at sampling intervals $t=qT/M$, where $0 \leq q \leq NM-1$, which discretizes the delay-time channel. The set of {\em normalized delay shifts}, $\mathcal{L}^{\prime}$ is therefore replaced as $\mathcal{L}$ with the set of $L=|\mathcal{L}|$ discrete delay taps representing delay shifts at integer multiples of the sampling period $T/M$. Recall that $\frac{\Delta f}{N}$ and $\frac{T}{M}$ are the Doppler and delay resolution, respectively, of the delay-Doppler grid, given $T{\Delta f}=1$. Following from the sampling theorem \cite{Wireless_book}, the discrete baseband delay-time channel model of (\ref{td_cont}) is given as,
\begin{align}
g^{\rm s}(l,q)&=\sum_{\ell \in \mathcal{L}^{\prime}} \left(\sum_{\kappa \in \mathcal{K}_{\ell}}{\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa)z^{\kappa(q-l)}\right) {\rm sinc}(l-\ell)
\label{t_eq11}\end{align}
where ${\rm sinc}(x)={\rm sin}(\pi x)/{(\pi x)}$ and $z={\rm e}^{\frac{j2\pi}{NM}}$.
Note that, due to fractional delays, the sampling at the receiver introduces interference between Doppler responses at different delay shifts. This is due to sinc reconstruction of the delay-time response at fractional delay points ($\ell$), \cite{Wireless_book}. However, under the assumption that the channel delay shifts can be modelled as integer delay shifts without loss of accuracy, i.e., when $\mathcal{L}^{\prime}=\mathcal{L}$ and hence $\ell=l' \in \mathbb{Z}$, the sinc function in (\ref{t_eq11}) reduces to
\begin{align} {\rm sinc}(l-l') = \left. \left\lbrace \begin{array}{ll} 1, & \text{if } l'=l \\ 0, & \text{otherwise.} \end{array}\right. \right.
\end{align}
Consequently, the relation between the actual Doppler response and the sampled time-domain channel at each integer delay tap $l \in \mathcal{L}$ in (\ref{t_eq11}) reduces to
\begin{equation}
g^{\rm s}(l,q)=\sum_{\kappa \in \mathcal{K}_l} {\nu}_{l}(\kappa)z^{\kappa(q-l)}.
\label{t_eq}\end{equation}
Here we want to remind the readers that the effective channel as seen by the receiver depends on the actual channel response as well as the operation parameters (delay and Doppler resolution) of the receiver.
For the rest of the paper, to clearly differentiate between the real continuous channel and the effective discrete channel as seen by the receiver, we use $\ell$ and $\kappa$ to denote the normalized delay and Doppler shifts (not necessarily integers) associated with the channel whereas $l$ and $k$ is used only to denote integer delay and Doppler shift indices, respectively, associated with the channel sampled on the OTFS delay-Doppler grid.
\subsection{Input-Output Relations in Delay-Doppler Domain \label{Sec:IOrelationDD}}
In this section, we reformulate the input-output relation with rectangular pulse shaping waveforms, for the ZP-OTFS system shown in Fig. \ref{OTFSsys}.
Starting from the received time-domain signal $r(t)$, the continuous time domain input-output relation can be written as
\begin{equation}
r(t)=\int_{0}^{\tau_{\rm max}}g(\tau,t)s(t-\tau)\, d\,\tau.
\end{equation}
From (\ref{t_eq11}), the corresponding discrete time-domain input-output relation when the transmitted and received time-domain signals are sampled at $t=qT/M$ can be written as
\begin{equation}
{\bf r}(q)=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}g^{\rm s}(l,q){\bf s}(q-l) \label{disc_time}
\end{equation}
where ${\bf r}(q)=r(q\frac{T}{M})$, ${\bf s}(q)=s(q\frac{T}{M})$. Using the relations in (\ref{r2y_relation}), we split the time index $q=0, \ldots, MN-1$ in terms of the delay and Doppler frame indices as $q=(m+nM)$, where the $m=0, 1, \ldots, M-1$ and $n=0, 1, \ldots, N-1$. Then replacing $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(n)=g^{\rm s}(l,m+nM)$, we can rewrite (\ref{disc_time}) in terms of the delay-time symbol vectors as
\begin{align}
{\thicktilde{\bf y}}_m(n)&=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(n)}{\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m-l}(n)\label{disc_time3}
\end{align}
where $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l} \in \mathbb{C}^{N \times 1}$ is given as
\begin{align}
{\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(n)}&=
\sum_{\ell \in \mathcal{L}^{\prime}}\left(\sum_{\kappa \in \mathcal{K}_l} {\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa) z^{\kappa(m-l)}{\rm e}^{\frac{j2\pi\kappa n}{N}}\right){\rm sinc}(l-\ell)
\label{g_lt_to_v_ml2}.
\end{align}
For integer delay tap channel assumption, i.e., $l=\ell \in \mathbb{Z}$, (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml2}) becomes,
\begin{align}
{\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(n)}&=
\sum_{\kappa \in \mathcal{K}_l} {\nu}_{l}(\kappa) z^{\kappa(m-l)}{\rm e}^{\frac{j2\pi\kappa n}{N}}
\label{g_lt_to_v_ml22}.
\end{align}
We can note from (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml22}) that the discrete delay-time response ${\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(n)}$ for each delay tap $l$ at time instants $t=\frac{m}{M}T+nT$ is related to the inverse Fourier transform of the {\em Doppler response} ${\nu}^{\rm}_{l}(\kappa)$ of the $l$-th delay tap sampled at time $t=\frac{m}{M}T$.
We may ignore the case in (\ref{disc_time3}) when $m-l<0$ i.e., when there is inter-block interference due to channel delay spread, by making $\thicktilde{\bf x}_m(n)=0$ for all $n$ when $m-l<0$ such that,
\begin{align}
{\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}}(n) \thicktilde{{\bf x}}_{m-l}([n-k]_{N})=0, \text{ if } m < l
\label{condition1}
\end{align}
This is equivalent to placing null symbol vectors ${\bf 0}_N$ in the last $l_{\max}$ rows of ${\bf X}$ (zero padding along the delay dimension of the OTFS grid). Hence, we can set, for $n=0, \ldots, N-1$,
\begin{align}
{\bf x}_m(n)={\thicktilde{\bf x}}_m(n)=0, \text{ if } m \geq M-l_{\max} \label{cond2}
\end{align}
The delay-Doppler domain received symbols can be obtained by taking an $N$-point FFT of the delay-time received symbol vectors (\ref{dt2dd_rx})
\begin{align}
{{\bf y}}_m={\bf F}_N\cdot\thicktilde{\bf y}_m=&\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf F}_N\cdot({\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}}\circ{\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m-l}) \nonumber \\
&= \sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}({\bf F}_N\cdot{\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}})\circledast({\bf F}_N\cdot{\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m-l})
\nonumber \\ &= \sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}\circledast{\bf x}_{m-l}
\label{9}
\end{align}
where,
\begin{align}
{{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(k)}=\frac{1}{\sqrt{N}}\sum_{n=0}^{N-1}\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(n){\rm e}^{\frac{-j2\pi kn}{N}}
\label{g_lt_to_v_ml3}
\end{align}
for $0\leq k\leq N-1$, $0\leq m < M-l_{max}$, is the discrete {\em Doppler spread vector} in the $l$-th channel delay tap, experienced by all the symbols in the $\left(m-l\right)$-th row of the $M\times N$ OTFS delay-Doppler grid. Fig. \ref{OTFSsys} (c) shows the discrete Doppler spread vectors ${\pmb \nu}_{l,l}$ for ${\bf x}_0$. Substituting (\ref{t_eq11}), (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml22}) and (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml2}) in (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml3}), we can write the discrete Doppler spread vector ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l} \in \mathbb{C}^{N \times 1}$ in terms of the channel {\em Doppler response} ${\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa)$, for a channel model assuming:
\subsubsection{Fractional delay and fractional Doppler shifts}
\begin{align}
{{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(k)}&=\frac{1}{\sqrt{N}}\sum_{\ell \in \mathcal{L}^{\prime}}\left(\sum_{\kappa\in \mathcal{K}_\ell}{\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa)z^{\kappa(m-l)}\zeta_N(\kappa-k)\right) {\rm sinc}(l-\ell)\label{g_lt_to_v_ml4}\end{align}
where $\ell, \kappa \in \mathbb{R}$ and the {\em periodic sinc function} $\zeta(\cdot)$ includes the extra phase and magnitude variations in the Doppler spread vectors due to fractional Doppler shifts, given as
\begin{align}
\zeta_N(x)=\frac{1}{\sqrt{N}}\sum_{n=0}^{N-1}{\rm e}^{\frac{j2\pi x n}{N}}=\frac{1}{\sqrt{N}}\frac{{\rm sin}\left(\pi x\right)}{{\rm sin}(\pi x/N)}{\rm e}^{\frac{j\pi x(N-1)}{N}}
\end{align}
\subsubsection{Integer delay and fractional Doppler shifts}
For integer values of $(l-\ell)$, the function ${\rm sinc}(l-\ell)$ evaluates to $1$ when $l=\ell$ and {\em zero} else where. Hence (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml4}) reduces to
\begin{align}
{{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(k)}&=\frac{1}{\sqrt{N}}\sum_{\kappa\in \mathcal{K}_l} {\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa)z^{\kappa(m-l)}\zeta_N(\kappa-k)\label{g_lt_to_v_ml5}\end{align}
for $l=\ell \in \mathbb{Z}$ and $\kappa \in \mathbb{R}$
\subsubsection{Integer delay and integer Doppler shifts }
For integer values of $x$, the function $\zeta_N(x)$ evaluates to $\sqrt{N}$ when $x=0$ and {\em zero} else where. Hence (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml5}) reduces to the simple form
\begin{align} {{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(k)} = \left. \left\lbrace \begin{array}{ll} {\nu}_{\ell}(\kappa)z^{\kappa(m-l)}, & \text{if } l=\ell \text{ and } k=[\kappa]_N \\ 0, & \text{otherwise.} \end{array}\right. \right.
\label{g_lt_to_v_ml6} \end{align}
for $\ell, \kappa \in \mathbb{Z}$.
{\em Remark} -- The above {\rm three} cases result in phase changes $z^{\kappa(m-l)}$ due to the rectangular pulse shaping waveforms. For the ideal pulse shaping waveform assumption, it was shown in \cite{WCNC_paper,Ravi2} that the Doppler spread vectors ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ are invariant on the 2-D delay-Doppler grid and hence not dependent on the row index $m$. The phase variations $z^{\kappa(m-l)}$ can be ignored in (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml4}), (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml5}) and (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml6}). As a result (\ref{9}) is a simple time-invariant 2-D circular convolution as shown in \cite{WCNC_paper,Ravi2}.
It is important to note that ignoring such phase variations in the detection process results in significant performance degradation.
$\square$
For the rest of the paper and simulations, we assume integer delays and fractional Doppler shifts for rectangular pulse shaping waveforms, i.e., we consider the discrete input-output relation of the form given in (\ref{9}) and (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml5}) where $\mathcal{L}^{\prime}=\mathcal{L} \in \mathbb{Z}$.
The OTFS delay-Doppler domain discrete system for the ZP OTFS system can be expressed in the matrix form as
\begin{equation}
{\bf y}={\bf H}\cdot{\bf x}+{\bf w};
\label{H_matrix}
\end{equation}
where ${\bf x,y,w} \in { \mathbb{C}}^{NM \times 1}$ and ${\bf H} \in { \mathbb{C}}^{NM \times NM}$ is the OTFS channel matrix when transmitted and received symbol-vectors, ${\bf x}_m,{\bf y}_m \in { \mathbb{C}}^{N \times 1}$ are grouped and stacked as ${\bf y}=[{\bf y}_0^\text{T}, {\bf y}_1^\text{T}, \cdots, {\bf y}_{M-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$, ${\bf x}=[{\bf x}_0^\text{T}, {\bf x}_1^\text{T}, \cdots, {\bf x}_{M-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$ and ${\bf w}=[{\bf w}_0^\text{T}, {\bf w}_1^\text{T}, \cdots, {\bf w}_{M-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$ is independent and identically distributed (iid) additive white guassian noise (AWGN) with variance $\sigma_w^2$. Referring to the vectorized form shown in Fig. \ref{mat2}, we convert the circular convolution between two vectors into the product of a matrix and a vector by defining ${\bf K}_{m,l} \in \mathbb{C}^{N \times N}$ to be a banded matrix for $ l \in \mathcal{L}$ and an all zero matrix otherwise
\begin{align*} {\bf K}_{m,l} & =
\text{circ}[{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}(0),\cdots,{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}(N-1)]\\[1ex]
& = \left[\begin{array}{cccc} {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(0) & {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(N-1) & \cdots & {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(1)\\ {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(1) & {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(0) & \cdots & {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(2)\\ \vdots & \ddots & \ddots & \vdots \\ {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(N-1) & {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(N-2) & \cdots & {{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}}(0) \end{array}\right] ~.
\end{align*}
We note that the band width of each submatrix ${\bf K}_{m,l}$ of ${\bf H}$ is equal to the maximum Doppler spread $k_{\max}\leq N/2$ and the full channel matrix ${\bf H}$ has a band width equal to $N(l_{\max}+1)$. We can then write (\ref{9}) as
\begin{align} {{\bf y}}_m = \sum _{l \in \mathcal{L}} {\bf K}_{m,l}\cdot{{\bf x}}_{m-l}. \label{11}
\end{align}
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=3 5 0 5,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{H_dd.eps}
\vspace{-2mm}\caption{The delay-Doppler domain input-output relation ${\bf y}={\bf H}\cdot{\bf x}$ after adding null symbols only contains the shaded blocks for $N=M=8$ and $l_{max}=3$.}
\label{mat2}}
\end{figure}
Note that ${\bf K}_{m,l}$ (or ${\pmb{\nu}}_{m,{l}}$) can be considered as the linear time-variant channel between the receiver grid delay index $m$ and transmitter grid delay index $m-l$ in the OTFS delay-Doppler grid. Now (\ref{9}) and (\ref{11}) gives us a very simple equation relating the transmitted and received symbol-vectors that we defined at the start of this section.
\section{Input-Output Relation in Other Domains}
In this section, we discuss the ZP-OTFS input-output relation between the transmitted and received delay-time symbol vectors and discuss the advantages of carrying out significant part of the OTFS receiver processing in the delay-time domain. We also highlight some properties of the delay-time and time-domain channel matrices to later analyze the convergence of the proposed detector.
When $N$ and $M$ are sufficiently large, considering the channel normalized delay and Doppler shifts ($\kappa_i$ and $\ell_i$) as integers has negligible effect on the accuracy of the channel representation. However, the effect of fractional Doppler is more pronounced for short OTFS frames, \cite{Ravi}. When $N$ is small, a single path with fractional Doppler shift is seen as a cluster of paths with integer Doppler shifts at the receiver. Depending on the resolution, more channel coefficients along the Doppler dimension are required to fully represent the channel state information needed for accurate detection at the receiver, \cite{Ravi2}. This increases the total number of paths $P$ for the discrete channel. To mitigate such problem, the value of $N$ may be increased, which, in turn, will increase the frame duration $NT$. However, the frame duration is limited by the {\em delay-Doppler coherence time},\footnote{This coherence time should not be confused with the traditional notion related to the inverse of the Doppler spread, \cite{WCNC_paper}.} i.e, the time over which the delay-Doppler channel coefficients remain constant.
Another way of solving the fractional Doppler issue is by dealing with the delay-Doppler channel coefficients in the delay-time domain. As Doppler shifts cannot be resolved in this domain, the number of delay-time channel coefficients is neither affected by the fractional Doppler shifts nor by the Doppler spread of that delay tap. Therefore, to fully take advantage of the OTFS performance in a rich Doppler spread regime (i.e., large $|\mathcal{K}_l|$'s), it is convenient to design a receiver with low complexity that is independent of the Doppler spread.
\subsection{Delay-Time Domain}
For the purpose of delay-time detection analysis in Section IV, we look at the matrix representation of the delay-time input-output relation. The matrices ${\bf K}_{m,l}$ in the delay-Doppler domain can be diagonalized to $\thicktilde{\bf K}_{m,l}$ in the corresponding Fourier domain (delay-time domain) as
\begin{align*}
&{\bf K}_{m,l} = {\bf F}_N\cdot\thicktilde{\bf K}_{m,l}\cdot{\bf F}_N^{\dag},\\
\implies&\thicktilde{\bf K}_{m,l} =
\text{diag}[\thicktilde{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,{l}}(0),\cdots,\thicktilde{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,{l}}(N-1)]\\[1ex]
&\text{where } \thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}={\bf F}_N^{\dag}{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}
\end{align*}
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=3 10 0 5,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.6in]{H_dt.eps}
\vspace{-6mm}\caption{The delay-time domain input-output relation ($\thicktilde{\bf y}=\thicktilde{\bf H}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf x}$) after adding null symbols for $N=M=8$ and $l_{\max}=3$.}
\label{mat3}}
\end{figure}
thereby transforming the delay-Doppler domain channel matrix ${\bf H}$ into the delay-time domain channel matrix $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ by replacing the sub-matrices ${\bf K}_{m,l}$ in ${\bf H}$ with $\thicktilde{\bf K}_{m,l}$. Given the input-output relation in (\ref{H_matrix}) was simplified in (\ref{11}) by placing null symbols in the delay-Doppler grid as given in (\ref{cond2}), the strictly upper triangular blocks of $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ can also be set to zero.
The input-output relation in the delay-time domain, illustrated in Fig. \ref{mat3}, can then be written in the matrix form as
\begin{equation}
\thicktilde{\bf y}=\thicktilde{\bf H}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf x}+\thicktilde{\bf w};
\label{time_delay_io}
\end{equation}
where
\begin{align}
&\thicktilde{\bf y}=({\bf I}_M\otimes{\bf F}_N^{\dag})\cdot{\bf y},\quad\thicktilde{\bf x}=({\bf I}_M\otimes{\bf F}_N^{\dag})\cdot{\bf x},\nonumber\\
&\thicktilde{\bf H}=({\bf I}_M\otimes{\bf F}_N^{\dag})\cdot{\bf H}\cdot({\bf I}_M\otimes{\bf F}_N),
\label{Htd}\end{align}
and $\thicktilde{\bf w}$ is the time domain AWGN vector. In this domain, the complexity of matrix multiplication is significantly reduced as the sparsity $L/N$ of $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ is less than or equal to the sparsity $P/N$ of ${\bf H}$, where $L$ is the number of unique delay taps and $P$ is the total number of propagation paths. The delay-time domain channel matrix $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ is a banded block matrix (with a bandwidth of $Nl_{\max}+1$), where $\thicktilde{\bf K}_{m,l} \in \mathcal{C}^{N \times N}$ are non-zero diagonal matrices for $m \geq l$ and $l \in \mathcal{L}$ and zero matrices otherwise. Consequently, the delay-Doppler domain input-output relation in (\ref{9}) becomes
\begin{align} {\thicktilde{\bf y}}_m = \sum _{l \in \mathcal{L}} \thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}\circ{\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m-l},\quad \thicktilde{\bf x}_m={\bf 0}_N \text{ for } m \geq M-l_{\rm max}. \label{td_ioeq}
\end{align}
in the delay-time domain, where $\thicktilde{\bf x}=[\thicktilde{\bf x}_0^\text{T}, \cdots, \thicktilde{\bf x}_{M-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$ and $\thicktilde{\bf y}=[\thicktilde{\bf y}_0^\text{T}, \cdots, \thicktilde{\bf y}_{M-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$.
\subsection{Time Domain}
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=3 8 0 5,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.6in]{H_td.eps}
\vspace{-6mm}\caption{The time-domain input-output relation ${\bf r}={\bf G}\cdot{\bf s}$ after shuffling the matrix $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ as ${\bf G}={\bf P}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf H}\cdot{\bf P}^{\rm T}$ for $N=M=8$ and $l_{\max}=3$.}
\label{mat4}}
\end{figure}
Here, we show how the time domain input-output relation is connected to the delay-Doppler and the delay-time domain input-output relations.
From (\ref{r2y_relation}), it can be seen that the delay-time vectors $\thicktilde{\bf x}$ and $\thicktilde{\bf y}$ in (\ref{time_delay_io}) are simply shuffled versions of the time domain transmitted and received vectors ${\bf s}$ and ${\bf r}$, respectively.
Let ${\bf s}$ and ${\bf r}$ be split into $N$ blocks each of size $M$, such that ${\bf s}=[{\bf s}_0^\text{T}, \cdots, {\bf s}_{N-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$ and ${\bf r}=[{\bf r}_0^\text{T}, \cdots, {\bf r}_{N-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$.
Then $\thicktilde{\bf x}_m=[{\bf s}_0(m), \cdots, {\bf s}_{N-1}(m)]^\text{T}$ and $\thicktilde{\bf y}_m=[{\bf r}_0(m), \cdots, {\bf r}_{N-1}(m)]^\text{T}$.
Let
\begin{align} {\bf P}
& = \left[\begin{array}{cccc} {\bf E}_{1,1} & {\bf E}_{2,1} & \cdots & {\bf E}_{M,1}\\ {\bf E}_{1,2} & {\bf E}_{2,2} & \cdots & {\bf E}_{M,2}\\ \vdots & \ddots & \ddots & \vdots \\ {\bf E}_{1,N} & {\bf E}_{2,N} & \cdots & {\bf E}_{M,N} \end{array}\right] ~\in \mathbb{C}^{NM \times NM}
\label{P}
\end{align}
be the row-column interleaver permutation matrix such that ${\bf s}={\bf P}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf x}$ and ${\bf r}={\bf P}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf y}$ where ${\bf E}_{i,j} \in \mathbb{C}^{M \times N}$ is defined as
\begin{align} {\bf E}_{i,j}(i',j') = \left. \left\lbrace \begin{array}{ll} 1, & \text{if } i'=i \text{ and } j'=j \\ 0, & \text{otherwise.} \end{array}\right. \right.
\label{cond_P} \end{align}
Such permutation is known in the literature as a {\em perfect shuffle,} and has the following property \cite{perm}: given square matrices ${\bf A}$ and ${\bf B}$
\begin{equation}{\bf A}\otimes{\bf B}={\bf P}\cdot({\bf B}\otimes{\bf A})\cdot{\bf P}^\text{T}.\label{prop1}\end{equation}
The input-output relation in (\ref{time_delay_io}) can now be written as
\begin{align}
& ({\bf P}^{\rm T}\cdot{\bf r})=\thicktilde{\bf H}\cdot({\bf P}^{\rm T}\cdot{\bf s})+\thicktilde{\bf w}.\label{td1}
\end{align}
Multiplying both sides of (\ref{td1}) on the left by ${\bf P}$, the input-output relation can be expressed in terms of the time-domain channel matrix ${\bf G}={\bf P}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf H}\cdot{\bf P}^{\rm T}$ as
\begin{equation}
{\bf r}={\bf G}\cdot{\bf s}+\thickbar{\bf w}.
\label{time_domain_io}
\end{equation}
We note that ${\bf G}$ and $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ are {\em similar} matrices and hence share the same eigenvalues \cite{sim_mat}.
From (\ref{Htd}) using the perfect shuffle property in (\ref{prop1}), the time domain channel matrix ${\bf G}$ can be related to the delay-Doppler domain channel matrix ${\bf H}$ as
\begin{align}
&{\bf G}=({\bf F}_N^{\dag}\otimes{\bf I}_M)\cdot({\bf P}\cdot{\bf H}\cdot{\bf P}^{\rm T})\cdot({\bf F}_N\otimes{\bf I}_M). \label{perm}
\end{align}
As shown in Fig. \ref{mat4} the null symbols added in the delay-Doppler domain act as interleaved guard bands of length $l_{\max}$ in the time-domain vector ${\bf s}$ and thus help in avoiding interference between the time domain blocks ${\bf r}_n$ for $n=0, \cdots, N-1$.
This forces ${\bf G}$ to be a block-diagonal matrix. As a result, the large matrix equation in (\ref{time_domain_io}) can be split into $N$ parallel smaller linear matrix equations with the blocks ${\bf G}_0, \cdots, {\bf G}_{N-1} \in \mathbb{C}^{M \times M}$ as the corresponding channel matrices. ${\bf G}_n$ are the diagonal blocks of {\bf G} each with a bandwidth of $l_{\max}+1$. The system equation in (\ref{time_domain_io}) can be split and written as
\begin{equation}
{\bf r}_n={\bf G}_n\cdot{\bf s}_n+\thickbar{\bf w}_n \quad\text{where }~~ n=0, \cdots, N-1.
\label{time_block_io}
\end{equation}
Since ${\bf G}={\bf P}\cdot\thicktilde{\bf H}\cdot{\bf P}^{\rm T}$, the non-zero entries of the $M \times M$ time domain channel sub-matrices ${\bf G}_n$ are related to the entries of the $N \times N$ delay-time channel sub-matrices $\thicktilde{\bf K}_{m,l}$ and the time-varying complex channel gain for each delay tap $g^{\rm s}(l,q)$ as
\begin{equation}
g^{\rm s}(l,q)={\bf G}_n(m,m-l)=\thicktilde{\bf K}_{m,l}(n,n)=\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}(n) \label{td2time}
\end{equation}
where $q=m+nM$, $m \in \{l\leq i < M|l \in \mathcal{L}\}$ and $0\leq n<N$.
\section{Low Complexity Iterative Rake Detector}\label{sec1}
\begin{figure*}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=15 15 20 15,clip,height=3.1in,width=6in]{Channel_intererence_graph.eps}
\vspace{-4mm}\caption{MRC delay-Doppler domain operation for $M=7$ and the set of discrete delay indices $\mathcal{L}={0,1,2}$. }
\label{Rakeblock}}
\end{figure*}
We can think of the proposed MRC detector as the maximal ratio combining of the channel impaired signal components received at $L=|\mathcal{L}|\leq P$ different delay branches in the delay-Doppler grid analogous to a CDMA rake receiver as shown in Fig. \ref{Rakeblock}. The noise plus interference (NPI) power in each of these branches is different and depends on the channel response. In each detector iteration, we cancel the estimated inter symbol-vector interference in the branches selected for combining, thereby iteratively improving the post MRC signal to interference plus noise ratio (SINR).
The input output relation between the transmitted and received symbol-vectors ${\bf x}_m$ and ${\bf y}_m$ in (\ref{9}) is given by
\begin{equation}{\bf y}_{m+l}={\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}\cdot{\bf x}_{m}} + {\bf w}_{m+l} \label{io}\end{equation}
where ${\bf w}_m$ is iid AWGN noise with variance $\sigma_n^2$. From (\ref{io}), due to the inter-symbol interference caused by delay spread ($l_{\max}T/M$), all symbol-vectors ${\bf x}_{m}$ have a signal component in $L$ received symbol-vectors ${\bf y}_{m+l}$, for $l \in \mathcal{L}$. Let ${\bf b}_m^{l} \in \mathbb{C}^{N \times 1}$ be the channel impaired signal component of ${\bf x}_m$ in the received ${\bf y}_{m+l}$ vector at delay index $m+l$ after removing the interference of the other transmitted symbol-vectors ${\bf x}_{k}$ for $k \neq m$. Assuming we have the estimates of symbol-vectors ${\bf x}_m$ from previous iterations, we can then write ${\bf b}_m^{l}$ for $l\in \mathcal{L}$ as
\begin{equation}
{\bf b}_m^{l} ={\bf y}_{m+l}-{\sum_{{{l'}}\in \mathcal{L},{l'}\neq l}{\bf K}_{m+l,{{l'}}}}\cdot\hat{\bf x}_{m+l-{{l'}}}.
\label{highcomp}\end{equation}
Then from (\ref{io}) and (\ref{highcomp}) for $l\in \mathcal{L}$, we have $L$ equations for the symbol-vector estimates $\hat{\bf x}_{m}$ given as
\begin{equation}
{\bf b}_m^{l} ={{\bf K}_{m+l,l}}\cdot{\hat{\bf x}_m}+ {\bf w}_{m+l}+\text{interference}
\label{dfe}\end{equation}
in the delay branch with index $l$ due to error in the current estimates of the interfering symbol-vectors ${\bf x}_{m+l-{p}}$ for $l \neq {p}$.
In the proposed scheme, instead of estimating the transmitted symbol-vector $\hat{\bf x}_m$ separately from each of the $L$ equations in (\ref{dfe}), we perform maximal ratio combining (\ref{Rm}) of the estimates ${\bf b}_m^{l}$ followed by symbol-by-symbol QAM demapping using (\ref{ML}).
The vector output of the maximal ratio combiner, ${\bf c}_m \in \mathbb{C}^{N \times 1}$, is given by
\begin{equation}{\bf c}_m ={\bf D}_{m}^{-1}\cdot{\bf g}_m \label{Rm} \end{equation}
where
\begin{equation}
{\bf D}_{m}={\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}^{\dag}\cdot{{\bf K}_{m+l,l}}}\label{denom}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
{\bf g}_m=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf b}_m^{l}\label{num}
\end{equation}
and the hard estimates are given by
\begin{equation} {\bf \hat{x}}_m(n)=\arg \min _{a_j\in \mathcal {Q}} \left |{a_j-{\bf c}_m(n)}\right |. \label{ML}\end{equation}
where $a_j$ is signal from the QAM alphabet $\mathcal{Q}$, with $j=1,\ldots,|\mathcal{Q}|$ and $n=0,\ldots,N-1$.
Let $\mathcal{D}(.)$ denote the decision on the estimate ${\bf c}_m$ in every iteration such that $\hat{\bf x}_m^{(i)}=\mathcal{D}({\bf c}_m^{(i)})$. Hard-decision function $\mathcal{D}(c)$ is given by the maximum likelihood (ML) criterion in (\ref{ML}).
\begin{algorithm}
\SetAlgoLined
{\bf Input}: ${\bf H}$, ${\bf D}_m$, ${\bf y}_m$, ${\bf x}_m={\bf 0}_N$\quad$\forall$ $m=0, \ldots, M-1$\\
\For{i=1:max iterations}{
\For{$m=0:M'-1$}{
\For{$l \in \mathcal{L}$}{
$ {\bf b}_m^{l} ={\bf y}_{m+l}-{\sum_{{p}\neq l}{\bf K}_{m+l,{p}}}\cdot\hat{\bf x}_{m+l-{p}}$\\
}
${\bf g}_m=\sum_{l\in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf b}_m^{l}$\\
${{\bf c}}_m ={\bf D}_m^{-1}\cdot{\bf g}_m$\\
${\bf \hat{x}}_m=\mathcal{D}({\bf c}_m)\quad(\text{or}\quad\hat{\bf x}_m={\bf c}_m$)$^5$\\
}}
{\bf Output}: ${\bf \hat{x}}_m$
\label{algo1}\caption{MRC in delay-Doppler domain.}
\end{algorithm}
Once we update the estimate $\hat{\bf x}_m$, we increment $m$ and repeat the same to estimate all $M'=M-l_{max}$ information symbol-vectors ${\bf \hat{x}}_m$ using the updated estimates\footnote{Alternatively, a soft estimate can also be used in conjunction with an outer coding scheme as described in Section \ref{Turbo_Rake}.} of the previously decoded symbol-vectors in the form of a decision feedback equalizer (DFE) as shown in Fig. \ref{Rakeblock}. Note that the DFE action leads to sequential updates whereas alternatively, using only the previous iteration estimates leads to parallel updates. We verified experimentally that parallel updates result in slower convergence. Algorithm 1 shows the delay-Doppler domain MRC operation (also see Fig. \ref{Rakeblock}).
\subsection{Reduced complexity delay-time domain implementation}
In (\ref{highcomp}), for each symbol-vector ${\bf x}_m$, we need to compute $L$ vectors ${\bf b}_m^{l}$. This operation requires $L(L-1)$ products between matrices ${\bf K}_{m,l}$ and estimated symbol-vectors $\hat{\bf x}_{m-l}$. We can take advantage of the redundant operations to reduce the complexity. Let us define the {\em residual noise plus interference} (RNPI) term in the $i$-th iteration
\begin{equation}{ \Delta}{\bf y}_m^{(i)}={\bf y}_{m}-{\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m,l}}\cdot\hat{\bf x}_{m-l}^{(i)}\label{deltay}\end{equation}
which can be considered as the residual error in the reconstructed received delay-Doppler domain symbols due to error in estimation of the transmitted symbols. Note that symbol-vectors $\hat{\bf x}_m$ are estimated in increasing order for $m=0, \ldots, M'-1$. Therefore, for estimating the symbol-vector ${\bf x}_m$, only the symbol-vectors $\hat{\bf x}_{m+p}$, for $p<0$, have updated estimates available in the current iteration. For $p \geq 0$, the previous iteration estimates are used. From (\ref{highcomp}) and (\ref{deltay}), ${\bf b}_m^l$ computation for estimating the symbol-vector ${\bf x}_m$ in the $i$-th iteration can be written as
\begin{equation}{\bf b}_m^{l} ={ \Delta}{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}+{\bf K}_{m+l,l}\cdot\hat{\bf x}_{m}^{(i-1)}.\label{bml}
\end{equation}
Substituting (\ref{bml}) for ${\bf b}_m^{l}$ in (\ref{num}), the direct computation of ${\bf b}_m^l$ can be avoided by writing ${\bf g}_m^{(i)}$ for the $i$-th iteration as
\begin{align}
{\bf g}_m^{(i)}&=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}^{\dag}\cdot{ \Delta}{\bf y}^{(i)}_{m+l}+\left(\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}^{\dag}\cdot {\bf K}_{m+l,l}\right)\cdot \hat{\bf x}_m^{(i-1)} \nonumber\\&
=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}\cdot{ \Delta}{\bf y}^{(i)}_{m+l}+{\bf D}_m\cdot\hat{\bf x}_m^{(i-1)}.\label{gm1}
\end{align}
Then from (\ref{Rm}) and (\ref{gm1}), the MRC output at the $i$-th iteration can be written as
\begin{align}
{\bf c}_m^{(i)}&=\hat{\bf x}_m^{(i-1)}+{\bf D}_m^{-1}\cdot{\Delta}{\bf g}_m^{(i)} \label{cm1}
\end{align}
where
\begin{equation}{\Delta}{\bf g}_m^{(i)}=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}{\bf K}_{m+l,l}^{\dag}\cdot{\Delta}{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}\label{qm}
\end{equation}
The vector ${\Delta}{\bf g}_m^{(i)}$ in (\ref{qm}) is the maximal ratio combining of the RNPI's in all the delay branches $({\bf y}_{m+l} \text{ for } l \in \mathcal{L})$ having a component of ${\bf x}_m$ in them.
In the $i$-th iteration, for every estimated symbol-vector ${\bf x}_m$, $L$ RNPI vectors ${\Delta}{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}$ need to be updated. which costs $L^2$ matrix-vector products. However, the complexity of (\ref{deltay}) can be reduced by storing and updating the initial RNPI vectors ${\Delta}{\bf y}_{m}^{(0)}$. The $L$ RNPI vectors which have a component of the most recently estimated symbol-vector are updated as follows,
\begin{equation}
{\Delta}{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}\leftarrow{\Delta}{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}-{\bf K}_{m+l,l}\cdot({{\bf x}}_{m}^{(i)}-{{\bf x}}_{m}^{(i-1)}).\label{deltay2}
\end{equation}
The number of matrix-vector products required to compute ${\Delta}{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}$ has now been reduced from $L^2$ in (\ref{deltay}) to $L$ in (\ref{deltay2}). Moreover, as described in Section II-E, the matrix-vector products in (\ref{qm}) and (\ref{deltay2}) are products between circulant matrices ${\bf K}_{m,l} \in {\mathbb C}^{N \times N}$ and column vectors ${\bf x}_{m}$ or $\Delta{\bf y}_{m}\in {\mathbb C}^{N \times 1}$ which can be converted to element-wise product of vectors $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l} \circ \thicktilde{\bf x}_{m}$ or $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l} \circ \thicktilde\Delta{\bf y}_{m}$, respectively, in the delay-time domain with a complexity of $N$ complex multiplications. Let the superscript $\sim$ denotes the $N$-IFFT of a vector (i.e., $\thicktilde{\bf a}={\bf F}_N^\text{H}\cdot {\bf a}$). The equations (\ref{cm1}), (\ref{qm}) and (\ref{deltay2}) can now be written in corresponding delay-time domain as
\begin{align}
\thicktilde{\bf c}_m^{(i)}&=\thicktilde{\bf x}_m^{(i-1)}+{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf g}_m^{(i)}\oslash\thicktilde{\bf d}_m \label{cmtd}
\end{align}
\begin{equation}{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf g}_m^{(i)}=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m+l,l}^{\ast}\circ{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}\label{qmtd}\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}\leftarrow{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}-\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m+l,l}\circ({\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m}^{(i)}-{\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m}^{(i-1)})\label{deltaytd}
\end{equation}
where
\begin{equation}\thicktilde{\bf d}_m=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m+l,l}^{\dag}\circ\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m+l,l}\end{equation}
which can be computed in only $NL$ complex multiplications.
\begin{algorithm}
\SetAlgoLined
{\bf Input}: $\thicktilde{\bf H}$, $\thicktilde{\bf d}_m$, $\thicktilde{\bf x}_m^{(0)}$, $\thicktilde{\bf y}_m$ $\forall$ $m=0, \ldots, M-1$\\
\For{$m=0:M'-1$}{
$\Delta\thicktilde{{\bf y}}^{{(0)}}_{m}=\thicktilde{{\bf y}}_m-{\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}\thicktilde{\pmb{\nu}}_{m,l}\circ{\thicktilde{\bf x}_{m-l}^{(0)}}}$\\}
\For{i=1:max iterations}{
$\Delta\thicktilde{{\bf y}}^{{(i)}}=\Delta\thicktilde{{\bf y}}^{{(i-1)}}$\\
\For{$m=0:M'-1$}
${\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf g}_m^{(i)}=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m+l,l}^{\ast}\circ{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}$\\
$\thicktilde{{\bf c}}_m^{(i)} =\thicktilde{{\bf x}}_m^{(i-1)}+{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf g}_m^{(i)}\oslash\thicktilde{\bf d}_m$\\
$\thicktilde{\bf {x}}_m^{(i)}={\bf F}_N^{\dag}\cdot\mathcal{D}({\bf F}_N\cdot\thicktilde{{\bf c}}_m^{(i)})$ \quad(or\quad$\thicktilde{\bf {x}}_m^{(i)}=\thicktilde{\bf c}_m^{(i)}$)\\
\For{$l \in \mathcal{L}$}{
${\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}\leftarrow{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m+l}^{(i)}-\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m+l,l}\circ({\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m}^{(i)}-{\thicktilde{\bf x}}_{m}^{(i-1)})$\\
}
}
{\bf if} ({$||{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}^{(i)}|| \geq ||{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}^{(i-1)}||$}) {\bf then EXIT}
}
{\bf Output}: $\hat{\bf x}_m={\mathcal{D}}({\bf F}_N\cdot\thicktilde{\bf x}_m)$
\caption{Reduced complexity MRC in delay-time domain \label{algo2}.}
\end{algorithm}
\subsubsection{Computational complexity per iteration}
Overall complexity per iteration for calculating ${\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf g}_m^{(i)}$, $\thicktilde{\bf c}_m^{(i)}$ and ${\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_m^{(i)}$ for all symbol-vectors is $M'(2L+1)N$ complex multiplications.
The redundant FFT computations can be avoided by storing the Fourier transform of the $M'L$ Doppler spread vectors ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$, the $M'$ initial symbol-vector estimates ${\bf x}_m^{(0)}$ and the RNPI vectors $\Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}^{(0)}_{m}$ in (\ref{deltay2}). The hard decision estimates require the delay-time vectors to be transformed into the delay-Doppler domain and back using {\em two} $N$-IFFT operations (which requires $2N\log_2(N)$ complex multiplications) per symbol-vector. Algorithm \ref{algo2} shows the low complexity delay-time domain MRC implementation. The detector iterations are stopped when the overall RNPI error $\Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}=[\Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}_0^\text{T}, \Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}_{1}^\text{T}, \cdots, \Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}_{M-1}^\text{T}]^\text{T}$ due to the estimation error in symbol-vectors stops reducing.
\subsubsection{Initial computational complexity}
In the proposed detector, the initial computations include generating all the entries of the matrices ${\bf H}$ and $\thicktilde{\bf H}$, which requires computing the vectors ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ and their Fourier transform $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ for all $m=0, \ldots, M'-1$ and $l \in \mathcal{L}$. Assuming the integer delay-Doppler channel parameters $(h_i, k_i, l_i)$ are known for $i=1, 2, \ldots, P$, the channel Doppler spread vectors ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ can be easily computed using the relations given in (\ref{4}) and (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml6}).
Let $K_l$ be the number of non-zero channel coefficients in each vector ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ (or paths with different Doppler shift in the same delay bin $l \in \mathcal{L}$) such that total number of channel coefficients or propagation paths as seen by the OTFS receiver is $P=\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}K_l$. The number of complex multiplications required to compute the $M'L$ vectors ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ using (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml6}) is $M'\sum_{l \in \mathcal{L}}K_{l}=M'P$. The OTFS channel matrix ${\bf H}$ (or equivalently the vectors
${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$) can then be generated in $M'P$ complex multiplications.
For the delay-time domain MRC operation in Algorithm \ref{algo2},
$\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ ($N$-IFFT of ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$) can be computed in $\min\{Nk_l,N\log_2(N)\}$ complex multiplications, since there are only $K_l$ non-zero channel coefficients in each delay tap $l$. Then, the number of complex multiplications required to compute $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ (or equivalently all the $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$) is upper bounded by $M'N \sum_{l}K_l=M'NP$.
Alternatively, for the fractional Doppler case, the complexity of initial computations remains unaffected for the delay-time domain detector as $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ can be generated directly from the channel gains, delays, and Doppler shifts $(h_i,\kappa_i,\ell_i)$ of the $P$ paths, using (\ref{4}) and (\ref{g_lt_to_v_ml22}) with $M'NP$ complex multiplications.
\subsection{Low complexity initial estimate}
In Algorithm 1 and 2, we initially assume that all the $\mathcal{Q}$-QAM signals $a_j$ are equally likely and the mean of $a_j$'s is zero and so we initialize $\hat{{\bf x}}_m^{(0)} ={\bf 0}_N$, for all $m$. The MRC detector complexity per iteration is of the order $O(NML)$ and the overall complexity scales linearly with the number of iterations.
However, a better initial estimate of the OTFS symbols instead of $\hat{\bf x}_m={\bf 0}_N$ may reduce the required number of MRC iterations and to reach convergence. Assuming ideal pulse shaping waveform, a single tap equalizer in the time-frequency domain can provide an improved low complexity initial estimate.
Following the remark in Section \ref{Sec:IOrelationDD} and \cite{WCNC_paper}, we define ${\bf H}_{\text{dd}} \in \mathbb{C}^{M \times N}$, the delay-Doppler domain channel impulse response matrix for the ideal pulse shaping waveform case,
\begin{align} {\bf H}_{\text{dd}}(m,n) = \left. \left\lbrace \begin{array}{ll} \nu_{l}(\kappa), & \text{if } m=l, n=[\kappa]_N\\0, & \text{otherwise.} \end{array}\right. \right. \end{align}
For the fractional Doppler case (when $\kappa$ is a real number). the ideal channel response can be written in terms of the Doppler spread vectors as ${\bf H}_{\text{dd}}=[{\pmb \nu}_{0,0}, {\pmb \nu}_{1,1}, \cdots, {\pmb \nu}_{M-1,M-1}]^\text{T}$. The corresponding time-frequency channel response for the ideal pulse shaping waveform is obtained by an inverse symplectic finite fourier transform (ISFFT) operation on the delay-Doppler channel as
\begin{align}{\bf H}_{\text{tf}}&={\bf F}_M\cdot{\bf H}_{\text{dd}}\cdot{\bf F}^{\text{H}}_N\label {Htf} \\
&={\bf F}_M\cdot[{\pmb \nu}_{0,0}, {\pmb \nu}_{1,1}, \cdots, {\pmb \nu}_{M-1,M-1}]^\text{T}\cdot{\bf F}^{\text{H}}_N \nonumber\\
&={\bf F}_M\cdot[\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{0,0}, \thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{1,1}, \cdots, \thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{M-1,M-1}]^\text{T}.
\label {Htf2}\end{align}
Similarly, the received time-frequency samples can be obtained by the ISFFT operation on the received delay-Doppler domain samples as
\begin{align}{\bf Y}_{\text{tf}}={\bf F}_M\cdot{\bf Y}\cdot{\bf F}^{\text{H}}_N={\bf F}_M\cdot[\thicktilde{\bf y}_0, \thicktilde{\bf y}_1, \cdots \thicktilde{\bf y}_{M-1}]^\text{T}.\label{ytf}\end{align}
Since in the ideal pulse shaping waveform case, circular convolution of the channel and transmitted symbols in the delay-Doppler domain transforms to element-wise product in the time-frequency domain, we estimate the transmitted samples in the time-frequency domain by a single tap minimum mean square error (MMSE) equalizer
\begin{equation}
{\bf \hat{X}}_{\text{\text{tf}}}(m,n)=\frac{{\bf H}_{\text{tf}}^{\ast}(m,n)\cdot{\bf Y}_{\text{tf}}(m,n)}{\lvert {\bf H}_{\text{tf}}(m,n)\rvert^{2}+\sigma_w^2}
\label{20}
\end{equation}
for $m=0,\ldots,M-1$ and $n=0,\ldots,N-1$.
The time-delay domain initial estimates of the OTFS symbol-vectors can then be obtained by the Heisenberg transform operation on the time-frequency domain estimates as
\begin{equation}
[\thicktilde{\bf x}_0^{(0)}, \thicktilde{\bf x}_1^{(0)}, \cdots \thicktilde{\bf x}_{M-1}^{(0)}]^\text{T}={\bf F}^{\dag}_M\cdot{\bf \hat{X}}_{\text{tf}}. \label{xx}
\end{equation}
Note that $\thickbar{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}={\bf 0}_N$ for $l \not\in \mathcal{L}$ and hence the operation in (\ref{Htf2}) can be computed in $\min\{NML,NM\log_2(M)\}$ complex multiplications. Since we have already computed $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$, and $\thicktilde{\bf y}$ is just a shuffled version of the received time-domain samples, the overall number of computations (for the steps in (\ref{Htf2}), (\ref{ytf}), (\ref{20}) and (\ref{xx})) required for the initial estimate is upper bounded by $NM(L+2\log_2(M)+3)$, which is comparable to the complexity of one detector iteration $NM'(2L+1)$.
\subsection{Condition for Detector Convergence}
{In this section, we cast the delay-time algorithm (Algorithm \ref{algo2}) in the time-domain with the purpose of analysing the detector convergence using the properties of Jacobi and Gauss Seidel iterative methods for solving linear equations \cite{LSBook,GSBook}. The basic principle of iterative MRC operation in the delay-time domain with sequential updates given in (\ref{cmtd})-(\ref{deltaytd}) can be compactly expressed as
\begin{equation}
\thicktilde{\bf x}^{(i)}=\thicktilde{\bf x}^{(i-1)}+\thicktilde{\bf D}^{-1}\thicktilde{\bf H}^{\dag}(\thicktilde{\bf y}-\thicktilde{\bf H}\thicktilde{\bf x}^{(i-1)})\label{tdalgo}
\end{equation}
when using parallel updates (i.e. without DFE),
where $\thicktilde{\bf D}$ is the matrix containing diagonal elements of $\thicktilde{\bf H}^{\dag}\thicktilde{\bf H}$.
The rows and columns of the delay-time channel matrix $\thicktilde{\bf H}$ are perfectly shuffled using the permutation matrix ${\bf P}$ to obtain a {\em similar}, block diagonal time-domain channel matrix ${\bf G}$ as explained in Section II-F. This allows the equivalent operation in (\ref{tdalgo}) to be split and executed in parallel for each independent time domain block ${\bf G}_n$ as
\begin{equation}
{\bf s}_n^{(i)}={\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}+{\bf D}_n^{-1}{\bf G}_n^{\dag}({\bf r}_n-{\bf G}_n{\bf s}_n^{(i-1)})\label{tdalgo1}
\end{equation}
where ${\bf D}_n$ is the matrix containing the diagonal elements of ${\bf G}_n^{\dag}{\bf G}_n$.
Equation (\ref{tdalgo1}) can be written in the form
\begin{align}
&{\bf s}_n^{(i)}=-{\bf T}^{\rm J}_n\cdot{\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}+{\bf Q}^{\rm J}_n\cdot{\bf z}_n \nonumber \\
&{\bf T}^{\rm J}_n={\bf D}_n^{-1}\cdot({\bf L}_n+{\bf L}_n^{\dag}),\quad{\bf Q}^{\rm J}_n={\bf D}_n^{-1},\quad{\bf z}_n={\bf G}_n^{\dag}{\bf r}_n \label{sys_eq}
\end{align}
where ${\bf L}_n$ and ${\bf L}_n^{\dag}$ are the matrices containing the strictly lower and upper triangular parts of the Hermitian matrix ${\bf R}_n={\bf G}_n^{\dag}{\bf G}_n$. Finally, we observe that the parallel update formulation in (\ref{sys_eq}) matches the classic Jacobi iterative method (hence the superscript 'J' in ${\bf T}_n^{\rm J}$) for solving linear equations, \cite{LSBook}.
We now focus on the sequential update method given in Algorithm 1 and 2 based on the DFE operation. Note that, in Algorithm \ref{algo2}, the linear matrix equation in (\ref{tdalgo}) is solved block-wise with low complexity, where the latest estimates of the symbol-vectors calculated in the current iteration are used in estimating the next symbol-vector as in a DFE
\begin{equation}
{\bf s}_n^{(i)}={\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}+{\bf D}_n^{-1}({\bf z}_n-\underbrace{{\bf L}_n{\bf s}_n^{(i)}}_{(a)}-\underbrace{{\bf L}_n^{\dag}{\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}}_{(b)})\label{tdalgo3}
\end{equation}
where $(a)$ and $(b)$ denote the contribution of the current and previous-iteration estimates, respectively. We can modify (\ref{sys_eq}) for the DFE iterative method in (\ref{tdalgo3}) as
\begin{align}
&{\bf s}_n^{(i)}=-{\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n\cdot{\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}+{\bf Q}^{\rm GS}_n\cdot{\bf z}_n \nonumber \\
&{\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n=({\bf D}_n+{\bf L}_n)^{-1}\cdot{\bf L}_n^{\dag},\quad{\bf Q}^{\rm GS}_n=({\bf D}_n+{\bf L}_n)^{-1} \label{Tn}
\end{align}
and observe that Algorithm \ref{algo2} coincides with the well studied Gauss Seidel (GS) method available in the literature \cite{LSBook,GSBook}. Algorithm \ref{algo3} shows the equivalent time domain GS method implementing Algorithm \ref{algo2}.
\begin{algorithm}
\SetAlgoLined
{\bf Input}: ${\bf r}$, ${\bf G}$\\
\For{$n=0:N-1$}{
${\bf R}_n={\bf G}_n^{\dag}\cdot{\bf G}_n$\\
${\bf z}_n={\bf G}_n^{\dag}\cdot{\bf r}_n$\\
${\bf L}_n=\text{strictly lower triangular part}\{{\bf R}_n$\}\\
${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n=({\bf D}_n+{\bf L}_n)^{-1}\cdot{\bf L}_n^{\dag}$\\
${\bf Q}^{\rm GS}_n=({\bf D}_n+{\bf L}_n)^{-1}$\\
}
$\hat{\bf s}^{(0)}={\bf P}\cdot({\bf I}_M\otimes{\bf F}_N^{\dag})\cdot {\hat{\bf x}}^{(0)}$\\
\For{$i=1$:max iterations}{
\For{$n=0:N-1$}{
$\hat{\bf s}_n^{(i)}=-{\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n\cdot\hat{\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}+{\bf Q}^{\rm GS}_n\cdot{\bf z}_n$\\
}
{\bf if} ({$||{\bf r}-{\bf G}\cdot\hat{\bf s}^{(i)}|| \geq ||{\bf r}-{\bf G}\cdot\hat{\bf s}^{(i-1)}||$}) {\bf then EXIT}
}
{\bf Output}: $\hat{\bf x}=({\bf I}_M\otimes{\bf F}_N)\cdot({\bf P}\cdot {\hat{\bf s}^{(i)}})$
\caption{MRC delay-time domain operation principle in the form of time domain Gauss-Seidel method \label{algo3}.}
\end{algorithm}
Both Jacobi and GS methods are used to iteratively find the least squares solution
\begin{equation}
\hat{\bf s}_n=\min_{\hat{\bf s}_n} ||{\bf z}_n-{\bf R}_n\hat{\bf s}_n||^2
\end{equation}
of the $M$-dimensional linear system of equations
\begin{equation}
{\bf z}_n={\bf R}_n\cdot{\bf s}_n+\thickbar{\bf w}_n
\label{MRC_matrix}
\end{equation}
where ${\bf R}_n \in \mathbb{C}^{M \times M}$ and $\hat{\bf s}_n, {\bf z}_n \in \mathbb{C}^{M \times 1}$. We further assume that the time-domain correlation matrix ${\bf R}_n={\bf G}_n^{\dag}{\bf G}_n$ is non-singular and hence positive definite Hermitian.
In \cite{LSBook,GSBook}, it is shown that the iteration method (\ref{sys_eq}) for the linear system in (\ref{MRC_matrix}) is convergent, if $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)<1$, where $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)$ is the spectral radius\footnote{Spectral radius of a matrix is the largest absolute value of its eigenvalues.} of the square matrix ${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n$ \cite{LSBook,GSBook}. For the Jacobi method, $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm J}_n)<1$ if ${\bf R}_n$ is diagonally dominant, which depends on the channel and cannot be guaranteed. However, the GS method is known to converge faster and convergence is guaranteed under more general conditions than the Jacobi method \cite{LSBook,GSBook}. In Appendix we prove the following lemma
\begin{lemma} \label{rho}
The GS iterative method for the solution of (\ref{MRC_matrix}) is converging (i.e., $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)<1$) if ${\bf R}_n$ is a positive definite Hermitian matrix. Furthermore, $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)=1$ if ${\bf R}_n$ is a positive semi-definite Hermitian matrix.
\end{lemma}
We note that the algorithm may still converge even for some channels that result in a positive semi-definite Hermitian matrix ${\bf R}_n$ (i.e., $\rho{({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)} = 1$), but this is not guaranteed.
Even though the implementation of the iterative MRC detector in Algorithm \ref{algo3} looks simpler than the one in Algorithm \ref{algo2}, the complexity of initial computations for directly calculating ${\bf R}_n$, ${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n$ and ${\bf Q}^{\rm GS}_n$ is $O(NML^2)$ complex multiplications since ${\bf G}_n$ is a banded matrix with $L$ non-zero elements in each row. However, in Algorithm \ref{algo2}, the circulant property of the blocks of the channel matrix ${\bf H}$ (due to the placement of null symbols in the OTFS grid as shown in Fig. \ref{mat2}) is utilized to reduce the overall complexity of the initial computations to $O(NML)$ complex multiplications as explained in Section III-A.}
\vspace{-3mm}
\section{Further Improvements}
\subsection{Successive Over Relaxed (SOR) Iterative Rake Detector}
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 10,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{SOR_64QAM_performance.eps
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{64-QAM BER performance for different relaxation parameters $\omega$.}
\label{damp64Q}}
\end{figure}
In time domain, the proposed iterative Rake detector is similar to doing $N$ parallel GS iterations on the matched filtered received waveform, as shown in Section III-C. GS and its variants such as successive over-relaxation (SOR) method are well presented in \cite{mathJourn, LSBook, GSBook}. The SOR method is obtained by introducing a relaxation parameter $\omega$ in the GS method (\ref{tdalgo3}) as,
\begin{equation}
{\bf s}_n^{(i)}={\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}+\omega{\bf D}_n^{-1}({\bf z}_n-{\bf L}_n{\bf s}_n^{(i)}-{\bf L}_n^{\dag}{\bf s}_n^{(i-1)}).\label{tdalgo4}
\end{equation}
The corresponding GS iteration matrix ${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n$ and ${\bf Q}^{\rm GS}_n$ in Algorithm \ref{algo3} can be modified as
\begin{equation}
{\bf T}_n^{\omega}=({\bf D}_n+\omega{\bf L}_n)^{-1}\cdot((\omega-1){\bf D}_n+\omega{\bf L}_n^{\dag})
\label{new_tn}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
{\bf Q}_n^{\omega}=({\bf D}_n+\omega{\bf L}_n)^{-1}.
\end{equation}
In Appendix we prove the following lemma.
\begin{lemma} \label{omega_tn}
The SOR GS iterative method for the solution of (\ref{MRC_matrix}) is converging (i.e., $\rho({\bf T}^{\omega}_n)<1$) if ${\bf R}_n$ is a positive definite Hermitian matrix and $0<\omega<2$.
\end{lemma}
We can then simply modify the proposed delay-time detector Algorithm \ref{algo2} by rewriting (\ref{cmtd}) as
\begin{equation}
\thicktilde{{\bf c}}_m^{(i)} =\thicktilde{{\bf c}}_m^{(i-1)}+\omega({\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf q}_m^{(i-1)}\oslash\thicktilde{\bf d}_m). \label{cmSOR}
\end{equation}
Note that when $\omega=1$, (\ref{cmSOR}) coincides with (\ref{cmtd}). The relaxation parameter when $\omega>1$ is called the over-relaxation parameter and when $\omega<1$ is called the under relaxation parameter. The computation of the optimal SOR parameter $\omega=\omega_{\text{opt}}$ which minimizes the spectral radius $\rho({\bf T}_n^{\omega})$ requires computing the eigenvalues of the iteration matrix ${\bf T}_n^{\omega}$ , \cite{GSBook,LSBook}.
The aim is to find the range of values of $\omega$ for which the SOR method converges (see Lemma 2), the set of which denotes the region of convergence, and, if possible, the best value $\omega_{\rm opt}$. The optimum SOR parameter can be analytically calculated given the spectral radius of the Jacobi matrix $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm J}_n)<1$ \cite{mathJourn}. However, it is known that $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm J}_n)<1$ only if ${\bf R}_n$ is diagonally dominant, but this is not guaranteed for all channels. In such cases, the numerical calculation of $\omega_{opt}$ is not practical for large system matrices, rather a region of good performance, within the region of convergence, is easier to find, as suggested by \cite{mathJourn}. Further, when the power delay profile statistical model of the channel is given, the good region for the SOR parameter can be optimized offline by simulation.
In this paper, we try to analyse the effect of $\omega$ and the range of values of good performance by simulation. Fig. \ref{damp64Q} show the BER plot for 64-QAM for different values of $\omega$. In Fig. \ref{ber_16qam_SOR}, we plot the required (abbreviated as reqd. in the plot legend) SNR (labelled as 'Q-QAM reqd. SNR') on the left y-axis alongside the required number of iterations (labelled as 'Q-QAM reqd. iters') on the right y-axis, to achieve a BER of $10^{-3}$ for different modulation sizes, respectively, for different values of $\omega \in [1,1.5]$. The y-axis of the plot represents the SNR (dB) or the iterations depending on the corresponding curve. The maximum number of iterations is set to 50. It can be seen that the optimum $\omega$ for the standard extended vehicular A (EVA) \footnote{The EVA channel power-delay profile (with a maximum speed = 120 km/hr) is given by [0, -1.5, -1.4, -3.6, -0.6, -9.1, -7.0, -12.0, -16.9] dB with excess delay taps $\mathcal{L}'=\mathcal{L}=\{0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 13, 19\}$ normalized to the delay resolution $1/(M\Delta f)$ of an OTFS grid with bandwidth $M\Delta f$, where $M=512$ and $\Delta f=15$ kHz.} channel model \cite{EVA} consistently lies in the interval $[1.2,1.3]$. We can observe that there is a 2.5 dB and 17dB gain at a BER of $10^{-3}$ for 16-QAM and 64-QAM, respectively, due to just the over-relaxation parameter with almost no extra computational complexity.
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 6,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{SOR_performance_compare.eps}
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{Error performance and convergence speed of different relaxation parameters $\omega$ for different modulation sizes $|\mathbb{Q}|$ at BER $10^{-3}$.}
\label{ber_16qam_SOR}}
\end{figure}
The effect of the SOR parameter on the convergence speed of the MRC detector can be seen in Fig. \ref{ber_16qam_SOR} (right y-axis). It shows the number of iterations required to achieve a BER of $10^{-3}$ for different modulation sizes at the corresponding SNR values as given in the plot legend. It can be seen that the biggest reduction in complexity comes at 64-QAM where, the number of iterations required is significantly reduced (by almost 3 times) as compared to the case when SOR parameter $\omega=1$. For 4-QAM and 16-QAM, the optimum SOR parameter approximately halves the number of required iterations.
Finally, if no prior knowledge of the channel statistical model is available, we observed by simulation that some performance improvement can still be achieved by setting the value of $\omega$ to slightly above 1. The optimization of $\omega$ with low complexity, for different SNR, channel profiles and number of multipaths will be investigated in future work.
\subsection{Iterative Rake Turbo Decoder \label{Turbo_Rake}}
\begin{figure
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=0 0 0 0,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{Turbo_operation.eps}
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{ OTFS iterative rake turbo decoder operation.}
\label{turbo}}
\end{figure}
In order to improve FER performance, the turbo decoder principle shown in Fig. \ref{turbo} is proposed. The encoded bits are random interleaved in the frame so as to enhance the delay-Doppler diversity.
The detector output bit log likelihood ratios (LLR) after random de-interleaving is fed to the low-density parity check (LDPC) decoder. The hard decision coded bits from the LDPC decoder after interleaving and QAM modulation is then fed back to the MRC detector as the input symbol-vector estimates and the process repeats. Overall, one turbo iteration involves one iteration of MRC detector, de-interleaver, LDPC decoder, interleaver, and the QAM modulator. As shown in Fig. \ref{turbo}, for the first iteration, the initial estimate of the QAM symbols is provided by the low complexity MMSE equalizer as explained in Section III-B, after which the initial estimate comes form the LDPC decoder.
From (\ref{cm1}), the soft estimate of the delay-Doppler domain symbol-vector ${\bf c}_m$ after MRC combining can be written as
\begin{equation}
{\bf c}_{m}= {\bf x}_m+{\bf e}_{m} \quad\quad m=0, \ldots M'-1
\label{cmstat}\end{equation}
where ${\bf x}_m$ is the transmitted symbol-vector at delay index $m$ and ${\bf e}_m$ denotes the normalized post MRC NPI vector. We assume that ${\bf e}_m$ follows a zero mean Gaussian distribution with variance ${\sigma}_m^2$. This assumption becomes more accurate as the number of interfering terms increases. Then, the LLR $L_{m,n,b}^{(i)}$ of bit $b$ of the $n$-th transmitted symbol in the estimated symbol-vector ${\bf c}^{(i)}_m$ in the $i$-th iteration can be obtained by
\begin{align}
L_{m,n,b}^{(i)}&=\log\left(\frac{Pr(b=0|{\bf c}^{(i)}_m(n))}{Pr(b=1|{\bf c}^{(i)}_m(n))}\right) \nonumber \\&=\log\left(\frac{\sum_{q \in Q_0} \exp({-|{\bf c}^{(i)}_m(n)-q|^2/\sigma_m^2})}{\sum_{q' \in Q_1} \exp({{-|{\bf c}^{(i)}_m(n)-q'|^2}/\sigma_m^2})}\right)
\end{align}
where $\mathcal{Q}_0$ and $\mathcal{Q}_1$ are the subsets of QAM symbols, where the $b$-th bit of the symbol is 0 and 1, respectively. The complexity of LLR calculation can be reduced by the max-log approximated LLR obtained as
\begin{align}
\thicktilde{L}^{(i)}_{m,n,b} = \frac{1}{\sigma^{2}_m} \left(\min_{q\in{\mathcal Q}_{0}} \left\vert{{{{\bf c}^{(i)}_m(n)}{}}}-q\right\vert^2 \!-\! \min_{q'\in{\mathcal Q}_{1}}\left\vert{{{\bf c}^{(i)}_m(n)}{}}-q'\right\vert^2\right).\label{bitllr}
\end{align}
In order to compute the bit LLRs, an estimate of the post MRC NPI variance $\sigma_m^2$ is required. Accurate estimation of $\sigma_m^2$ is not straightforward and requires knowledge of the correlation between all the estimated symbol-vectors and RNPI vectors which changes every iteration as well. Since the entries of channel Doppler spread vectors ${\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$ can be assumed to be zero mean, i.i.d. and normal distributed \cite{EVA}, the channel Doppler spread for different delay taps can be assumed to be uncorrelated. i.e., $E[{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}^{\dag}\cdot {\pmb \nu}_{m',{p}}]=0$ for $l \neq {p}$. Furthermore, for the purpose of a simple estimate of the post MRC NPI variance, we assume that RNPI ${\Delta}{\bf y}_m^{(i)}$ in the different delay branches are uncorrelated (i.e., $E[{{\Delta}{\bf y}_m^{\dag}\cdot {\Delta}{\bf y}_p}]=0$ for $m \neq p$ in all iterations) and follows Gaussian distribution. The covariance matrix of the delay-time RNPI vector $\Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}_m$ in the $i$-th iteration
\begin{align}
{\pmb C}_{m}^{(i)}(j,k)=&({\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}(j)-E\{{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}\})({\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}(k)-E\{{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}\})^{\ast}
\end{align}
for $j,k=0, \ldots, N-1$ and $E\{{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}\}=\frac{1}{N}\sum_{n=1}^{N}{\Delta}\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}(n)$. Since Fourier transformation is a unitary transformation, the NPI variance remains the same in both domains, and we approximate the post MRC NPI variance for the symbol-vector soft estimate ${\bf c}_m^{(i)}$ in the $i$-th iteration as
\begin{equation}
\sigma_m^{2{(i)}}=\mathrm{Var}(\thicktilde{\bf e}_m^{(i)})\approx\frac{1}{N}\sum_{l \in L} {\eta}_{m,l}{\mathrm{tr}}({\pmb C}^{(i)}_{m+l}) \label{var_e_m}
\end{equation}
where ${\eta}_{m,l}=||\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m+l,l}\oslash \thicktilde{\bf d}_m||^2$ is the normalized post MRC channel power in the different delay branches selected for combining. The bit LLR calculation in (\ref{bitllr}) and NPI variance calculation in (\ref{var_e_m}) has a complexity of $2NM\log_2(|\mathcal{Q}|)$ and $NML$, respectively. The LDPC decoder complexity is of the order $C_{\rm LDPC}=O\left(\log_2(|\mathcal{Q}|)NM\right)$. The overall complexity of detection increases by $C_{\rm LDPC}+NM(2\log_2(|\mathcal{Q}|)+L)+$ for every turbo iteration.
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 10,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{BER_4qam.eps
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{Uncoded 4-QAM BER Plot : MRC vs MPA vs MMSE-OFDM.}
\label{ber_4qam}}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 10,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{BER_16qam.eps
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{Uncoded 16-QAM BER Plot : MRC vs MPA vs MMSE-OFDM.}
\label{ber_16qam}}
\end{figure}
\section{Simulation Results and Discussion}
For simulations we generate OTFS frames for $N=128$ and $M=512$. The sub-carrier spacing $\Delta f$ is taken as 15 kHz. The maximum delay spread (in terms of integer taps) is taken to be 32 ($l_{\max}=31$) which is approximately 4 ${\mu}s$. The channel delay model is generated according to the standard EVA model (with a speed of 120 km/h) with the Doppler shift for the $i$-th path generated from a uniform distribution $U(0,\nu_{max})$, where $\nu_{max}$ is the maximum Doppler shift \cite{EVA}. We consider one Doppler shifted path per delay tap with $L=9$ and $k_{max}=16$. For our simulations, we assume perfect knowledge of the channel state information at the receiver (see \cite{Ravi3} for practical channel estimation in OTFS). For BER plots, $10^{5}$ frames are send for every point in the BER curve and for FER plots, all simulations run for a minimum of $10^{5}$ frames or until 100 OTFS frame errors are encountered. BER is plotted to show uncoded performance, while FER is used when an outer coding scheme is applied.
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 10,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{FER_16QAM.eps
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{Turbo 16-QAM FER Plot: MRC vs BIC-MMSE-OFDM.}
\label{turboplot}}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 10,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{FER_64QAM.eps
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{Turbo 64-QAM FER Plot: MRC vs BIC-MMSE-OFDM. }
\label{fer_64qam}}
\end{figure}
Fig. \ref{ber_4qam} shows the BER plot for the MRC detector, with and without the initial estimate in Section III-B, for 4-QAM modulated OTFS waveform with a maximum of 10 iterations\footnote{Iterations are stopped according to the residual NPI convergence criteria in Algorithm \ref{algo2}.}. Performance is compared with the state of the art {\em message passing algorithm} (MPA) described in \cite{Ravi,Ravi1} (labeled as OTFS-MPA in Fig. \ref{ber_4qam} and \ref{ber_16qam}) with a maximum of 10 iterations\footnote{The MPA stopping criteria is based on the convergence of the estimated symbol probabilities \cite{Ravi}.} and the OFDM single tap MMSE equalizer. It can be seen that with the initial estimate (labeled as OTFS-MRC with Init. Est.\footnote{Init. Est. refers to detection with the Initial Estimate in Section III-B.}), there is a $\approx$1 dB gain over the MPA algorithm at a BER of $10^{-3}$. This gain is contributed by the improved SNR due to the MRC operation (or matched-filtering) at the receiver and the initial time-frequency MMSE estimate, which is more reliable for lower modulation sizes like BPSK and 4-QAM, thereby increasing the convergence speed (due to the initial estimates begin closer to the solution).
Note that the same initial estimates could also be used to improve the performance of MPA. However, the estimates need to be transformed into the delay-Doppler domain and $\mathcal{Q}$-QAM alphabet probabilities for all the information symbols need to be calculated. This would incur a high complexity just to get the improved initial estimate. Moreover, similar to MRC detection, MPA can also be applied on the matched-filtered system matrix ${\bf H}^{\dag}{\bf H}$ instead of ${\bf H}$, but this approximately doubles the MPA complexity, which scales linearly with the number of non-zero elements in the matrix. \cite{Ravi,Ravi1}.
Fig. \ref{ber_16qam} shows the BER plot for the MRC detector for 16-QAM modulation with maximum 15 iterations compared to the MPA-based detector with maximum 30 iterations. It can be seen that with the over-relaxed iterative detection (labeled as OTFS-SOR-MRC with Init. Est. ($\omega=1.25$)), the BER performance is improved by around 2.5 dB at BER $=10^{-3}$. Moreover, the SOR-iterative algorithm converges on average in less than 8 iterations for SNR>15 dB. We can see from Fig. \ref{damp64Q} and \ref{ber_16qam_SOR} that the SOR parameter has more impact at higher modulation schemes, where the initial low complexity estimate is less accurate and the convergence is generally slow without SOR.
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 10,clip,height=2.2in,width=3.4in]{FER_64QAM_shortlong.eps
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{Turbo 64-QAM FER Plot: MRC vs BIC--MMSE-OFDM for codeword lengths: 672, 3840.}
\label{comp_code}}
\end{figure}
Fig. \ref{turboplot} and \ref{fer_64qam} shows the frame error performance of the plain and SOR-turbo-Rake decoder with initial low complexity estimate for 16 and 64 QAM modulation, respectively, compared with bit interleaved coded OFDM with MMSE detection scheme (labeled as OFDM BICM decoder). A half-rate LDPC code of length $N_c=3840$ bits from \cite{ldpc} is used
and every OTFS frame contains $\floor{NM\log_2(|\mathcal{Q}|)/N_c}$ codewords.
Turbo iterations are stopped when all the decoded codewords within the frame satisfy the LDPC parity check. It can be observed that just 1 iteration of turbo MRC detector (labeled as Turbo-Rake 1 iter) is required to achieve better error performance than the bit interleaved coded MMSE OFDM.
Moreover, with the over-relaxation parameter $\omega=1.25$ (labeled as SOR-Turbo-Rake), a gain of $\approx 0.2$dB (for 16 QAM with 3 turbo iterations) and $\approx 1$dB (for 64 QAM with 3 turbo iterations) is achieved in the FER performance. The overall detector complexity in terms average number of iterations to converge is significantly reduced by using turbo iterations along with the initial estimates from the time-frequency single tap equalizer.
Fig. \ref{comp_code} shows the FER performance of the proposed detector vs BICM-OFDM for different codeword lengths: long (labeled as SOR-Turbo-Rake-3840) and short (labeled as SOR-Turbo-Rake-672). For a fair comparison with the OFDM scheme, the FER plot for a single turbo iteration is also plotted alongside. It can be observed that, the proposed detector with single turbo iteration has a gain of $\approx 3$dB and $\approx 4$dB for codeword length of 3840 and 672, respectively, as compared to the OFDM scheme at a FER of $10^{-2}$. It can be noted that more iterations are required for short codewords to achieve the same performance as long codewords.
\section{Detector Complexity}
In the table below, we summarize and compare the overall complexity of the iterative Rake receiver (in terms of complex multiplications), including initial computations and Fourier domain transformations as discussed in Section \ref{sec1}.
\begin{center}
\begin{tabular}{ | m{3.0cm} | m{0.6cm} | m{3.6cm} | }
\hline
Computations per iteration & (I) & {$NM'(2L+1+2\log_2(N))$} \\
\hline
\multirow{2}{3cm}{Initial computations} & (II) & {$NM'(P+2L)$} \\
\cline{2-3} & (III) & {$NM[L+2\log_2(M)+3]$} \\
\hline
\end{tabular}
\end{center}
Term (I) accounts for the computations inside each detector iteration, which includes calculating ${\Delta }\thicktilde{\bf g}_m^{(i)}$, $\Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(i)}$, $\thicktilde{\bf c}_m^{(i)}$, and the symbol-vector hard decision estimates $\thicktilde{\bf x}_m^{(i)}$ in Algorithm \ref{algo2}. Term (II) is for initial computations, which involves calculating $M'L$ delay-time Doppler spread vectors $\thicktilde{\pmb \nu}_{m,l}$, initial $M'$ residual vectors $\Delta\thicktilde{\bf y}_{m}^{(0)}$ in (\ref{deltaytd}), and $M'$ vectors $\thicktilde{\bf d}_m$ and term (III) is to compute the low complexity initial time-frequency estimate ${\hat {\bf x}}_m^{(0)}$ in (\ref{20}).
The detectors for OTFS with complexity linear in $NM$ and with non-ideal pulse shaping waveform (rectangular) are discussed in \cite{Ravi,kgp}. The complexity of the MPA detector per iteration scales with the number of paths on the discrete delay-Doppler grid and the alphabet size $|\mathcal{Q}|$, and has a complexity of the order $O(P|\mathcal{Q}|NM)$ \cite{Ravi}. The linear minimum mean square error detector proposed in \cite{kgp} even though is a non-iterative detector has a computational complexity of $O\left((l_{\max}^2+k_{\max}P^2)NM\right)$ whereas the proposed detector has a complexity of $O(SLNM)$ where $L \leq P$ and $S$ is the number of MRC detector iterations as given in Fig. \ref{ber_16qam_SOR}.
The complexity of the proposed detector is compared with other linear complexity OTFS detectors, for different modulation sizes, number of multipaths in Fig. \ref{comp}. The dashed lines represents the case when there are 5 paths with distinct Doppler shifts in each delay tap i.e., $P=5L$. It can be concluded from Fig. \ref{comp} that the proposed detector complexity is significantly lower than the one of other OTFS detectors and closer to that of an OFDM single tap MMSE equalizer.
For the iterative operation, the storage requirement for the MRC detector is $(L+2)NM$ complex numbers as only the $LNM$ delay-time channel coefficients, the $M$ RNPI vectors, and the $M'$ symbol vector estimates need to be stored for each iteration. For MPA, the storage requirement is much higher and of the order $O(P|\mathcal{Q}|NM)$, \cite{Ravi}.
\begin{figure}
\centering
{\includegraphics[trim=10 0 0 10,clip,height=2.3in,width=3.4in]{complexity_comparison.eps
\vspace{-3mm}\caption{Complexity comparison with other linear detectors, for different modulation sizes, for an OTFS frame of size $N=128, M=512$ for $P=L$, i.e., for {\em one} Doppler path per delay tap (solid lines) and $P=5L$, i.e., for {\em five} Doppler paths per delay tap (dashed lines).}
\label{comp}}
\end{figure}
\section{Conclusion}
We reformulated the OTFS input-output relation and proposed {\em two} versions of a {\em linear complexity} iterative rake detector algorithm for ZP-OTFS modulation based on the maximal ratio combining principle. We show that the MRC detector along with a low complexity initial estimate of symbol-vectors can achieve similar or better BER performance than the MPA detector with lower complexity and storage requirements. Based on the well studied Gauss-Seidel method, we introduced a successive over relaxation parameter to improve error performance and faster convergence of the proposed detector. The MRC detector performance was further improved with the aid of an outer error control coding scheme using turbo iterations. An additional advantage of the MRC detector is that the complexity is linear in $L$ (number of delay taps) rather than $P$ (total number of paths), thanks to the vector decomposition of the 2-D convolution with the channel.
\section*{Appendix}\label{appen}
\subsubsection{Proof of Lemma (\ref{rho})}
Consider the $M$ dimensional linear system of equations ${\bf z}_n={\bf R}_n\cdot{\bf s}_n$ without the noise term in (\ref{MRC_matrix}). The positive definite Hermitian system matrix ${\bf R}_n$ can be split as ${\bf D}_n+{\bf L}_n+{{\bf L}}^{\dag}_n$, where ${\bf D}_n$ and ${\bf L}_n \in \mathbb{C}^{M \times M}$ are the matrices containing the diagonal and strictly lower-triangular elements, respectively. Pre and post-multiplying both sides of (\ref{MRC_matrix}) by ${\bf D}_n^{-1/2}$ and ${\bf D}_n^{1/2}$, respectively, we get the re-scaled system of equations
\begin{equation}
{\bf z}_n'={\bf R}_n'\cdot{\bf s}_n'
\label{scale}
\end{equation}
where
\begin{equation}
{\bf R}_n'={\bf D}_n^{-1/2}\cdot{\bf R}_n\cdot{\bf D}_n^{-1/2},\quad{\bf z}_n'={\bf D}_n^{-1/2}\cdot{\bf z}_n,\quad{\bf s}_n'={\bf D}_n^{1/2}\cdot{\bf s}_n
\label{scalepar}
\end{equation}
${\bf R}_n^{\prime}$ is the re-scaled system matrix, which can be split as
\begin{equation}
{\bf R}^{\prime}_n={\bf I}_M+{\bf L}^{\prime}_n+\textbf{{\bf L}}^{\prime \dag}_n
\end{equation}
where ${\bf L}_n^{\prime}={\bf D}_n^{-1/2}\cdot{\bf L}_n\cdot{\bf D}_n^{-1/2}$.
Since ${\bf R}_n^{\prime}$ is a positive definite Hermitian matrix, any non-zero vector ${\bf u}$ such that ${\bf u}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf u}=\beta>0$ satisfies,
\begin{align}
&{\bf u}^{\dag}\cdot({\bf I}_M+{\bf L}^{\prime}_n+{\bf L}^{\prime \dag}_n)\cdot{\bf u}>0 \nonumber
\\ \implies &\beta+2\Re{[{\bf u}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime}_n\cdot{\bf u}]}>0.
\label{posdef2}
\end{align}
The inequality in (\ref{posdef2}) can now be written as
\begin{equation}
a=\Re[{\bf u}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime}_n\cdot{\bf u}]=\Re[{\bf u}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime \dag}_n\cdot{\bf u}]>-\frac{\beta}{2} \label{ineq}
\end{equation}
where $\Re[\cdot]$ denotes the real part. Also note that
\begin{equation}
b=\Im[{\bf u}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime}_n\cdot{\bf u}]=-\Im[{\bf u}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime \dag}_n\cdot{\bf u}] \label{ima}
\end{equation}
where $\Im[\cdot]$ denotes the imaginary part.
Solving (\ref{MRC_matrix}) is equivalent to solving the linear system of equations in (\ref{scale}) and re-scaling its solution vector as given in (\ref{scalepar}). The equivalent GS iteration matrix ${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n$ for (\ref{scalepar}) can be written as
\begin{align}
{\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n=({\bf I}_M+{\bf L}^{\prime}_n)^{-1}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime \dag}_n. \label{Tn3}
\end{align}
Now, the GS method for the system equation given in (\ref{Tn}) is guaranteed to converge if $|\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)|<1$, where $\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)$ denotes any eigenvalue of ${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n$, which satisfy ${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n\cdot {\bf v}=\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n) {\bf v}$, for the corresponding eigenvectors ${\bf v}$, i.e.,
\begin{align}
({\bf I}_M+{\bf L}^{\prime}_n)^{-1}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime \dag}_n\cdot {\bf v}=\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n) {\bf v} \label{Tn4}
.\end{align}
After multiplying both sides of (\ref{Tn4}) by ${\bf v}^{ H}\cdot({\bf I}_M+{\bf L}_n^{\prime})$, we can write $\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)$ as
\begin{align}
\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)&=\frac{{\bf v}_n^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime \dag}_n\cdot {\bf v}_n}{ \beta+{\bf v}_n^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}_n^{\prime}\cdot{\bf v}_n} =\frac{|a-j b|}{| \beta+a+j b|}
&=\frac{\sqrt{a^2+b^2}}{\sqrt{(\beta+a)^2+b^2}}. \label{ineq2}
\end{align}
From (\ref{ineq}), (\ref{ima}) and (\ref{ineq2}), it can be seen that $|\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)|<1$. Similarly for the case when ${\bf R}_n$ is positive semi-definite ,i.e., (\ref{ineq}) becomes $a \geq -\beta/2$, the eigenvalue inequality becomes $|\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)| \leq 1$. Since $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)$ is equal to the largest absolute value of the eigenvalues of ${\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n$, the positive definiteness of ${\bf R}_n$ ensures that $\rho({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)<1$.
\subsubsection{Proof of Lemma (\ref{omega_tn})}
Following the steps above, (\ref{ineq2}) can be modified for the eigenvalues of the SOR-GS iteration matrix ${\bf T}_n^{\omega}$ defined in (\ref{new_tn}) as
\begin{align}
\lambda({\bf T}_n^{\omega})=\frac{(\omega-1)({\bf v}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf v})+\omega({\bf v}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}^{\prime \dag}_n\cdot {\bf v}_n)}{ {\bf v}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf v}+\omega({\bf v}^{\dag}\cdot{\bf L}_n^{\prime}\cdot{\bf v}) }. \label{eig_omega}
\end{align}
The condition for eigenvalues $\lambda({\bf T}^{\rm GS}_n)$ in (\ref{ineq2}) can then be modified for the SOR case as
\begin{align}
|\lambda({\bf T}_n^{\omega})|
&=\frac{\sqrt{((\omega-1)\beta+\omega a)^2+(\omega b)^2}}{\sqrt{(\beta+\omega a)^2+(\omega b)^2}}. \label{ineq3}
\end{align}
It can be seen from (\ref{ineq3}) that $|\lambda({\bf T}_n^{\omega})|<1$, if
$|(\omega-1)\beta+\omega a|<|\beta+\omega a|$, which is guaranteed if $0<\omega<2$.
\vspace{-2mm}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
| 3,921
|
Q: Why does rails redirect to the show action after creating? New web developer here, and I think I may be missing some very fundamental knowledge.
Given the code
def create
@post = Post.new(post_params)
if @post.save
redirect_to @post
else
render "new"
end
end
why does the view templates redirect to the def show action? If I do not define a def show and its corresponding views, rails will throw me an error.
I am just not understanding why even though the code is redirect_to @post after I save a post, it appears to be redirecting to the show page after creating a post. Is this just one of those rails thing that I should just take it as it is or am I missing some fundamental HTML protocol knowledge (which I honestly don't know a lot about)?
Edit: To further clarify my question, I see that @post is already defined in the create method and is defined as Post.new(post_params). when I redirect_to @post, wouldn't it simply call that line again?
A: Lets take a look at your code
def create
@post = Post.new(post_params)
if @post.save
redirect_to @post
else
render "new"
end
end
why does the view templates redirect to the def show action? If I do not define a def show and its corresponding views, rails will throw me an error.
In create action you are creating a new record, so if you look at this part of the code
if @post.save
redirect_to @post
When @post is successfully saved, we are redirecting it to show action by writing redirect_to @post, the actual route for show action would be post_path(@post) so you can also write redirect_to post_path(@post) but even if you simply pass object with redirect_to rails will redirect it to the show action. Now going to the else part
else
render "new"
If the @post object is not saved in the database(due to validation), we want to reload the form, so in the above code render is just rendering the view of new action and not calling the new action, only the view is rendered because new.html.erb contains the form.
Hope this helped!
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
}
| 500
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Zinc-plated European load chains provide increased resistance against corrosion and wear.
Beaver Sales has released the Liftall range of electric chain hoists and motorised trolleys, which is the result of extensive R&D, culminating in a robust and cost-efficient hoist with many standard features that other brands only offer as extras. The Liftall range uses a reduction gear box that is totally sealed and filled with grease, keeping the components constantly lubricated. The gear box is also fitted with roller bearings for increased efficiency, reduced wear, longer life and quieter operation.
The BEL Series hoists have an all-steel construction, with both 240V single-phase and 415V three-phase models available in capacities from 500kg to 3000kg. The standard lifts are 3m and 6m, but custom lifts are also available. Grade T(80) zinc-plated European load chains, for increased resistance against corrosion and wear, are fitted with zinc-plated, travel limiting springs and a chain inspection gauge allows the user to monitor wear and tear on the load chain. An overload clutch prevents the hoists from being damaged by overloading and also upper and lower limit switches prevent over-travel.
The hoists have an IP54 protection rating against dust and water, while the motor is thermally protected and a heavy-duty DC brake provides fast actuation. They are controlled with a 24V, IP65 pendant unit, but remote control options are also available.
The Liftall BET Series motorised electric girder trolleys are available with capacities of between 1000kg and 3000kg and have planetary gear boxes as well as self-adjusting automatic safety brake systems.
Each is controlled with a five-button, IP65 pendant control and comes with flanged wheels and side guide rollers. Tipping prevention pins are fitted to each unit as are anti-drop plates with rubber buffers or stoppers. A pressed steel outer casing protects the trolleys and a powder-coated finish provides durability. All gears and pinion shafts are made from high-quality, heat-treated alloy steel. A hanger suspension bar allows closer coupling of electric hoists.
The Liftall range of hoists and trolleys has been manufactured to meet the Australian Standard AS1418.2 – 1997 and every unit comes with a test certificate showing that it has been individually tested to the standard. An emergency stop, via a main contactor, is fitted as standard on all models of Liftall hoists and trolleys.
The Beaver Liftall range is backed by Beaver Sales' branch network throughout Australia and New Zealand, providing prompt and efficient service and repairs. For more information please contact Beaver Sales on 1300 783 606 or visit www.beaver.com.au.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 9,476
|
module ForSyDe.Shallow.Core(
module ForSyDe.Shallow.Core.Signal,
module ForSyDe.Shallow.Core.Vector,
module ForSyDe.Shallow.Core.AbsentExt
) where
import ForSyDe.Shallow.Core.Vector
import ForSyDe.Shallow.Core.Signal
import ForSyDe.Shallow.Core.AbsentExt
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 3,720
|
Obraz Matki Bożej Pocieszenia – wizerunek Matki Bożej w Biechowie w Wielkopolsce.
Historia obrazu
Obraz pochodzi z XV wieku, ze szkoły bizantyjskiej. W trakcie jego renowacji w 1962 odkryto pod zewnętrznym obrazem Krzysztofa Boguszewskiego z 1632 lub 1640, XV-wieczny wizerunek. Zachowane zostały oba obrazy. Starszy wizerunek datowany jest na 1460, jest nieznanego autora ze szkoły bizantyjsko-włoskiej. Zachowana wzmianka z 1695 podaje informuje: "o dawno sławnym obrazie, przed którym wierni otrzymują wiele łask i cudów, a szczególnie nawróceń". Były liczne nawrócenie na katolicyzm z protestantyzmu i religii żydowskiej. W XVII wieku obraz został przemalowany i powiększony przez Krzysztofa Boguszewskiego.
Opis obrazu
Obraz namalowany jest na desce modrzewiowej o wymiarach 53 x 80 cm. Maryja na obrazie trzyma w prawej ręku jabłko królewskie, w starszej wersji brzoskwinię. W lewym ręku trzyma Dzieciątko, które prawą ręką błogosławi, a lewą trzyma na rozłożonej na kolanach księdze.
Koronacja obrazu
Uroczystość koronacji obrazu złotymi koronami papieskimi odbyła się 12 września 1976. Koronacji dokonał ks. kard. Stefan Wyszyński w obecności 12 biskupów, licznego duchowieństwa oraz dziesiątków tysięcy wiernych.
Kult obrazu
Pod koniec XVII wieku źródła podają, że obraz czczony jest od dawna. O kulcie obrazu świadczą wota, które były zawieszane na obrazie z biegiem lat. Wśród nich były dwie złocone korony z perłami i diamentami, sześć sznurów pereł, złote łańcuszki, wisiorki, obrączki, krzyżyki. Jednym z pierwszych odnotowanych cudów było uzdrowienia niewidomego człowieka. Wizerunek z Biechowa przyciąga wiele pielgrzymek. Wiele z nich przybywa pieszo np. z Wrześni, jak i innych parafii.
Przypisy
Bibliografia
Biechowo
Biechowo
Biechowo (województwo wielkopolskie)
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 1,509
|
Bayonetta 2: Review Round-Up
The Bayonetta 2 reviews are now surfacing ahead of the game's October 24th release, and the verdicts seems to be overwhelmingly positive, receiving numerous 9s and 10s from some of the industry's biggest outlets.
Nintendo Life: 9/10
"Bayonetta is is a must buy for any action gaming fans. It's fast, intense and ridiculous, all with an entertaining story and a protagonist that is forever subverting and playing with her audience. It's pure Platinum Games, too, which means it'll likely be adored by its converts and ignored by too many — we hope that won't happen, as what we have here is one of the Wii U's best games, and a rare arrival on the system that's unashamedly violent, gory and mature, while still mischievously winking at the watching world. Bayonetta 2 is brilliant, brash and impossible to ignore."
Kotaku: No Score
"Bayonetta 2's combat design remains robust enough to be a very strong main attraction. But any emotions stirred up during my time with Bayonetta wound up feeling shallow. I'm glad for those times when I kicked ass in a stylish manner but still found myself bemoaning the terrible storytelling I endured to do that. If Platinum somehow manages to shore up those failings, the next encounter with Bayonetta won't just be a pantomine of lust. It might turn into love."
Destructoid: 10/10
"When Bayonetta came out in 2010, I thought it was nearly perfect. Four years later and Platinum hasn't lost its edge with Bayonetta 2. It's just as stylish and as fun as ever, and a must-buy for action fans who own a Wii U."
Gamespot: 10/10
"Bayonetta 2's combat is so expertly constructed, and its presentation so joyously insane, that you'd have to try so very hard to get bored of it all. In a year filled with the promise of ever more elaborate experiences on all the shiny new hardware, that Bayonetta 2–a homage to classic game design and escapism–should be the most fun I've had playing a game all year is unexpected. But maybe it shouldn't have been. After all, its predecessor still stands as one of the finest games of its genre. To have surpassed that with Bayonetta 2, and to have created a game that will be remembered as an absolute classic, is nothing short of astonishing."
CVG: 9/10
"We didn't need a Bayonetta sequel, we needed this gracious evolution of style and execution, an injection of loving new content into a game that always felt as though it deserved more, even after we'd rinsed it clean. It might be an expansion pack, but it's quite possibly the best one ever made."
Eurogamer: 9/10
"The rhythm of combat remains the same, though it's hard to complain when it's riffing off such a heady beat, where chimed enemy attacks are lithely dodged into slo-mo pugilism, where impossible combos culminate with a 20-foot boot weaved from hair crashing from the heavens and where spinning amidst the avalanche of colour and cartoon violence is Bayonetta herself, stopping only briefly to wink at a player exhausted by the unrelenting joy of it all. Bayonetta 2's biggest disappointment may be that it's an iterative sequel, but it's not such a problem when it's iterating on genius."
GamesRadar: 4/5
"Bayonetta 2 is sheer class. Yes, it takes a little too long to get going, given its length, but the final four hours are relentlessly, breathlessly exceptional. Granted, it's all just 'more of the same' with a shorter haircut, but we're talking about more of one of the best games ever made. And seeing as the Special Edition of Bayonetta 2 comes with a Wii U conversion of that gorgeous original, Nintendo certainly has the ultimate Bayonetta experience in its portfolio. And that's something it should boast about as loudly as possible."
Edge: 10/10
"Sure, it's a sequel, but it's a sequel to what has stood, for almost five years, as the best game of its type ever made. Until now, that is. Sega's loss is Nintendo's gain: Bayonetta, twirling away from a gigantic demon's maw and smacking the highest choir of angels on the nose, has just given Wii U its first true classic."
Polygon: 7.5/10
"I won't guess why the blatant over-sexualization is still there, often more intensely than before. But it causes an otherwise great game to require a much bigger mental compromise to enjoy."
Joystiq: 5/5
"Bayonetta 2 is the perfect action game. It oozes style and boasts gameplay that's both refined and lacking in excess. The combat is so purely entertaining that it's easy to lose yourself in the almost-zen flow of dodging, countering and kicking enemies to death. Bayonetta 2 rewards a player's drive to look as cool as possible in combat with gameplay designed for exactly that – and with the acrobatic violence of a winking heroine who is as legitimately endearing as she is completely ludicrous. Even if Bayonetta 2 did not include an enhanced remake of its predecessor, it would launch as one of the Wii U's best games, but this generous inclusion pushes Platinum's first sequel into no-brainer territory for anyone with even the slightest affection for action games. If you bought the Wii U months ago explicitly in anticipation of Bayonetta 2, congratulations, your decision has paid off in spades."
SixthAxis: 9/10
"Bayonetta 2 is amongst the most refined and dynamic action games to appear on any console, taking the best parts of the original game and building upon them. It is crazy, chaotic and characterful and a genuine pleasure to play. Whether it can be a system seller for Nintendo is questionable as its delights are possibly not entirely mainstream, but for fans of the original and the genre it should certainly make a Wii U a very tempting proposition."
VideoGamer: 9/10
"Bayonetta 2 is a system seller. It's a Nintendo-published game that is rarely seen, and a game that will legitimately make non-Wii U owners jealous. It's everything I want from a hardcore Nintendo title, offering genre-leading combat and eye-popping visual spectacle. The fact that Bayonetta 2 delivers the goods is no surprise. Nintendo being the firm behind its continued survival, however, is a surprise we should be very grateful for."
Game Informer – 9/10:
"Creating a sequel to an already-polished game is a challenge, but Platinum Games' approach ultimately succeeds. Bayonetta 2 is rooted in its past while taking steps (but not strides) toward the future. Though I was disappointed by some of the familiarity, I was usually having too much fun to care."
VentureBeat: 87/100
"Bayonetta 2 is surprising. Some of that is because it is an M-rated Wii U exclusive. It's also because it is a good game in a genre that doesn't seem long for this world. With everything moving open-world and online, Platinum is still sticking to it's area of expertise. And it's working.
"I don't know if I'll ever need a Bayonetta 3, but I'm certainly glad that I got to play Bayonetta 2."
Metro: 9/10
"A fantastic sequel, whose improvements may be relatively subtle but are more than enough to confirm Bayonetta 2 as one of the greatest action games ever made."
IGN: 9.5/10
"Every aspect of Bayonetta 2 feels polished and focused. At times, the writing feels ridiculous, but I still love how it plays. The superb pacing and combat are just that good. By the end I was convinced: This sequel builds on everything that made the original great, and delivers one of the most satisfying action games I've played."
Giant Bomb: 5/5
"Bayonetta 2 doesn't drastically change the already wacky formula that the first game introduced, but it's a bigger and more nuanced version of its predecessor. It's also the best game of its kind in years. If you've ever enjoyed this breed of reflex-heavy, hyperactive, ludicrous action game, Bayonetta 2 is a no-brainer."
Category: News, Video Games Tags: bayonetta, nintendo, platinum games, wii u
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One Comment on "Bayonetta 2: Review Round-Up"
Julz Dec 1, 2014 at 01:57 am
Wow, so many awesome reviews! I don't have a Wii U, but I'm hoping Santa will bring one this Christmas! I've just picked up the Bayonetta Movie: Bloody Fate and that's keeping me going in the meantime. It's really great, you should definitely check it out if you haven't already! There's a trailer here if you're interested.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 7,008
|
Kanton Sains-Richaumont (fr. Canton de Sains-Richaumont) byl francouzský kanton v departementu Aisne v regionu Pikardie. Tvořilo ho 19 obcí. Zrušen byl po reformě kantonů 2014.
Obce kantonu
Berlancourt
Chevennes
Colonfay
Franqueville
Le Hérie-la-Viéville
Housset
Landifay-et-Bertaignemont
Lemé
Marfontaine
Monceau-le-Neuf-et-Faucouzy
La Neuville-Housset
Puisieux-et-Clanlieu
Rougeries
Sains-Richaumont
Saint-Gobert
Saint-Pierre-lès-Franqueville
Le Sourd
Voharies
Wiège-Faty
Sains-Richaumont
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 5,960
|
The wine displays surprisingly fresh notes of red currants, black plum and hints of eucalyptus. The palate is equally elegant and exquisite. The flavors are of red berries, sage and rhubarb. Mouth watering finish.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 5,144
|
\section{Introduction}
The \emph{channel assignment} problem is the task of assigning frequencies to radio transmitters
of a communication network. In this problem, there is a trade off between deploying minimum number of
frequencies (or channels) and avoiding interference due to proximity of transmitters. This distance restriction
necessitates a separation of frequencies among nearby transmitters in order to mitigate the interference.
The usable spectrum of frequencies is a scarce and a costly resource.
For this reason, an efficient assignment of frequencies is desirable.
The frequency assignment to the transmitters, constrained by distance related parameters, can be mapped to
varieties of \emph{distance constrained colouring} problems of a graph. Hale \cite{Hale} modelled
these problems as several generalised versions of graph colouring problem. In one of such models,
the transmitters are considered as vertices and edges correspond to the unordered pairs of interfering transmitters.
The assignment of frequencies (represented by non-negative integers) is done in such a manner that ``close'' transmitters (i.e. vertices at distance two) are assigned different frequencies and ``very close''
transmitters (i.e. adjacent vertices) are assigned frequencies in a difference of at least two. This channel assignment problem is translated to a colouring (or labelling) problem of graphs. Griggs and Yeh
\cite{MR1186826} had referred this colouring problem as $L(2,1)-$colouring problem of graphs. We refer it as
lambda colouring problem of graphs. From the complexity point of view, the lambda colouring problem of
graphs is an $\mathcal{NP-}$hard problem \cite[Theorem~57]{Hale}. Survey articles on this well investigated
problem can be found in \cite{Calamoneri,MR1139583,MR2245647}.
Throughout this article the set of all non-negative integers is denoted by $\mathbb{N}$. All the graphs are
simple and their vertex sets are non-empty and finite. For a graph $G$, the vertex set and the edge set
are denoted by $V(G)$ and $E(G)$ respectively. The subset $\N[u]=\left\{v\in V(G):\{u,v\}\in E(G)\right\}$ of the vertex
set of a graph $G$ is called the \emph{neighbour set} or simply the \emph{neighbour} of the vertex $u$.
A (vertex) \emph{colouring} of a graph $G$ is a mapping $c:V(G)\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$. The
\emph{lambda colouring} of a graph $G$ is a mapping $c:V(G)\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ such that for each $u,v\in V(G)$,
$|c(u)-c(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}\geq3$. Here $\di[G]{u,v}$ denotes the \emph{distance} between vertices $u$ and $v$,
i.e. the minimum number of edges connecting the vertices $u$ and $v$ through a path. If there is no
edges connecting the vertices $u$ and $v$ through a path, then we may put $\di[G]{u,v}=\infty$. By well
ordering property of $\mathbb{N}$, the range of the mapping $c$ attains $\underset{u\in V(G)}{\min} c(u)$.
Therefore without loss of generality, we assume $\underset{u\in V(G)}{\min} c(u)=0$. The
\emph{lambda chromatic number} of the graph $G$ is the positive integer
$\min\left\{\underset{u\in V(G)}{\max}c(u): c\textup{ is a lambda colouring of } G\right\}$.
A lambda colouring $c$ of $G$ is said to be \emph{optimal} if $\underset{u\in V(G)}{\max}c(u)$ equals to the
lambda chromatic number. The \emph{coloured partition} of the vertex set $V(G)$ with respect to a lambda colouring
$c$ is $C_{0},C_{1},\ldots,C_{m},\ldots,C_{T}$, where $C_{m}:=\{u\in V(G):c(u)=m\}$ and $T=\underset{u\in V(G)}{\max}c(u)$.
Such coloured partition is said to be \emph{equitable} if for all integers $i$ and $j$ with $0\leq i,j\leq T$,
$||C_{i}|-|C_{j}||\leq1$. With respect to a lambda colouring $c$ of the graph $G$, if the coloured partition
of $V(G)$ is an equitable partition, then we call such lambda colouring is \emph{equitable}. Fu and Xie
\cite{MR2598700} have studied equitable lambda colouring for Sierpi\'{n}ski graphs. A positive integer
$h$ is said to be a \emph{hole} of the lambda colouring $c$, if for each vertex $u$, $c(u)\neq h$ but there
exist at least one vertex $v$ such that $h<c(v)$. Note that a hole corresponds an empty colour class.
(Caution: The lambda colouring may not be an onto mapping, contrary to usual colouring of graphs.)
Fishburn and Roberts \cite{MR1999706,MR2257271} extensively studied the possible graphs admitting at
least one optimal but onto lambda colouring. Such graphs are known as \emph{full colourable} graphs.
However in \cite{MR2332322}, the authors concentrated specifically on onto lambda colourings of any graph
irrespective of being full colourable. They studied the associated optimal value in terms of its bounds. In fact,
they had obtained their results in the case where these bounds are attained. These results were expressed in
terms of the number of edges, diameters and number of connected components. On the other hand, the extremal
nature of the graphs, from the view point of inter-relation between lambda chromatic number and minimum number of holes, was studied in \cite{MR2354760}.
In this article, we concentrated mainly on the edge distribution of an $n-$vertex graph (i.e. a graph with
$n$ number of vertices) with lambda chromatic number $t$. In fact, this article has a two-way orientation
namely, universality and extremality of family of graphs with lambda chromatic number $t$.
\begin{question}
Our main focus is to answer the following two questions.
\begin{enumerate}[(a)]
\item Can we find a graph $\Omega$ with lambda chromatic number $t$ such that any graph $G$ with lambda chromatic number
$t$ is a subgraph of $\Omega$?
\item By means of explicit construction, can we classify all the $n-$vertex graphs, with lambda chromatic number $t$, which contain maximum number of edges?
\end{enumerate}
\end{question}
Regarding the Question (b), for $n\leq t+1$ we refer \cite{MR1383991}. However, a reader may realise that the answer of this case is incurred within Proposition~\ref{base}. Here we focus mainly for $n\geq t+1$.
\section{Two examples and their universal properties}
If $G$ is a graph with lambda chromatic number $2$, then $G$ is a disjoint union of some edges. But if $G$ is a graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$, then the problems (described in Question (a) and (b)) become non-trivial. Here we begin this section with (a) a sequence of graphs $\{\mathbb{G}_{n}\}_{n=3}^{\infty}$ and (b) a doubly sequence of family (set) of graphs $\{\mathsf{G}(t,l): t\geq3,l\geq1\}$ and study their lambda chromatic number and other properties.
\begin{construction}\label{G_n}
Let $\{\mathbb{G}_{n}:n\in\mathbb{N}, n\geq3\}$ be a sequence of simple graphs defined via a recursive rule as follows: $\mathbb{G}_{3}$ be the graph with edge set $\left\{\{v_{0},v_{2}\},\{v_{0},v_{3}\},\{v_{1},v_{3}\}\right\}$. For $n\geq4$,
the graph $\mathbb{G}_{n}$ has vertex set $\{v_{i}:0\leq i\leq n\}$. The edges of $\mathbb{G}_{n}$ are all the edges of $\mathbb{G}_{n-1}$ and the edge of the form $\{v_{i},v_{n}\}$, where $i$ is an integer with $0\leq i\leq n-2$. In total, for each integer $t\geq3$, $\mathbb{G}_{t}$ has exactly $(t+1)$ vertices and $\binom{t}{2}$ edges.
\end{construction}
It will be shown later that each graph can be modified through edge standardisation into disjoint union of some $\mathbb{G}_{t}$'s with or without some deleted vertices.
\begin{construction}\label{G(t,l)}
Let $t\geq3$ be an integer and $V_{i}$, where $i$ is an integer with $0\leq i\leq t$, be mutually disjoint sets of size $l$. Let $\mathsf{G}(t,l)$ be the family of graphs with vertex set $\overset{t}{\underset{i=0}\sqcup}V_{i}$. Each graph $G\in\mathsf{G}(t,l)$ satisfies the following two properties.
\begin{itemize}
\item If $x\in V_{m}$, then there exists a unique $y\in V_{p}$ such that $\{x,y\}$ is an edge of $G$, where $m$
and $p$ are integers with $0\leq m\leq p-2\leq t-2$.
\item Whenever $u$, $v\in V_{m}$, where $0\leq m\leq t$, $\{u,v\}$ is not an edge of $G$.
\end{itemize}
In total, each $G\in\mathsf{G}(t,l)$ has exactly $(t+1)l$ vertices and $\binom{t}{2}l$ edges.
\end{construction}
There is a link between the above two constructions. Precisely for each $n\geq3$, the graph $\mathbb{G}_{n}$ is the only member of $\mathsf{G}(n,1)$. In the following two results, we obtain an optimal lambda colouring of $\mathbb{G}_{n}$, where $n\geq3$, namely $v_{i}\mapsto i$ from $V(\mathbb{G}_{n})=\{v_{i}:0\leq i\leq n\}$ to $\mathbb{N}$. We found that such optimal colouring is an onto mapping. It concludes that under such colouring
of $\mathbb{G}_{n}$ there is no hole, for each $n\geq3$.
\begin{lemma}\label{distance}
For each $n\geq4$ and $u,v\in V(\mathbb{G}_{n})$, $1\leq\di[\mathbb{G}_{n}]{u,v}\leq2$.
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
We compare the graphs $\mathbb{G}_{m}$ and $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$, where $m\geq4$. We note that $\mathbb{G}_{m}$ is a subgraph of $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$. Therefore $\di[\mathbb{G}_{m+1}]{u,v}\leq\di[\mathbb{G}_{m}]{u,v}$, for each $u,v\in V(\mathbb{G}_{m})$. Apart form all the vertices and edges of $\mathbb{G}_{m}$, in $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$ the new vertex is $v_{m+1}$ and the new edges are edge of the form $\{v_{i},v_{m+1}\}$, where $i$ is an integer with $0\leq i\leq m-1$. Hence
\begin{align*}
\di[\mathbb{G}_{m+1}]{v_{m+1},u}=\left\{\begin{array}{lcr}
1 & \textnormal{if} & u\neq v_{m}\\
2 & \textnormal{if} & u=v_{m}.
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
Therefore supposing the result is true for $n=m\geq4$, we conclude that the result is true for $n=m+1$. The result is true for $n=4$. Hence the result follows by induction on $n$.
\end{proof}
\begin{theorem}\label{lambda_G_n}
For each $n\geq3$,the mapping $v_{i}\mapsto i$, from $V(\mathbb{G}_{n})$ to $\mathbb{N}$, is a lambda colouring and the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{G}_{n}$ is $n$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
Suppose the result is true for $n=m\geq3$. Therefore $\bar{c}:V(\mathbb{G}_{m})\rightarrow\{0,1,\ldots,m\}$ defined by
$\bar{c}(v_{i})=i$ is a lambda colouring, then the mapping $c:V(\mathbb{G}_{m+1})\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ defined by
\begin{align*}
c(v_{i})=\left\{\begin{array}{lcr}
\bar{c}(v_{i}) & \textnormal{if} & 0\leq i\leq m\\
m+1 & \textnormal{if} & i=m+1
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
is a colouring of $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$.
\noindent{\textsl{Claim} :} $c$ is a lambda colouring of $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$.
\begin{proof}[\tt{Proof of claim} :]\renewcommand{\qedsymbol}{}
We note that for each $u$, $v\in V(\mathbb{G}_{m+1})$ $|c(u)-c(v)|\geq1$, so if $\di[\mathbb{G}_{m+1}]{u,v}=2$, then
$|c(u)-c(v)|+\di[\mathbb{G}_{m+1}]{u,v}\geq3$. Now if $\di[\mathbb{G}_{m+1}]{u,v}=1$ for some $u$, $v\in V(\mathbb{G}_{m})$, then
\begin{equation*}
|c(u)-c(v)|=|\bar{c}(u)-\bar{c}(v)|\geq2,
\end{equation*}
since by assumption, $\bar{c}$ is a lambda colouring of $\mathbb{G}_{m}$. So by Lemma~\ref{distance} the only case left where $\di[\mathbb{G}_{m+1}]{v_{m+1},u}=1$ with $u\in V(\mathbb{G}_{m})$. Here we explicitly have $u=v_{i}$, where $0\leq i\leq m-1$ and consequently $\bar{c}(u)=\bar{c}(v_{i})=i$ It implies that
\begin{equation*}
|c(v_{m+1})-c(u)|=|m+1-\bar{c}(u)|=|m+1-i|\geq2.
\end{equation*}
Hence the claim is established.
\end{proof}
By the above claim, it implies that the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$ is at most $m+1$. Let $c:V(\mathbb{G}_{m+1})\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ be a lambda colouring. By Lemma~\ref{distance} for each $u,v\in V(\mathbb{G}_{m+1})$, $1\leq \di[\mathbb{G}_{m+1}]{u,v}\leq2$, therefore every vertex must receive distinct colours
(non-negative integers). Hence we need at least $|V(\mathbb{G}_{m+1})|=m+2$ colours to colour the vertices of $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$. Consequently,
\begin{equation*}
\max\{c(u):u\in V(\mathbb{G}_{m+1})\}\geq\max\{0,1,\ldots,m+1\}=m+1.
\end{equation*}
Since $c:V(\mathbb{G}_{m+1})\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ is an arbitrary lambda colouring, the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{G}_{m+1}$ is at least $m+1$. This means the result is true for $n=m+1$. It can be verified directly that the
result is true for $n=3$. Hence the result follows by induction on $n$.
\end{proof}
The following two results give us a no-hole optimal lambda colouring of each of the member graphs of
$\mathsf{G}(t,l)$.
\begin{theorem}\label{lambdacolour}
For positive integers $t\geq3$ and $l$, the colouring map $v_{m}\mapsto m$, where $v_{m}\in V_{m}$ and $0\leq m\leq t$ is a lambda colouring of each member graph $G\in\mathsf{G}(t,l)$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
We denote the aforementioned mapping by $c:\overset{t}{\underset{i=0}\sqcup}V_{i}\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$. Let $G$ be a member graph of $\mathsf{G}(t,l)$ and $u$,$v$ are two vertices of $G$. If $\di[G]{u,v}\geq3$, then
$|c(u)-c(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}\geq3$. Therefore we have to check only the following two cases.
\noindent{\textsf{Case} I : } $\di[G]{u,v}=2$. To show $|c(u)-c(v)|\geq1$.\\
Suppose $c(u)=c(v)$. Since $\di[G]{u,v}=2$, it means there exists $w\in V_{c(w)}$ such that $\{u,w\}$ and $\{v,w\}$ are edges of $G$. A contradiction to the definition of $G$ as $u,v\in V_{c(u)}$. Hence $|c(u)-c(v)|\geq1$.
\noindent{\textsf{Case} II : } $\di[G]{u,v}=1$, i.e. if $\{u,v\}$ is an edge of $G$. To show $|c(u)-c(v)|\geq2$.\\
Let $u\in V_{m}$, where $1\leq m\leq t-1$, then $v\in V_{i}$, where $i$ is an integer with $0\leq i\leq t$ but
$i\neq m-1,m,m+1$. Hence $|c(u)-c(v)|=|m-i|\geq2$. If $u\in V_{0}$, then $v\in V_{i}$, where $i$ is an integer with $2\leq i\leq t$. Hence $|c(u)-c(v)|=|0-i|\geq2$. Also if $u\in V_{t}$, then $v\in V_{i}$, where $i$ is an integer with $0\leq i\leq t-2$. Hence $|c(u)-c(v)|=|t-i|\geq2$.
\end{proof}
\begin{theorem}
For positive integers $t\geq3$ and $l$, the lambda chromatic number of each member graph $G\in\mathsf{G}(t,l)$ is $t$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
Let $c:V(G)\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ be a lambda colouring of $G$. Fix an $v_{0}\in V_{0}$, and $v_{0i}$, where $2\leq i\leq t$, denotes the unique neighbour of $v_{0}$ in $V_{i}$. Hence $v_{0}$ has $t-1$ neighbours in $G$. Since
$\di[G]{v_{0i},v_{0j}}\leq2$, for $2\leq i,j\leq t$, each of the $v_{0i}$ must receive distinct non-negative integers (colours) namely $c(v_{02}),\ldots,c(v_{0t})$.
Moreover, $v_{0}$ is adjacent to each of $v_{0i}$, therefore $|c(v_{0})-c(v_{0i})|\geq2$, for each integer $i$ with
$2\leq i\leq t$. It implies that
\begin{equation*}
\max\{c(v):v\in V(G)\}\geq\max\{c(v_{0}),c(v_{02}),\ldots,c(v_{0t})\}\geq t.
\end{equation*}
Since $c$ is an arbitrary lambda colouring, we have the lambda chromatic number of such graph $G$ is at least $t$. From Theorem~\ref{lambdacolour}, we have the lambda chromatic number of such graph $G$ is at most $t$ and the result follows.
\end{proof}
Let $G$ be a graph and $c:V(G)\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ be a lambda colouring. We note that the relation $\sim$ defined on $V(G)$ by $u\sim v$ if and only if $c(u)=c(v)$. Such relation is an equivalence relation on $V(G)$. By the notation $[c(u)]$, we denote the equivalence class containing the vertex $u$. Note that $[c(u)]$ is non-empty and equals to $C_{m}$ for some integer $m$, with $0\leq m\leq t$.
\begin{lemma}\label{colourdistribution}
Let $G$ be a graph, $c:V(G)\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ be a lambda colouring and $[c(u)]$, $[c(v)]$ be two different colour classes. Then for each $x\in[c(u)]$ there exists at most one vertex $y\in[c(v)]$ such that $\{x,y\}$ is an edge of $G$.
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
Suppose there exist $y_{1},y_{2}\in[c(v)]$ such that $\{x,y_{1}\}$ and $\{x,y_{2}\}$ are edges. Since $c(y_{1})=c(y_{2})=c(v)$, we have $y_{1}$ and $y_{2}$ are not adjacent, hence $\di[G]{y_{1},y_{2}}=2$. A contradiction arises since \\ $2=|c(y_{1})-c(y_{2})|+\di[G]{y_{1},y_{2}}\geq3$.
\end{proof}
The above lemma implies that between any two distinct colour classes $A$ and $B$, the subgraph
$\left\{\{x,z\},\{y,z\}\right\}$, where $x,y\in A$ and $z\in B$, is the forbidden subgraph in the graph $G$. The following result is one of the main theorems of this article. It asserts the affirmative answer of the Question~(a) posed in the introduction.
\begin{theorem}\label{universality}
Let $G$ be a graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to an optimal lambda colouring $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$. Then there exists a graph $G^{*}\in\mathsf{G}(t,l)$ such that $G$ is a subgraph of $G^{*}$, where $l=\underset{u\in V(G)}{\max}{|[c(u)]|}$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
We note that $C_{m}$ is empty for some integer $m$ with $0\leq m\leq t$ if and only if $m$ is an hole of the lambda colouring $c$, hence $0\leq|C_{m}|\leq l$. For each integer $m$ with $0\leq m\leq l$, we adjoin a disjoint set $Y_{m}$ with $C_{m}$ such that $|C_{m}|+|Y_{m}|=l$. (Here such $Y_{m}$'s, $0\leq m\leq l$, are also mutually disjoint.) So let $Y_{m}:=\{x^{m}_{i}:|C_{m}|+1\leq i\leq l\}$ and $V_{m}:=C_{m}\sqcup Y_{m}$. For
$0\leq m,p\leq t$ and $m\neq p$, let
\begin{equation*}
Z_{m,p}=\left\{u\in V_{m}: u\textup{ has no neighbour in } V_{p}\right\}.
\end{equation*}
By using Lemma~\ref{colourdistribution}, we have for $0\leq m\leq p-2\leq t-2$ and for each $x\in V_{m}\smallsetminus Z_{m,p}$ there exists exactly one vertex $y\in V_{p}\smallsetminus Z_{p,m}$ such that $\{x,y\}$ is an edge in $G$. Conversely, if $\{u,v\}$ is an edge in $G$, then due to the fact $c$ is a lambda colouring, there exist integers $m$ and $p$, with
$0\leq m\leq p-2\leq t-2$, such that $[c(u)]=C_{m}$ and $[c(v)]=C_{p}$. From Lemma~\ref{colourdistribution}, we conclude that $v$ is the only neighbour of $u$ in $C_{p}$ and vice-versa.
We construct a graph $G^{*}$ with vertex set $\overset{t}{\underset{m=0}\sqcup}V_{m}$. The edges of $G$ are edges of $G^{*}$. We note that $|Z_{m,p}|=|Z_{p,m}|$ and for each $u\in Z_{m,p}$ we associate a unique $v\in Z_{p,m}$ and construct an edge $\{u,v\}$ of $G^{*}$, where $0\leq m\leq p-2\leq t-2$. Hence $G^{*}$ is the required member of $\mathsf{G}(t,l)$.
\end{proof}
One of the most discussed conjectures relates the lambda chromatic number $t$ of a
graph $G$ and $\triangle=\max\{|\N[u]|:u\in V(G)\}$. Such conjecture is made it known as the Griggs-Yeh Conjecture
\cite[Conjecture~10.1]{MR1186826}, it states that $t\leq\triangle^{2}$. So far the best known upper bound of the lambda chromatic number is $\triangle^{2}+\triangle-2$ \cite{MR2392058}.
As a corollary of Theorem~\ref{universality}, we have proved a tight lower bound of the lambda chromatic number
of $G$ in terms of $\triangle$. The following lower bound is tight in the sense that $\mathbb{G}_{t}$ and each
member graph of $\mathsf{G}(t,l)$, where $l$ is a positive integer, attains such lower bound.
\begin{corollary}
Let $G$ be a graph with lambda chromatic number $t$ and $\triangle=\max\{|\N[u]|:u\in V(G)\}$, where
$\N[u]$ denotes the neighbour of the vertex $u$. Then $\triangle+1\leq t$.
\end{corollary}
\begin{proof}
Let $u$ be a vertex of $G$ with $\triangle=|\N[u]|$. Then using Theorem~\ref{universality}, we have an integer $l$ (as prescribed in the theorem) and a graph $G^{*}\in\mathsf{G}(t,l)$ such that $\left\{\{u,v\}:v\in \N[u]\right\}$ is a subgraph of $G^{*}$. The result follows since $\max\{|\N[x]|:x\in V(G^{*})\}=t-1$.
\end{proof}
\section{Maximum number of edges and equitable partition}
Let $G$ be a graph with lambda chromatic number $t$ and $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ be a lambda colouring.
Also let $C_{m}:=\{u\in V(G):c(u)=m\}:=\{u^{m}_{i}:1\leq i\leq|C_{m}|\}$ (say), where $m$ is an integer,
$0\leq m\leq t$. Throughout this section, we assume that the aforementioned lambda chromatic number of $G$ is
$t\geq3$. With respect to the lambda colouring $c$ of the graph $G$, we denote
\begin{equation*}
\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G):=\left\{C_{M}:|C_{M}|=\underset{0\leq j\leq t}{\max}|C_{j}|\right\},
\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G):=\left\{C_{m}:|C_{m}|=\underset{0\leq j\leq t}{\min}|C_{j}|\right\}\textup{ and }
\nabla_{c}(G):=\underset{0\leq j\leq t}{\max}|C_{j}|-\underset{0\leq j\leq t}{\min}|C_{j}|.
\end{equation*}
We also fix two more notations here. Let
\begin{equation*}
\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}:=\overset{t-2}{\underset{i=0}\sum}\overset{t}{\underset{j=i+2}\sum}\min\{|C_{i}|,|C_{j}|\},
\end{equation*}
where $G$ is a graph with lambda chromatic number $t$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to an optimal lambda colouring $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$. Suppose $X$ and $Y$ are two subsets of the vertex set of the graph $G$. The number of edges of the form $\{x,y\}$, where $x\in X$ and $y\in Y$, is denoted by
$\ed[G]{X,Y}$.
\begin{theorem}\label{notation_M}
Let $G$ be a graph with lambda chromatic number $t$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of
$G$ with respect to an optimal lambda colouring $c$. Then
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(a)]
\item $G$ has at most $\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ edges.
\item $G$ has exactly $\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ edges if and only if for each $x\in C_{i}$ there exists exactly one vertex $y\in C_{j}$ such that $\{x,y\}$ is an edge of $G$, where $0<|C_{i}|\leq|C_{j}|$ with $0\leq i,j\leq t$ and $|i-j|\geq2$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
Since $c$ is a lambda colouring, we have $\ed[G]{C_{p}, C_{p+1}}=0$ for each integer $p$, with $0\leq p\leq t-1$. By using Lemma~\ref{colourdistribution}, we have $\ed[G]{C_{i},C_{j}}\leq\min\{|C_{i}|,|C_{j}|\}$, where $i$ and $j$ are integers with
$0\leq i\leq j-2\leq t-2$. Hence the result (a) follows
If for all integers $p$ and $q$, with $0\leq p\leq q-2\leq t-2$, and for each $x\in C_{p}$ there exists exactly one vertex
$y\in C_{q}$ such that $\{x,y\}$ is an edge of $G$, then $0<|C_{p}|\leq|C_{q}|$ and
$\ed[G]{C_{p},C_{q}}=|C_{p}|=\min\{|C_{p}|,|C_{q}|\}$. Hence the number of edges is $\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$. Conversely, if for some integers $p$ and $q$, with $0\leq p\leq q-2\leq t-2$, there exists $x\in C_{p}$ such that for all $y\in C_{q}$, $\{x,y\}$ is not an edge of $G$, then using the argument from part (a), we have $\ed[G]{C_{p},C_{q}}<\min\{|C_{p}|,|C_{q}|\}$. It implies that the number of edges is strictly less than $\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ and the result (b) follows.
\end{proof}
The above theorem informs us that the quest for a graph $G$ with lambda chromatic number $t$, which contains
maximum number of edges, is boiled down to the search for a coloured partition $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$, originating
from an optimal lambda colouring $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ where $\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ is maximum. Henceforth, our main focus is to search for such coloured partitions.
\begin{proposition}\label{subgraph_relation}
Let $G'$ be a subgraph of the graph $G$. If the lambda chromatic numbers of $G'$ and $G$ are respectively $t'$ and $t$, then $t'\leq t$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
Let $\lambda:V(G)\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ be a lambda colouring of $G$ and $\lambda':=\lambda_{/V(G')}$. Suppose
$u,v\in V(G')$, then $\di[G']{u,v}\geq \di[G]{u,v}$. Consequently,
$|\lambda'(u)-\lambda'(v)|+\di[G']{u,v}\geq|\lambda(u)-\lambda(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}$, which means $\lambda':V(G')\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ is a lambda colouring of $G'$. Therefore
\begin{equation*}
t'=\min\left\{\underset{u\in V(G')}{\max}c(u): c\textup{ is a lambda colouring of } G'\right\}
\leq\underset{u\in V(G')}{\max}\lambda'(u)\leq\underset{u\in V(G)}{\max}\lambda(u)
\end{equation*}
The result follows, since the right hand side of the above inequality is true for any lambda colouring $\lambda$ of $G$.
\end{proof}
\begin{definition}
Let $G$ be a graph with lambda chromatic number $t$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set $V(G)$ with respect to the lambda colouring $c$. The graph with vertex set $V(G)$ and edges of the form $\{u^{m}_{i},u^{p}_{i}\}$, where $1\leq i\leq\min\{|C_{m}|,|C_{p}|\}$, $C_{m}$ \& $C_{p}$ are non-empty and $0\leq m\leq p-2\leq t-2$, is called the \emph{edge standardised} graph of $G$ with respect to the lambda colour $c$ and denoted as $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$. Such edge standardised graph of $G$ contains $\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ number of edges.
\end{definition}
Under the edge standardisation, the vertex set and its coloured partition remain invariant. An edge standardised graph $G$ with lambda chromatic number $t$ is a disjoint union of graphs of the form $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ (defined below). The following proposition ensures us that this technique does not reduce the number of edges.
\begin{proposition}\label{es_base}
Let $G$ be a graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to an optimal lambda colouring $c$.
Then such $c$ is also an optimal lambda colouring of $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$. Moreover, $|E(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])|\geq|E(G)|$ and $\nabla_{c}(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])=\nabla_{c}(G)$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
As a part of the argument of the proof of Proposition~\ref{base}, we have showed that $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ contains a subgraph $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ and the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is $t$. Thus by using Proposition~\ref{subgraph_relation}, we conclude that the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ is at least $t$. To get an upper bound, we associate for each $u^{p}_{i}\mapsto p$, where $0\leq p\leq t$ and $1\leq i\leq |C_{p}|$. We call this map as
$\Theta:V(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ and arguing similarly as in a part of the proof of Proposition~\ref{base}, we conclude that $\Theta$ is a lambda colouring of the graph $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$. We note that
$\underset{u\in V(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])}{\max}\Theta(u)=t$. Hence the lambda chromatic number of such graph is at most $t$. It implies the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ is $t$. It also implies that $\Theta$ is an optimal lambda colouring and for each $u\in V(G)$, $\Theta(u)=c(u)$. Hence $c$ is an optimal lambda colouring of $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ and $\nabla_{c}(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])=\nabla_{c}(G)$.
We note that for $0\leq p\leq q-2\leq t-2$, $\ed[G]{C_{p},C_{q}}\leq\min\{|C_{p}|,|C_{q}|\}$ and for $0\leq p\leq t-1$
$\ed[G]{C_{p},C_{p+1}}=0$. Since $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ has exactly $\M{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ number of edges, therefore by Theorem~\ref{notation_M}, we have for $0\leq p\leq q-2\leq t-2$,
$\ed[{\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]}]{C_{p},C_{q}}=\min\{|C_{p}|,|C_{q}|\}$ and for $0\leq p\leq t-1$,
$\ed[{\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]}]{C_{p},C_{p+1}}=0$. Hence $|E(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])|\geq|E(G)|$.
\end{proof}
\begin{definition}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph and with respect to the underlying lambda colouring $c$, let
$C_{M}\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $C_{m}\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. The subgraph obtained by deleting the vertex
$u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}$ and all the edges through that vertex of the graph $G$, is called as the \emph{edge deleted} graph.
We denote such graph as $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$. Similarly, the graph obtained by adding the vertex
$u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}$ and all possible edges of the form $\{u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}, u^{p}_{|C_{m}|+1}\}$, where
\begin{align*}
\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
p\in\{2,\ldots,t\}&\textup{ if } & m=0\\
p\in\{0,\ldots,t-2\}&\textup{ if } & m=t\\
p\in\{0,\ldots,t\}\smallsetminus\{m-1,m,m+1\}&\textup{ if }& 1\leq m\leq t-1
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
and $|C_{p}|\geq|C_{m}|+1$, with the graph $G$, is called as the \emph{edge inserted} graph. We denote such graph as $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$.
\end{definition}
\begin{proposition}\label{base}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. Then the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$ is $t$. If deletion of the vertex $u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}$ from the graph $G$ does not produce two consecutive holes in the graph $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$, then the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ is $t$.
\end{proposition}
Note that by deletion of the vertex $u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}$ from the graph $G$, produces at least two consecutive holes in the graph $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$, we mean $|C_{M}|=1$ and either $C_{M+1}$ is empty or $C_{M-1}$ is empty.
\begin{proof}
We consider the subgraph induced by the set of vertices
$\{u^{m}_{1}:0\leq m\leq t, C_{m}\neq\emptyset\}$ of the graph $G$. We refer such subgraph as $\mathbb{T}_{t}$. Since $C_{0}$ \& $C_{t}$ are non-empty sets and $t\geq3$, therefore $\{u^{0}_{1},u^{t}_{1}\}$ is an edge of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$.
\noindent{\textsl{Claim} :} The lambda chromatic number of the graph $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is $t$.
\begin{proof}[\tt{Proof of claim} :]\renewcommand{\qedsymbol}{}
We can directly verify the claim is true for $t=3$. So without loss of generality we assume $t\geq4$.
Clearly if $u^{p}_{1}$ and $u^{q}_{1}\in V(\mathbb{T}_{t})$, where $0\leq p\leq q-2\leq t-2$, then $\{u^{p}_{1},u^{q}_{1}\}$ is an edge of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$. Also if $u^{p}_{1}$ and $u^{p+1}_{1}\in V(\mathbb{T}_{t})$, where $0\leq p\leq t-1$, then there exists an $u^{q}_{1}\in V(\mathbb{T}_{t})$, where
\begin{align*}
\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
q=0&\textup{ if } & 2\leq p\leq t-1\\
q=t&\textup{ if } & 0\leq p\leq t-3,
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
such that $\{u^{p}_{1},u^{q}_{1}\}$ and $\{u^{p+1}_{1},u^{q}_{1}\}$ are edges of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$. This implies for all
$u,v\in V(\mathbb{T}_{t})$, $1\leq\di[\mathbb{T}_{t}]{u,v}\leq2$. Let $\lambda:V(\mathbb{T}_{t})\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ be a lambda colouring. Then for all $u,v\in V(\mathbb{T}_{t})$, $\lambda(u)\neq\lambda(v)$. Note that $C_{m}=\emptyset$ for some $m$, with $1\leq m\leq t-1$, corresponds to a hole of the colouring $c$. Since $c$ is optimal lambda colouring, there does not exist two consecutive holes. Therefore if $C_{m}=\emptyset$ for some $m$, with $1\leq m\leq t-1$, then $\{u^{m-1}_{1},u^{m+1}_{1}\}$ is an edge and consequently $|\lambda(u^{m-1}_{1})-\lambda(u^{m+1}_{1})|\geq2$. This implies
\begin{equation*}
\max\left\{\lambda(u):u\in\{u^{t}_{1}\}\sqcup\N[u^{t}_{1}]\right\}\geq\max\{0,\ldots,t\}=t,
\end{equation*}
where $\N[u^{t}_{1}]:=\left\{u^{p}_{1}:0\leq p\leq t-2, \{u^{p}_{1},u^{t}_{1}\}\in E(\mathbb{T}_{t})\right\}$ denotes the non-empty set of neighbours of $u^{t}_{1}$. Hence for each lambda colouring $\mu:V(\mathbb{T}_{t})\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ we have
$\underset{u\in V(\mathbb{T}_{t})}{\max}\mu(u)\geq t$. Therefore the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is at least $t$. Since $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is a subgraph of $G$ and the lambda chromatic number of $G$ is $t$. Therefore by using Proposition~\ref{subgraph_relation} we have the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is at most $t$. Hence the claim is established.
\end{proof}
Note that, without loss of generality, the graph $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ contains $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ as its
induced subgraph.Now deletion of the vertex $u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}$ from the graph $G$ does not produce two
consecutive holes in the graph $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$. By using similar arguments as in the above claim and Proposition~\ref{subgraph_relation}, we have the lambda chromatic number of such graph is at least $t$. The graph $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ is a subgraph of $G$ and the lambda chromatic number of $G$ is $t$. Hence again by using Proposition~\ref{subgraph_relation}, the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ is at most $t$, which concludes the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ is $t$.
Since $G$ is a subgraph of the graph $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$, by using Proposition~\ref{subgraph_relation} we conclude that the lambda chromatic number of such graph is at least $t$. We associate $u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}\mapsto m$ and for each $u^{p}_{i}\mapsto p$, where $0\leq p\leq t$ and $1\leq i\leq|C_{p}|$. We call this map as $\Lambda:V(\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G])\rightarrow\mathbb{N}$ and claim the following.
\noindent{\textsl{Claim} :} The map $\Lambda$ is a lambda colouring of $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$.
\begin{proof}[\tt{Proof of claim} :]\renewcommand{\qedsymbol}{}
Let $u^{p}_{i}$ and $u^{q}_{j}$ be two distinct vertices of $G':=\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$, where $0\leq p\leq t$, $0\leq q\leq t$, $i\geq 1$ and $j\geq1$. We note that if $i\neq j$, then $\di[G']{u^{p}_{i},u^{q}_{j}}\neq 0,1,2$. Also if $i=j$, then
\begin{align*}
\di[G']{u^{p}_{i},u^{q}_{i}}=\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
2& \textnormal{if} & p=0, q=1 \\
1& \textnormal{if} & p=0, 2\leq q\leq t
\end{array}\right.\\
\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
2& \textnormal{if} & p=t, q=t-1 \\
1& \textnormal{if} & p=t, 0\leq q\leq t-2
\end{array}\right.\\
\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
3& \textnormal{if} & p=1,q=2 \textnormal{ and } t=3\\
2& \textnormal{if} & 1\leq p\leq t-1, q=p-1 \textnormal{ or } p+1\textnormal{ and } t\geq4\\
1& \textnormal{if} & 1\leq p\leq t-1, 0\leq q\leq p-2 \textnormal{ or } p+2\leq q\leq t
\end{array}\right.\\
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
Hence for two distinct vertices $u$ and $v$ of $G'$, we have $|\Lambda(u)-\Lambda(v)|+\di[G']{u,v}\geq3$, which establishes the claim.
\end{proof}
\noindent We note that $\underset{u\in V(\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G])}{\max}\Lambda(u)=t$. Hence from the above claim the lambda chromatic number of such graph is at most $t$, which concludes the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$ is $t$.
\end{proof}
An alternative proof of the first claim of Proposition~\ref{base} follows easily by using Theorem~1.1 from \cite{MR1310873}. A \emph{path} of length $k$, where $k$ is a positive integer, in a graph $G$ is a sequence $\{u_{i}\}_{i=1}^{k+1}$ of distinct vertices such that for $1\leq i\leq k$, $\{u_{i},u_{i+1}\}$ is an edge of $G$.
The vertices $u_{1}$ and $u_{k+1}$ is called the \emph{initial} and \emph{terminal} vertices, respectively. A \emph{path covering} of $G$, denoted as $\mathscr{C}(G)$, is a collection of vertex disjoint paths in $G$ such that for each vertex $u\in V(G)$ there exists a (unique) $C\in\mathscr{C}(G)$ such that $u\in C$. A \emph{minimum path covering} of $G$ is a path covering of $G$ with minimum cardinality and the \emph{path covering number}
$\tau_{p}(G)$ of $G$ is the cardinality of a minimum path covering of $G$. The Theorem~1.1 of \cite{MR1310873}, states that the path covering number of the complement graph $\overline{G}$ of an $n-$vertex graph $G$ is
$\tau_{p}(\overline{G})$. Then one of the following holds.
\begin{itemize}
\item $\tau_{p}(\overline{G})=1$ if and only if the lambda chromatic number of $G$ is less or equals to $n-1$.
\item $\tau_{p}(\overline{G})\geq2$ if and only if the lambda chromatic number of $G$ is $n+\tau_{p}(\overline{G})-2$.
\end{itemize}
\begin{proof}[\tt{Alternative proof of the first claim of Proposition~\ref{base}} :]\renewcommand{\qedsymbol}{}
If $|V(\mathbb{T}_{t})|=t+1$, then for each integer $m$, with $0\leq m\leq t$, $C_{m}$ is a non-empty set. Hence the graph $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is isomorphic to the graph $\mathbb{G}_{t}$. From Theorem~\ref{lambda_G_n}, we conclude that the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is $t$. Hence we are done this case. Now if $|V(\mathbb{T}_{t})|=t+1-r$ for some positive integer $r$, then among the $t+1$ coloured classes $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ exactly $r$ coloured classes are empty. We note that $C_{0}$ and $C_{t}$ can never be empty. Since $c$ is optimal lambda colouring of $G$, we have if $C_{m}$ is empty for some integer $m$, with $1\leq m\leq t-1$, then both $C_{m-1}$ and $C_{m+1}$ are non-empty. These imply the complement graph $\overline{\mathbb{T}_{t}}$ of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is an union of $r+1$ vertex disjoint paths (path graphs) $P_{0},\ldots,P_{r}$.
We note that such paths $P_{0},\ldots,P_{t}$ form a path covering of $\overline{\mathbb{T}_{t}}$. Hence $\tau_{p}(\overline{\mathbb{T}_{t}})\leq r+1$. Again we note that for any two paths $P$ and $Q$ from $P_{0},\ldots,P_{r}$, there does not exist any edge of the form $\{u,v\}$, where $u,v$ are vertices of the paths $P$ and $Q$ respectively. With such property, it implies that $P_{0},\ldots,P_{r}$ is the only path covering of $\overline{\mathbb{T}_{t}}$ with cardinality less or equals to $r+1$. Hence $\tau_{p}(\overline{\mathbb{T}_{t}})\geq r+1$. Consequently, $\tau_{p}(\overline{\mathbb{T}_{t}})=r+1$. Now by using Theorem~1.1 of \cite{MR1310873}, we have the lambda chromatic number of $\mathbb{T}_{t}$ is $t+1-r+(r+1)-2=t$.
\end{proof}
\begin{remark}
It is obvious that an optimal lambda colouring $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ induces the coloured partition
$C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ of the vertex set of a graph $G$. In addition, if $G$ is an edge standardised graph, than both the graphs $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ and $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$, where $C_{M}\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $C_{m}\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, are edge standardised graphs. Also both have lambda chromatic number $t$. Therefore it is completely legitimate to study about the edge standardised graph $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ ($:=\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]]$). Such graph is obtained after deletion of the vertex $u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}$ along with all the edges through that vertex of the edge standardised graph $G$ and then inserting the vertex $u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}$ as well as all possible edges of the form $\{u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}, u^{p}_{|C_{m}|+1}\}$, where
\begin{align*}
\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
p\in\{2,\ldots,t\}&\textup{ if } & m=0\\
p\in\{0,\ldots,t-2\}&\textup{ if } & m=t\\
p\in\{0,\ldots,t\}\smallsetminus\{m-1,m,m+1\}&\textup{ if }& 1\leq m\leq t-1
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
and $|C_{p}|\geq|C_{m}|+1$.
We start with the coloured partition $C_{0},\ldots,C_{m},\ldots,C_{M},\ldots,C_{t}$ of $G$. Such coloured partition
has changed to $C_{0},\ldots,C_{m},\ldots,C_{M}\smallsetminus\{u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}\},\ldots,C_{t}$
in the graph $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ and such coloured partition has changed to
$C_{0},\ldots,C_{m}\sqcup\{u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}\},\ldots,C_{M},\ldots,C_{t}$ in the graph $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$. Therefore using Proposition~\ref{base} repeatedly, we say that during the edge deletion and insertion procedure, the coloured partition $C_{0},\ldots,C_{m},\ldots,C_{M},\ldots,C_{t}$ of $G$ has changed in the graph $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$, which is
\begin{equation*}
C_{0},\ldots,C_{m}\sqcup\{u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}\},\ldots,C_{M}\smallsetminus\{u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}\},\ldots,C_{t},
\end{equation*}
as long as deleting $u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}$ does not produce two consecutive empty classes (i.e. holes) in $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$. For the sake of simplicity we refer each of the lambda colouring of
$\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$, $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$ and $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ inducing the aforementioned vertex partition as $c$. Though the the lambda chromatic number remains invariant during the edge deletion and insertion procedure, but $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ change to
$\mathfrak{M}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G])$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G])$ respectively.
\end{remark}
\begin{definition}
Let $G$ is a graph with lambda chromatic number $t$ and an optimal lambda colouring $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ induce the coloured partition $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ of the vertex set of $G$. Then
\begin{align*}
\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{m})=\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
\{C_{1}\} & \textnormal{if} & m=0\\
\{C_{t-1}\} & \textnormal{if} & m=t\\
\{C_{m-1},C_{m+1}\}& \textnormal{if} & 1\leq m\leq t-1
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
denotes the \emph{prohibited zone} of the colour class $C_{m}$ in the graph $G$. We use the term
``prohibited'' is due to the property that for each $x\in C\in\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{m})$ there does not
exist $y\in C_{m}$ such that $\{x,y\}$ is an edge of $G$.
\end{definition}
The solution of Question~(b) relies on the following three lemmas.
\begin{lemma}\label{maxformula}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$ and $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$. Then for $C_{M}\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ is $t$ and the following formula holds:
\begin{equation*}
|E(G)|=|E(\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G])|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|-1-|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{M})|.
\end{equation*}
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
We note that $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ ensures that the deletion of the vertex $u^{M}_{|C_{M}|}$ from the graph $G$ does not produce two consecutive holes in the graph $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$. Therefore using the arguments in Proposition~\ref{base}, we conclude that the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G]$ is $t$. Since $G$ is an edge standardised graph,
we have the following:
\begin{align*}\label{deletion}
|E(G)|-|E(\mathscr{D}_{C_{M}}[G])|=\left\{\begin{array}{lcl}
|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|-1 & \textnormal{if} & |\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{M})|=0\\
|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|-2 & \textnormal{if} & |\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{M})|=1\\
|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|-3 & \textnormal{if} & |\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{M})|=2
\end{array}\right.
\end{align*}
Hence the formula holds.
\end{proof}
\begin{lemma}\label{minformula}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. Then for $C_{m}\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, the following formula holds:
\begin{equation*}
|E(\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G])|=|E(G)|+t+1-|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cup\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{m})|.
\end{equation*}
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
The result holds since there are exactly $t+1-|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cup\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{m})|$ edges which are edges of $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$ but not edges of $G$. The counting is as follows. Since $G$ is an edge standardised graph, the vertex $u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1}$ is adjacent with the vertex of the form $u^{p}_{|C_{m}|+1}$, where $0\leq p\leq t$ and
$|C_{p}|\geq|C_{m}|+1$. Hence there are at most $t+1$ such vertices. But if
$C_{q}\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cup\mathsf{P}_{G}(C_{m})$, then there is no such vertex of the form
$u^{q}_{|C_{m}|+1}\in C_{q}$ such that $\{u^{m}_{|C_{m}|+1},u^{q}_{|C_{m}|+1}\}$ is an edge of $\mathscr{I}_{C_{m}}[G]$ and vice versa.
\end{proof}
The development of this section and the following one is all about searching an $n-$vertex graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ containing maximum number of edges. In this regard, we now focus on the following question.
\begin{question}
Let $G$ be an $n-$vertex graph $G$ with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$. If $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ for some optimal lambda colouring $c$ of $G$, is it possible that $G$ contains maximum number of edges?
\end{question}
We answer the above question affirmatively. More precisely, we answer that for $t=3$ and $t=4$ we can find such families of graphs. However, we can not find any such graph when $t\geq5$. Formally we explain it in the following results.
\begin{lemma}\label{atmostone}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. If $G$ contains maximum number of edges, then $\nabla_{c}(G)\leq1$ or all but at most one $C_{i}$ are members of
$\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\sqcup\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ (where $0\leq i\leq t$).
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
Suppose it does not hold that $\nabla_{c}(G)\leq1$ or all but at most one $C_{i}$ are members of $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\sqcup\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. This implies $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ and $2\leq|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|\leq t-1$. We choose $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ and construct two edge standardised graphs viz. $\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$.
We note that $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ implies $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])=\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. Hence $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])$. Also $|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|=|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|$. Now by using Lemma~\ref{maxformula}, Lemma~\ref{minformula} and the inequality
\begin{equation*}
3\leq|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+
|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|+|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|\leq t+1
\end{equation*}
we get,
\begin{align*}
|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|-|E(G)|&=t+2+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|\\
&\hspace{2cm}-\left(|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|+|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|\right)\tag{$\star$}\label{star}\\
&\geq1+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|.
\end{align*}
Both the graphs $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $G$ are edge standardised graphs and
$|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|\geq|E(G)|+1$. Hence $G$ does not contain maximum number of edges, a contradiction arises and the result follows.
\end{proof}
During the transformation of the edge standardised graph $G$ into $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$, the Lemma~\ref{maxformula}, Lemma~\ref{minformula}, Lemma~\ref{atmostone} and the the equation \eqref{star} provide us the opportunity to understand the role of the intermediate graph $\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$. It keeps track the change of the edge distribution from a quantitative point of view.
\begin{proposition}\label{nablageq2}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. If $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ and $G$ contains maximum number of edges, then exactly one of the following holds.
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(a)]
\item For all $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$,
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|=0$, $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=0$,\\
whenever $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t$.
\item For all $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$,
\begin{equation}\tag{$\star\star$}\label{starstar}
1+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|\leq|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|,
\end{equation}
whenever $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t+1$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
Let $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t$. Suppose for some $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ we have
\begin{equation*}
|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|\geq1.
\end{equation*}
Then we construct two edge standardised graphs viz. $\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$.
We note that $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ implies $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])=\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. Hence $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])$ and
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|$. Now by using Lemma~\ref{maxformula}, Lemma~\ref{minformula}, \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone} and the inequality
\begin{equation*}
|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+
|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|+|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|\leq t+2
\end{equation*}
we get,
\begin{align*}
|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|-|E(G)|&\geq|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|\\
&=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|\geq1.
\end{align*}
Both the graphs $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $G$ are edge standardised graphs and
$|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|\geq|E(G)|+1$. Hence $G$ does not contain maximum number of edges, a contradiction arises. This concludes (a).
Let $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t+1$. Suppose for some $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and
$B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ we have
\begin{equation*}
|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|\geq|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|.
\end{equation*}
Then we construct two edge standardised graphs viz. $\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$.
We note that $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ implies $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])=\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. Hence $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])$ and
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|$.
Also $|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|=|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|$. Now by using Lemma~\ref{maxformula}, Lemma~\ref{minformula} and \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone} we get,
\begin{align*}
|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|-|E(G)|&=1+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+
|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|-|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|\\
&=1+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|-|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|\geq1.
\end{align*}
Both the graphs $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $G$ are edge standardised graphs and
$|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|\geq|E(G)|+1$. Hence $G$ does not contain maximum number of edges, a contradiction arises. This concludes (b).
\end{proof}
\begin{remark}
The \eqref{starstar} condition of Proposition~\ref{nablageq2} expounds the followings.
\begin{itemize}
\item Any three consecutive members (i.e. members of the form $C_{i},C_{i+1},C_{i+2}$, where $0\leq i\leq t-2$) of
$C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ must contain at least one member of $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and at least one member of
$\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$.
\item Occurrence of two consecutive members (i.e. members of the form $C_{i},C_{i+1}$, where $0\leq i\leq t-1$) in $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ forbids occurrence of two consecutive members in $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ and vice-versa.
\end{itemize}
\end{remark}
Suppose $G$ is an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring
$c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$. Also let $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$. From \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, if $G$ has maximum number of edges and $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t$, then $|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|=|E(G)|$ for all $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. But if $G$ has maximum number of edges and
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t+1$, then either
$|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|=|E(G)|$ or $|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|=|E(G)|-1$, where $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$.
Here we derive the necessary conditions to prohibit the increase in the number of edges. The first two results (Proposition~\ref{sum_t} and Proposition~\ref{sum_t+1_gain-0}) are about the transformations that keep the number of edges invariant. However, the third one (Proposition~\ref{sum_t+1_gain-1}) is about the transformations when the
number of edges reduces. Eventually, these lead to stationary conditions (vide the definition of stationary graph) in the subsequent development.
\begin{proposition}\label{sum_t}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. If
$\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ and $G$ contains maximum number of edges with $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t$, then
$t=3$ or $t=4$; moreover $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=1$ (and consequently), $\nabla_{c}(G)=2$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{i}\}$, where $1\leq i\leq t-1$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
Since $\nabla_{c}(G)>0$, there exists $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$. Let for some $X\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$
$|\mathsf{P}_{G}(X)|=1$. Now both the graphs $\mathscr{I}_{X}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $G$ are edge standardised
graphs. By \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, we have $|E(\mathscr{I}_{X}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|\geq|E(G)|+1$. Hence $G$ does not contain maximum number of edges. A contradiction arises. Hence for each $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, $|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=2$. Consequently, $C_{i}\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ implies $1\leq i\leq t-1$.
We now proof the following claim.
\noindent{\textsl{Claim} :} With these conditions, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\geq2$.
\begin{proof}[\tt{Proof of claim} :]\renewcommand{\qedsymbol}{}
Suppose $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\leq1$, then $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=1$. If $Y$ be the unique member of
$\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$, then $|E(\mathscr{I}_{X}\mathscr{D}_{Y}[G])|\geq|E(G)|+1$ for each $X\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. Since $G$ and $\mathscr{I}_{X}\mathscr{D}_{Y}[G]$ both are edge standardised graphs, we have $G$ does not contain maximum number of edges, a contradiction arises. Hence the claim is established.
\end{proof}
Suppose with these conditions, we have $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|\geq2$. Using the above claim we choose $A$,
$A'\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B$, $B'\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. We construct the graphs $\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$, $\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$, $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $\mathscr{I}_{B'}\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$. Now $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$. Also
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\geq2$, therefore $\nabla_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\geq2$ and by Lemma~\ref{maxformula}, lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ is $t$. Then by using Proposition~\ref{base}, $\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $\mathscr{I}_{B'}\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ are of lambda chromatic number $t$.
We note the following :
\begin{align*}
|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|&=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|-1,\\
|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|&=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|\textup{ and}\\
|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|&=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|-1.
\end{align*}
Using these, Lemma~\ref{maxformula} and Lemma~\ref{minformula} we have,
\begin{align*}
|E(\mathscr{I}_{B'}\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|-|E(G)|&=2t+6+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(A')|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|+\\
&\hspace{1cm}+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B)|+\\
&\hspace{1cm}+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])\cap\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]}(B')|-\\
&\hspace{1cm}-2(|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|)\\
&\hspace{1cm}-|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}}(B)|-
|\mathsf{P}_{\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}}(B')|\\
&\geq2
\end{align*}
Both the graphs $\mathscr{I}_{B'}\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ and $G$ are edge standardised graphs. Also $|E(\mathscr{I}_{B'}\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A'}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|\geq|E(G)|+2$. Hence $G$ does not contain maximum number of edges. A contradiction arises. This proves $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=1$.
Let $B$ be the unique member of $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. Using the aforementioned arguments we have
$|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=2$. Also we have
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t$ and hence by using (a) of Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}, we have for all $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|=0$ and
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=0$. These together imply
$2\leq|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\leq3$. Hence $4\leq t+1\leq5$, i.e. $3\leq t\leq4$.
Let $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $C$ denote the unique coloured class with $|B|+1\leq|C|\leq|A|-1$. We consider the edge standardised graph $G':=\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$. Suppose $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq3$, then we conclude
$|C|-|B|\geq2$ or $|A|-|C|\geq2$.
\noindent{\textsf{Case} I : } Suppose $|C|-|B|\geq2$.
\noindent For this case, we have $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t-1\geq2$. Consequently $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=1$ and
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=t-1$. Hence we conclude by Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, $G'$ can not contain maximum number of edges and by \eqref{star}, $|E(G')|\geq|E(G)|$. But $G$ contains maximum number of edges, which leads to a contradiction.
\noindent{\textsf{Case} II : } Suppose $|A|-|C|\geq2$.
\noindent If $|C|-|B|\geq2$, then $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t-1\geq2$ and consequently
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=t-1$. With a similar argument as in Case~I, we have a contradiction. If
$|C|-|B|=1$, then $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=t$ but $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=2$. Hence by \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, we conclude $|E(G')|\geq|E(G)|$. Since $G'$ is an edge standardised graph and $G$ contains maximum number of edges, we conclude that $G'$ contains maximum number of edges. A contradiction arises, as for such edge
standardised graph with maximum number of edges has the property $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=1$.
This shows for each of the cases leads to a contradiction. Hence $|C|=1+|B|$ and $|A|=1+|C|$, i.e. $\nabla_{c}(G)=2$.
\end{proof}
\begin{proposition}\label{sum_t+1_gain-0}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$.
If $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, $G$ contains maximum number of edges with
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t+1$ and for some $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$,
$|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|=|E(G)|$, then $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=1$. Consequently, the following results hold.
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(a)]
\item $3\leq|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\leq4$ and $3\leq t\leq4$.
\item $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{i}\}$, where $1\leq i\leq t-1$.
\item If $t=4$, then $\nabla_{c}(G)=2$.
\item If $t=3$, then $2\leq\nabla_{c}(G)\leq3$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
If $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ contains a unique element $X$, then due to the assumption $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, we
have for each $Y\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, $|E(\mathscr{I}_{Y}\mathscr{D}_{X}[G])|\geq1+|E(G)|$. Since both the
graphs $\mathscr{I}_{Y}\mathscr{D}_{X}[G]$ and $G$ are edge standardised graphs, this leads to a
contradiction to the assumption that $G$ contains maximum number of edges. Hence $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\geq2$.
Let for some $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$,
$|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|=|E(G)|$ holds. Suppose $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|\geq2$, then for the edge standardised graph $G':=\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G]$ we have
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=t-1$. Hence we conclude by Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, $G'$ can not
contain maximum number of edges. But $|E(G')|=|E(G)|$. This implies $G$ can not contain maximum number of edges.
A contradiction arises. Hence $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=1$ and the result follows.
Suppose $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\geq5$. This, together with $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=1$ and
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=t+1$, yields the existence of an integer $i$, with $0\leq i\leq t-2$
such that $C_{i}$, $C_{i+1}$, $C_{i+2}$ (i.e. consecutive three members) are members of
$\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$, this contradicts \eqref{starstar} of Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}, therefore
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\leq4$. Since $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t+1\geq4$, we have
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\geq3$. Hence the result (a) holds.
Suppose $C_{0}$ is the unique member of $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. This, together with (a), yields the existence of an integer $i$, with $1\leq i\leq t-2$ such that $C_{i}$, $C_{i+1}$, $C_{i+2}$ (i.e. consecutive three members)
are members of $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$, this contradicts \eqref{starstar} of Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}.
Similarly our assumption, $C_{t}$ is the unique member of $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ leads to a contradiction.
This implies the result (b).
To show (c), first we note that since $t=4$, by using (b) of Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}, $\{C_{0},C_{1},C_{3},C_{4}\}$
is the complete list of members of $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{2}\}$.
Suppose $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq3$. We note that for this case
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=3$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')$ contains unique member say $B'$. Therefore there exists $A'\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')$ such that $|\mathsf{P}_{G'}(A')\cap\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=1$. Also
$|\mathsf{P}_{G'}(B')|=2$. Hence by using \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone} we have
$|E(\mathscr{I}_{B'}\mathscr{D}_{A'}[G'])|\geq1+|E(G')|=1+|E(G)|$. This is a contradiction
to the assumption that $G$ contains maximum number of edges. Hence $\nabla_{c}(G)=2$.
To show (d), first we note that since $t=3$, by using (b) of Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}, either
$\{C_{0},C_{2},C_{3}\}$ is the complete list of members of $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1}\}$
or $\{C_{0},C_{1},C_{3}\}$ is the complete list of members of
$\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{2}\}$. Note that for the first choice and second choice of the coloured
partitions, we have $|E(G')|=|E(G)|$ implies $A\neq C_{0}$ and $A\neq C_{3}$ for the respective choices.
Suppose $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq4$. We note that for this case $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=2$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')$ contains unique member say $B'$. Let $A'\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')$ and we construct $G'':=\mathscr{I}_{B'}\mathscr{D}_{A'}[G']$. Here
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G'')|=1=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G'')|$. We assume $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G'')=\{X\}$ and $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G'')=\{Y\}$, then $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G'')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G'')|=2=t-1$. Hence we conclude by Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, $G''$ can not
contain maximum number of edges. But $|E(G'')|=|E(G')|=|E(G)|$. This contradicts the assumption that $G$ contains maximum number of edges. Hence $2\leq\nabla_{c}(G)\leq3$.
\end{proof}
\begin{proposition}\label{sum_t+1_gain-1}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. If
$\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, $G$ contains maximum number of edges and $|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|=|E(G)|-1$ for all $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, then $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=2$,
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=3$, $t=4$ and $\nabla_{c}(G)=2$. Moreover, if $C_{i}\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, then $1\leq i\leq t-1$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
Here we observe from \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, that for all $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and
$B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, $|E(\mathscr{I}_{B}\mathscr{D}_{A}[G])|=|E(G)|-1$ if and only if
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|=0$, $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=0$ for all
$A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t+1$ and
$|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=2$ for all $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, i.e. if $C_{i}\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, then $1\leq i\leq t-1$.
Suppose $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|\geq3$. Since $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|=0$,
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=0$ and $|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=2$ for all
$A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, we have $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|+1\geq4$. We choose $X\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $Y\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ and construct the graph $G':=\mathscr{I}_{Y}\mathscr{D}_{X}[G]$, then by assumption $|E(G')|=|E(G)|-1$. Also $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|-1\geq2$ and
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|-1\geq3$. Therefore $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=t-1$. We note that $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')\cap\mathsf{P}_{G'}(A')|=0$, $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')\cap\mathsf{P}_{G'}(B')|=0$ and
$|\mathsf{P}_{G'}(B')|=2$, for all $A'\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')$ and $B'\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')$. Now we choose
$X'\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')$ and $Y'\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')$ and construct the graph
$G'':=\mathscr{I}_{Y'}\mathscr{D}_{X'}[G']$. Therefore $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G'')|=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|-1\geq2$,
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G'')|=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|-1\geq1$ and $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G'')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G'')|=t-3$. Hence we conclude by Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, $G''$ can not contain maximum number of edges. But using \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone} we have $|E(G'')|=|E(G')|+1=E(G)$. This contradicts the assumption that $G$ contains maximum number of edges. Hence $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|\leq2$. Now suppose $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=1$. Since
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(A)|=0$, $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)\cap\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=0$ and
$|\mathsf{P}_{G}(B)|=2$ for all $A\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$, therefore
we have $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=2$, i.e. $t=2$. A contradiction arises since $t\geq3$. Hence
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=2$. Consequently, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=3$ and $t=4$.
Suppose $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq3$. We choose $X\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$ and $Y\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$ and construct the graph $G':=\mathscr{I}_{Y}\mathscr{D}_{X}[G]$, then by assumption $|E(G')|=|E(G)|-1$. We note that, here
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|-1=1$ and $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|-1=2$. We choose $X'\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')$ and $Y'\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')$ and construct the graph
$G'':=\mathscr{I}_{Y'}\mathscr{D}_{X'}[G']$. Therefore $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G'')|=|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|-1=1$,
$|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G'')|=|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')|+1=2$ and $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G'')|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G'')|=3=t-1$. Hence we conclude by Lemma~\ref{atmostone}, $G''$ can not contain maximum number of edges. Since
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')\cap\mathsf{P}_{G'}(A')|=0$, $|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')\cap\mathsf{P}_{G'}(B')|=0$ and
$|\mathsf{P}_{G'}(B')|=2$, for all $A'\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')$ and $B'\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G')$, by using \eqref{star} of Lemma~\ref{atmostone} we have $|E(G'')|=|E(G')|+1=E(G)$. This contradicts the assumption that $G$ contains maximum number of edges. Hence $\nabla_{c}(G)=2$.
\end{proof}
\section{The final arc : From Stationary Results to The Classification Results}
In this section, our main aim is to establish a classification result. We classify all $n-$vertex graphs with lambda
chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $n\geq t+1$.
\begin{proposition}
Let $G$ be an graph with lambda chromatic number $t$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to an optimal lambda colouring $c$. Then the mapping $\bar{c}:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ defined by $u\mapsto t-c(u)$ is an optimal lambda colouring of $G$ and
$\bar{C}_{0},\ldots,\bar{C}_{t}$, where $\bar{C}_{i}=C_{t-i}$ for each integer $i$ with $0\leq i\leq t$, is the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to $\bar{c}$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
The result follows immediately since $|c(u)-c(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}=|\bar{c}(u)-\bar{c}(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}$ for all $u,v\in V(G)$.
\end{proof}
\begin{definition}
The aforementioned $\bar{c}: V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ is called the \emph{dual} of the optimal lambda colouring $c$. The coloured partition $\bar{C}_{0},\ldots,\bar{C}_{t}$ is called the \emph{dual coloured partition} of
$C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$.
\end{definition}
The following five results are most important ingredient to prove the classification results (Theorem~\ref{classification} and Corollary~\ref{classification-large}). Here we fix the notation
\begin{equation*}
\K[G]{U_{0},\ldots,U_{t}}:=|\left\{(i,i+1):|U_{i}|=|U_{i+1}|=\max\{|U_{n}|:0\leq n\leq t\}\right\}|,
\end{equation*}
for a partition $U_{0},\ldots,U_{t}$ of the vertex set of $G$. Therefore $\K[G]{U_{0},\ldots,U_{t}}$ counts the number pairs of the form $(U_{i},U_{i+1})$, where $0\leq i\leq t-1$ (i.e. the \emph{consecutive pairs}) and
$|U_{i}|=|U_{i+1}|=\underset{0\leq n\leq t}{\max}|U_{n}|$.
\begin{theorem}\label{nabla_1}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. If $G$ contains $n$ vertices and $\nabla_{c}(G)=1$, then $n=|B|(t+1)+|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|$ and
\begin{equation*}
|E(G)|=|B|\binom{t}{2}+\binom{|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|}{2}-\K[G]{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}},
\end{equation*}
where $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. Moreover, $|B|=\lfloor\frac{n}{t+1}\rfloor$ and
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=n-(t+1)\lfloor\frac{n}{t+1}\rfloor$. Also $G$ contains maximum number of edges if and only if
the value $\K[G]{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ is minimum over any equitable partition into (unequally sized) $t+1$ parts (subsets) of the vertex sets of all possible $n-$vertex graphs with lambda chromatic number $t$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
Let $B\in\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)$. Here the vertex set of the edge standardised graph $G$ admits a partition into two parts (subsets) $U_{1}$ and $U_{2}$ such that $\ed[G]{U_{1},U_{2}}=0$, where
\begin{equation*}
U_{1}:=\left(\overset{t}{\underset{m=0}\sqcup}\{u^{m}_{i}:1\leq i\leq|B|\}\right)\textup{ and }
U_{2}:=\left(\underset{C_{m}\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)}{\sqcup}\{u^{m}_{i}:i=|B|+1\}\right).
\end{equation*}
Hence the formula for $n$ holds. And to count the edges it is enough to count the edges of the subgraphs induced
by the subsets $U_{1}$ and $U_{2}$. Since $G$ is an edge standardised graph, the subgraph induced by the subset
$U_{1}$ of $V(G)$ is $|B|$ disjoint copies of $\mathbb{G}_{t}$. Therefore such subset yields $|B|\binom{t}{2}$ edges. To calculate the remaining edges we note that $G$ is an edge standardised graph. So, the subgraph induced by the
subset $U_{2}$ of $V(G)$ is the \emph{almost complete graph} on $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|$ vertices i.e complete
graph on $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|$ vertices with $\K[G]{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}$ deleted edges. Therefore there are
$\left[\binom{|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|}{2}-\K[G]{C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}}\right]$ additional edges.
For the next part we note that $\nabla_{c}(G)=1$ implies
$1\leq|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|\leq t\Leftrightarrow\frac{1}{t+1}\leq \frac{n}{t+1}-|B|\leq\frac{t}{t+1}$
Consequently, $|B|=\lfloor\frac{n}{t+1}\rfloor$ and $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|=n-(t+1)\lfloor\frac{n}{t+1}\rfloor$. The remaining part follows immediately from the edge formula.
\end{proof}
\begin{theorem}\label{t=3}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $3$ and $C_{0},C_{1},C_{2},C_{3}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. Then $G$ contains maximum number of edges and $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ if and only if the coloured partition or its respective dual partition satisfies one of the following four types of properties.
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(a)]
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{3}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{2}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|+1=|C_{2}|+2=|C_{3}|$.
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1},C_{3}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{2}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|+1=|C_{1}|=|C_{2}|+2=|C_{3}|$.
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{2},C_{3}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|+2=|C_{2}|=|C_{3}|$.
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{2},C_{3}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|+3=|C_{2}|=|C_{3}|$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
If $G$ contains maximum number of edges, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t=3$ and
$\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, then conclusion (a) and (b) directly follow from Proposition~\ref{sum_t} and Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}. For the converse part of (a), let $G$ be the same as mentioned in the statement with additional property that (a) holds. Then we construct, $G':=\mathscr{I}_{C_{2}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{3}}[G]$. Here $\nabla_{c}(G')=1$ and $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=1$. Hence $\K[G']{C'_{0},C'_{1},C'_{2},C'_{3}}=0$, where $C'_{0},C'_{1},C'_{2},C'_{3}$ is the transformed (coloured) partition of $C_{0},C_{1},C_{2},C_{3}$.
Therefore using Theorem~\ref{nabla_1}, we have $G'$ contains maximum number of edges. We note that $|E(G)|=|E(G')|$.
Hence $G$ contains maximum number of edges. For the converse part of (b), we assume $G$ is the same as
mentioned in the statement with additional property that (b) holds. Then with a same construction and similar
argument we have such $G$ contains maximum number of edges.
Similarly if $G$ contains maximum number of edges, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t+1=4$ and $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, then conclusion (c) and (d) directly follow from Proposition~\ref{sum_t+1_gain-0}. Conversely let $G$ be the same as mentioned in the statement with additional property that (c) holds. Then $\nabla_{c}(G)=2$ and we let $G':=\mathscr{I}_{C_{1}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{3}}[G]$. Using Theorem~\ref{nabla_1} and a similar argument as before we have $G$ contains maximum number of edges. Conversely let $G$ be the same as mentioned in the statement with additional property that (d) holds. Then $\nabla_{c}(G)=3$ and we let
$G':=\mathscr{I}_{C_{1}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{2}}\mathscr{I}_{C_{1}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{3}}[G]$.
Using Theorem~\ref{nabla_1} and a similar argument as before we have $G$ contains maximum number of edges.
\end{proof}
\begin{theorem}\label{t=4necessary}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $4$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{4}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$. If $G$ contains maximum number of edges and $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$ then there are only following three types of coloured partitions
or their respective dual coloured partitions.
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(a)]
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{2},C_{4}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|+2=|C_{2}|=|C_{3}|+1=|C_{4}|$.
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{2},C_{4}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1},C_{3}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|+2=|C_{2}|=|C_{3}|+2=|C_{4}|$.
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{1},C_{3},C_{4}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{2}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|=|C_{2}|+2=|C_{3}|=|C_{4}|$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
If $G$ contains maximum number of edges, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t=4$ and
$\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, then the conclusion (a) directly follows from Proposition~\ref{sum_t} and Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}.
If $G$ contains maximum number of edges, $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)|+|\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)|=t+1=5$ and
$\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, then the conclusion (b) and (c) directly follow from Proposition~\ref{sum_t+1_gain-0}, Proposition~\ref{sum_t+1_gain-1} and Proposition~\ref{nablageq2}.
\end{proof}
\begin{theorem}\label{t=4sufficint}
Let $G$ be an edge standardised graph with lambda chromatic number $4$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{4}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c$.
If the coloured partition or its respective dual coloured partition satisfies one of the following two properties,
then $G$ contains maximum number of edges.
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(a)]
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{2},C_{4}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|+2=|C_{2}|=|C_{3}|+1=|C_{4}|$.
\item $\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)=\{C_{0},C_{2},C_{4}\}$, $\mathfrak{m}_{c}(G)=\{C_{1},C_{3}\}$ and
$|C_{0}|=|C_{1}|+2=|C_{2}|=|C_{3}|+2=|C_{4}|$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
We assume (a) holds. Let $G':=\mathscr{I}_{C_{1}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{4}}[G]$. Here $\nabla_{c}(G')=1$ and
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=2$. Also \\$\K[G']{C'_{0},\ldots,C'_{4}}=0$, where $C'_{0},\ldots,C'_{4}$ is the
transformed (coloured) partition of $C_{0},\ldots,C_{4}$. Therefore using Theorem~\ref{nabla_1}, we have
$G'$ contains maximum number of edges. We note that $|E(G)|=|E(G')|$. Hence such $G$ contains maximum number
of edges and the result follow for this case.
We assume (b) holds. Let $G':=\mathscr{I}_{C_{3}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{2}}\mathscr{I}_{C_{1}}\mathscr{D}_{C_{4}}[G]$.
Here $\nabla_{c}(G')=1$ and $|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=1$. Hence $\K[G']{C'_{0},\ldots,C'_{4}}=0$, where
$C'_{0},\ldots,C'_{4}$ is the transformed (coloured) partition of $C_{0},\ldots,C_{4}$. Therefore using
Theorem~\ref{nabla_1}, we have $G'$ contains maximum number of edges. We note that $|E(G)|=|E(G')|$. Hence such
$G$ contains maximum number of edges and the result follow for this case.
\end{proof}
\begin{remark}
The converse part of Theorem~\ref{t=4necessary} is not true. Suppose $G$ is a graph, which satisfies the
conditions mention in the statement of Theorem~\ref{t=4necessary} and in addition (c) holds, then $G$
does not contain maximum number of edges.
Technically, it is due to for each $X\in\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G)$, $G':=\mathscr{I}_{C_{2}}\mathscr{D}_{X}[G]$ implies
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=3$ and there exists exactly one integer $i$, with $i=0$ or $i=3$, such that $\{C'_{i},C'_{i+1}\}\subset\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')$. Hence $\K[G']{C'_{0},\ldots,C'_{4}}=1$.
Suppose $H$ is a graph with lambda chromatic number $t=4$, $\nabla_{c}(H)=1$,
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(H)|=3$ with respect to the underlying optimal lambda colouring $c:V(H)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,4\}$.
Then by using Theorem~\ref{nabla_1}, such $H$ contains maximum number of edges if and only if
the value of $\K[H]{C_{0},\ldots,C_{4}}$ is $0$. Here $G'$ satisfies $t=4$, $\nabla_{c}(G')=1$,
$|\mathfrak{M}_{c}(G')|=3$ but $\K[G']{C'_{0},\ldots,C'_{4}}=1$. Therefore such $G'$ can not contain
maximum number of edges. We note that $|E(G)|=|E(G')|$. Hence such $G$ can not contain maximum number of edges.
Therefore any edge standardised graph satisfying the (stationary) conditions mentioned in (c) of Theorem~\ref{t=4necessary} does not contain maximum number of edges.
\end{remark}
To propose the classification results, we can not restrict ourselves only to edge standardised graphs. So we need to get rid of the ``edge distribution'' related restriction that makes a graph edge standardised. Henceforth, the graphs
are not necessarily edge standardised.
\begin{theorem}\label{t+1_divides_n}
Let $G$ be a graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the coloured partition of the vertex set of $G$ with respect to an optimal lambda colouring $c$. If $G$ contains $n\geq t+1$ vertices, where $n$ is a multiple of $t+1$, then $G$ contains maximum number of edges if and only if
$G$ is a member graph of $\mathsf{G}(t,\frac{n}{t+1})$.
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
Let $G$ be a member graph of $\mathsf{G}(t,\frac{n}{t+1})$. Then $G$ has $n$ vertices and its lambda chromatic
number is $t$. It follows from Theorem~\ref{universality}, that members of $\mathsf{G}(t,l)$, for some integer $l$, has maximum number of edges among the graphs with lambda chromatic number $t$ and at most $l(t+1)$ vertices. Hence,
for $l=\frac{n}{t+1}$, $G$ has maximum number of edges.
Conversely, suppose $G$ has maximum number of edges and $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ is an optimal lambda colouring of $G$. If $\nabla_{c}(G)=1$, then $(t+1)$ does not
divide $n$. A contradiction arises. Now if $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, then we construct $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$. From the definition of edge standardised graph, we have $V(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])=V(G)$.
By using Proposition~\ref{es_base}, we have the lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ is $t$.
Since $G$ contains maximum number of edges, again by using Proposition~\ref{es_base} we have $|E(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])|=|E(G)|$. This means the edge standardised graph $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ contains maximum number of edges. Therefore by using Theorem~\ref{t=3} and Theorem~\ref{t=4sufficint}, we have $\nabla_{c}(G)=\nabla_{c}(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])=2\textup{ or }3$.
If $\nabla_{c}(G)=\nabla_{c}(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])=2\textup{ or }3$, then it follows from Theorem~\ref{t=3} and Theorem~\ref{t=4sufficint} that $n=|V(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])|=|V(G)|$ is of the form $s(t+1)+r$, where $s\geq0$ and $r\geq1$ are integers. Here $r$ equals $5\mod{4}$, $5\mod{4}$, $6\mod{4}$, $9\mod{4}$, $7\mod{5}$ and $6\mod{5}$ for the respective cases. Hence we conclude $(t+1)$ does not divides $n$. This leads to a contradiction. Therefore $\nabla_{c}(G)=0$ and consequently $G$ is a member graph of $\mathsf{G}(t,\frac{n}{t+1})$.
\end{proof}
We now define a stationary graph. Such graphs behave in conformity with the necessary conditions,
developed in Theorem~\ref{nabla_1}, Theorem~\ref{t=3}, Theorem~\ref{t=4necessary} and Theorem~\ref{t+1_divides_n}.
The intrinsic local restrictions of an optimal lambda colouring are also maintained.
\begin{definition}
An $n-$vertex graph $G$ is said to be a \emph{stationary graph} if the vertex set is partitioned into $t+1$ subsets
$V_{0},\ldots,V_{t}$, where $n\geq t+1\geq4$, and the edge distribution follows the following four properties.
\begin{itemize}
\item $V_{0}$ and $V_{t}$ are non-empty and if for some integer $i$, with $1\leq i\leq t-1$, $V_{i}$ is empty then both $V_{i-1}$ and $V_{i+1}$ are non-empty.
\item $\ed[G]{V_{i},V_{i}}=0$ for each integer $i$, with $0\leq i\leq t$.
\item $\ed[G]{V_{i},V_{i+1}}=0$ for each integer $i$, with $0\leq i\leq t-1$.
\item If $0<|V_{i}|\leq |V_{j}|$, where $i$ and $j$ are integers with $0\leq i,j\leq t$ and $|i-j|\geq2$, then for each $x\in V_{i}$
there exists a unique $y\in V_{j}$ such that $\{x,y\}$ is an edge.
(So $\ed[G]{V_{i},V_{j}}=|V_{i}|=\min\{|V_{i}|,|V_{j}|\}$.)
\end{itemize}
Also such partition or its dual partition (The \emph{dual partition} of $V_{0},\ldots,V_{t}$ is $\bar{V}_{0},\ldots,\bar{V}_{t}$, where $\bar{V}_{i}:=V_{t-i}$ for each integer $i$ with $0\leq i\leq t$.) satisfies exactly one of following properties.
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(a)]
\item $||V_{i}|-|V_{j}||\leq1$ for all integers $i$ and $j$, with $0\leq i,j\leq t$.
\item $|V_{0}|=|V_{1}|+1=|V_{2}|+2=|V_{3}|$, whenever $t=3$.
\item $|V_{0}|+1=|V_{1}|=|V_{2}|+2=|V_{3}|$, whenever $t=3$.
\item $|V_{0}|=|V_{1}|+2=|V_{2}|=|V_{3}|$, whenever $t=3$.
\item $|V_{0}|=|V_{1}|+3=|V_{2}|=|V_{3}|$, whenever $t=3$.
\item $|V_{0}|=|V_{1}|+2=|V_{2}|=|V_{3}|+1=|V_{4}|$, whenever $t=4$.
\item $|V_{0}|=|V_{1}|+2=|V_{2}|=|V_{3}|+2=|V_{4}|$, whenever $t=4$.
\item $|V_{0}|=|V_{1}|=|V_{2}|+2=|V_{3}|=|V_{4}|$, whenever $t=4$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{definition}
\begin{lemma}
Let $G$ be an $n-$vertex stationary graph. Then lambda chromatic number of $G$ is at most $t$. Moreover, for each integer $i$,
with $0\leq i\leq t$, and for each $v\in V_{i}$, $v\mapsto i$ is a lambda colouring of $G$.
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
To show the lambda chromatic number of $G$ is at most $t$, it is enough to establish the mapping mentioned in the statement (say) $c$ is a lambda colouring of $G$.
If $\di[G]{u,v}\geq3$, then $|c(u)-c(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}\geq3$. If for some $u\in V_{i}$ and $v\in V_{j}$, where
$0\leq i,j\leq t$, suppose $\di[G]{u,v}=1$, then $j\neq i$ since $\ed[G]{V_{i},V_{i}}=0$ for each integer $i$,
with $0\leq i\leq t$. Also $\ed[G]{V_{i},V_{i+1}}=0$ for each integer $i$, with $0\leq i\leq t-1$. Hence
$|c(u)-c(v)|=|i-j|\geq2$. Consequently, $|c(u)-c(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}\geq3$ whenever $\di[G]{u,v}=1$ for some $u,v\in V(G)$.
If for some $u,v\in V(G)$, suppose $\di[G]{u,v}=2$, then $u$ and $v$ can not belong to same $V_{i}$, where $0\leq i\leq t$. Otherwise there would exist $w\in V_{j}$, where $j\neq i$, such that $\{u,w\}$ and $\{v,w\}$ are edges. This is a
contradiction. Hence $c(u)\neq c(v)$, i.e. $|c(u)-c(v)|+\di[G]{u,v}\geq3$ whenever $\di[G]{u,v}=2$ for some $u,v\in V(G)$.
\end{proof}
\begin{lemma}\label{stationary_sufficient}
Let $G$ be an $n-$vertex graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $n\geq t+1$. If $G$ contains maximum number of edges then $G$ is a stationary graph.
\end{lemma}
\begin{proof}
Let $c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ be an optimal lambda colouring of $G$ and $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ be the corresponding coloured partition of $V(G)$. This partition of $V(G)$ satisfies the edge distribution related
properties in the definition of a stationary graph. By Proposition~\ref{es_base}, $c$ is also an optimal lambda colouring of $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$. We note that if $G$ contains maximum number of edges then $|E(G)|=|E(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])|$. From the definition of edge standardised graph, we have $V(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])=V(G)$. Moreover, using Proposition~\ref{es_base}, we have lambda chromatic number of $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ is $t$. Hence $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ contains maximum number of edges. Also note that
$C_{i}=\{u\in V(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]):c(u)=i\}$ for each integer $i$, with $0\leq i\leq t$.
Now $\nabla_{c}(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])=\nabla_{c}(G)$. If $\nabla_{c}(G)\geq2$, then using Theorem~\ref{t=3} and Theorem~\ref{t=4necessary}, the (coloured) partition $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ of the vertex set of
$\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ (and hence $G$) follows exactly one of the conditions stated from (b) to (h), in the definition of stationary graph. If $\nabla_{c}(G)\leq1$, then the vertex partition $C_{0},\ldots,C_{t}$ of vertex set follows condition (a) in the definition of stationary graph.
\end{proof}
Now we are in a position to establish our final classification results. This concludes our article.
\begin{theorem}\label{classification}
Let $G$ be an $n-$vertex graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $n\geq t+1$. Then $G$ contains maximum number of edges if and only if exactly one of the following holds.
\begin{enumerate}[\normalfont(i)]
\item $G$ is isomorphic to an $n-$vertex member graph $G^{*}$ of $\mathsf{G}(t,\frac{n}{t+1})$, where $n\equiv0\mod{t+1}$.
\item $G$ is isomorphic to an $n-$vertex stationary graph satisfying the property {\normalfont(a)}
(mentioned in the definition), such that the value $\K[G]{V_{0},\ldots,V_{t}}$ is minimum over any
equitable partition into $t+1$ unequally sized parts (subsets) of the vertex sets of all possible $n-$vertex
graphs, where $n\not\equiv0\mod{t+1}$.
\item $G$ is isomorphic to exactly one of the $n-$vertex stationary graph satisfying the property {\normalfont(b)} to {\normalfont(g)} (mentioned in the definition), where $n\not\equiv0\mod{t+1}$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{theorem}
\begin{proof}
If $n\equiv0\mod{t+1}$, then from Theorem~\ref{t+1_divides_n}, $G$ has maximum number of edges if and only if (i) holds.
Suppose $n\not\equiv0\mod{t+1}$. Let (ii) hold. Then $V_{0},\ldots,V_{t}$ is a partition of $V(G)$ and there exist integers
$i,j$, with $0\leq i,j\leq t$, such that $|V_{i}|=1+|V_{j}|$. Since the graph $G$ is a stationary graph, the colouring
$c:V(G)\rightarrow\{0,\ldots,t\}$ defined by $c(v)=i$, where $v\in V_{i}$, $0\leq i\leq t$, is an optimal lambda colouring of $G$. Clearly, $V_{0},\ldots,V_{t}$ is the underlying coloured partition of the edge standardised graph $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$. Now $\ed[G]{V_{i}, V_{j}}=\ed[{\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]}]{V_{i},V_{j}}$, $0\leq i,j\leq t$. Hence $|E(G)|=|E(\mathscr{S}_{c}[G])|$. Therefore using Theorem~\ref{nabla_1}, $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ and hence $G$ has maximum number of edges.
Let (iii) hold. Then using similar argument as above, Theorem~\ref{t=3} and Theorem~\ref{t=4sufficint}, $\mathscr{S}_{c}[G]$ and hence $G$ has maximum number of edges.
Conversely, suppose $G$ has maximum number of edges. Then by Lemma~\ref{stationary_sufficient}, $G$ is a stationary graph. Therefore $G$ satisfies exactly one condition from (a) to (h) stated in the definition of stationary graph. But condition (h) is further excluded by the aforementioned remark. Further $n\not\equiv0\mod{t+1}$ excludes the fact (i) of this hypothesis.
Hence facts of (ii) and (iii) of hypothesis follow.
\end{proof}
The following two results are natural consequences of the above classification theorem.
\begin{corollary}\label{classification-large}
Let $G$ be an $n-$vertex graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq5$ and $n\geq t+1$. If $G$ contains maximum number of edges, then $G$ admits an optimal equitable partition.
\end{corollary}
The converse of the above corollary is not true. However, if an $n-$vertex stationary graph $G$ with equitable partition $V_{0},\ldots,V_{t}$ satisfies the property that the value $\K[G]{V_{0},\ldots,V_{t}}$ is minimum over any equitable partition into $t+1$ parts (subsets) of the vertex sets of all possible $n-$vertex graphs, then $G$ contains maximum number of edges.
\begin{corollary}
Let $G$ be an $n-$vertex graph with lambda chromatic number $t\geq3$ and $n\geq t+1$. If $G$ contains maximum number of edges then there exist a member graph $G^{*}$ of $\mathsf{G}(t,\lfloor\frac{n}{t+1}\rfloor)$ and a member graph $G^{**}$ of
$\mathsf{G}(t,\lfloor\frac{n}{t+1}\rfloor+3)$ such that $G^{*}$ is subgraph of $G$ and $G$ is subgraph of $G^{**}$.
\end{corollary}
The above corollary connotes an approximation result. Roughly, an $n-$vertex graph with lambda chromatic number
$t\geq3$, where $n\geq t+1$, and having maximum number of edges can be approximated by an ``inner'' graph $G^{*}$
and an ``outer'' graph $G^{**}$.
\begin{acknowledgement}
The research work of first author is supported by the post doctoral fellowship scheme (File Reference Number: 2/40(33)/2015/R\&D-II/11174 dated August~17, 2015) of National Board of Higher Mathematics, Department of Atomic Energy, Government of India.
\end{acknowledgement}
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\section{Introduction}
Let $n\geq 2$ and $1\leq k\leq n$. We denote the $k$-th symmetric function of $n$ variables $\lambda=(\lambda_1,\cdots,\lambda_n)\in \mathbb R^n$ by
$$S_k(\lambda):=\sum_{1\leq i_1<\cdots<i_k\leq n}\lambda_{i_1}\cdots \lambda_{i_k}.$$
It is convenient to set $$S_0(\lambda)=1.$$
Let $\Gamma_k(n)$ be an open symmetric convex cone in $\mathbb R^n$, with vertex at the origin, given by
$$\Gamma_k(n)=\{\lambda=(\lambda_1, \cdots,\lambda_n)\in \mathbb R^n\mid S_j(\lambda)>0\quad\forall j=1, \cdots, k\}.$$
The convexity of $\Gamma_k(n)$ is a consequence of G\r{a}rding's theory of hyperbolic polynomials; see Example \ref{Ex}.
Let $M_n(\mathbb R)$ be the set of $n\times n$ matrices with real entries.
If $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ is an $n\times n$ symmetric matrix, we use $\lambda(A)=(\lambda_1, \cdots,\lambda_n)$ to denote its eigenvalues. For $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$, let $\text{diag}(A)$ be its diagonal matrix:
$$\text{diag}(A)=\text{diag}(a_{11}, \cdots, a_{nn}).$$
\vglue 0.2cm
{\bf Notation.} We use the following notation:
$$S_k(A) =S_k(\lambda(A));$$
$$[n]=\{1, \cdots, n\};\quad J^c=[n]\setminus J\text{ for } J\subset [n].$$
For $J\subset [n]$, we denote by
$A[J]$ the principal submatrix of $A$ of size $|J|$ obtained by deleting the $i$th row and column of $A$, for each $i\not \in J$.
\vglue 0.2cm
Let $E_k(A)$ be the sum of the principal minors of size $k$ of $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$. Then, by \cite[Theorem 1.2.16]{HJ}, we have
\begin{equation}
\label{SEk}
S_k(A) = E_k(A).
\end{equation}
If $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ is positive definite, or equivalently, $\lambda(A)\in \Gamma_n(n)$, then Hadamard's determinant inequality (see, for example, \cite[Theorem 7.8.1]{HJ}) gives
\begin{equation}
\label{SnDA}
S_n(\text{diag}(A))= a_{11}\cdots a_{nn}\geq \det A= S_n(A).
\end{equation}
When $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ is positive definite, and $1\leq k\leq n$ is fixed, each principal submatrix of size $k$ of $A$ is also positive definite; thus, we can apply the Hadamard inequality to each of these principal submatrices of $A$ and use (\ref{SEk}) to conclude that
\begin{equation}
\label{SkDA}S_k(\text{diag}(A)) \geq S_k(A).
\end{equation}
In analogy with the classical Hadamard inequality (\ref{SnDA}), we call (\ref{SkDA}) a Hadamard-type inequality.
In this note, we show that (\ref{SkDA}) holds for a larger class of symmetric matrices, called $k$-positive.
\begin{defn}[$k$-positive matrices] Let $1\leq k\leq n$. A symmetric $n\times n$ matrix $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ is call $k$-positive if $\lambda(A)\in\Gamma_k(n)$.
\end{defn}
As will be seen in Example \ref{Pkex}, the set of $k$-positive matrices is a convex cone. This is again a consequence of G\r{a}rding's theory of hyperbolic polynomials.
\vglue 0.2cm
Note that the class of $n$-positive matrices is equal to the class of positive definite matrices. The class of $k$-positive matrices arises naturally in the study of $k$-Hessian equations
$$S_k(D^2 u)=f$$
in Partial Differential Equations where $D^2 u$ denotes the Hessian matrix of $u$; see \cite{IF} for a survey.
\vglue 0.2cm
Due to the following remark, we will focus on the case $k\geq 3$.
\begin{rem}
\label{rem12}
Let $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be symmetric.
\begin{enumerate}
\item[(i)] If $k=1$, then
$$S_1(A)= \sum_{i=1}^n \lambda_i(A)=\sum_{i=1}^n a_{ii}= S_1 (\text{diag}(A)).$$
\item[(ii)] If $k=2$, then
\begin{eqnarray*}S_2(A) =E_2(A)&=&\sum_{1\leq i<j\leq n} a_{ii} a_{jj}-\sum_{1\leq i<j\leq n} a^2_{ij}\\
&=&S_2(\text{diag}(A)) -\sum_{1\leq i<j\leq n} a^2_{ij}\leq S_2(\text{diag}(A)).
\end{eqnarray*}
Equality holds if and only if $A$ is diagonal.
\end{enumerate}
\end{rem}
Our main result on Hadamard-type inequalities for $k$-positive matrices states as follows.
\begin{thm}[Hadamard-type inequalities for $k$-positive matrices]
\label{Hnk}
Let $n\geq k\geq 3$. Let $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be $k$-positive. Then $S_k(\text{diag}(A)) \geq S_k(A)$. Moreover, equality holds if and only if $A$ is diagonal.
\end{thm}
A simple corollary of Theorem \ref{Hnk} and Remark \ref{rem12} is the following.
\begin{cor}
\label{cor1}
Let $n\geq k\geq 1$. Let $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be $k$-positive. Then $\text{diag}(A)$ is $k$-positive. In other words, $(a_{11}, \cdots, a_{nn})\in \Gamma_k(n)$. Moreover, $S_k(\text{diag}(A))\geq S_k(A)$.
\end{cor}
\noindent
For $p\in [n]$ and $\lambda =(\lambda_1,\cdots,\lambda_n)\equiv (\lambda_i)_{1\leq i\leq n}\in\mathbb R^n$, let us denote the following point in $\mathbb R^{n\choose p}$:
$$\displaystyle \lambda_{[p]}=\left( \lambda_{i_1}+\cdots+\lambda_{i_p}\right)_{1\leq i_1<\cdots<i_p\leq n}.$$
Note that $\lambda_{[1]}=\lambda$. We now state an interesting consequence of Corollary \ref{cor1}.
\begin{thm}
\label{pcor}
Let $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be symmetric. Let $p\in [n]$ and $1\leq k\leq {n\choose p}$. If $\lambda(A)_{[p]} \in \Gamma_k ({n\choose p})$ then $(a_{11},\cdots, a_{nn})_{[p]}\in \Gamma_k ({n\choose p})$ and
$S_k((a_{11},\cdots, a_{nn})_{[p]})\geq S_k(\lambda(A)_{[p]}).$
\end{thm}
We deduce from Theorem \ref{Hnk} the following result.
\begin{cor}
\label{cor2}
Let $n\geq k\geq 2$. Let $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}$, and $B=(b_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be two $k$-positive matrices. Then
$$\sum_{i=1}^n b_{ii} S_{k-1}(A[\{i\}^c])\geq k [S_k(A)]^{\frac{k-1}{k}} [S_k(B)]^{\frac{1}{k}}.$$
\end{cor}
The rest of this note is organized as follows. In Section \ref{Hpf}, we prove Theorem \ref{Hnk}. In Section \ref{pcor_sec}, we prove Theorem \ref{pcor}. The proof of Corollary \ref{cor2} will be given in Section \ref{Gsec}. The final Section \ref{HypSec} relates the main results and concepts of this note with hyperbolic polynomials.
\section{Proof of Theorem \ref{Hnk}}
\label{Hpf}
In this section, the entries of $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ will be denoted by $a_{ij}$ so $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}$.
We start with the following useful expansion.
\begin{lem}
\label{expandlem}
Let $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be symmetric.
If $A[\{n\}^c]$ is diagonal, then for $k\geq 2$, we have
\begin{eqnarray*}S_k(A)&=& S_k(\text{diag}(A)) -\sum_{i<n} a^2_{in} \left(\sum_{i_1<\cdots<i_{k-2}\in\{i, n\}^c } a_{i_1 i_1}\cdots a_{i_{k-2} i_{k-2}}\right)\\&\equiv& S_k(\text{diag}(A)) -\sum_{i<n} a^2_{in} S_{k-2}(\text{diag}(A[\{i, n\}^c])).
\end{eqnarray*}
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
Recall that $S_k(A)$ is the sum of the principle minors of size $k$ of $A$. Using the definition of determinant of $k\times k$ matrices together with the fact that $A[\{n\}^c]$ is diagonal, we find
\begin{eqnarray*}
S_k(A)&=& S_k(\text{diag}(A)) \\&&+ \sum_{i<n} a^2_{in}\left(\sum_{i_1<\cdots<i_{k-2}\in\{i, n\}^c } \text{sign} \begin{pmatrix}
i & n & i_1& \cdots & i_{k-2} \\
n & i & i_1&\cdots & i_{k-2}
\end{pmatrix} a_{i_1 i_1}\cdots a_{i_{k-2} i_{k-2}}\right)\\
&=&S_k(\text{diag}(A)) -\sum_{i<n} a^2_{in}\left(\sum_{i_1<\cdots<i_{k-2}\in\{i, n\}^c } a_{i_1 i_1}\cdots a_{i_{k-2} i_{k-2}}\right).
\end{eqnarray*}
Here
$$ \text{sign} \begin{pmatrix}
i & n & i_1& \cdots & i_{k-2} \\
n & i & i_1&\cdots & i_{k-2}
\end{pmatrix}=-1$$
is the sign of the permutation of $k$ numbers $i, n, i_1,\cdots, i_{k-2}$.
\end{proof}
Our key lemma in the proof of Theorem \ref{Hnk} is the following.
\begin{lem}
\label{S3nn}
Let $n>k\geq 2$ and let $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be symmetric. Let $j\in [n]$. Assume that $A[\{j\}^c])$ is $(k-1)$-positive\footnote{In this revision of the published version of this article in {\it Linear Algebra Appl.} {\bf 635} (2022), 159-170, the assumption in Lemma \ref{S3nn} was modified to make it invariant under conjugation with orthogonal matrices. All arguments and results remain unchanged.
}.
Then
$$ S_k(A)\leq S_k(A[\{j\}^c]) + a_{jj} S_{k-1} (A[\{j\}^c]).$$
Moreover, the equality holds if and only if $a_{ij}=0$ for all $i\neq j$.
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
We can assume that $j=n$. Then, for all $i<n$, we have, by Theorem \ref{iner_thm} below, $$S_{k-2}(A[\{i, j\}^c])>0.$$
{\bf Case 1.} Consider the case $A[\{n\}^c]:=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n-1}$ is diagonal. Then, from Lemma \ref{expandlem}, we have
\begin{eqnarray*}
S_k(A[\{n\}^c]) + a_{nn} S_{k-1}(A[\{n\}^c])-S_k(A)&=& S_k(\text{diag}(A))-S_k(A)\\&=& \sum_{i<n} S_{k-2} (\text{diag}(A[\{i, n\}^c])) a^2_{in}\geq 0.
\end{eqnarray*}
Moreover, the equality holds if and only if $a_{in}=0$ for all $i< n$.
{\bf Case 2.} General case. We can find an orthogonal matrix $U\in O(n-1)$ such that
$U^t A[\{n\}^c] U$
is diagonal. Let $$W= U\bigoplus 1:=
\left( \begin{array}{cc}
U & 0 \\
0 & 1 \end{array} \right) \in O(n)$$ and $B= (a_{in})_{1\leq i\leq n-1}$.
Then $$W^t A W=\left( \begin{array}{cc}
U^t A[\{n\}^c] U & U^t B \\
B^t U & a_{nn} \end{array} \right)$$ has the form considered in {\bf Case 1}. Note that
$S_m(W^t A W)= S_m(A)>0$ for $1\leq m\leq k.$
Therefore, from {\bf Case 1}, we have
\begin{eqnarray*}
S_k(A)= S_k(W^t A W) &\leq& S_k (U^t A[\{n\}^c] U) + a_{nn} S_{k-1}(U^t A[\{n\}^c] U)\\&=& S_k (A[\{n\}^c]) + a_{nn} S_{k-1}(A[\{n\}^c]).
\end{eqnarray*}
The equality occurs if and only if $U^t B=0$, or equivalently, $a_{in}=0$ for all $i<n$.
\end{proof}
The key assumption in Lemma \ref{S3nn} can be deduced, in many cases,
from the following result which is a consequence of Sylvestre's criterion established in \cite[Theorem 2.1]{IF}.
\begin{thm}[Theorem 2.1 in \cite{IF}]
\label{iner_thm}
Let $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be $k$-positive
where $k\geq 2$. Then for all $i\in [n]$, we have that $A[\{i\}^c]$ is $(k-1)$-positive.
\end{thm}
For reader's convenience, we provide a different proof of Theorem \ref{iner_thm} using G\r{a}rding's inequality in Section \ref{Gsec}.
We begin the proof of Theorem \ref{Hnk} with the case $k=3$.
\begin{lem}
\label{Hn3} Let $n\geq 4$. Let $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be $3$-positive. Then $S_3(\text{diag}(A)) \geq S_3(A)$. Moreover, equality holds if and only if $A$ is diagonal.
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}[Proof]
Fix $j\in[n]$.
Since $A$ is $3$-positive, we can apply Theorem \ref{iner_thm} twice to find that if
$i\neq j$, then $A[\{i, j\}^c]$ is $1$-positive.
Thus
\begin{equation}
\label{1kk}
\sum_{k\in\{i, j\}^c} a_{kk}=S_1 (\text{diag}(A[\{i, j\}^c]))>0.
\end{equation}
From $A[\{j\}^c]$ being $2$-positive and Lemma \ref{S3nn}, we have
$$S_3(A) \leq S_3(A[\{j\}^c]) + a_{jj} S_2 (A[\{j\}^c]).$$
Adding these inequalities, and noting that
$$(n-3)S_3(A)=\sum_{j=1}^n S_3(A[\{j\}^c]), $$
we find
\begin{eqnarray*}3S_3(A) \leq \sum_{i=1}^n a_{ii} S_2(A[\{i\}^c])
&=& 3S_3 (\text{diag}(A)) - \sum_{i=1}^n \left( a_{ii}\sum_{i\neq j\neq k\neq i}a^2_{jk}\right)\\
&=& 3S_3(\text{diag}(A)) - \sum_{i<j} \left(a_{ij}^2 \sum_{k\in\{i, j\}^c} a_{kk}\right)\\&\leq& 3S_3(\text{diag}(A))
\end{eqnarray*}
where we used (\ref{1kk}) in the last inequality.
Clearly, equality occurs if and only if $a_{ij}=0$ for all $i\neq j$ or if $A$ is diagonal.
\end{proof}
We are now ready to prove Theorem \ref{Hnk}.
\begin{proof}[Proof of Theorem \ref{Hnk}]
As remarked in the introduction, we have $S_2(\text{diag}(A))\geq S_2(A)$ for any symmetric matrix $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ with equality holding if and only if $A$ is diagonal. We only consider the case $k<n$ since the case $k=n$ is the classical Hadamard inequality.
The proof of the theorem is by induction on $k\geq 3$, the base case being Lemma \ref{Hn3}. Suppose that the theorem is true up to $k\geq 3$. We prove it for $k+1<n$.
Assume $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ is $(k+1)$-positive.
Then, by Theorem \ref{iner_thm},
$A[\{i\}^c]$ is $m$-positive for $1\leq m\leq k$.
For each $j\in [n]$, let $A^{j,0}$ be the matrix obtained from $A$ by replacing all entries in the $j$-th row and column by $0$, except $a_{jj}$ being kept unchanged.
{\it Step 1.} We show that $A^{n,0}$ is $(k+1)$-positive. Indeed, from $A[\{i\}^c]$ being $m$-positive
for all $i\in [n]$, we find that the hypothesis of Lemma \ref{S3nn} is satisfied where $k$ there being replaced by $(m+1)$ here.
We can then apply Lemma \ref{S3nn} to find that, for $1\leq m\leq k$, we have
$$S_{m+1} (A^{n, 0})= S_{m+1}(A[\{n\}^c])) + a_{nn} S_m(A[\{n\}^c]))\geq S_{m+1}(A)>0$$
with equality if and only if $a_{in}=0$ for all $i<n$. This combined with $S_{1} (A^{n, 0})= S_{1}(A)>0$ shows that $A^{n, 0}$ is $(k+1)$-positive .
{\it Step 2.} Next, for each $i\in[n-1]$, we replace the non-diagonal term in the $i$-th row and column of $A^{n, 0}$ by $0$, we obtain a new $(k+1)$-positive matrix with no less $S_{k+1}$ value.
Repeating this process, we obtain the conclusion of the theorem for $k+1$ with equality if and only if $A$ is diagonal.
\end{proof}
\section{Proof of Theorem \ref{pcor}}
\label{pcor_sec}
In this section, we prove Theorem \ref{pcor}.
The proof uses ideas from Harvey-Lawson \cite{HL2} to interpret $\lambda(A)_{[p]}$ as eigenvalues of a suitable matrix associated with $A$. We recall this formalism.
Let $Sym^2(\mathbb R^n)$ be the space of symmetric endomorphisms of $\mathbb R^n$. Fix an orthonormal basis $(e_1,\cdots, e_n)$ of $\mathbb R^n$. For $p\in [n]$, let $\Lambda^p \mathbb R^n$ be the space of $p$-vectors $v_1\wedge\cdots\wedge v_p$ where $v_i\in\mathbb R^n$ for $1\leq i\leq p$. The inner product on $\mathbb R^n$ induces an inner product on $\Lambda^p\mathbb R^n$. Then, an induced orthonormal basis for $\Lambda^p\mathbb R^n$ is $\{e_{i_1}\wedge\cdots\wedge e_{i_p}\}$ where $(i_1,\cdots, i_p)$ runs over all increasing $p$-tuples which are ordered lexicographically.
For each symmetric matrix $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$, we can view its as a member of $Sym^2 (\mathbb R^n)$. We define the linear derivation $\mathcal{D}_A$ of $A$ on $\Lambda^p\mathbb R^n$ by
assigning each $p$-vector $v_1\wedge\cdots\wedge v_p\in \Lambda^p\mathbb R^n$ another $p$-vector
$$\mathcal{D}_A(v_1\wedge\cdots\wedge v_p)= Av_1\wedge\cdots\wedge v_p + v_1\wedge Av_2\wedge\cdots\wedge v_p +\cdots + v_1\wedge\cdots\wedge Av_p\in \Lambda^p\mathbb R^n.$$
Clearly, $\mathcal{D}_A\in Sym^2(\Lambda^p\mathbb R^n)$, and $\mathcal{D}_A$ has a matrix representation with respect to the induced basis $\{e_{i_1}\wedge\cdots\wedge e_{i_p}\}$ with matrix entries being linear combinations of the entries of $A$. Moreover,
\begin{equation}
\label{diagDA} \text{diag} (\mathcal{D}_A)= \mathcal{D}_{\text{diag}(A)}=\text{diag} \left(a_{i_1 i_1}+\cdots +a_{i_p i_p}\right)_{1\leq i_1<\cdots<i_p\leq n}.
\end{equation}
In \cite[Lemma 2.5]{HL2}, Harvey and Lawson showed that if $A$ has eigenvalues $\lambda(A)=(\lambda_1,\cdots,\lambda_n)$ with corresponding eigenvectors $(v_1,\cdots v_n)$, then $\mathcal{D}_A$ has eigenvalues $$\{\lambda_{i_1}+\cdots +\lambda_{i_p}: 1\leq i_1<\cdots<i_p\leq n\},$$ with corresponding eigenvectors $$\{ v_{i_1}\wedge\cdots\wedge v_{i_p}: 1\leq i_1<\cdots<i_p\leq n\}.$$
Thus, in our notation,
\begin{equation}
\label{notaDA}
\lambda(\mathcal{D}_A)= \lambda(A)_{[p]}\quad \text{and } S_k(\lambda(A)_{[p]})= S_k(\mathcal{D}_A).
\end{equation}
\begin{proof}[Proof of Theorem \ref{pcor}] We use the above setup and notation.
If $\lambda(A)_{[p]} \in \Gamma_k ({n\choose p})$, then
$\lambda(\mathcal{D}_A) \in \Gamma_k \left({n\choose p}\right).$
By Corollary \ref{cor1}, we then have
$\text{diag}(\mathcal{D}_A)\in \Gamma_k \left({n\choose p}\right)$
and
$$S_k (\text{diag}(\mathcal{D}_A))\geq S_k(\mathcal{D}_A).$$
In view of (\ref{diagDA}) and (\ref{notaDA}), we obtain the conclusion of the theorem.
\end{proof}
\section{Proofs of Theorem \ref{iner_thm} and Corollary \ref{cor2} via G\r{a}rding's inequality}
\label{Gsec}
In the proofs of Theorem \ref{iner_thm} and Corollary \ref{cor2},
we will use the following form of G\r{a}rding's inequality \cite{G}.
\begin{lem}[G\r{a}rding's inequality]
\label{Glem}
Suppose that $A=(a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}$, and $D=(d_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n}\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ are two $k$-positive matrices. Then
\begin{equation}
\label{Gij}
\sum_{i, j=1}^n d_{ij} S^{ij}_k (A)\geq k [S_k(A)]^{\frac{k-1}{k}} [S_k(D)]^{\frac{1}{k}}
\text
{ where }
S^{ij}_k(A)=\frac{\partial}{\partial a_{ij}} S_k(A).
\end{equation}
\end{lem}
Lemma \ref{Glem} follows from the polarization inequality in \cite[Theorem 5]{G} for the polynomial $S_k(A)$; see also \cite[inequality (3.2)]{L} for a related version when $A$ and $D$ are Hessian matrices of two real-valued functions.
Note that
\begin{equation}
\label{Siik}
S^{ii}_k(A) = S_{k-1}(A[\{i\}^c]).
\end{equation}
\begin{proof}[Proof of Theorem \ref{iner_thm} using G\r{a}rding's inequality] If $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ is $k$-positive then $A$ is $m$-positive for all $1\leq m\leq k$.
Thus, by an induction argument, it suffices to prove that if $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ is $k$-positive then $S_{k-1}(A[\{i\}^c])>0$ for all $i\in [n]$.
Indeed,
if $\delta_i>0$, then $D = \text{diag}(\delta_1,\cdots,\delta_n)$ is $k$-positive, and we deduce from (\ref{Gij})
\begin{equation}
\label{Gij2}
\sum_{i=1}^n \delta_i S_{k-1} (A[\{i\}^c]))\geq k [S_k(A)]^{\frac{k-1}{k}} [S_k(D)]^{\frac{1}{k}}.
\end{equation}
For a fixed $i\in [n]$, letting $\delta_i=1$ and $\delta_j\rightarrow 0$ for $j\neq i$ in (\ref{Gij2}), we discover
$$S_{k-1}(A[\{i\}^c])\geq 0.$$
It remains to prove that $S_{k-1}(A[\{i\}^c]))\neq 0$ for all $i\in [n]$. Assume that $S_{k-1}(A[\{1\}^c]))=0$. In this case, consider $\delta_1=1,$ $\delta_i=\varepsilon>0$ for $i=2,\cdots, k$ and $\delta_i=0$, otherwise. Then $D$ is still $k$-positive since $S_m(D)\geq \varepsilon^{m-1}>0$ for all $1\leq m\leq k$. Now,
(\ref{Gij2}) and the assumption $S_{k-1}(A[\{1\}^c]))=0$ give
\begin{equation}
\label{iiep}
\varepsilon\sum_{i=2}^{k} S_{k-1}(A[\{i\}^c]) \geq k [S_k(A)]^{\frac{k-1}{k}} \varepsilon^{\frac{k-1}{k}}.
\end{equation}
Since $S_k(A)>0$, by dividing both sides of (\ref{iiep}) by $\varepsilon$ and letting $\varepsilon\rightarrow 0^{+}$, we obtain
$$\sum_{i=2}^{k} S_{k-1}(A[\{i\}^c]) =\infty,$$
a contradiction.
\end{proof}
\begin{proof}[Proof of Corollary \ref{cor2}]
Suppose $A, B\in M_n(\mathbb R)$ are $k$-positive. By Corollary \ref{cor1}, $D:=\text{diag}(B)$ is $k$-positive.
Applying (\ref{Gij}) to $A$ and $D= \text{diag}(B)$, and recalling (\ref{Siik}), we find
$$\sum_{i=1}^n b_{ii} S_{k-1} (A[\{i\}^c]))\geq k [S_k(A)]^{\frac{k-1}{k}} [S_k(\text{diag}(B))]^{\frac{1}{k}}\geq k [S_k(A)]^{\frac{k-1}{k}} [S_k(B)]^{\frac{1}{k}} $$
where we used Theorem \ref{Hnk} in the last inequality.
\end{proof}
\section{Hyperbolic polynomials and a conjectural inequality}
\label{HypSec}
In this section, we state a generalization of Theorem \ref{Hnk} for hyperbolic polynomials. Using the theory of hyperbolic polynomials, we prove the convexity of $\Gamma_k(n)$ and the convexity of the set of $k$-positive matrices.
\vglue 0.2cm
First, we recall the concept of hyperbolic polynomials \cite{G} (see also \cite{HL1} for a self-contained account of G\r{a}rding's theory).
\vglue 0.2cm
Let $P$ be a homogeneous real polynomial of degree $k$ on $\mathbb R^n$. Given $a\in \mathbb R^n$, we say that $P$ is {\it $a$-hyperbolic} if $P(a)>0$, and for each $x\in\mathbb R^n,$ $P(ta + x)$ can be factored as
$$P(ta + x) =P(a) \prod_{i=1}^k (t + \lambda_i(P; a,x))\quad \text{for all } t\in \mathbb R$$
where $\lambda_i(P; a, x)$'s ($i=1, \cdots, k$) are real numbers, called {\it $a$-eigenvalues of $x$}.
\vglue 0.2cm
We recall the following fundamental theorem of hyperbolic polynomials; see \cite[Theorem 2]{G}.
\begin{thm} [G\r{a}rding]
Let $P$ be a homogeneous real polynomial of degree $k$ on $\mathbb R^n$. Assume that $P$ is $a$-hyperbolic. Denote the G\r{a}rding cone of $P$ at $a$ to be the set \[\Gamma_a(P)=\{x\in \mathbb R^n: \lambda_i(P; a, x)>0\text{ for all } i=1,\cdots, k\}.\]
Then the following hold:
\begin{enumerate}
\item If $b\in \Gamma_a(P)$, then $P$ is $b$-hyperbolic and $\Gamma_a(P)=\Gamma_b(P)$.
\item $\Gamma_a(P)$ is convex.
\end{enumerate}
\end{thm}
A self-contained proof of this theorem of G\r{a}rding can also be found in \cite{HL1} which consists of Theorems 3.6 and 5.1 there.
Suppose now $P$ is $a$-hyperbolic. By G\r{a}rding's theorem, we can define the G\r{a}rding cone of $P$ to be
$$\Gamma(P)=\{x\in \mathbb R^n: \lambda_i(P; a, x)>0\text{ for all } i=1,\cdots, k\},$$
and $\Gamma(P)$ is independent of $a$.
\begin{exam}[G\r{a}rding cone and $\Gamma_k(n)$]
\label{Ex}
The $k$-th elementary symmetric function $S_k(\lambda)$ is a homogeneous real polynomial of degree $k$ on $\mathbb R^n$ and it is $\lambda$-hyperbolic at any $\lambda\in \Gamma_k(n)$. Moreover,
$$\Gamma(S_k)=\Gamma_k(n).$$
From the convexity of $\Gamma(S_k)$ due to G\r{a}rding's theorem, we deduce the convexity of $\Gamma_k(n)$
from the above equality.
\end{exam}
\begin{proof}[Proof of the statements in Example \ref{Ex}] By Example 2, p. 959 in \cite {G}, we know that $S_k$ is $a$-hyperbolic where $a= (1, \cdots, 1)\in\mathbb R^n$. Thus, for any $x\in \mathbb R^n$, we have from the definition of $a$-hyperbolicity that the $a$-eigenvalues $\lambda_i (S_k; a, x)$ are real numbers, for all $i=1,\cdots, k$.
Assume $x\in\Gamma_k(n)$. Then, from $\lambda_i (S_k; a, x)\in\mathbb R$,
$$S_k(ta + x)=\sum_{i=0}^k {n-i\choose k-i}t^{k-i}S_i(x)= S_k(a)\prod_{i=1}^k (t+ \lambda_i (S_k; a, x))$$
and $S_i(x)>0$ for all $i=0, 1, \cdots, k$, we easily find that $\lambda_i (S_k; a, x)>0$ for all $i=1,\cdots, k$. Hence $x\in \Gamma(S_k)$ from which we deduce that $\Gamma_k(n)\subset\Gamma(S_k)$, and
$S_k$ is $x$-hyperbolic by G\r{a}rding's theorem.
Recall that we use $\Gamma(S_k)$ to denote the G\r{a}rding cone of $S_k$ at $a=(1,\cdots, 1)$.
Now, assume $x\in \Gamma(S_k)$. Then, by the definition of $\Gamma(S_k)=\Gamma_a(S_k)$, we have $\lambda_i (S_k; a, x)>0$ for all $i=1,\cdots, k$. Therefore, from the above expansion of $S_k(ta + x)$, we obtain $S_i(x)>0$ for all $i=1,\cdots, k$ which shows that $x\in \Gamma_k(n)$, or $\Gamma(S_k)\subset \Gamma_k(n)$.
Thus, we have $\Gamma(S_k)=\Gamma_k(n)$.
\end{proof}
A different proof of the convexity of $\Gamma_k(n)$ can be found in Section 2 of \cite{U}.
\vglue 0.2cm
Example \ref{Ex} shows that $k$-positive matrices are those having eigenvalues lying in the G\r{a}rding cone of $S_k$.
\vglue 0.2cm
\begin{exam}[G\r{a}rding cone and the set of $k$-positive matrices]
\label{Pkex}
Let $N= \frac{1}{2}n(n+1)$ and let $A= (a_{ij})_{1\leq i, j\leq n} \in M_n(\mathbb R)$ be symmetric. We can view $A$ as a point in $\mathbb R^N$. Then $P(A)=\det A$ is $A$-hyperbolic for any positive definite matrix $A$. Let $I_n$ be the identity $n\times n$ matrix. Define $P_k$ by
\[
\det (tI_n + A)=P(t I_n + A)= \sum_{k=0}^n t^{n-k} P_k(A) \quad\text{for all } t\in\mathbb R.
\]
Then $P_k$ is a homogeneous polynomial of degree $k$ on $\mathbb R^N$; moreover, $P_k$ is $I_n$-hyperbolic. This follows from Example 3 and the discussion at the end of p. 959 in \cite{G}.
Note that \[P_k(A)= S_k(\lambda(A)).\] Arguing as in the proof of statements in Example \ref{Ex}, we have
\[\Gamma(P_k)=\{A\in M_n(\mathbb R):\lambda (A)\in\Gamma_k(n)\};\]
See also equation (2.10) in \cite{L}.
From the convexity of $\Gamma(P_k)$ due to G\r{a}rding's theorem, we deduce from the above equality the convexity of the set of $k$-positive matrices.
\end{exam}
\vglue 0.2cm
\begin{exam}
\label{pexam}
In many geometric problems (see, for example \cite{HL2, Sh, TW}), the Hessian equation operators $S_k$ are replaced by other hyperbolic polynomials $P$. One example is
$$\mathcal{P}_p(\lambda)=\prod_{1\leq i_1<\cdots<i_p\leq n} (\lambda_{i_1}+\cdots+\lambda_{i_p}),\text{for }\lambda=(\lambda_1,\cdots,\lambda_n)\in\mathbb R^n.$$
Note that $\mathcal{P}_1= S_n$ while $\mathcal{P}_n= S_1$. Moreover, $\mathcal{P}_{n-1}(\lambda(A))=\det (S_1(A) I_n-A)$.
\end{exam}
We note that the statement of Theorem \ref{pcor}, without any appeal to hyperbolic polynomials, is modeled on the hyperbolic polynomial $\mathcal{P}_p$ in Example \ref{pexam}.
It is of interest to study matrices whose eigenvalues lying in the G\r{a}rding cone of a hyperbolic polynomial $P$ other than $S_k$ and $\mathcal{P}_p$. In this regard, we state the following generalization of Theorem \ref{Hnk}.
\begin{conj}[Hadamard-type inequalities for hyperbolic polynomials]
\label{Conj1}
Let $P$ be a homogeneous, real, symmetric, hyperbolic polynomial of degree $k$ on $\mathbb R^n$. Let $A\in M_n(\mathbb R)$. If $\lambda(A)\in \Gamma(P)$ then $(a_{11},\cdots, a_{nn})\in\Gamma(P)$ and
$$P(a_{11},\cdots, a_{nn})\geq P(\lambda(A)).$$
\end{conj}
{\bf Acknowledgements.} The author warmly thanks the referee for providing constructive comments that help improve the exposition of this note. The author is grateful to Trieu Le for useful suggestions.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
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Talking to the dead, taking back my life -- Beyond Rape: A Survivor's Journey, Part 5
Updated Mar 28, 2019; Posted May 04, 2008
By Joanna Connors, The Plain Dealer
Lisa DeJong/Plain Dealer
Plain Dealer reporter Joanna Connors makes her way across the cemetery at Pickaway prison where her attacker David Francis was buried.
David Francis ended his time on Earth as he lived it: in prison.
He was laid to rest in a cemetery that overlooks Pickaway Correctional Institution, on a bare hill with a view of the razor wire that curls like a giant Slinky around the prison.
I went there to visit him on Jan. 16, 2008.
The day was clear but cold. The razor wire glinted in the sun and the grass crunched under our feet as Mohammad Yakuba, the prison investigator, led me up the hill.
At the bottom, we went past a muddy construction site where they're building a new prison hospital.
At the top of the hill, under trees that spread their limbs over the dead, we came to the old part of the cemetery. It looked like a set for the graveyard in "Our Town," when Emily rises from her grave to spend one last day among the living.
The headstones here date from the early 1800s, when the institution down the hill was a state mental hospital and the staff lived on the grounds. Entire families rest here -- newborn babies, loving mothers, old men -- under rows of headstones topped with lambs and angels.
An invisible line separates these dead from the graves of prisoners. They lie in an open field on the hill beyond the old cemetery, 1,236 of them, their presence marked only by brick-size stones sunk into the earth above their caskets.
No angels or lambs watch over these dead. No one etched loving words on their stones. Their families did not claim them. They don't even have names: In death, as in their life on the other side of the razor wire, they are identified by numbers.
In this package
Introduction and editor's note
Telling the story I tried to forget
One search ends, another begins
The privileged and the cursed
Partners in crime, allies in courage
Talking to the dead, taking back my life
As the seasons change, and the grass grows over their small stones, the dead inmates lose even their numbers and disappear into the field.
David Francis, No. 130, was among those who had disappeared. Yakuba told me the cemetery manager marked the grave for me with a stake tied with yellow and red ribbons. I pushed leaves off some of the stones and found 133, but I couldn't find 130.
Yakuba went to call the manager while I paced off the distance and started pulling at the grass where No. 130 should have been.
The matted carpet of grass fought my efforts. I uncovered a tiny corner of stone, grabbed a stick and kept digging. The stick broke. I dug in the dirt with my hands again, uncovering more stone.
The earth was as cold as it was hard. My fingers turned into frozen claws, my nails brittle and breaking as I dug.
It took awhile, kneeling there in that cold graveyard, for me to realize what I was doing: I was trying to dig up DAVE.
David Francis' gravestone, marked with No. 130, at Pickaway Correctional Institution.
I wanted to laugh at myself, at the irony -- digging up DAVE was, after all, what I set out to do -- but I couldn't laugh.
Yakuba returned with the cemetery manager, who pointed at the stake at the far end of the field, about 50 yards from where I was digging.
I walked over; Yakuba and the cemetery guy hung back and let me go alone.
I looked down at the stone: No. 130.
I stood there, feeling an odd emptiness now that my journey had come to an end. All this time looking for David Francis, and I never thought about what I would say when I found him.
Minutes passed. Yakuba and the cemetery guy were silent, waiting. A wind had come up, like a signal to hurry along. I wanted to get out of here, go instead to warmth and life.
I should say something, I decided, so I looked at "130" and said, "Well, Dave, Charlene and I are the only ones who really thought about you after you died."
Talking to him made me feel weird, like I was talking to myself in public. My hands were dirty, my shoes caked with mud. I had nothing to say. Why did I even come here?
I have visited cemeteries with grieving families. I've listened to them talk to their loved ones at the grave. I've watched them plant flowers, clean mud off headstones and leave mementos. Once I visited a grave with a mother who played music from her car's CD system for her dead son.
I understand the kind of comfort and meaning a grave can offer mourners. It gives them a physical place to make a spiritual connection.
But I don't share those beliefs. I wish I did; I envy people who have that certainty about the mystery of death. And of life, for that matter.
I don't believe the dead can hear you speak. I don't believe that anything meaningful remains in their graves. I believe that our souls, or spirits, or whatever you want to call them, exist somewhere else after death. Where, I could not guess.
But we know the dead live on within the people who remember them.
I have been keeping David Francis alive, all this time.
Common reactions among sexual-assault survivors
1. Shock and disbelief. You may feel numb and dazed; withdrawn and distant from other people.
2. Preoccupation with the assault. You may have unwanted memories, flashbacks and nightmares.
3. Intense emotions, such as anger, anxiety and depression.
4. Physical symptoms can include sleep disturbances, headache, stomachache and loss of interest in sex.
5. Self-blame and shame. Victims may doubt judgment and feel responsible for the assault, feelings that may be reinforced by reactions of others.
How to support a rape survivor
Listen -- Allow the survivor to talk about what happened without giving advice.
Believe -- Let survivor know you believe an attack occurred.
Validate -- Let survivor know that reactions to sexual assault vary widely from individual to individual and over time.
Watch body language/proximity -- Sometimes physical contact can cause discomfort and flashbacks. Sit at a comfortable distance, maintain eye contact and nod to indicate you are paying attention.
Be patient -- Do not pressure survivor to be "normal" again. Encourage survivor to move at own pace.
Some helpful statements:
• I believe you.
• This is not your fault.
• I am so sorry that this happened.
• You did not deserve this.
• That sounds like a scary situation.
• I am so happy that you are safe and that you are here to talk with me about this.
• Thank you for being brave/comfortable enough to talk with me about this.
• How can I help you right now?
• You sound overwhelmed right now. Try taking a deep breath.
• You are having a normal response to an abnormal situation.
Source: Cleveland Rape Crisis Center
When Judge Harry Hanna told David Francis, "I shall bury you in the bowels of our worst prison for as long as I can," he meant the Southern Ohio Correctional Facility. Lucasville.
I went to Lucasville in the fall of 2007, the last stop on my tour of the prisons where he had been held. I wanted to see where he had been locked up, for all those years I had locked myself up in my own prison of fear.
In 1984, when David Francis arrived, Lucasville was the state's only maximum-security prison, the kind they call lock-and-feed. It was, and still is, where the other Ohio prisons sent their problem inmates. Today, 94 percent of its inmates are transfers from other prisons.
"We get everybody else's maladjusted," then-warden Ed Voorhies told me. "They don't come here for singing poorly in the choir."
David Francis entered Lucasville on Nov. 30, 1984, and stayed for almost a decade, living in the tense conditions that led to the 11-day riot in 1993, which left one guard and nine inmates dead.
As we walked around the prison, passing lines of inmates walking single file along the wall, the prison spokesman, Larry Greene, told me: "Understand we're in a prison. It's deceptive. It's calm and orderly, but it's no way to live."
About half of the 1,460 inmates are locked in their cells 23 out of 24 hours a day, getting out only to exercise in wire cages and to shower. The rest go to jobs within the prison and are permitted a few privileges, such as group recreation time and meals in the dining hall. The average length of stay is about seven years.
Francis was among the 87 who were evacuated to the now-closed prison in Lima on the fourth day of the Lucasville rioting. Lima Warden Harry Russell said at the time that the group included the most psychologically disturbed of Lucasville's inmates.
On April 1, 1994, Francis was sent to the prison in Warren, and four years later, on May 14, 1998, he landed at his last prison, Lebanon. During transfers, he stayed briefly at Mansfield.
When I visited the Lebanon prison, I sat down with three inmates to talk about prison life. One of them, James Holman, told me he'd been in Lucasville at the same time as Francis.
"Back then," he said, "rape was looked upon as the worst of the worst. On kids especially, but even on grown women. His time was probably quite rough for that type of crime. I'm sure he was preyed upon, just as he preyed upon you."
That was supposed to make me feel better, but it didn't. When I visited Mansfield, I said something to that effect to Stuart Hudson, the warden.
"Don't feel sympathetic toward him," Hudson said. "Lots of people have hard lives, but they don't rape and murder other people. The guys in here deserve to be here."
Francis ended his prison life at the Corrections Medical Center in Columbus, which is part day-clinic, part hospital and part hospice but still a prison. It has a warden, guards working alongside the doctors and nurses, and locked cells for maximum-security patients.
Earline Shore, an assistant to the warden, showed me around.
The long-term care unit holds inmates with AIDS, Alzheimer's disease and cancer, men who have had strokes and amputations, men who poisoned themselves by making their own drugs and alcohol in prison.
David Francis would have landed here, in one of the two rooms set aside for terminally ill inmates. As we passed the rooms, an elderly inmate flashed us a toothless smile from his bed. He was drinking a Coke.
"This is nice," he said. "For a prison cell, you can't beat it."
Confidential support for rape survivors is available 24 hours a day by calling the Cleveland Rape Crisis Center Hotline: 216-619-6192.
Parole notification
If you are a victim of a crime, you can register for notification regarding an Ohio inmate or an offender under supervision of the Departments Adult Parole Authority. Go to the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction to download a victim-notification form, or call the Office of Victim Services at 614-728-1976 or toll free 1-888-VICTIM4 (1-888-842-8464).
After the rape, I couldn't go back to Eldred Theater to review its productions, and no one at the paper expected me to. That fall, I left the theater beat and became the arts and entertainment editor.
Everyone called this a promotion, but we all knew what it really was: I was like a cop who had been shot on duty. I was gun-shy. I needed a desk job.
It took me about two days to realize that this was a huge mistake. The tedium of editing was surpassed only by the writers' reaction to it: I might as well have been harvesting one of their major organs on my desk, with a letter opener and a stapler.
I ended many days hiding in the restroom, crying.
When I returned from my second maternity leave, I begged for a writing job. They made me the film critic.
I finally stopped crying. I did not stop being afraid.
Now I was back to going into dark theaters alone.
I went to many daytime screenings where I was the only critic who showed up. After sitting through several movies with my attention focused on the exit doors instead of the screen, I started asking the theater managers to lock the doors. They were puzzled, but they did it.
Plain Dealer reporter Joanna Connors in the shadows of the Eldred Theater on the Case Western Reserve University campus.
Not long after I returned from David Francis' grave, I realized I had to go back to Eldred Theater.
I immediately had a case of the dreads. Of course. Eldred. El Dread, The Dread. How odd I hadn't seen that in 23 years.
I went back in late January, on one of those Cleveland days that come in a dozen shades of gray, turning the world into a living daguerreotype. Students walked through the quad hunched over with their backpacks, heads down against the sleet. I walked with them, hunched over with my dread.
The theater was almost dark when I went in, lit only by the ghost light on the stage. The single bulb on top of its pole glowed like an eerie beacon, leaving the edges and corners in deep gloom. I felt a charge in the air.
Some say ghost lights started way back in Shakespeare's time, when theater companies left candles on the stage to ward off the ghosts of performances past. Some say they light the theater for the friendly ghosts who live there.
All I know is that for me, this place was haunted.
I walked down the aisle to the stage. Two photographers from the paper hung back in the shadows.
When I climbed the three steps up, the ghost light cast a huge, hulking shadow of me on the back wall.
I walked toward the back corner where David Francis had dragged me. My shadow followed me, a giant bodyguard hovering over each step.
Painted scenery flats leaned against the wall in stacks, crowding the corner. It looked ... ordinary.
I tried to see it that way -- the way the hundreds of students and actors and stagehands had seen it over the years.
But to me this was sinister and sacred ground. Here was the place where, for an hour removed from time, I was sure my life would end. Here was the place where I lost part of myself.
I looked up into the fly space, almost expecting to see myself up there among the lights, watching.
I felt disoriented, but my body was alert, trembling from anxiety so powerful it made my knees lock. The ghost light and the looming shadows made me feel like I was in a German expressionist film from the 1920s -- "Nosferatu," or "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari." Nightmares on celluloid. I sat on the edge of the stage for a while, trying to escape the heaviness I was feeling. I thought about my brave children, who always lighten my heart.
I used to wonder if, in trying to hide my depression and fear from them, I had instead passed it all on, like a genetic disease. But even though they know they will have to answer questions about this story, and about their sometimes messed-up mom, they encouraged me to write it.
I thought about my husband, who had gone through the horror with me, and had gone through the silence, too. I did not know, until I did the training at the Rape Crisis Center, that rape is a family trauma, that husbands and other close family members suffer, too. In the end, we separated, for this and many other reasons that are not part of this story.
Sitting there in the dusky theater, I realized why I had not felt anything when I stood at David Francis' grave.
That cemetery was where the prison buried him. But here, in this theater, was where I needed to bury him.
I went out on this story to find David Francis. I thought if I found out who he was, I could discover the reason that our paths crossed. And if I could understand that, I could protect my children.
Now I could see that what I really wanted to find was not David Francis, but the source of my fear. I wanted to confront that fear and kill it.
What happened was not what I expected.
I found David Francis. I learned that he had a horrifying childhood, that he learned violence at his father's knee, and that he took that violence and horror and damage with him when he went out into the world at the age of 12.
I did not deserve what happened to me. But David Francis did not deserve what happened to him, either.
When I first started my search, my husband said, "He was a monster. Why do you want to know anything more?"
I wanted to know, and we as a country need to know: What created that monster?
"Our nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white -- separate and unequal," reported the Kerner Commission, a national panel that convened after the urban riots of the '60s. Forty years later, these two societies are still divided. So far apart that a journey into the Houghs of America takes you into a country where the legacy of slavery and racism still poisons lives.
We put up such high barriers at the borders -- barriers of fear, distrust, misunderstanding, hatred. But what I found when I went into that other country was not hate, but kindness. I was welcomed into homes, and in them I found what I was really looking for all along.
I found Charlene, who stopped doing drugs and drinking, got her family back, and in time forgave and buried the father who hurt her. Charlene, who reacted to her rapes with the same shame and self-blame I did.
I found Laura, who took me to the church that had saved her, and pushed me to the altar when the time came for saving me. Laura, who told me she loves me.
I found Father Tom Gallagher, who marched from Selma to Montgomery with the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and would not let being held at gunpoint, tied up and locked in a closet stop him from doing what he was put on this Earth to do.
I needed to hear their stories. They needed to tell them.
"We did our part, we kept it inside so long," Laura said to me. "It's something that needed to be told."
Human beings have been telling each other stories since we lived in caves and had no written language. We tell stories to remember, to pass on our history, to worship, to teach, to exert power, to mourn, to celebrate, to entertain.
We tell stories to connect with each other. We tell our own stories -- sometimes just to ourselves -- to make sense of the world and our experience in it.
As a reader and a writer, I believe in the power of stories to bring us together and heal. I have asked so many other people to open themselves up and let me tell their stories, all the while withholding my own. I owed this to them.
As I worked on it, though, I kept saying, "I'm having a hard time with this. I can't write it." Not long ago, my therapist said, "Maybe you're saying, 'I can't right it.' "
And maybe that is the point, in the end: We all have burdens we must carry through life: grief and disappointments that we cannot change. But we can make them lighter if we do not bear them silently and alone.
I cannot protect my children. I know this. It is the terrible truth of being a parent: The day comes when we have to send our very hearts out into the world, unprotected.
But now I know that my children protected me, all those years. They tethered me to all that is hopeful. They made me brave. They held me to this life until I was ready to come back to myself.
Sitting there in Eldred Theater, I looked back up into the fly space. It's OK, I thought. You can come back.
To comment on this story: survivor@plaind.com, 216-999-5433
Lisa DeJong / The Plain Dealer
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Nordic countries are restricting the use of Moderna's Covid vaccine. Here's why
The decision the three countries have made to limit the use of the Moderna vaccine centers around concerns it could be linked to cases of myocarditis, a condition where the heart muscle becomes inflamed.
All three health authorities cited an unpublished Nordic study, which had been sent to the European Medicines Agency for assessment, according to Reuters.
Finland, Denmark and Sweden are limiting the use of Moderna's Covid-19 vaccine in young people over concerns around rare cardiovascular side effects.
Finland's national health authority, THL, announced Thursday that it would pause the use of Moderna's Covid vaccine in young men. All males aged 30 or younger would be offered the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine instead, THL said.
The decision by THL followed announcements from its Swedish and Danish counterparts on Wednesday that both would be restricting the use of the Moderna vaccine in similar demographics.
In Sweden, the use of the vaccine will be stopped in people born in 1991 or later, while Denmark is pausing the Moderna shot in everyone under the age of 18.
The decision the three countries have made to limit the use of the Moderna vaccine centers around concerns it could be linked to cases of myocarditis, a condition where the heart muscle becomes inflamed. All three health authorities cited an unpublished Nordic study which had been sent to the European Medicines Agency for assessment, according to Reuters.
In most cases, people with myocarditis recover without any complications, but in some rare and more severe cases, there can be damage to the heart.
Myocarditis was most likely to develop in younger men and boys after receiving their second dose of the Moderna vaccine, according to Finland's THL.
Speaking at a coronavirus news briefing Thursday, Mika Salminen, director of health security at THL, said the possible risks posed by the Moderna vaccine seemed to be higher for younger male individuals.
"THL's instructions are that the Moderna vaccine should not be given to men and boys under the age of 30 for the time being, but that the Pfizer vaccine should be used instead," he said, according to local media reports.
Finland offers Covid-19 vaccinations to everyone over the age of 12. Of the population eligible for vaccination in Finland, 84% have received their first dose and 72% have received two doses.
Sweden's health body, meanwhile, said data suggested that instances of myocarditis and pericarditis — an inflammation of the outer lining of the heart — were higher among young people who had been immunized, Reuters reported Wednesday.
A spokesperson for Moderna was not immediately available for comment when contacted by CNBC. The company told Reuters that these are "typically mild cases and individuals tend to recover within a short time following standard treatment and rest."
"The risk of myocarditis is substantially increased for those who contract COVID-19, and vaccination is the best way to protect against this," the spokesperson added.
Benefits vs. risks
Despite the risks associated with the immunization for young men, THL's Salminen said Thursday that it was still important for everyone who was eligible to receive two doses of a vaccine.
According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the known risks of Covid-19 and its potentially severe complications far outweigh the possibility of having a rare adverse reaction to a vaccination. That includes the potential risk of developing myocarditis.
In August, a U.S. study found that males between the ages of 12 and 17 — the demographic most likely to develop myocarditis — were six times more likely to suffer heart inflammation from being infected with Covid-19 than from being vaccinated against the virus.
Read CNBC's latest global coverage of the Covid pandemic:
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Fired for refusing a Covid vaccine? You likely can't get unemployment benefits
Pfizer asks FDA to authorize Covid vaccine for kids ages 5 to 11
After a second dose of a vaccine, there were 67 cases of myocarditis per million males in that age group. After contracting the coronavirus, the rate of myocarditis in that age group shot up to 450 cases per million, the study found.
Meanwhile, research from Imperial College London in March found that half of patients hospitalized with severe cases of Covid were left with damage to their hearts.
According to the U.S. CDC, most cases of post-vaccination myocarditis occur after a second dose of the Pfizer-BioNTech or Moderna vaccine in male adolescents and young adults. Symptoms — which include pain or tightness in the chest, shortness of breath and heart palpitations — usually occur within days of vaccination.
Tagged denmark,FinlandModernasweden,
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How President Biden Can Fix Trump's 'Failed' China Policy
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Q: How to find an approximate solution of a three dimensional DE system Suppose A is a $3$ by $3$ matrix. How can I find the approximated solution as $t$ goes to $\infty$ of the system $$X' = AX$$
I think it has something to do with the Jordan decomposition of A, but how? If $A = SJS^{-1}$ can I just take the solution to the system $X' = JX$?
A: If X is diagonalizable with real eigenvalues.
$X' = AX\\
X = e^{At}X_0\\
e^{AT} = \sum \frac {A^n t^n}{n!}\\
A = PDP^{-1}\\
A^n = PD^n P^{-1}\\
e^{At} = P(\sum \frac {D^n t^n}{n!})P^{-1}\\
e^{Dt}= \begin{bmatrix} e^{\lambda_1 t}\\&e^{\lambda_2t}\\&&\ddots \end{bmatrix}\\
X = Pe^{Dt}P^{-1}X_0$
If A can be put into Jordan blocks.
$J = \begin{bmatrix} \lambda & 1\\&\lambda \end{bmatrix}\\
e^{Jt} = \begin{bmatrix} e^{\lambda t} & te^{\lambda t}\\&e^{\lambda t} \end{bmatrix}$
if A has complex eigenvalues pairs ...
$C = \begin {bmatrix} a & b\\ -b & a\end{bmatrix}\\
e^{Ct} = \begin {bmatrix} e^{at}\cos bt & e^{at} \sin bt\\ -e^{at}\sin bt &e^{ at}\cos bt\end{bmatrix}$
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{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
}
| 4,808
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Q: TreeView with unlimited nodes I want to make treeview with unlimited nodes. I have 2 viewmodel for tree:
public class GroupViewModel
{
public GroupViewModel()
{
}
public string GroupName { get; set; }
public ObservableCollection<TagViewModel> Tags { get; set; }
public ObservableCollection<GroupViewModel> Groups { get; set; }
}
and
public class TagViewModel
{
public TagViewModel()
{
}
public string TagName { get; set; }
}
My XAML:
<HierarchicalDataTemplate DataType="{x:Type ViewModel:GroupViewModel}" ItemsSource="{Binding Path=Tags}">
<TextBlock Text="{Binding Path=GroupName}" />
</HierarchicalDataTemplate>
<HierarchicalDataTemplate DataType="{x:Type ViewModel:TagViewModel}">
<StackPanel HorizontalAlignment="Left" Orientation="Horizontal">
<CheckBox />
<TextBlock Text="{Binding Path=TagName}" Margin="5,0,0,0" />
</StackPanel>
</HierarchicalDataTemplate>
TreeView Name="groupsTreeView"></TreeView>
With
ItemsSource="{Binding Path=Tags}"
i have first-level group with tags
and with
ItemsSource="{Binding Path=Groups}"
i have groups with subgroups - without tags.
How i can make tree with groups and tags?
A: Each tree node can only use one collection as items source for its children.
You have at least two options to combine groups and tags in a single collection:
*
*Change your ViewModel to have Groups and Tags in a single ObservableCollection
*Use a CompositeCollection to combine two collections in your XAML
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"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
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Amargosa este un râu cu o lungime de 320 km, situat în regiunea de graniță dintre state nordamericane și , din SUA. Denumirea râului provine din limbă spaniolă și înseamnă "amar". În regiunea sudică a Marelui Bazin la intrare în deșertul Mojave la nord de Las Vegas râul ajungând în Valea Morții dispare în nisip.
Râuri din California
Râuri din Nevada
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{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
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Learn With Us > AdLibbing Articles > Creativity & Innovation
How Brands are Supporting Women Beyond Just Their Advertising
Laurie-Maude Chenard
In the past few years, we've seen messages empowering women permeate the advertising landscape. From ads featuring girls playing sports to spots showcasing women dominating the workplace, brands are aiming to shatter gender stereotypes as they recognize the powerful platform they have to take a stand on social and political issues.
Promoting messages of empowerment and increasing diversity on screen are vital for combatting misconceptions and outdated standards perpetuated by the media. These efforts work to reflect a more accurate portrayal of the world we live in and strive for an even better one. Despite their far-reaching impact, these messages are not enough.
Brands and ad agencies must work hand in hand to deliver ads that empower women and marginalized communities beyond what is said on screen or on a billboard. They must "walk the walk," not just "talk the talk"—they must support women in a way that aligns with the message of empowerment they're spreading. In addition to showing support in the advertisement, companies should do so beyond the advertisement, creating solutions to challenges women face beyond just the content being displayed in front of viewers' eyes.
Beyond the Advertisement
Brands and creative agencies should embody their message by truly contributing to the solution. This means supporting women behind the scenes, which consists of prioritizing off-screen representation, not just on-screen representation. The diverse voices and rich experiences of the women being portrayed in an ad should be an integral part of the strategic and creative processes that go into producing an advertisement. There are several organizations whose mission is to eliminate harmful gender-based stereotypes and increase the amount of talented women in senior and creative roles. Some of these initiatives include the Unstereotype Alliance, The 3% Movement, Free the Work, and Where Are the Boss Ladies?.
Empowering women beyond the advertisement also means effecting change not only through brands' messaging, but also through their actions, products, and business models. Below are some brands that are getting it right.
Dove: Project #ShowUS – Shattering Beauty Stereotypes (2019 Winner - Cannes Silver Glass: The Lion for Change)
Dove, in partnership with Girlgaze, Getty Images, and women everywhere, aims to shatter beauty stereotypes not only through an advertisement showcasing women of all forms, but also through the creation of Project #ShowUs—the world's largest photo library of women and non-binary individuals available to all media and advertisers. In doing so, Dove is contributing to fostering a more inclusive vision of beauty in advertising.
Gazeta.pl: The Last Ever Issue (2019 Winner - Cannes Glass Grand Prix: Lion for Change)
Twój Weekend | The Last Ever Issue
Gazeta.pl, in partnership with VMLY&R, BNP Paribas, and Mastercard, bought Poland's oldest and most popular porn magazine, Twój Weekend, to close it down. As the last issue, Gazeta.pl created a special "women's issue" featuring topics such as gender portrayal, sexual education, sexism, and equal rights. In shutting down Twój Weekend, a magazine that contributes to a culture that objectifies and marginalizes women, and in using its platform to change the conversation, Gazeta.pl spread a powerful message while also providing a solution.
The Female Company: The Tampon Book (2019 Winner - Cannes PR Grand Prix)
The Tampon Book - Cannes Lions 2019 Winners
The Female Company, an organic tampon brand working with Scholz & Friends, brought awareness about the tampon tax in Germany. It created a book about menstruation that also doubled as packaging for its tampons. Because books are taxed at a much lower rate than tampons in Germany, The Female Company essentially lowered the tampon tax, offering women a cheaper alternative and prompting official debate within German politics.
Volvo Cars: E.V.A. Initiative – Equal Vehicles for All (2019 Winner - Cannes Creative Strategy Grand Prix)
The E.V.A. Initiative: Equal Vehicles for All
In a campaign by Forsman & Bodenfors called the E.V.A. Initiative (Equal Vehicles for All), Volvo highlighted gender inequality in cars and the higher risk women face of getting injured in car crashes than men. Volvo took it a step further by not only incorporating safer car features for women in its own products, but by also sharing its research with the rest of the car industry to make cars safer for everyone.
Secret Deodorant: Equal Pay – Do Better & Donation to the U.S. Women's National Soccer Team
As part of its #AllStrengthNoSweat campaign, Secret Deodorant, a sponsor of the U.S. Women's National Soccer Team (USWNT), created an ad called Equal Pay – Do Better. The ad calls for equal pay for the USWNT and women everywhere. Not only did Secret promote the cause in its ad, it also donated $529,000 to the USWNT to symbolically close the pay gap and show its support to the team's fight for equal pay.
Ad Council: She Can STEM
Creators for Good: Summit | She Can STEM | Ad Council
Ad Council, along with McCann NY, created a campaign called She Can STEM. It aims to inspire middle school girls to stay in STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Math) by highlighting female role models across various STEM fields. Ad Council does this through its public service communications, as well as the She Can STEM website, which enables girls to explore the different STEM fields and opportunities available to them. Since the launch of the campaign, the percentage of girls who know what "STEM" stands for has steadily grown from 71% (in September 2018) to 77% (in June 2019). Furthermore, the percentage who have done a STEM activity in the past 12 months–not related to school work–has increased significantly, from 66% (in September 2018) to 75% (in June 2019).
These ad campaigns are examples of brands boldly taking a stand to address issues facing women today. Their creativity, innovation and commitment to the cause are highlighted in their work and are equally important in shaping the conversation happening behind the scenes as well as beyond the ad itself.
Laurie-Maude is a Strategy & Evaluation Intern at the Ad Council, who appreciates the power of storytelling and the impact media and the arts have on culture and politics. When she's not thinking about representation in the media, you can find her taking photos around the city or enjoying a lazy Sunday at the park. Connect with her on LinkedIn and follow her artwork on Instagram.
Read More From Adlibbing
International Women's Day: 5 Must-Watch Videos
This Sunday, March 8, marks International Women's Day – a day solely focused on encouraging people of all countries and backgrounds to create a gender-equal world.
Takeaways on Gender Equality from Advertising Week 2019
By Angelia Roggie
Amid the hustle and bustle of Advertising Week in New York City, there were several panels about gender equality and creating space for women at the top. The collective consensus? Women are using the movement-inducing hashtags and talking about the strides we've made, but the ultimate outcomes we've been requesting seem to not be appearing as fast as we'd like. Events like IAB's Women Visionaries Town Halls are on a mission to change just that.
Champions for Good
Ad Council CEO Lisa Sherman: How my coming out of the 'corporate closet' sparked cultural change
By AdLibbing
This story, Lisa Sherman: How my coming out of the 'corporate closet' sparked cultural change, was originally published on NBC News: Know Your Value for National Coming Out Day on October 11th.
Want to stay up to date on industry news, insights, and all our latest work? Subscribe to our email newsletters!
SEE ALL THE NEWS OPTIONS FROM THE ADCOUNCIL
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{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
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\section{Introduction}
It is known that an object viewed from varying angles spans a
manifold in the space of images. Characterization of these manifolds
is important for many problems in computer vision, including
3D scene understanding and view invariant object recognition. However,
these manifolds are quite difficult to learn. This is, in part,
because most object datasets do not contain a dense sampling of object views.
Datasets such as ImageNet or COCO, favor diversity
of instances per object class over diversity with respect to object views.
The situation is different for synthetic datasets, such as
ModelNet~\cite{wu20153d} or ShapeNet~\cite{chang2015shapenet}, which include large numbers
of views per object instance. There is, however, a large domain gap between synthetic datasets
and datasets of natural images. Models trained on synthetic images, therefore, cannot
be deployed on natural images directly.
\begin{figure}[t]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\centering
\includegraphics[scale=0.7]{PTTran_Bo2_rkwitt}
\caption{View synthesis via transfer from synthetic data.
A densely sampled set of synthetic object views is transferred to the
natural image domain, where only sparse views are available.
Since synthetic images lack a rich characterization of appearance,
the transfer can produce a trajectory (shown in \textcolor{red}{red}) that oscillates between
objects of \emph{similar shape} but \emph{different appearance}. This is likely
when synthetic views are transferred individually. Consistency of
object identity requires pose trajectory transfer, {\it i.e.}, the
transfer of the entire pose trajectory rather than independent
views.}
\label{fig:teaser}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.8\linewidth]{arch_small_rkwitt}
\caption{Illustration of the proposed \textbf{DRAW} approach.
Arrows show the direction from
inputs to outputs.\label{fig:arch}}
\end{figure}
Obtaining natural image datasets that have a large number of instances per object class
and a dense pose trajectory
per instance, does not seem very feasible at this point. Therefore, a possible solution
to modeling pose manifold could be devised using {\it novel view synthesis\/}
techniques~\cite{zhou2016view,tatarchenko2016multi} that leverage the synthetic ShapeNet
dataset and a {\it domain transfer} mapping learned between synthetic and real images~\cite{isola2017image}.
A view synthesis framework can generate a dense trajectory of object poses, given an input image,
and a domain transfer function could map each generated pose, individually, into the image space.
Such an approach, however, ignores the problem that the transfer has to preserve object identity across all views.
This problem is illustrated with an example in Fig.~\ref{fig:teaser} (middle), which shows two objects
of same shape but different appearance, and their trajectory in image space as a function of view angle. What is also shown is the trajectory spanned by synthetic images from the CAD model of the objects. Since the CAD model does not capture object appearance, the two image domain trajectories map into a single trajectory in the synthetic domain.
Hence, methods that
rely on synthetic view synthesis and individual view transfer
are likely to oscillate between the synthesis of images of the two objects (\textcolor{black}{red-dashed} trajectory). Image based domain transfer, therefore, does not suffice to solve the natural view synthesis problem. Instead, there is a need for {\it pose trajectory transfer\/} approaches, {\it i.e.}, methods that transfer entire pose trajectories rather than one view at a time. This problem has some similarities to previous
work on the hallucination of view changes on scene images~\cite{zhou2016view}. However, such methods assume dense view supervision, which is only available in synthetic or video domains.
In this work, we address the more challenging problem of pose trajectory transfer with {\it sparse natural image data\/}. Unlike ShapeNet, most natural image datasets consist of object instances that are represented by a very few canonical views ({\it e.g.}, a chair instance captured in $\sim$1-5 poses). Such sparsity of poses, makes it impossible to directly uncover the underlying manifold by training or fine-tuning the existing view synthesis models~\cite{tatarchenko2016multi, yang2015weakly}.
The pose trajectory must, therefore, be transferred from a densely represented latent space to the sparse image space.
We propose a formulation where an object's shape space serves as the latent space for view synthesis and transfer. Textureless 3D CAD models are readily available online for many known object classes~\cite{sun2018pix3d} and can be used to sample dense views of the object in the shape space. A trajectory in this auxiliary space can then be used to interpolate between the sparse poses of the object images. More formally, given a reference image $\mathbf{x}_0$, a depth map $\mathbf{s}_0$ is first synthesized. A complete
pose trajectory, ${\bf s}_1, \ldots, {\bf s}_N$, is then generated in the latent space of CAD-based depth maps, and used to provide cross-modal guidance for the modeling of the pose trajectory in image space.
To guarantee {\it object identity\/} across the pose trajectory, we introduce the \emph{Domain tRAnsferred vieW synthesis (DRAW)} architecture, as shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:arch}. This consists of three modules.
A {\it domain transfer\/} module is first used to translate the reference image $\mathbf{x}_0$ into the depth map $\mathbf{s}_0$. A {\it depth rotator\/} is then applied to synthesize a depth map $\mathbf{s}_p$ corresponding to a new view point. Finally, a {\it identity recovery network\/}
is used to generate a new image $\mathbf{x}_p$ of the object under the new viewpoint, based on the rotated depth map and the original image.
\vskip0.5ex
While the domain transfer and depth rotator modules are variants of the previously studied problems of image translation and synthetic view synthesis, respectively, identity recovery poses a new challenge, critical
to the generation of pose trajectories of consistent object identity. As shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:arch}, it requires the disentanglement of the shape and appearance components of the reference image $\mathbf{x}_0,$ and the combination of the appearance information with the synthetically
generated new view $\mathbf{s}_p$ of the object shape.
To achieve this goal, we introduce a new {\it identity recovery network} that takes, as input, the reference image $\mathbf{x}_0$ and the rotated depth map
$\mathbf{s}_p$ and predicts object views under
all various combinations of domain (images {\it vs.}~depth) and view
angle (reference {\it vs.}~$p^{th}$ view). The requirement for these multiple predictions forces the network to more effectively disentangle shape and appearance information, enabling the synthesis of more realistic views
of the reference object under new poses. This, in turn, enables DRAW
to synthesize new view points of objects \emph{without} requiring
a training set of images with dense views on pose trajectory.
\section{Related work}
\label{section:related}
\noindent{\bf Image-to-image transfer.} Transferring images across domains has received substantial attention~\cite{isola2017image,kim2017learning,liu2017unsupervised,zhu2017unpaired}. Novel view synthesis can be considered as a special case of image-to-image transfer, where the source and target represent different views. There are, however, two key differences. First, view synthesis models need to explicitly infer shape from 2D image data. Second, while image transfer usually aims to synthesize style or texture, view transfer needs to ``hallucinate'' unseen shape information.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
{\bf Domain adaptation.} Several methods~\cite{panareda2017open,gebru2017fine,zhang2017curriculum,sankaranarayanan2018generate,hoffman2017cycada,tzeng2017adversarial} have been proposed for domain adaptation of visual tasks. Generic domain adaptation aims to bridge the gap between domains by aligning their statistics. DRAW implements a much more complex form of unsupervised domain transfer, leveraging depth information to bridge the natural and synthetic domains and perform bi-directional transfer. Several domain adaptation approaches~\cite{hoffman2016cross,rad2018domain} fuse color and depth features for pose estimation. Unlike these, DRAW relies on image-to-image transfer to leverage viewpoint supervision, which it then uses to decouple appearance and shape. This is critical to recover object identity.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
{\bf Novel view synthesis.} Novel view synthesis addresses the generation of images of a given object under new views. One possibility is to simply generate pixels in the target view \cite{tatarchenko2016multi, yang2015weakly}, using auto-encoders~\cite{tatarchenko2016multi} or recurrent networks~\cite{yang2015weakly}. To eliminate some artifacts of these approaches, Zhou {\it et al.}~\cite{zhou2016view} proposes an appearance flow based transfer module, which reconstructs the target view with pixels from the input and a dense flow map. This, however, cannot hallucinate pixels missing in the source view. Park \etal~\cite{park2017transformation} use an image completion module, after flow based image reconstruction, to compensate for this and \cite{sun2018multi} designs independent modules to predict dense flow and pixel hallucination.
All these methods require training sets with dense pose trajectories, {\it i.e.}, large sets of views \emph{of the same object instance}. For example, previous works in~\cite{sun2018multi,tatarchenko2016multi,yang2015weakly,zhou2016view} assume views under 16 or 18 fold azimuth rotation, and the method of Park {\em et al.}~\cite{park2017transformation} requires additional 3D supervision. Hence, existing novel view synthesis methods are usually trained on and applied to ShapeNet~\cite{chang2015shapenet}. Training or fine-tuning these models on the extremely sparse pose trajectories available in natural image datasets does not yield good results. This is shown in our experiments. DRAW makes up for the severe under-representation of image poses with the help of cross-modal supervision. A CAD based object model that generates dense views in the space of depth maps helps to transfer this trajectory to the space of natural images. The only other example of novel view synthesis on natural images is the work of~\cite{geiger2013vision} using the KITTI dataset. However, the generated views are restricted to a few frames and view point supervision is required. In contrast, DRAW generates a large set of views and can be deployed without pose supervision.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
{\bf Human pose transfer.} In this setting, the goal is to transfer
a person across poses. Some recent works \cite{ma2017pose,zhao2018multi,neverova2018dense} have addressed this task, leveraging the availability of multi-pose datasets such as DeepFashion~\cite{liu2016deepfashion}. However, besides view points, these methods assume key point supervision~\cite{ma2017pose} or leverage~\cite{neverova2018dense} pre-trained dense human pose estimation networks~\cite{alp2018densepose}. In summary, all these methods require additional supervision and are only applicable to human pose.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
{\bf Single image 3D reconstruction.} Many recent works have proposed to extract 3D shape from a single 2D image. With the availability of large-scale 3D CAD datasets, such as ShapeNet~\cite{chang2015shapenet} and Pix3D~\cite{sun2018pix3d}, remarkable results have been achieved on this task~\cite{wu2017marrnet,choy20163d,fan2017point}. Extraction of 3D shape can be useful for our purpose since an extracted 3D model can be trivially used to generate dense views of the object in the depth space. The depth rotation and refinement module (see section \ref{section:module}) seems to implement this implicitly as it simulates rotation of the object in depth space. An important distinction, however, between these methods and DRAW, is that the latter does not use any explicit 3D supervision for training.
\section{DRAW}
\subsection{Architecture overview}
The problem can be seen as one of domain adaptation, where
data from a \emph{source domain} (CAD-based depth maps), $\mathbb{S}$, for
which view point annotations are available, is used to improve
the performance of a task (view synthesis) in a \emph{target domain}
(images), $\mathbb{T}$, where this is inaccessible. As illustrated in
Fig.~\ref{fig:arch}, this allows the decomposition of the view generation
problem into simpler tasks: a domain adaptation component, which
maps images into depth maps and vice-versa, and a geometric component,
implemented as a 3D rotation of the object. We propose three new
modules to implement these tasks: a \emph{domain transfer} module, a
\emph{depth rotator} and an \emph{identity recovery} module.
The domain transfer module, ${\cal F}$, establishes a mapping from
the target domain $\mathbb{T}$ of RGB images to the
source domain $\mathbb{S}$ of depth maps. It implements
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
{\cal F}: \mathbb{T} \to \mathbb{S}, \quad
\mathbf{x}_0 \mapsto {\cal F}(\mathbf{x}_0) = \mathbf{s}_0\enspace,
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
where $\mathbf{x}_0$ and $\mathbf{s}_0$ are a reference image and
a depth map of identical azimuth angle, respectively.
The depth rotator module implements
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{1pt}
{\cal G}(\mathbf{s}_0, p) = \mathbf{s}_p
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
for $p = 1, \ldots, N-1$. It
takes the depth map $\mathbf{s}_0$ associated with the reference view and
synthesizes the depth maps associated with all other $N-1$ views. This
is realized by two submodules. A recurrent rotator that generates novel
depth map views and a refinement operator that leverages information from
all synthesized depth maps to refine each of them.
Finally, the identity recovery module implements
\begin{equation} \label{eq:identityrecovery}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
{\cal H}: \mathbb{T} \times \mathbb{S} \to \mathbb{T}, \quad
(\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_p) \mapsto {\cal H}(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{s}_p) = \mathbf{x}_p\enspace,
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
taking, as input, the reference view $\mathbf{x}_0$ and the synthesized depth
map $\mathbf{s}_p$ to produce the synthesized view
$\mathbf{x}_p \in \mathbb{T}$.
As the name suggests, this modules aims to recover the identity
of $\mathbf{x}_0$ under the view of $\mathbf{s}_p$.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Domain transfer (DT).}
To learn the domain transfer model $\cal F$, we assume the existence
of a dataset
with paired images and depth maps, such as Pix3D~\cite{sun2018pix3d} or
RGB-D~\cite{lai2011large}. This makes the learning of this module a fairly
standard domain transfer problem, where the input is a RGB image
and the output is a depth map. We rely on an image style transfer model,
similar to~\cite{isola2017image}, to perform the transfer.
Essentially, it is a fully convolutional
network implemented with ResNet blocks, outputting a depth map and a
foreground mask that identifies pixels associated with the object.
The object depth map is then obtained by a combination of the two.
Experimentally, we found that the use of the mask enables cleaner
depth maps, which eventually lead to better depth rotation results.
We refer the reader to the suppl. material for full architecture
details.
The quality of the synthesized depth map, ${\cal F}(\mathbf{x}_0)$,
is assessed by the $L_1$ loss, {\it i.e.}, $\|\mathbf{s}_0-{\cal F}(\mathbf{x}_0)\|_1$.
Under the framework of~\cite{isola2017image}, this is complemented
with an adversarial loss that discriminates between synthesized and real
depth maps. This adversarial loss is implemented with a pair-wise
discriminator $D$ between the real ($\mathbf{s}_0$) and synthesized
depth maps, conditioned on $\mathbf{x}_0$. The module
is trained by iterating between learning of the discriminator/critic, with loss
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{4pt}
\begin{split}
\label{eq:dr}
{\cal L}^{\texttt{critic}}_{\texttt{DT}}(D) =
& ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_0}\big[(1-D(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{s}_0))^2\big] ~+ \\
& ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0}\big[(D(\mathbf{x}_0, {\cal F}(\mathbf{x}_0)))^2\big]\enspace.
\end{split}
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{4pt}
\end{equation}
and learning of the mapping ${\cal F}$, with loss
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{4pt}
\begin{split}
{\cal L}_{\texttt{DT}}(\mathcal{F}) = & ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_0}\big[\|\mathbf{s}_0-{\cal F}(\mathbf{x}_0)\|_1\big]~+ \\
&~\lambda_\mathcal{F}~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0}\big[(1-D(\mathbf{x}_0, {\cal F}(\mathbf{x}_0)))^2\big]\enspace,
\end{split}
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{4pt}
\end{equation}
where $\lambda_\mathcal{F}$ is a multiplier balancing the importance of the two
loss components. We have found that the addition of the adversarial
loss helps enforce both sharpness of the output and consistency between
input and output; consequently, we use this approach for learning all modules
of DRAW.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Depth rotation \& refinement (DR).}
The introduction of depth as an intermediate representation for image
translation transforms view rotation into a geometric operation that can be
learned from datasets of CAD models.
Rather than reconstructing pixel depths from an appearance map, {\it e.g.}, using a
dense appearance flow model~\cite{zhou2016view}, novel depth views are
synthesized from a reference depth view $\mathbf{s}_0$.
This leverages the fact that CAD datasets have many views per object and
the view angles are known. The generation of novel depth views
is implemented with the combination of (1) a depth map generator and (2)
a 3D refinement module. The \emph{depth map generator}, $\mathcal{G}_1$, is based on a recurrent network,
which takes the reference depth map $\mathbf{s}_0$ as input and
outputs a sequence of depths maps, {\it i.e.},
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\mathbf{s}_p = {\cal G}_1(\mathbf{s}_0, p), \quad
p = 1, \ldots, N-1\enspace,
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
where $p$ is the azimuth angle. Our implementation of ${\cal G}_1$ is
based on the ConvLSTM with skip connections of~\cite{sun2018multi}.
Given a set of depth maps $\{\mathbf{s}_0, \mathbf{s}_1,\ldots,
\mathbf{s}_{N-1}\}$ from $N$ view points, the recurrent generator aims to minimize
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
{\cal L}_{\texttt{RecGen}}(\mathcal{G}_1) = \sum_{p=0}^{N-1}\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{s}_0}\big[\|\mathbf{s}_p-{\cal G}_1(\mathbf{s}_0, p)\|_1\big]\enspace.
\label{eqn:recgen}
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
The \emph{refinement module} enforces consistency among neighboring views,
via a 3D convolutional network that leverages the information of
nearby synthesized views to refine each synthesized view.
The $N$ depth maps synthesized by the rotator are first stacked into a
3D volume\footnote{$\oplus$ denotes concatenation along the third dimension.}
$ \mathbf{s}' = [\mathbf{s}'_0~\oplus~\mathbf{s}'_1~\oplus~\ldots~
\oplus~\mathbf{s}'_{N-1}]$.
To ensure the refinement of the end views, {\it e.g.}, $\mathbf{s}_{N-1}$, cyclic
padding is used on the third dimension.
The volume $\mathbf{s}'$ is then
processed by
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{4pt}
\mathbf{s}'' = {\cal G}_2(\mathbf{s}')\enspace.
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{4pt}
\end{equation}
${\cal G}_2$ is implemented by multiple layers of 3D convolutions
with skip connections, to produce a 3D volume of concatenated refined
depth maps $\mathbf{s}'' = [\mathbf{s}''_0~\oplus~\mathbf{s}''_1~\oplus~\ldots~
\oplus~\mathbf{s}''_{N-1}]$.
3D refinement is supervised by a $L_1$ loss, {\it i.e.},
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
{\cal L}_{\texttt{3D}}(\mathcal{G}_2) = \sum_{p=0}^{N-1}\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{s}''}
\big[\|\mathbf{s}_p-\mathbf{s}''\|_1\big]\enspace.
\label{eqn:refine}
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
This is complemented by an adversarial loss based on a pair-wise volume
discriminator $D_V$, between the CAD-based depth map volume ($\mathbf{s}$)
and the synthesized one ($\mathbf{s}''$), conditioned on $\mathbf{s}'$.
The discriminator/critic loss is
\begin{equation} \label{eq:lossds}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\begin{split}
{\cal L}^{\texttt{critic}}_{\texttt{V}}(D_V) =
& ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{s}',\mathbf{s}}\big[(1-D_V(\mathbf{s}', \mathbf{s}))^2\big]~+ \\
& ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{s}',\mathbf{s}''}\big[(D_V(\mathbf{s}',\mathbf{s}'')^2\big]\enspace,
\end{split}
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
while $\mathcal{G}_1$ and $\mathcal{G}_2$ are supervised by
\begin{equation} \label{eq:lossg}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\begin{split}
{\cal L}_{\texttt{DR}}(\mathcal{G}_1,\mathcal{G}_2) =
& ~{\cal L}_{\texttt{RecGen}}(\mathcal{G}_1)~+~\lambda_{\texttt{3D}}~{\cal L}_{\texttt{3D}}(\mathcal{G}_2)~+ \\
& ~\lambda_{\mathcal{G}}~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{s}',\mathbf{s}''}
\big[(1-D_V(\mathbf{s}', \mathbf{s}''))^2\big]\enspace.
\end{split}
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Identity recovery (IR).}
In standard domain transfer problems, the mapping between source and target
domains is one-to-one. Each example in the
source domain produces a different image in the target domain.
This is not the case for the transfer between images and depth maps since,
as illustrated in Fig.~\ref{fig:teaser}, objects of the same shape can have
different appearance. Hence, the mapping between images and
depth maps is not bijective. This poses no special problems to
our domain transfer module, which implements
a many-to-one mapping. On the other hand, it implies that it is impossible
to recover the object identity uniquely from its depth map. It follows
that, unlike the domain transfer module, the identity recovery model
cannot be implemented with existing domain transfer networks. In
addition to the depth map $\mathbf{s}_p$, this model must also have
access to the reference image $\mathbf{x}_0$, {\it i.e.}, implement the
mapping $\cal H$ of~Eq.~ \eqref{eq:identityrecovery}.
In a supervised regression setting, this mapping could be learned from
triplets $(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{s}_p, \mathbf{x}_p)$. However,
we are aware of no datasets that could be used for this.
Most image datasets do not contain depth information or view
point labels. In general, it is difficult to even find multiple views of the
same object with viewpoint annotations. In datasets such as
Pix3D or RGB-D, there are at most a few views per object and these
views are not aligned, {\it i.e.}, they change from object to object.
Hence, $\cal H$ must be learned from
unpaired data. This, however, is significantly more challenging than
image-to-image transfer because $\cal H$ has to 1) {\it disentangle\/} the
appearance and shape information of $\mathbf{x}_0$ and 2) {\it combine\/} the
appearance information with the shape information of $\mathbf{s}_p$.
To enable this, we propose an encoder-decoder architecture. The
encoder {\it disentangles\/} its input into a pair of shape and appearance
parameters, via a combination of (1) a structure and (2) an
appearance predictor. The structure predictor implements the mapping
$\mathbf{p}={\cal P}(\mathbf{x})$ from the input image $\mathbf{x}$ to shape
parameters $\mathbf{p}$, while the appearance predictor implements
the mapping $\mathbf{a}={\cal A}(\mathbf{x})$ from the input
image $\mathbf{x}$ to appearance parameters $\mathbf{a}$.
The decoder then {\it combines\/} these parameters into a
reconstruction on its output, by taking a vector of concatenated
appearance and shape parameters and decoding this representation
into an image.
To force disentanglement, we exploit the fact that, while the object
shape is captured by both its image and depth map, appearance is only
captured by the image. It follows that (1) combining the shape information
derived from domain A with the appearance information derived from domain B
and (2) reconstructing should produce an image of the object in domain B
under the view used in domain A. Hence, using both the image and shape domains
as A and B, it should be possible to synthesize images with the four
possible combinations of domain (image {\it vs.}~depth map) and view
(reference {\it vs.}~target). By matching each of these four classes of
synthesized images to true images of the four classes, we encourage the network to learn to disentangle and combine the shape and
appearance representations.
\begin{figure}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.46\textwidth]{identity_rk}
\caption{Data flow for the \emph{identity
recovery} module. Dashed-lines identify the training data flow, solid lines identify the data flow during inference. Blocks of equal color share parameters.}
\label{fig:identity}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.25cm}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.43\textwidth]{identity_structure_new_rkwitt.pdf}
\caption{Architecture of the \emph{identity recovery} module.}
\label{fig:id_structure}
\vspace{-0.5mm}
\end{figure}
In the multi-view setting, the four combinations are not available, since
$\mathbf{x}_p$ is the target. Yet, the idea can be
implemented with the remaining three combinations:
reference image ($\mathbf{x}_0$), reference depth ($\mathbf{s}_0$)
and target view depth ($\mathbf{s}_p$).
This leads to the architecture of Fig.~\ref{fig:identity},
which combines a pair of encoders and four decoders.
The encoders are
applied to the reference image $\mathbf{x}_0$ and the depth map $\mathbf{s}_p$. This results in two pairs of shape and appearance
parameters
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\mathbf{p}_r = {\cal P}(\mathbf{x}_0), \quad
\mathbf{a}_r={\cal A}(\mathbf{x}_0)
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\mathbf{p}_s = {\cal P}(\mathbf{s}_p), \quad
\mathbf{a}_s={\cal A}(\mathbf{s}_p).
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
The decoders are then applied to the four possible {\it combinations\/}
of these parameter vectors, synthesizing four images,
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\mathbf{\hat{x}}_0 = \dec(\mathbf{p}_r, \mathbf{a}_r), \quad
\mathbf{\hat{s}}_0=\dec(\mathbf{p}_r, \mathbf{a}_s),
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\mathbf{\hat{x}}_p = \dec(\mathbf{p}_s, \mathbf{a}_r), \quad
\mathbf{\hat{s}}_p=\dec(\mathbf{p}_s, \mathbf{a}_s).
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
As shown Fig.~\ref{fig:identity} (\emph{right}), these are all possible combinations
of shape and appearance from the real image with shape and appearance from
the depth map ``image.'' To force the disentanglement into shape and appearance,
the structure predictors, appearance predictors, and decoders
share parameters. Note that this implies that only one encoder and one decoder are effectively learned.
During inference, the target image $\mathbf{x}_p$ is obtained with
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
\mathbf{\hat{x}}_p = \dec({\cal P}(\mathbf{s}_p),
{\cal A}(\mathbf{x}_0))\enspace.
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
\begin{figure}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.8\columnwidth]{domain_results_ipe_small}
\caption{Example results for the \emph{domain transfer} module.}
\label{fig:domain_results}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure*}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.25cm}
\centering{
\includegraphics[width=0.97\textwidth]{depth_images_ipe_single}}
\caption{Qualitative depth rotation results w/ and w/o using 3D refinement, compared to the ground truth.}
\label{fig:rotate_results}
\end{figure*}
\begin{table*}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\begin{footnotesize}
\centering
\begin{tabular}{llcccccccccc}
\toprule
\textbf{View distance} & & 1 & 2 & 3 & 4 & 5 & 6 & 7 & 8 & 9 & All \\
\hline
\multirow{2}{*}{\texttt{w/o refinement}}
& $L_1$ & 0.045 & 0.049 & 0.049 & 0.050 & 0.049 & 0.049 & 0.048 & 0.047 & 0.047 & 0.048 \\
& SSIM & 0.836 & 0.813 & 0.808 & 0.803 & 0.801 & 0.803 & 0.806 & 0.825 & 0.839 & 0.813 \\
\multirow{2}{*}{\texttt{w/ refinement}}
& $L_1$ & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.031} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.036} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.037} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.038}
& \cellcolor{green!20}{0.038} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.037} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.035} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.031}
& \cellcolor{green!20}{0.026} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.035} \\
& SSIM & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.945} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.913} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.907} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.898}
& \cellcolor{green!20}{0.897} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.902} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.915} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.940}
& \cellcolor{green!20}{0.975} & \cellcolor{green!20}{0.918} \\
\bottomrule
\end{tabular}
\caption{Quantitative evaluation of the \emph{depth rotator} module. For $L_1$, lower values are better; for SSIM,
higher values are better.}
\label{tab:rotate_results}
\end{footnotesize}
\end{table*}
Training of the identity recovery model uses a mix of supervised and unsupervised learning.
Since $\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{s}_0,$ and $\mathbf{s}_p$ are available, they provide direct
supervision for the synthesis of the combinations $\mathbf{\hat{x}}_0$, $\mathbf{\hat{s}}_0$, and
$\mathbf{\hat{s}}_p$, respectively. Realized as a a supervised loss, we get
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
{\cal L}^{\texttt{S}}_{\texttt{IR}} = \mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_0,\mathbf{s}_p}[\|\mathbf{x}_0-\mathbf{\hat{x}}_0\|_1 + \|\mathbf{s}_0-\mathbf{\hat{s}}_0\|_1 + \|\mathbf{s}_p-\mathbf{\hat{s}}_p\|_1],
\label{eqn:irdisc}
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
ensuring the quality of {\it both\/} the disentanglement and the image
synthesis.
This is complemented by an adversarial loss where the combinations
$(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{\hat{s}}_0)$, $(\mathbf{\hat{x}}_0, \mathbf{s}_0)$
and $(\mathbf{\hat{x}}_p, \mathbf{s}_p)$ are all considered as
fake pairs, to be indistinguishable from the real pair
$(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{s}_0)$. This pairwise discriminator/critic
is trained with loss
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{8pt}
\begin{split}
{\cal L}^{\texttt{critic}}_{\texttt{IR}}(D) = & ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_0}\big[(1-D(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{s}_0))^2\big]~+ \\
& ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_p}\big[(D(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{\hat{s}}_0))^2\big]~+ \\
& ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_0}\big[(D(\mathbf{\hat{x}}_0, \mathbf{s}_0))^2\big]~+ \\
& ~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_p}\big[(D(\mathbf{\hat{x}}_p, \mathbf{s}_p))^2\big]\enspace,
\end{split}
\end{equation}
while the encoder and decoder are trained with loss
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{8pt}
\begin{split}
{\cal L}_{\texttt{IR}}(\mathcal{H}) = &~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_p}[(1-\mathcal{D}(\mathbf{x}_0, \mathbf{\hat{s}}_0))^2]~+ \\
&~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_p}[(1-\mathcal{D}(\mathbf{\hat{x}}_0, \mathbf{s}_0))^2]~+ \\
&~\mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_p}[(1-\mathcal{D}(\mathbf{\hat{x}}_p, \mathbf{s}_p))^2]+
{\cal L}^{\texttt{S}}_{\texttt{IR}} \enspace.
\end{split}
\end{equation}
Fig.~\ref{fig:id_structure} shows the structure of the identity recovery
module.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Optimization schedule.}
DRAW is trained in two stages to decouple domain transfer and view point synthesis.
First, the depth rotation and refinement modules ($\mathcal{G}_1,\mathcal{G}_2)$,
as well as its discriminator, $D_V$, are optimized with the losses of Eqs.~\eqref{eq:lossds}
and~\eqref{eq:lossg}.
Once trained, these modules are frozen. The second stage
then addresses end-to-end training of the domain transfer and identity recovery
modules. The loss
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
{\cal L}(\mathcal{D}) = {\cal L}_{\texttt{DT}}^{\texttt{critic}}(D) + \lambda_2{\cal L}_{\texttt{IR}}^{\texttt{critic}}(D)
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
is used to train discriminators/critics, and the loss
\begin{equation}
\setlength\abovedisplayskip{6pt}
{\cal L}(\mathcal{F},\mathcal{H}) = {\cal L}_{\texttt{DT}}(\mathcal{F}) + \lambda_1{\cal L}_{\texttt{IR}}(\mathcal{H})\enspace
\setlength\belowdisplayskip{6pt}
\end{equation}
supervises both parts.
\vspace{-0.5ex}
\section{Experiments}
\label{section:experiments}
We evaluate DRAW using natural images from the Pix3D~\cite{sun2018pix3d} dataset and synthetic images
from the ShapeNet~\cite{chang2015shapenet} dataset.
To ensure enough diversity of instances
in both datasets, we choose two categories: \emph{chairs} and \emph{tables}. First, we evaluate the three modules of DRAW separately on the \emph{chair} class for:
domain transfer between RGB images and depth maps, view synthesis or rotation simulation in the depth space, and
identity recovery from depth to RGB. The $L_1$ difference norm and structural similarity measure
(SSIM) are used as quantitative synthesis metrics.
We then compare the performance of the full DRAW framework with three recent view synthesis
methods~\cite{zhou2016view, tatarchenko2016multi, sun2018multi} on {\it sparse pose completion\/} using the Pix3D dataset and
a subsampled version of the ShapeNet dataset.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Datasets.}
On ShapeNet,
$72$ images of size $256\times 256$ pixels are synthesized per CAD model,
using $18$ azimuth angles and elevations
in $\{0^\circ, 10^\circ, 20^\circ, 30^\circ\}$.
The dataset is split into $558$ objects for training and
$140$ objects for testing~\cite{zhou2016view}
Pix3D combines 2D natural images with sparse views and 3D CAD models. Images and depth maps are cropped + resized to $256\times 256$ pixel.
The dataset includes multiple images aligned with each object. While DRAW does not require this,
they are useful to evaluate identity recovery.
Training and test sets are split based on objects
to ensure that images with the same object do not appear in training \emph{and} testing. This gives $758$ training images from $150$
objects and $140$ test images from $26$ objects.
\subsection{Individual module evaluation} \label{section:module}
\noindent
{\bf Domain transfer (DT).} Since this is a fairly standard module, we do not
carry out a detailed performance evaluation.
Fig.~\ref{fig:domain_results} shows typical domain transfer results. In general, the predicted depth maps are fairly close to the ground-truth.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
{\bf Depth rotator (DR).} We compare the proposed combination of rotator +
3D refinement to a variant without the latter. Both models are trained on
the depth maps from $18$ ShapeNet views. Given a reference depth map,
the task is to synthesize the remaining $17$ depth maps.
Fig.~\ref{fig:rotate_results} shows some typical
examples. Most depths maps are close to the ground truth, but refinement
improves the rendering of fine details.
Table~\ref{tab:rotate_results} compares the $L_1$ and SSIM scores
of the two methods, with refinement consistently improving the results for both
scores.
\begin{figure}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.25cm}
\centering
\includegraphics[scale=0.6]{recovery_ipe_single}
\caption{\emph{Identity recovery}, using (1) different target depth maps
(\emph{top}) and (2) the same target depth map (due to the sparsity of pose trajectories, we don't have ground truth for the \emph{bottom} part).
\label{fig:recovery_results}}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\centering{
\includegraphics[width=1\columnwidth]{recovery_rk_table-2-new}}
\caption{Comparison of the identity recovery module of Fig.~\ref{fig:identity} to
(1) a simple image-to-image translation model (\texttt{HAL}, \emph{top}) and (2) a \emph{weak identity recovery} module (\texttt{WIR}, \emph{bottom}),
using fewer disentanglement constraints.
\label{fig:recovery_variation}}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure*}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.25cm}
\centering{
\begin{tabular}{c|l}
\cite{tatarchenko2016multi} & \includegraphics[width=0.85\textwidth]{mv} \\
\hline
\cite{zhou2016view} & \includegraphics[width=0.85\textwidth]{af} \\
\hline
\cite{sun2018multi} & \includegraphics[width=0.85\textwidth]{new} \\
\hline
\textbf{DRAW} & \includegraphics[width=0.85\textwidth]{ours}
\end{tabular}}
\caption{View synthesis comparisons on \emph{chair} images from Pix3D. Only 9 out of 18 views are shown. Note that~\cite{sun2018multi} is trained and tested with multiple views. DRAW generates the entire trajectory with a single image (best-viewed zoomed).}
\label{fig:overall_figures}
\end{figure*}
\begin{figure*}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\centering{
\begin{tabular}{c|ll}
\cite{tatarchenko2016multi} & \includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd1_mv} & \includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd2_mv} \\
\hline
\cite{zhou2016view} & \includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd1_flow}
& \includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd2_flow} \\
\hline
\cite{sun2018multi} & \includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd1_new}
& \includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd2_new} \\
\hline
\textbf{DRAW} & \includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd1} &
\includegraphics[width=0.40\textwidth]{cd2}
\end{tabular}}
\caption{Comparison of view synthesis results on \emph{chairs} from ShapeNet (best-viewed zoomed).}
\label{fig:shapenet_figures}
\end{figure*}
\begin{figure}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.43\textwidth]{table}
\caption{DRAW view synthesis on \emph{table} images from Pix3D.}
\label{fig:table}
\end{figure}
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
{\bf Identity recovery (IR).} We consider two baselines and a loss function variation for comparison.
The model in Fig.~\ref{fig:recovery_variation} (\emph{top})
simply treats the problem as one of image to image translation. Since
it only has access to the depth map $\mathbf{s}_p$, it has to
hallucinate the object appearance.
We refer to it as the {\it hallucination\/}
(\texttt{HAL}) model. The model of Fig.~\ref{fig:recovery_variation} (\emph{bottom})
is a simpler variant of the
identity recovery module of Fig.~\ref{fig:identity}. It has access
to both $\mathbf{x}_0$ and $\mathbf{s}_p$, but imposes much weaker
disentanglement constraints because it does not require
the synthesis of all combinations of shape and appearance. We refer to
it as the {\it weak identity recovery\/} (\texttt{WIR}) module.
A loss function variation is applied to our proposed model. For the training of our identity recovery model, we now include $\mathbf{x}_p$ in training and alter the supervised loss of Eq.~\eqref{eqn:irdisc} to
$
{\cal L}^{\texttt{S}}_{\texttt{IR}} = \mathbb{E}_{\mathbf{x}_0,\mathbf{s}_0,\mathbf{x}_p,\mathbf{s}_p}[\|\mathbf{x}_0-\mathbf{\hat{x}}_0\|_1 + \|\mathbf{s}_0-\mathbf{\hat{s}}_0\|_1
+ \|\mathbf{x}_p-\mathbf{\hat{x}}_p\|_1 + \|\mathbf{s}_p-\mathbf{\hat{s}}_p\|_1]
$. This loss is not possible during training the full model end-to-end, but can be done when training the \texttt{IR} model separately. Our goal is to examine how much information we lose by removing the direct supervision on $\mathbf{x}_p$. From Fig.~\ref{fig:recovery_variation}, we see that $L_1$ and SSIM do not change much by removing $\mathbf{x}_p$ from supervision.
All models are trained on pairs of RGB-D images corresponding to different
views of the same object in Pix3D. During inference, a RGB image from
view $1$ and a depth map from view $2$ are used to predict a RGB image from
view $2$. Due to the lack of supervision for target RGB
images, \texttt{HAL} and \texttt{WIR} are optimized using the adversarial loss alone.
Unsurprisingly, \texttt{HAL} has weak performance.
It is also clear that the additional
disentanglement constraints of \texttt{IR} lead to a performance improvement over
\texttt{WIR}.
Fig.~\ref{fig:recovery_results} (\emph{top}) shows examples of the views
synthesized by the identity recovery module of DRAW. Note the quality of synthesis across
very large view angle transformations. Fig.~\ref{fig:recovery_results}
(\emph{bottom}) further shows recovery results where two objects of identical shape but different appearance are presented. This example clearly
demonstrates that the identity recovery module produces outputs that carry the
input images' appearance upon receiving a common $\mathbf{s}_p$ but different
$\mathbf{x}_p$.
\subsection{Comparison to the state-of-the-art}
We now evaluate the entire DRAW pipeline
on the original task of {\it pose trajectory learning from sparse image data\/}.
For this experiment we use the Pix3D dataset as well a subsampled version of the ShapeNet dataset,
where, for each object instance, only $\sim$5 of its poses are retained in RGB, for training. We compare DRAW with
the state-of-the-art novel view synthesis methods~\cite{tatarchenko2016multi,zhou2016view,sun2018multi}
in this sparse setting. For evaluation on Pix3D, the pre-trained models from~\cite{tatarchenko2016multi,zhou2016view,sun2018multi}
are fine-tuned to the Pix3D training data. For the ShapeNet experiment, these models are trained on the sub-sampled dataset
from scratch.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Qualitative analysis on Pix3D.}
Qualitative results of all methods are shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:overall_figures}. DRAW results for \emph{tables} can be found in Fig.~\ref{fig:table}.
\begin{table}[t!]
\setlength{\belowcaptionskip}{-0.5cm}
\begin{footnotesize}
\centering
\begin{tabular}{rcccc}
\toprule
& \cite{tatarchenko2016multi} & \cite{zhou2016view} & \cite{sun2018multi} & \textbf{DRAW} \\
\hline
\multicolumn{5}{c}{Pix3D} \\
\midrule
$L_1$ & 0.16 & 0.15 & 0.16 & \cellcolor{green!20}{{\bf 0.12}} \\
SSIM & 0.45 & 0.46 & 0.45 & \cellcolor{green!20}{{\bf 0.51}} \\
\hline
\hline
\multicolumn{5}{c}{ShapeNet} \\
\midrule
$L_1$ & 0.24 & 0.25 & 0.24 & \cellcolor{green!20}{{\bf 0.20}} \\
SSIM & 0.49 & 0.46 & 0.47 & \cellcolor{green!20}{{\bf 0.56}} \\
\bottomrule
\end{tabular}
\caption{Cross-domain view synthesis comparison on Pix3D. For
$L_1$ \textbf{lower} is better, for SSIM and inception, \textbf{higher}
is better.
\label{tab:overll_results}}
\end{footnotesize}
\end{table}
DRAW appears to preserve the appearance and the structure of the object across different poses. Other methods not do not seem to perform very well in comparison. This can be attributed to the severe deficiency of pose training data in Pix3D. Fine-tuning the models of~\cite{tatarchenko2016multi,zhou2016view,sun2018multi} to limited object views leads to poor generalization. Notably, the results of~\cite{zhou2016view} are the worst among all methods. This is perhaps due to the lighting variations and realistic texture in natural images, which results in poor appearance flow mapping compared to synthetic domain. It is also noteworthy that previous methods require view point labels for training. \emph{DRAW doesn't need such supervision}.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Quantitative analysis on Pix3D.} We compiled a test set of valid trajectories from Pix3D, to evaluate the
reconstructions of DRAW and it's competitors~\cite{tatarchenko2016multi,zhou2016view,sun2018multi} trained with sparse pose supervision.
When one image in the trajectory is used as input, all other images are used as targets to calculate the errors between the related generated view. Results for $L_1$ and SSIM measures, listed in Table~\ref{tab:overll_results}, indicate that DRAW outperforms all other methods.
\vskip0.5ex
\noindent
\textbf{Analysis on sparse ShapeNet.}
We next compare all methods on a pose-sparse subset of Shapenet constructed by randomly sampling $5$ RGB views per object instance. Models for~\cite{tatarchenko2016multi,zhou2016view,sun2018multi} are trained from scratch on this subsampled data. Qualitive images are shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:shapenet_figures} and quantitative results in Table~\ref{tab:overll_results} (bottom). It seems clear that in case of sparse pose training, DRAW performs better than other methods even on synthetic ShapeNet.
\section{Conclusion}
We introduce DRAW, a framework to learn pose trajectories from natural image datasets with very few canonical views available per object instance. To make up for such sparsity in the image space, we propose the use cross-modal guidance in the form of texture-less 3D CAD models available for objects. Dense pose trajectories of depth maps can be extracted from these models. Given an RGB image, DRAW operates by (1) mapping it into 2D depth maps, (2) simulating 3D object rotation in depth space and (3) re-mapping the generated views from depth to image space. DRAW can be trained with a set of images with \emph{sparse views}, as in Pix3D. Pose trajectories are synthesized in the synthetic domain and transferred to the image domain in a manner that guarantees consistency of object identity. An identity recovery network that disentangles and recombines appearance and shape information was shown to be important for this purpose. Experiments show that state-of-the-art pose synthesis methods do not perform well if trained with sparse object views in image space. DRAW overcomes this issue by leveraging cross-modal structure priors and generates results of reasonable quality, structural integrity and instance identity.
{\small
\bibliographystyle{ieee_fullname}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
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What am I doing wrong? What I try to reach is getting all entries that DO contain a grid-row. video is name of grid field, fragment is name of the column.
Well if you want to search into Grid then first you should enable all fields which you want to search, by Include in search? parameter from the Grid fieldtype. After that you should add search:column_name= with your grid field_name into your code.
In your case you should try with below code.
I hope this will works for you.
Not the answer you're looking for? Browse other questions tagged search grid ee4 ee5 or ask your own question.
Bug in Grid row_id as a limiting parameter?
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
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\section{Introduction}
Shortest paths are one of the main objects of interest in network science, an interest driven by applications in transportation networks \cite{zhan1998,zeng2009,li2010}, the internet \cite{albert1999,tangmunarunkit2001,fortz2004,echenique2004,yan2006} and protein--protein interaction networks \cite{managbanag2008,jiang2013}, among other systems. They also enter into the definition of key structural properties such as the closeness, the efficiency or the betweenness centrality \cite{boccaletti2006, newman2010}. The definition of a shortest path between two nodes can be generalized to include, for example, constraints or obstacles (see e.g.\! \cite{zheng1996,carlyle2008,lozano2013,hershberger2020}) or to reach several targets from one or several sources (see e.g. \cite{knopp2007,jagadeesh2019}). A great deal of work in the applied discrete mathematics, theoretical computer science and statistical physics communities has dealt with the solutions of such problems, and the computational complexity of the algorithms involved to find them.
Generally speaking, this research addresses problems such as how to find the shortest path between two nodes always passing, or without ever passing, through another one; but does not consider situations where a node is visited a fraction of times. Moreover, these methods cannot be easily extended to address problems where a given path observable is required to take a specific (not necessarily extremal) value, which may be characterized in a statistical sense. For example, it is not clear how one goes about finding the path or paths that maximize the fluctuations (e.g. the variability across realizations of a stochastic process) of a given current; or the path that guarantees that a certain node is visited on average twice as frequently as another node.
In more practical terms, what is the shortest path that a passenger or a data packet can take without saturating a given node or link? Or what is the choice that maximizes the number of paths taken without the overall path length exceeding a certain threshold? These can also be considered optimal paths in a generalized sense, as they are chosen to ensure that the statistics of a given observable for a particle moving across the network takes specific values or does not exceed certain bounds.
Similarly, one could think of redistributing the link weights of a network, characterized by a given adjacency matrix, so as to ensure that a set of nodes is visited with some frequency in the resulting weighted network, or that no link carries more than a certain amount of some flow. While this problem is less intensively investigated than that of optimal paths, examples can be found in the literature of e.g.\! networks that are optimal for sustaining a synchronized dynamics \cite{tanaka2008,nishikawa2006,sevilla2016,kempton2017}. Recent contributions based on a kindred dynamical-control approach
show how to engineer force fields in many-particle systems so as to achieve prescribed steady-state distributions \cite{nemoto2017,ray18a,hurtadogutierrez2020}.
In this work we propose a theoretical approach to unveil such generalized optimal paths and weight distributions by analyzing the statistics of trajectories using large-deviation methods \cite{garrahan2009}. Specifically, we analyze the large deviations of random walks on graphs \cite{debacco2016, coghi2019}. This allows us to find paths that are optimal in the statistical sense outlined above, or weight distributions that make a network optimal for a given statistical characterization pertaining to the flow of information or physical entities. By biasing the dynamics with certain observables we obtain the random-walk stationary distribution that guarantees that such observables (e.g.\! the activity associated with a node or link, or a current in a specific direction in a spatial network) satisfy some statistical constraint, which may be related to its mean value, fluctuations, or higher-order cumulants. We then employ the auxiliary process given by the generalized Doob transform \cite{simon09a,popkov10a,jack2010,chetrite2015}, to find the transition probabilities which give rise to the long-time statistics of the above-mentioned observable. By combining the biased stationary state with the generalized Doob transform, we extract the probability fluxes of the biased walk, which highlight the existence of optimal paths. Furthermore, the Doob-transformed process itself yields an optimal distribution of link weights in the same generalized sense.
We illustrate this versatile approach by finding generalized optimal paths in random graphs in the presence of constraints. To this end, we study the trajectories of the maximal entropy random walk \cite{burda2009} in an appropriate trajectory ensemble using as observable local activities. We also study constrained optimal weight distributions for maximal current or flow on spatial networks by means of the standard random walk \cite{noh2004}. These choices have been made as each is uniquely well suited to the problem under study. Once the choice of the appropriate process, observables and trajectory ensemble is made for a given problem involving generalized optimal paths or weight distributions, the solution can be found by a few steps of linear algebra.
While the large-deviation approach lies at the basis of equilibrium statistical mechanics, and is regarded as the natural language for dealing with many problems in non-equilibrium statistical physics \cite{touchette2009}, its application to the study of networks has started only recently. We conclude this introduction with a brief summary of some significant recent research. In the first work on large deviations of random walks on networks of which we are aware \cite{debacco2016}, the study of path averages of observables associated with random walks on complex networks reveals the existence of localization and mode-switching dynamical phase transitions. More recently, in a contribution that has strongly influenced our methodology \cite{coghi2019}, such localization phenomena are explained by means of the generalized Doob transform, which is also used to shed new light on the relationship between the maximum entropy random walk and the standard random walk. Various other processes have been explored with related methologies in publications dealing with, e.g., percolation transitions in single or multilayer networks subject to rare initial configurations, \cite{bianconi2018,bianconi2019}, paths leading to epidemic extinction \cite{hindes2016,hindes2017}, the connection between the rate of rare events and heterogeneity in population networks \cite{hindes2019}, or large-fluctutation-induced phase switch in majority-vote models \cite{chen2017}. Additionally, large-deviation and rare-event techniques have been employed in the exploration of structural properties, such as the assortativity in configuration-model networks \cite{chen2019}, the study of ensembles of random graphs satisfying structural contraints \cite{denhollander2018,giardina2020}, and the existence of a first-order condensation transition in the node degrees \cite{metz2019}.
\section{Thermodynamics of trajectories of random walks}
Random walks have been studied in continuous media and discrete spaces. Among the latter, much recent work has been devoted to the study of random walks on networks \cite{masuda2017,riascos2019}. Here we consider two different types of discrete-time random walks on networks: the standard random walk (SRW) \cite{noh2004} and the maximal entropy random walk (MERW) \cite{burda2009}. Both are discrete-time Markov chains whose components of the probability vector ${\bm p}$ evolve in time as $p_j(n+1) = \Pi_{ji}\, p_i(n)$, where the non-negative integer $n$ is the time step, $p_i(n)$ is the probability that a random walker visits node $i$ at time $n$, and $\Pi_{ji}$ is the probability of a transition to $j$ conditioned on the node being in $i$.
As usual, $\sum_i p_i(n) = 1$ for all $n$, and the probabilities of all possible transitions from a given node add up to one, $\sum_j \Pi_{ji} = 1$.
The SRW is suitable for the study of flow on networks ---currents, fluid flow, goods, etc.--- \cite{ahuja1993}, as it considers that a particle in a node can jump to any of its neighbors with the same probability (in the case of unweighted networks) or with probabilities proportional to the link weights (for weighted networks). Given an unweighted network ---this will be our starting point, though the generalization to weighted networks does not pose any difficulty--- with directed adjacency matrix ${\bf A}$, where $A_{ji} = 1$ if there is a link pointing from $i$ to $j$ and is $0$ otherwise, the entries of the transition matrix ${\bf \Pi}$ are
\begin{equation}
\Pi_{ji}^{\text{SRW}} = \frac{A_{ji}}{k^\text{out}_i}.
\label{swr}
\end{equation}
The normalization by the out-degree, which is defined as the number of neighbors joined by outgoing links, $k^\text{out}_i = \sum_j A_{ji}$, ensures the conservation of probability.
The MERW, on the other hand, is most suitable for the exploration of generalized optimal paths in networks, as it assigns the same probability to all trajectories comprising the same number of steps joining two given nodes (which the SRW does not do, see Appendix A). The transition matrix is given by
\begin{equation}
\Pi_{ji}^\text{MERW} = \frac{A_{ji}}{\lambda}\frac{v_j}{v_i}.
\label{mewr}
\end{equation}
where $\lambda$ is the largest eigenvalue of the directed adjacency matrix, and ${\bm v}$ is the normalized eigenvector associated with it, ${\bm A}{\bm v} = \lambda {\bm v}$. For a more detailed discussion of the SRW and the MERW, as well as references treating other types of random walks on networks, see Appendix A.
For either type of random walk, a trajectory up to time $\tau$, $\omega_{\tau}$, is given by the sequence of nodes visited at each step, $\omega_{\tau}= (i_\tau \leftarrow \cdots \leftarrow i_2 \leftarrow i_1 \leftarrow i_0)$. We consider time-extensive observables of the form $\hat{O}(\omega_{\tau}) = \sum_{n=1}^\tau \hat{o}(i_n \leftarrow i_{n-1})$, with $ \hat{o}(i_n \leftarrow i_{n-1})$ being the increment of the observable at a time step, whose value depends on the nodes $i_{n-1}$ and $i_n$, which are joined by a link. As the probability assigned to the trajectory is $P(\omega_{\tau}) =\Pi_{i_\tau i_{\tau-1}} \cdots \Pi_{i_2 i_1}\Pi_{i_1 i_0}p_{i_0}(0)$,
the probability distribution of the observable is $P_{\tau}(O) = \sum_{\omega_{\tau}}\delta(O - \hat{O}(\omega_{\tau})) P(\omega_{\tau})$. This distribution corresponds to an ensemble of trajectories with fixed observable $O$ and fixed time $\tau$. It acquires a large-deviation form $P_{\tau}(O/\tau)\sim e^{-\tau I(O/\tau)}$, which is here given in terms of the time-intensive observable $O/\tau$ (see Appendix B for details). The function $I(O/\tau)$ is called the rate function, which plays the role of a dynamical entropy. This ensemble of trajectories is analogous to the micro-canonical ensemble of equilibrium statistical mechanics, and it is generally speaking not the most useful one to work with. Fortunately, the thermodynamic formalism of time-extensive dynamical observables developed in Refs.~\cite{lecomte2007,garrahan2009} shows how to study the statistics of $O$ in more suitable ensembles.
By biasing trajectories with a parameter $s$ ---which we refer to as the \emph{tilting parameter}--- we obtain the $s$-ensemble, where $\tau$ is fixed but $O$ is now a fluctuating observable whose probability distribution is given by $P_{\tau}^s(O) = Z_{\tau}^{-1}(s)\, e^{-s O}P_{\tau}(O)$. The normalization factor is a dynamical partition function which also acquires a large-deviation form for large $\tau$, $Z_{\tau}(s) = \sum_O e^{-s O} P_{\tau}(O) \sim e^{\tau \theta(s)}$, where $\theta(s)$ is the so-called scaled-cumulant generating function (SCGF), and is related to the rate function by a Legendre-Fenchel transform \cite{touchette2009}. Its role is that of a dynamical free energy, and in fact from its derivatives one can obtain the cumulants of the time-intensive observable $O/\tau$ (see Appendix B). Crucially, the partition function can be expressed as $Z_{\tau}(s) = \sum_{i,j} [\left({\bm \Pi^s}\right)^\tau]_{ji} p_{i}(0)$, where ${\bm \Pi^s}$ is the \emph{tilted operator}, which is akin to a transfer matrix, whose elements are
\begin{equation}
\Pi_{ji}^s = e^{-s \hat{o}(j \leftarrow i)} \Pi_{ji}\,.
\label{tilteds}
\end{equation}
Thus, finding the SCGF $\theta(s)$ ---which fully characterizes the statistics of $O$--- reduces, in the long time limit, to an eigenvalue problem for the tilted operator \eqref{tilteds}. Actually, by spectral decomposition it is straightforward to check that, for long times, ${\theta(s)}$ is given by the logarithm of the largest eigenvalue of ${\bm \Pi^s}$.
While the derivatives of $\theta(s)$ at $s=0$ correspond to the cumulants of $O$ in the typical (unbiased) dynamics, those evaluated at $s\neq 0$ provide information about the statistics of $O$ in the atypical (biased) dynamics. Notice that such information is carried by the so-called rare trajectories ---as they are exponentially unlikely--- associated with $s\neq 0$, which are not, however, easily retrieved from the tilted operator \eqref{tilteds}, as it is not a stochastic matrix ($\sum_j \Pi_{ji}^s \neq 1$). Nevertheless, as we later explain, this unphysical tilted operator can be transformed into a proper stochastic matrix by means of the generalized Doob transform, revealing the rare trajectories of interest. The latter arise from the transition probabilities leading to the fluctuation conjugate to the tilting parameter $s$.
\begin{figure*}[t!]
\includegraphics[scale=0.147]{Fig1.png}\\
\caption{{\sf \bf Finding paths that extremize the cycle length or maximize its fluctuations in simple graphs.}
(a) Probability distribution of the sample mean of the cycle length $\ell$ (see text for the definition) of $M$ random walk trajectories on the graph depicted on the upper right corner, starting and ending at the node highlighted in red, for $M=1,10,50,100$. The distribution follows a large deviation principle $P_M(\ell)\sim e^{-M I(\ell)}$ for large $M$, where only small fluctuations around the mean are Gaussian, since $I(\ell)$ is not quadratic for large fluctuations. (b) Original $\ell$ distribution ($x=0$) for $M=100$, and three tilted distributions: while $x = -0.075$ maximizes the fluctuations, $x=-1.5$ and $x=1.5$ peak around the longest and shortest possible lengths, respectively. The graphs display the probability fluxes as given by the Doob transform (arrow thickness is proportional to the probability flux). Probability fluxes smaller than the largest value divided by 200 are not displayed for visibility reasons. (c) SCGF $\varphi(x)$ and path-lenght mean $\langle \ell \rangle_{x} = -\varphi^\prime(x)$ and (scaled) fluctuations $M (\langle \ell^2 \rangle_{x} - \langle \ell \rangle_{x} ^2) = \varphi^{\prime\prime}(x)$ for large $M$. (d) SCGF $\varphi(x)$, $\langle \ell \rangle_{x} $ and $M (\langle \ell^2 \rangle_{x} - \langle \ell \rangle_{x}^2)$, and probability fluxes for $x=3$ (shortest path) and $x=-0.28$ (localized walker), corresponding to the graph depicted in this panel for $x = 0$.
}\label{fig1}
\end{figure*}
If instead of keeping fixed the duration of a trajectory $\tau$, we fix the value that the observable $O$ reaches for each trajectory ---thus allowing $\tau$ to fluctuate---, we obtain a different statistical ensemble, namely the $x$-ensemble \cite{budini2014}. In this ensemble, we shall consider as observable $O$ a local activity, namely the number of times a given link (or set of links) is traversed in a trajectory, having ${\hat o}(j \leftarrow i)=1$ whenever this occurs and zero otherwise. We denote by $P(y_O)$ the probability of a trajectory $y_O=(i_\tau \leftarrow \cdots \leftarrow i_2 \leftarrow i_1 \leftarrow i_0)$ that reaches a fixed value $O$ in a number of steps $\tau$. As the latter fluctuates from trajectory to trajectory, the probability distribution of the time duration for fixed $O$ is $P_O(\tau)= \sum_{y_O}\delta(\tau - \hat{\tau}(y_O)) P(y_O)$, where the operator $\hat{\tau}$ counts the number of time steps in a trajectory.
In this case, the dynamical partition function conditioned on a fixed value of $O$ reads
\begin{equation}
Z_O(x) =\sum_\tau e^{-x \tau} P_O(\tau) = \sum_{i,j} \left[({\bm \Pi}^x)^O\right]_{ji}p_{i}(0),
\end{equation}
which again we write in terms of a tilted operator, namely
\begin{equation}
{\bm \Pi^x} = {\bf \Pi}_O (e^{x}- {\bf \tilde \Pi} )^{-1}.
\label{tiltedx}
\end{equation}
Here, ${\bf \Pi}_O$ is a matrix which preserves the transition probabilities of ${\bf \Pi}$ only for those transitions (links) contributing to $O$ (i.e.\! $j \leftarrow i $ such that ${\hat o}(j \leftarrow i) \neq 0$), the rest of its entries being zero, and ${\bf \tilde \Pi}={\bf \Pi}-{\bf \Pi}_O$. For large $O$ (which also corresponds to large $\tau$), the grand-partition function acquires a large-deviation form $Z_O(x) \sim e^{O \varphi(x)}$, where $e^{\varphi(x)}$ is the largest eigenvalue of ${\bm \Pi^x}$. The cumulants of the fluctuating time between observable $O$ updates, $\tau/O$, can then be obtained from the derivatives of the $x$-ensemble SCGF $\varphi(x)$ (see Appendix B).
While the $s$-ensemble and the $x$-ensemble are equivalent in the $\tau\to\infty$ (hence $O\to\infty$, as $O$ is time-extensive) limit \cite{budini2014,garrahan2017}, the former is more natural for the study of time-averaged observables of the form $O/\tau$, and the latter is more appropriate for the analysis of their reciprocal, $\tau/O$. In the following, we will use one or the other depending on the specific problem under study.
In fact we will also consider ensembles of biased trajectories with two different tilting parameters. The latter will be conjugate to two fluctuating time-extensive observables, or a fluctuating observable and the duration of the trajectory $\tau$. A description of such $ss$- and $sx$-ensembles, as they are respectively referred to, as well as a more detailed characterization of the ensembles presented above can be found in Appendix B. In the $ss$- and $sx$-ensembles it will also be possible ot obtain the relevant SCGFs by computing the largest eigenvalues of certain transfer operators, which are extensions of those given in Eqs.~(\ref{tilteds}) and (\ref{tiltedx}).
All such tilted operators, as explained above for the $s$-ensemble and regardless of the ensemble under consideration, have something in common: they are not stochastic operators. However, by an application of the generalized Doob transform \cite{simon09a,popkov10a,jack2010,chetrite2015} ---which for convenience we will just refer to as the Doob transform in the remaining of this paper---, one obtains an auxiliary process that gives rise to the same statistics as the tilted operator in the long-time limit, but is a proper stochastic process. The Doob transform of a tilted operator is discussed in Appendix C and references therein. The transformed transition matrix ${\bm \Pi}_\text{Doob}$ gives us the set of transition probabilities that characterize the auxiliary process. By multiplying these with the corresponding stationary probabilities ${\bm p}^{\text st}$, which satisfy ${\bm \Pi}_\text{Doob}{\bm p}^{\text st}={\bm p}^{\text st}$,
we obtain the probability fluxes $(\Pi_\text{Doob})_{ji}p^{\text st}_i$, which are the joint probabilities of being at node $i$ at a given time step, and moving to node $j$ at the next one. While the transition matrix ${\bm \Pi}_\text{Doob}$ will give us the optimal link weights in order to sustain a given statistics, the probability fluxes will visually reveal most clearly the network that results from imposing such statistics on the observables of interest, and highlight the optimal paths in it.
\section{Optimal paths from large deviations of maximal-entropy random walks}
\subsection{{\sf \bf Biased trajectories in directed rings }}
We first illustrate the idea of searching for optimal paths with a simple example. Consider the ring with a shortcut shown in Fig.~\ref{fig1} (a). A particle starts from the node which has been highlighted in red, and then hops counterclockwise to the neighboring node, and then hops again
always following the MERW transition probabilities. These are all identically one, except when the particle reaches the node from which the shortcut starts, where it may continue along the ring with probability $p \approx 0.41$ or it may take the shortcut with probability $q = 1-p \approx 0.59$.
We will be interested in the statistics of the length (number of time steps) of a cyclic walk that starts and ends in the red node. If the cycle is performed $M$ times, we consider the probability distribution of the sample mean $\ell = M^{-1} \sum_{i=1}^M \ell^{(i)}$, where $\ell^{(i)}$ is the cycle length of a given realization. For a single cycle ($M=1$), the walker can either follow along the ring with probability $p$, which gives $\ell = \ell_p = 12$, or take the shortcut with probability $q$, for which $\ell = \ell_q = 7$, see Fig.~\ref{fig1} (a). As $M$ grows, $\ell$ takes more and more values, and for sufficiently large $M$, the distribution centers around the mean $p\, \ell_p + q\, \ell_q \approx 9.04$ following a large deviation principle $P_M(\ell)\sim e^{-M I(\ell))}$, with fluctuations that are approximately Gaussian only around the mean --- i.e. $|\ell-\langle \ell \rangle|\sim{\cal O}(1/\sqrt{M})$---, as expected from the law of large numbers and the central limit theorem. Fluctuations that deviate far from the average are, however, not Gaussian and they are the prime concern of large-deviation theory.
In order to unveil optimal paths, we shall focus on the probability of large deviations of $\ell$. These are studied in the $x$-ensemble, since we are interested in the fluctuations of the length (number of time steps) for a given number of cycles. The duration of the trajectory $\ell M$ is thus fluctuating (this would correspond to $\tau$ in Section II) and the number of realizations $M$ is fixed (this would correspond to $O$ in Section II). The latter condition can be achieved by fixing to $M$ the activity through the link that reaches the red node from the preceding node in the ring ---this is the local observable. We thus take the probability distribution $P_M(\ell)$, corresponding to $M=100$ cycles, and bias it using $x$ as tilting parameter,
\begin{equation}
P_M^x(\ell) = e^{-x M \ell} P_M(\ell)/Z_M(x).
\end{equation}
Here $P_M(\ell) = P_M^{x=0}(\ell)$, $Z_M(x)$ is a normalizing factor, and the large-deviation regime corresponds to large values of $M$. In Fig.~\ref{fig1} (b), we show such tilted probability distribution for $M=100$ and different values of $x$,
namely $x = -1.5,-0.075$ and $1.5$ ---the untilted case $x = 0$, which was already shown in panel (a), is also included for comparison. These choices of $x$ correspond to the largest ($x = -1.5$) and smallest ($x = 1.5$) possible $\langle \ell \rangle_x$, which are of course $\ell_p$ and $\ell_q$ respectively, and to the value ($x = -0.075$) that maximizes the fluctuations $\langle \ell^2 \rangle_x -\langle \ell \rangle_x^2$. This information is obtained from the SCGF $\varphi(x)$ of the $x$-ensemble of MERW trajectories, which is shown, together with its first and second derivatives, in Fig.~\ref{fig1} (c). Such derivatives (with the appropriate signs) correspond to the mean and the (scaled) fluctuations of $\ell$: $\langle \ell \rangle_x = -\varphi^\prime(x)$ and $M (\langle \ell^2 \rangle_x - \langle \ell \rangle_x^2) = \varphi^{\prime\prime}(x)$.
In this simple directed ring, the analytical expression for the SCGF $\varphi(x)$ can be readily obtained from the large deviations of $\ell$, so one does not need to compute the largest eigenvalue of the tilted operator in Eq.~(\ref{tiltedx}). We briefly review the main steps of the calculation ---a detailed derivation can be found in Appendix D. As each $\ell^{(i)}$ is a Bernouilli trial which takes the values $\ell_p$ and $\ell_q$ with probabilities $p$ and $q=1-p$, the random variable $n_p$, quantifying the fraction of times that the path of length $\ell_p$ is taken, has a binomial probability distribution. Its large-deviation form can be obtained through an application of Stirling's approximation. By a change of variable we find the distribution of $\ell = n_p \ell_p + (1-n_p) \ell_q$, which also acquires a large-deviation form $P_M^x(\ell) \sim e^{-M I(\ell)}$. From the rate function $I(\ell)$, the SCGF $\varphi(x) = \lim_{M\to\infty} \log[Z_M(x)]/M$ is obtained via a Legendre transform $\varphi(x) = -\text{min}_\ell[x \ell+ I(\ell)]$, yielding
\begin{equation}
\varphi(x) = -x \ell_q + \log[p e^{-x(\ell_p -\ell_q)} + (1-p) ].
\label{varphidirring}
\end{equation} The analytical expression of its first derivative shows that the average $\langle \ell \rangle_x$ is bounded between $\ell_q$ and $\ell_p$, and approaches those bounds for large tilting-parameter (absolute) values. The asymptotic value $\ell_q$ is reached for positive $x$, while $\ell_p$ corresponds to negative $x$, as expected for a sufficiently strong bias towards shorter/longer cycles. In Fig.~\ref{fig1} (c), for the values $p$, $\ell_p$ and $\ell_q$ under consideration, such extreme values are already practically reached for $|x| \approx 1$, but this value will change if the shortcut is located elsewhere (see Appendix D).
The probability fluxes corresponding to those same values for which we show the tilted distributions, namely $x = -1.5,-0.075$ and $1.5$, are also displayed in Fig.~\ref{fig1} (b). They highlight the optimal paths in each of the three situations considered. The extreme values of $x$ correspond to a walk that just moves along the ring (for negative $x$, which favors long paths, $\langle \ell \rangle_x \approx \ell_p$) or takes the shortcut (for positive $x$, which favors short paths, $\langle \ell \rangle_x \approx \ell_q$). On the other hand, the maximization of the fluctuations leads to the shortcut being taken or avoided with probability $1/2$. While one can calculate the statistics of $\ell$ for all $x$ without resorting to the $x$-ensemble tilted generator (\ref{tiltedx})---at least for very simple systems whose SCGF $\varphi(x)$ can be found analytically---, the eigenvectors of such operator are still needed to compute the Doob transform, and therefore to obtain the probability fluxes, see Appendix C. Moreover, the distributions for $|x|=1.5$ displayed in Fig.~\ref{fig1} (b) are also based on the Doob-transformed process, as this allows us to circumvent the challenging task of numerically performing very strong tiltings, which result in distributions lying on regions where $P_M(\ell)$ is negligibly small ---see the pertinent discussion in Ref.~\cite{Carollo2018}.
While in the illustrative example we have just considered the resulting optimal paths are trivial, in more complex topologies our approach unveils paths and weight distributions whose adequacy for sustaining given observable statistics is far from obvious. But before moving on to such more interesting examples, let us illustrate the point with another simple case, namely, a ring with alternate bidirectional links, see Fig.~\ref{fig1} (d), where the original probability fluxes are shown for $x=0$. This allows us to discuss localization phenomena and diverging times, which will also appear later. In this case we compute the SCGF from the corresponding $x$-ensemble operator, and obtain from its derivatives the mean cycle length $\langle \ell \rangle_x$ and the (scaled) fluctuations $M(\langle \ell^2 \rangle_x - \langle \ell \rangle_x^2)$. For $x=3$ the probability fluxes show the shortest possible path, as expected, which moves counterclockwise along the ring with vanishingly small fluctuations. For negative $x$, however, there is a vertical asymptote in the SCGF, hence the cumulants diverge. The probability fluxes for a value of $x$ sufficiently close to the divergence show a situation where the particle becomes localized and never reaches the red node from its clockwise neighbor ---see the trajectories for $x=-0.28$ in Fig.~\ref{fig1} (d). Quite appropriately, $\langle \ell \rangle_x$ grows unboundedly as $x$ approaches the divergence and the particle becomes more and more localized. The mathematical origin of divergences in the $x$-ensemble is discussed in Appendix B.
\subsection{Constrained optimal paths in random graphs} A more interesting case is considered next, namely, that of finding optimal paths in the presence of constraints in random graphs. To provide a concrete illustration, we consider a random graph of $N=20$ nodes with $3 N$ directed links distributed uniformly at random among them, see Fig.~\ref{fig2} (c) and (d) ---the links highlighted in colors others than gray will be discussed below. Much larger networks with Poissonian or power-law degree distributions, or networks arising from applications that do not correspond to a precise mathematical model could be similarly studied.
In this case, a particle repeatedly performs a MERW from the source node $1$ and reaches the target node $20$ after $\ell$ steps. Again, we study the statistics of $\ell$, but this time we also consider whether the particle goes through an obstacle, node $15$, before reaching the target node. Here, ``obstacle'' is used in a loose sense to indicate that some constraint, based on how frequently the walker goes through that node, will be applied. To this end, we employ a second observable, namely $k$, which gives the activity of the obstacle, defined as the number of times the particle goes through the obstacle before reaching the target node. The obstacle can be completely avoided, or it can just be avoided a fraction of the times that the target node is reached, or the particle may even be biased to visit it more frequently that in the natural dynamics ---it all depends on the value of the tilting parameter $s$ conjugate to $k$ (see below).
Before discussing the results of our analysis, we mention a technical point which may be relevant in applications. The large-deviation analysis allows us to access the average, fluctuations and higher cumulants of $k$ and $\ell$, including correlations between them, for different tilting-parameter values across many walks. This is made possible by the existence of a link connecting node $20$ with node $1$. This link restarts the process when the target node is reached and guarantees the time-extensivity of integrated observables (see Appendix B for details). In practice, this may already be part of the network or, if not, it should be expressly introduced for the analysis.
\begin{figure}[t!]
\includegraphics[scale=0.150]{Fig2.png}\\
\caption{{\sf \bf Finding optimal paths in random graphs in the presence of constraints.}
(a) Average length $\langle l \rangle_{sx}$ of path joining nodes $1$ (source) and $20$ (target) in the graph shown in panels (c) and (d) as a function of the tilting parameters $s$ and $x$. (b) Average activity $\langle k \rangle_{sx}$, i.e.\! number of times that node $15$ is visited before the target is reached, as a function of the tilting parameters $s$ and $x$. Highlighted points correspond to probability fluxes shown in the panels below. The black segment shows the contour line for $\langle k \rangle_{sx} = 1/3.$ (c) Probability fluxes obtained from the Doob-transformed process corresponding to the red circle, the green star and the blue square points shown in (b). (d) Probability fluxes obtained from the Doob transformed process of the magenta triangle in (b). Probability fluxes smaller than the largest value divided by 200 are not displayed for visibility reasons.
}\label{fig2}
\end{figure}
We consider an $sx$-ensemble, with tilted probability distribution
\begin{equation}
P^{s x}_M(k,\ell) = e^{-s M k -x M \ell} P_M(k,\ell)/Z_M(s,x)
\end{equation}
where $P_M(k,\ell) = P^{s=0,x=0}_M(k,\ell)$, $Z_M(s,x)$ is a normalizing factor, and $M$ is assumed to be fixed and large. The fluctuating time is again $M \ell$, and $M k$ is an $M$-extensive ---hence time-extensive--- observable (it corresponds to $K$ in Appendix B). The SCGF $\varphi(s,x)$ is calculated from the largest eigenvalue of the tilted operator (see Appendix B), and from its partial derivatives we obtain the average activity $\langle k \rangle_{sx} = -\partial_s \varphi(s,x)$ and the average path length $\langle \ell \rangle_{sx} = -\partial_x \varphi(s,x)$, which are shown in Fig.~\ref{fig2} (a) and (b) respectively. The gray area on the lower left-hand corner corresponds to a region where the averages grow extremely rapidly and eventually diverge for reasons analogous to those given above regarding the divergence shown in Fig.~\ref{fig1} (d). For $x=0$ (no tilting is applied on $\ell$) the physical meaning is clear: as $s$ becomes negative, the particle goes through the obstacle more and more frequently before reaching the target node, and when $s$ is sufficiently large and negative, it never reaches it. For sufficiently large and positive $s$, on the other hand, the particle completely avoids the obstacle, so we have $\langle k\rangle_{sx} \approx 0$ and a finite $\ell$. As $x$ is increased (when the tilting favors shorter walks joining the source node and the target node), the particle goes more rapidly towards the target, and therefore it requires a larger negative value of $s$ to start growing steeply and eventually diverge.
The probability fluxes derived from the Doob transform for the point ($s=-5.24$, $x =1.95$), which lies very close to the divergence and is highlighted with a green star in Fig.~\ref{fig2} (b), are shown as green arrows in panel (c). They clearly display a trajectory where the particle moves back and forth between the obstacle and its neighbors, without ever reaching the target. This and other points discussed below are only highlighted in panel (b), where the color map shows values of $\langle \ell \rangle_{sx}$, but of course they correspond to the same parameter-space points in (a), where the color map shows values of $\langle k\rangle_{sx}$.
More importantly, a crossover between a region where $\langle k\rangle_{sx} \approx 0$ and a plateau where $\langle k\rangle_{sx} \approx 1$ is observed in (a), which corresponds to a crossover from a region where $\langle \ell \rangle_{sx}$ is larger than $4$ to a region where $\langle \ell \rangle_{sx} \approx 4$ in (b). The probability fluxes for the point ($s=-3$, $x =5$), which is highlighted with a red disc in Fig.~\ref{fig2} (b) and corresponds to $\langle \ell \rangle_{sx} = 4$, are shown as red arrows in panel (c). They show a trajectory where the particle moves along the shortest path between the source and the target, and gets back to the source after precisely four steps. As the obstacle lies on this path, we have $\langle k\rangle_{sx} = 1$. On the other side of the crossover and for sufficiently large $s$ and $x$, for example for ($s=12$, $x =5$), the walker chooses the shortest amongst the paths that avoid the obstacle, see the blue square in (b) and the blue arrows in (c).
One may be interested in finding the path or combination of paths that only visit the obstacle with a given frequency while reaching the target node in the smallest possible number of steps.
In contrast with the cases discussed above, this type of generalized path is, as far as we are aware, outside the reach the graph-theoretical methods typically used for finding shortest paths, despite its clear practical interest, e.g.\! in transportation networks where a given station or airport may have a limited capacity that cannot be exceeded. To this end we set the actvitiy of the obstacle to $\langle k \rangle_{sx} = 1/3$: one in three times when the target is reached the walker has passed throught the obstacle. We then obtain the set of points of the $(s,x)$ grid where $\langle k \rangle_{sx} = 1/3$ with an error of $\pm 0.001$. The resulting segment is highlighted in black in Fig.~\ref{fig2} (b). For $x \geq 4$ the average path length evaluated along the segment practically reaches an asymptotic value of $\langle \ell \rangle_{sx} \approx 4.67$, which is then the shortest time it takes to reach the target while passing through the obstacle only 1/3 of the times. The probability fluxes for the point ($s=4.815$, $x =4$), which is highlighted with a pink triangle in Fig.~\ref{fig2} (b), are shown in panel (d). Apart from the shortest path, which occurs with a probability $1/3$ ---as it should, given that it contains the obstacle---, the other 2/3 are equally split among the three second shortest paths, out of a total of five, that do not cross the obstacle.
\section{Optimal weight distribution from large deviations of standard random walks}
We next illustrate how to find optimal weight distributions that maximize flows in the presence of constraints. To do so, we consider a SRW on the spatial network shown in Fig.~\ref{fig3} (c) and (d) ---the links highlighted in colors other than gray are probability fluxes in certain dynamical regimes that will be discussed below. This network of $N=100$ nodes has been generated by adding a noise term uniformly distributed in $[-0.5, 0.5]$ to the $x$ and $y$ coordinates of the nodes of a $10\times 10$ square lattice of lattice constant one. As an additional source of disorder, the links are equiprobably set to be either bidirectional or unidirectional (in the latter case, the direction is also chosen at random). Since we consider periodic boundary conditions, these links also include those connecting one end of the network with the opposite end, both in the horizontal and vertical directions (not shown in the Figure for visibility reasons). The fact that the network is spatial is important, because the definition of the flow will depend on the coordinates of the nodes that are traversed. As in the previous section, our results are meant to be illustrative and thus we focus on a moderately large and visually simple network, but the same approach can be employed on any topology without restriction.
Two observables are considered, a global observable and a local one. The global observable is the total current along the horizontal axis, which we denote $j_g$, and is defined as the increment in $x$-coordinate per unit time in a random walk of $\tau$ time steps. In a jump from node $i$ to node $j$, the contribution to the current is thus $x_j - x_i$, where $x_i$ is the horizontal cartesian coordinate of node $i$.
The local observable is associated with the highlighted links joining the red nodes in the center of the graphs displayed in Fig.~\ref{fig3} (c) and (d). We denote it $j_l$ as it is a local current, which simply adds $+1$ if the particle jumps from a red node to another red node that its lying on the right and $-1$ if the jump goes towards the left. In any other case it is zero, and that includes jumps that are predominantly in the vertical direction or which connect a red node with a black node or two black nodes. In the definition of $j_l$ we do not consider the coordinates of the red nodes, as we are just interested in limiting how frequently the walker passes through those links in a give direction. The role of predominantly horizontal links joining red nodes is in a way similar to that of the links leading to the obstacle in Fig.~\ref{fig2}, though in this case we are considering weight distributions, not optimal paths, currents instead of activities, and both the type of random walk and the statistical ensemble are different. While $-1\leq j_g \leq 1$, the maximum value that $j_l$ can achieve depends on the details of the network (see below).
\begin{figure}[t!]
\includegraphics[scale=0.133]{Fig3.png}\\
\caption{{\sf \bf Optimal weight distribution for the maximization of flows under constraints in spatial networks.}
(a) Average global current $\langle j_g \rangle_{s_g s_l}$ in the graph shown in panels (c) and (d) as a function of the tilting parameters $s_g$ and $s_l$. (b) Average local current through the highlighted links joining two red nodes $\langle j_l \rangle_{s_g s_l}$ as a function of the tilting parameters $s_g$ and $s_l$. Highlighted points correspond to probability fluxes shown in the panels below. (c) Probability fluxes obtained from the Doob-transformed process corresponding to the blue circle and the cyan star shown in (b).(c) Probability fluxes obtained from the Doob-transformed process corresponding to the light green triangle and the dark green square in (b). Probability fluxes smaller than the largest value divided by 200 are not displayed for visibility reasons.
}\label{fig3}
\end{figure}
As both currents, $j_g$ and $j_l$, are time-averaged observables (of the form $O/\tau$, cf.\! Section II), we consider the $ss$-ensemble (see Appendix B), for which the tilted probability distribution is
\begin{equation}
P^{s_g s_l}_{\tau}(j_g,j_l) = e^{-s_g \tau j_g - s_l \tau j _l } P_{\tau}(j_g,j_l)/Z_{\tau}(s_g,s_l)\, ,
\end{equation}
where $ P_{\tau}(j_g,j_l)= P^{s_g=0,s_l=0}_{\tau}(j_g,j_l)$, and $Z_{\tau}(s_g,s_l)$ is a normalizing factor, and the time $\tau$ is assumed to be fixed and large. The SCGF $\theta(s_g,s_l)$ is computed as the largest eigenvalue of the corresponding tilted operator (see Appendix B), and from its partial derivatives we obtain the average global current $\langle j_g \rangle_{s_g s_l} = -\partial_{s_g} \theta(s_g,s_l)$ and the average local current $\langle j_l \rangle_{s_g s_l} = -\partial_{s_l} \theta(s_g,s_l)$, which are shown in Fig.~\ref{fig3} (a) and (b) respectively. Several distinct regions are identified on both color maps. While for a regular lattice there is a symmetry under simultaneous reversal of both tilting parameters $s_g \rightarrow -s_g$, $s_l \rightarrow -s_l$, i.e.\! $\theta(-s_g,-s_l) = \theta(s_g,s_l)$, the presence of disorder breaks that symmetry in this case.
We focus on global currents moving from left to right, corresponding to $s_g<0$. We first look at the case where this is the only tilting parameter ---by setting $s_l =0$---, see the $(s_g = -2, s_l =0)$ point highlighted as a cyan star in Fig.~\ref{fig3} (b) and the probability fluxes depicted as cyan arrows in panel (c). The very large global current $\langle j_g\rangle_{s_g s_l} \approx 0.837$ [see (a)] is due to the existence of jumps that advance consistently to the right along the fastest possible routes. It turns out that those routes go along the links joining the red nodes [see (c)], and thus the local current $\langle j_l\rangle_{s_g s_l}$ is also relatively large for this point, specifically $\langle j_l \rangle_{s_g s_l} \approx 0.0824$ [see (b)]. From the Doob-transformed transition matrix used to calculate the probability fluxes, one extracts the optimal link weights that give rise to such currents, as explained in Appendix C.
While keeping such a strong negative tilting parameter $s_g$ so as to generate a strong global current to the right, one may want to prevent the red links from being overused. In applications, this may correspond to a transportation route or communication link that may exceed its limiting capacity. To achieve that, we set $s_l$ to some positive value. For instance, we may select the value of $s_l$ that gives rise to a local current $\langle j_l\rangle_{s_g s_l}$ that is half the value obtained for the same $s_g$ and $s_l=0$, which corresponds to the point $(s_g = -2, s_l =2.26)$. The resulting weight distribution finds alternative routes so that the particle may go through the red links half as frequently as for $s_l=0$, while decreasing the total current by slighly less than $10 \% $. See the blue cirlce in panel (b) and the corresponding blue arrows in panel (c).
An interesting phenomenon occurs for very strong tilting of the local current $j_l$. See for example the points $(s_g = 0, s_l =-25)$ and $(s_g = 0, s_l =25)$, highlighted as a dark green square and a light green triangle in Fig.~\ref{fig3} (b), respectively. They correspond to the largest and the smallest value that $\langle j_l\rangle_{s_g s_l}$ can take, which are $1/8$ and $-1/4$. These values are associated with the appearance of vortices in the trajectories, see panel (d), the absolute value of $\langle j_l \rangle_{s_g s_l}$ being the reciprocal of the number of nodes in the cycle. An analogous vortex dynamics has been found in the simple exclusion process on general graphs \cite{bodineau2008}, but its appearence in random walks has not been previously reported, as far as we are aware. For sufficiently small (in absolute value) $s_g$, this vortex dynamics is preserved intact, as illustrated by the blue and yellow triangle-shaped regions in (b), which shows that the tilting of the local current $s_l$ prevails over $s_g$ there. The corresponding points in panel (a) show a zero average global current, as befits such localized cyclic motion.
To conclude the exploration of the different dynamical regimes to be found over the spatial network, we focus on positive values of $s_g$, which correspond to negative global currents $j_g$. Apart from the vortex regions for very large $s_l$ already discussed (where the sign of $s_g$ becomes irrelevant), there is a crossover between a vanishing local current $j_l$ and a small negative value as $s_l$ is increased from zero towards positive values, see Fig.~\ref{fig3} (b). This reflects the fact that, while for $s_l=0$ the highest current is achieved without going across the links joining the red nodes, increasing $s_l$ forces the local current to be negative. Thus the particle goes much more frequently through those links (not shown) without the global current being much diminished. The asymmetry between the regions corresponding to positive and negative values of $s_g$, as well as the detailed values achieved by the currents in each regime, is a consequence of the specific pattern of connections of the network under study.
\section{Discussion}
We have shown how to unveil generalized optimal paths and weight distributions in networks by means of a large-deviation approach. By combining the use of ensembles of trajectories of random walks, where time-integrated observables play the role of order parameters, and the application of the Doob transform, one can visualize the paths, or obtain the transition probabilities, that yield a certain statistical characterization of one or several observables. The statistical nature of the approach presumes that the random walk is performed numerous times, either successively in time, or by many non-interacting random walkers simultaneously. On the other hand, the results are not statistical in the sense of giving information on network ensembles (e.g.\! all random graphs with a certain degree distribution); quite on the contrary, paths and weights are found for specific topologies (i.e.\! specific realizations, if one considers the network to be an element of an ensemble), which can be arbitrary ---directed, undirected, weighted, unweighted, spatial or non-spatial. Time-dependent networks could be conceivably considered too, by including a time-dependence in the transition probabilities of the processes, but that problem is outside the scope of the present work.
The most novel aspect of our approach is that it shows how to find shortest paths and weight distributions with constraints, which do not have to be limited to one or a given number of observables. For example, one can find the shortest route between two nodes that does not pass through another one more than one fifth of the times the target node is reached, while another node is visited twice as frequently; or the optimal weighted links adapted to a certain flow without exceeding some activity threshold in some set of nodes, and another one in some specific links. Paths and weights can be tailored to a given mean value or fluctuations of essentially any time-integrated observable, so we expect the approach to be widely applicable.
As far as we are aware, these are problems that are outside the reach of standard graph-theoretical algorithms. Even when some proposals might exist to address one of the problems we have discussed ---which is in fact quite possible given the large literature on the subject, spanning various fields of science and engineering---, shortest-path and related algorithms are typically specific to the problem at hand, small qualitative changes in the constraints requiring important methodological modifications, while our statistical physics approach is very flexible in this regard. The examples we have shown are meant to be simple and illustrative, but more complex scenarios (in terms of network topology, observables and constraints) can be similarly studied. All depends on a judicious choice of the appropriate process ---which type of random walk, though processes involving exclusion or others could also be considered---, observables and statistical ensemble.
The computational complexity of this approach will be that of the algorithm used to extract the largest eigenvalue (whose logarithm is the SCGF) and the associated eigenvectors of the tilted generator. While the latter is typically a sparse matrix, which may constitute a significant numerical advantage, for very large networks the numerical eigenvalue problem may be challenging. In such situations, the large-deviation function can be obtained from numerical approaches based on the cloning algorithm \cite{giardina06a,giardina11a,carollo20a} or adaptive sampling \cite{nemoto2017,ferre18a}. Moreover, the intriguing possibility of finding the optimal dynamics leading to a prescribed fluctuation by approaches adapted from reinforcement learning has emerged lately \cite{rose20a}. Similar machine-learning formulations have been recently proposed for dealing with numerically intractable optimization problems in condensed-matter physics \cite{whitelam20a,barr20a}.
\begin{acknowledgments}
We thank Juan P. Garrahan, from whom we have learnt much about the thermodynamic-of-trajectories formalism used in this work, for useful suggestions. C.P.E. acknowledges C. Giardin\`a and C. Giberti for insightful discussions. The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Union's Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme under the Marie Sklodowska-Curie Cofund Programme Athenea3I Grant Agreement No. 754446, from the European Regional Development Fund, Junta de Andaluc\'ia-Consejer\'ia de Econom\'ia y Conocimiento, Ref. A-FQM-175-UGR18, and from MINECO, Spain (FIS2017-84151-P). We are grateful for the the computing resources and related technical support provided by PROTEUS, the super-computing center of Institute Carlos I in Granada, Spain, and by CRESCO/ENEAGRID High Performance Computing infrastructure and its staff \cite{iannone2019}, which is funded by ENEA, the Italian National Agency for New Technologies, Energy and Sustainable Economic Development and by Italian and European research programmes.
\end{acknowledgments}
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| 8,199
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Q: How to get the type of a variable so I can call a turbofish function? Sometimes I have a variable, and I want to call a 'turbofish' function with the variable's type. For example:
fn main() {
let arr = [0u8; 4];
println!("size_of arr: {}", std::mem::size_of::< TYPE_OF(arr) >());
}
Of course, TYPE_OF() doesn't exist. So I end up having to hard-code the type manually:
println!("size_of arr: {}", std::mem::size_of::< [u8;4] >());
It sure would be nice if I could get the type of a variable (at compile-time, not runtime) so I didn't need to hard-code the type myself.
A: For your particular example, there is already a function in std to get the size of a type, based on its value; std::mem::size_of_val:
println!("size_of arr: {}", std::mem::size_of_val(&arr));
In general, if you want to bind a type variable to a type, you probably need to do it in the body of a function. For example, if size_of_val did not exist, you could do:
fn main() {
fn size_of_val<T>(_: &T) -> usize {
std::mem::size_of::<T>()
}
let arr = [0u8; 4];
println!("size_of arr: {}", size_of_val(&arr));
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
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| 5,070
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{"url":"http:\/\/math.sns.it\/paper\/2092\/","text":"Motion of discrete interfaces in periodic media\n\ncreated by braidesa on 09 Feb 2013\nmodified by scilla on 20 Feb 2014\n\n[BibTeX]\n\nPublished Paper\n\nInserted: 9 feb 2013\nLast Updated: 20 feb 2014\n\nJournal: Interfaces Free Bound.\nVolume: 15\nNumber: 4\nPages: 451-476\nYear: 2013\nDoi: 10.4171\/IFB\/310\n\nAbstract:\n\nWe study the motion of discrete interfaces driven by ferromagnetic interactions in a two-dimensional periodic environment by coupling the minimizing movements approach by Almgren, Taylor and Wang and a discrete-to-continuous analysis. The case of a homogeneous environment has been recently treated by Braides, Gelli and Novaga, showing that the effective continuous motion is a flat motion related to the crystalline perimeter obtained by $\\Gamma$-convergence from the ferromagnetic energies, with an additional discontinuous dependence on the curvature, giving in particular a pinning threshold. In this paper we give an example showing that in general the motion does not depend only on the $\\Gamma$-limit, but also on geometrical features that are not detected in the static description. In particular we show how the pinning threshold is influenced by the microstructure and that the effective motion is described by a new homogenized velocity.","date":"2018-05-22 15:41:04","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.1906515657901764, \"perplexity\": 1626.2668641038038}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": false, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2018-22\/segments\/1526794864798.12\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20180522151159-20180522171159-00220.warc.gz\"}"}
| null | null |
No. 106 Contents
"How the Light Gets In": David J of Love and Rockets & Bauhaus
by Larry Crane | Photographs by Larry Crane
I caught up with David J. Haskins, a member of the influential bands Bauhaus and Love and Rockets, during a book tour for his new memoir, Who Killed Mr. Moonlight? Besides spending numerous years in the studio as an artist, David has also acted as a producer for Jazz Butcher, Renata Youngblood, Intra-Venus & the Cosmonauts, Vinsantos, Darwin, and Stellarum. His most recent solo album, An Eclipse of Ships, came out in 2014, and was recorded with Tony Green.
The song, "Bela Lugosi's Dead," defined your band, Bauhaus. It's the first thing that Bauhaus recorded, right?
It was the very first song that we wrote together as a band, and we recorded it a couple weeks after writing it. It was out pretty quickly as well.
That's the version we all know, with the dub effects and everything?
It's the opening story of my book. We did it in one take. As I say in the book, that was the very first time Peter Murphy had ever sung into a studio mic.
He did a fair enough job, then. Where did you find the studio for that? Was it local?
It was a wonderful studio, now long gone, alas. It was Beck Studios in Wellingborough [Northamptonshire, UK]. Derek Tompkins [the producer/engineer] was a fantastic character, a very outspoken, interesting man. He was a very inquisitive, closet intellectual really, but he was also mad about motorcycles. He had an old Vincent from the '30s. He was in his fifties when we were in our early twenties. We liked the fact that he was so removed from our world. He had such an acute ear. He could really discern the subtle tones that were necessary to make a good record. He was confident enough in his ability to be very outspoken and tell us, "No, you don't want to do that. That's rubbish!"
Which is what you need when you're young and gung-ho.
Right! "Do it this way, and you'll thank me."
You brought him back in to do later albums, didn't you?
The third album by Bauhaus, The Sky's Gone Out. We later brought him back to do [Love & Rocket's] Earth, Sun, Moon, even though he'd retired.
The Sky's Gone Out is a pretty epic record, as far as the scope of it and the variety of tunes.
Yeah, it was ambitious. We were glad to have him there to reign us in a bit. We were pretty out there at that time.
On the first record, In the Flat Field, you took "Double Dare" from a BBC session and incorporated that. It wasn't just separating that project from the performance on the first album. You were able to say that was a better performance.
Well that's the reason. It was a John Peel session. We tried to re-record that in the studio, Southern Studios in London. That was our benchmark, because we thought it was one of the best things we'd ever done. As is often the case, those Peel Sessions were the best work an artist did. We figured out that it was because we didn't have time to overdo it. You'd have eight hours to record four tracks and mix them. You've got to bang it down and just finish it. There's a vitality to that process that's really great. We applied that to ourselves by self-imposing limitations. We'd just give ourselves two goes working on a track and, if it wasn't not happening, we'd move on. We couldn't get it to sound as good as the Peel session, so we had to negotiate with the BBC. They wanted to have a Bauhaus Peel Session EP, but we wanted to have that on our album. There was a lot of going back and forth, as well as legal negotiations. It actually delayed the release of the album. We were on the road, touring to promote the album, but the album wasn't available until a couple of months later. It still went to number one on the alternative charts!
One of the studio experiments I loved was your "Exquisite Corpse" song on The Sky's Gone Out, where you're passing tracks on and not hearing each other, but just adding things and seeing what you came up with. How did you apply that in the session?
That was my idea. I don't know if it had ever been applied to music before. I was very into the surrealists, and obviously familiar with the Exquisite Corpse. That is where you folded a piece of paper and passed it around the table; each artist would draw part of a body and extend the line of the neck down the first guy. The next artist would draw the body, and the next person would draw the legs and feet. Often people would write a few words and it would become a poem. That's where the Exquisite Corpse comes from.
Like a William Burroughs cut-up, in a way.
Yeah, like that. "The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine" was the first line of the assemblage. I thought it would be very interesting to apply that technique to music. You can't continue the line, as it were. But if we each had a minute allotted, and the only thing we decided on was a key and a beat, and we all had the same beat (we could change the beat and fuck with it... it's just the time signature basically), and then we just took it in turns. Something super simple. Three would go out, and one would stay with the engineer. We'd be limited to four tracks each. We'd lay that down, and then the next guy would come in. Then there was a fifth minute where everybody just had two tracks, and that had to allude to what they'd done on their first tracks. Then we'd put it all together. It was so exciting to sit there and roll tape to see what happened.
Was everybody playing over the whole piece, or just their sections?
No, just their section. Actually, I think we had eight tracks each on the first one, and then just two on the very last one. But we didn't listen until the very end. It was uncanny how it gelled; especially the fifth element and how that all fit together. It was a successful experiment. We did it two times.
Most bands on their third album would hire a producer, bring them in, and then record songs they wrote on the road. What was the impetus to be in the studio experimenting like that?
To put ourselves on the edge and to keep things really vital, alive, and exciting. We never toed the commercial line. Quite the opposite, you know? I mean we had a track on Burning from the Inside called "The Sanity Assassin." It was a rocking track, very catchy. Martin Mills from Beggars Banquet [record label] heard it and thought it was a hit single. He said we should start off the album with it. We told him, "Martin, it's actually not going on the album." He thought it was a joke, but it wasn't. We thought it was too rock. It wasn't weird, or avant-garde, enough. We released it in an edition of a weird number, like 447 7-inch singles to our fan club. We gave it away.
My friends and I used to try to find all those damn Bauhaus records in the '80s.
They're hard to find, especially that one.
When Bauhaus quit the first time, you started making solo records.
I'd actually already started recording that while the band was still extant. I just carried on and finished it.
The first record [Etiquette of Violence]?
Yeah. Prior to that, I'd done a single ["Nothing/Armour"] with René Halkett, who was a student of the original Bauhaus [art school] from Weimar, Germany, in the 1920s. It was a one-off single on 4AD, one of their first releases. I was always looking outside of the group. I had very eclectic leanings.
Love and Rockets surfaced later with three of the four original Bauhaus members. Was that something you brought in through your brother, Kevin Haskins? He was drumming with Daniel Ash in Tones on Tail.
Daniel had a falling out with Glenn Campling, who was the bass player for Tones on Tail. Apparently (I only found this out recently), they approached Peter Murphy to re-form Bauhaus. I didn't know about it until this year. I'd seen the story that the three of us contacted Peter and he didn't even bother to turn up for a get together, so we had nothing better to do than carry on as a trio and that's why we did Love and Rockets. That wasn't my story. Daniel and Kevin came to me and said they couldn't get on with Glenn, so they were going to start a band and wanted to see if I'd like to join, just as a trio. I said, "Yeah." I was in the Jazz Butcher at the time. I could see that as great fun, but I could also see its limitations. We just needed that little break, the three of us, for it to be exciting again. We got back together, and it just clicked.
It feels like such a different band.
Yeah, when you just take that one element out. I think a good comparison would be Joy Division / New Order. Similar situation.
The Love and Rockets records are some beautiful '80s productions. What were your sessions for the debut album, Seventh Dream of Teenage Heaven, like? Who'd you work with?
John Rivers, at Woodbine Street in Leamington Spa. He'd worked with The Specials and did the song "Ghost Town." He's a great engineer and keyboard player. He did a lot of the keyboard parts. We had a great rapport with him. He knew what we were after and he was able to use his expertise to achieve that. We wanted to make it rich and lush, very cinematic, very psychedelic, and multi-layered. Bauhaus had been really stripped down, bony, angular, and jagged. It just felt natural to us to go in a direction that was more sumptuous, sonically.
Those records probably did better, at that point, than Bauhaus had done.
Oh yeah; especially in America, leading up to a number two hit single.
I went over to visit with Tony Green. Those records you've done over at his place have been really organic, playing in a room together, or sometimes on the piano in his house there.
Yeah. He's a great bass player and a really good engineer. I've mastered those two records, and the mastering engineers had both commented that it was so well recorded and that it made the job a real joy. It's great to hear that. Again, I have a great rapport with Tony. He knows what I'm after and gets it really quickly. There's a great collective of musicians there who come in and play. Dave Raven, a great percussionist, a revolving door of fiddle players, and his wife, Susan Costantini Green, on the piano. You've been to the studio. There's a very relaxed atmosphere.
It's a beautiful spot, looking out over the canyon there.
Yeah. We take breaks to go out there and gaze on the view for a few minutes before going back in. I'm really happy with both of those records, An Eclipse of Ships, and, before that, Not Long for This World.
You've made a lot of different-sounding records, going back to "Bela Lugosi...," the lushness of Love and Rockets, the angular Bauhaus, and some of the solo projects you've done with other collaborators. Is each recording project a different vision for you?
Yeah. It comes naturally from the flavor of the record and what that's suggesting. I just intuit that; it becomes pretty obvious which way to go, and which players to have on board.
In your book you mention walking around listening to Brian Eno's Before and After Science. Have you ever considered Eno [Tape Op #85] to produce something for you?
No, I haven't. We thought of approaching Eno at one point for Love and Rockets, but we never actually went there. We all loved Eno, but we just thought that he would put too much of his stamp on it, assuming he'd be interested in the first place. Tony Visconti [Tape Op #29] wanted to make a Bauhaus album in '98. He was keen to do that, but it never came to pass. I think that would have been really intriguing. That last Bowie record [The Next Day] was great.
Tony's great. He can be stern, if needed.
That's what we needed! We needed that. If he had been part of the set up, maybe we wouldn't have imploded. I don't know though. It was a very volatile chemistry.
Did the band implode during studio sessions?
Yeah, more like explode in 2005 while recording Go Away White. We split up and reformed about three times in the making of that. It came to physical blows at one point, which is pretty ridiculous for 45-year old men.
You produced some of the Jazz Butcher records in the '80s.
Right. That's also with John Rivers, who did some of the Love and Rockets sessions.
Where do you feel your role resides? Is it in picking songs and tightening up the band? What things do you see?
I'm very intuitive. I need a really good engineer who's very quick on the uptake and can interpret my ideas for the band, as well as where I want it to go. I know what the desk does, but I don't want to get stuck on that. I just want to be free-thinking. It's a very intuitive thing, just minute by minute. A big thing, for me, is being aware, having the antennae up and tune into what some people might consider mistakes or malfunctions. Again, going back to Eno and his Oblique Strategies card, "Honor thy error as hidden intention." I'm a great follower of that. I think that magic comes through those little moments that someone might perceive as everything going wrong. That's actually an opportunity to take things in another direction. Maybe it's like the Leonard Cohen line, "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in" [from "Anthem"]. It's great. I'll give you an example. I was asked to do a track for this film called What is Art? by the artist Steven Leyba. I went into the studio with this spontaneous idea. I had the melody and the atmosphere, and I turned up in the studio in East L.A. The guy next door had this huge industrial generator going. The engineer was freaking out, saying, "We can't record!" He's apologizing and everything. I'm like, "No, this is great. Drag the mics outside and record that!" We recorded it, and then that took us in a new direction. I used that as the basic driving beat, amped it up, put some reverb on it, and abandoned my previous idea. I detuned the guitar to go with the tonality I was hearing from this generator, and I played this Velvet Underground "Sister Ray" thing. That's an example of having the antennae tuned into the extraneous, the weird, and the wonderful.
Like the single with René. You're more creating a soundscape, or place for the person's voice to sit.
Yeah. That one. I had a little pocket calculator and was working out some sums. I did a couple of figures, and it made this little melody. I thought that was great. It became the melody. I actually put a mic on that pocket calculator. It's all around us, there just to be seized. If you're not tuned in, it's just noise. But the more you tune in, the more you hear it.
What other records have you produced in the last decade or so?
I did Vinsantos' A Light Awake Inside at Tiny Telephone Recording [Tape Op #10] in San Francisco. It's a great place. It's very off-kilter, strange, beautiful, broken, damaged art. He's actually gotten more into visual art. He moved to New Orleans and is selling these box art pieces for quite a lot of money. We'd finished the whole album, and we wanted to do this cover of Syd Barrett's "Golden Hair."
James Joyce's poem [from V]?
Yeah. Syd had just died, so it was a bit of a tribute. We lit a candle for Syd in the vocal booth, and I showed Vin this exercise that an Indian sacred singer had taught me. It's a breathing technique based on the om. I was showing him this thing, and we were doing it together. As I'm doing that, I'm thinking, "This should be on the record!" I said, "Hey, Vin; let's just go in now and record this blind, you and me together." We did it seven times. It's eerie. It's beautiful. He loved it. Another album I produced that I'm really proud of was The Side Effects of Owning Skin for the singer-songwriter Renata Youngblood. She's so talented and has a great way with melody. She really embodies the song. She was very young when we did this, like 25, but she had a maturity that was way beyond her years. I recorded it in L.A. at Swing House Studios. That was a great session. The band was pretty much the same that's played on my last couple of albums, with Dave Raven and Tony Green. That was a great session.
How do projects come your way?
It's usually really random. Renata was down in San Diego and her previous producer had called me up, wanting my opinion of this new artist because he thought she was a star. He'd recorded a couple of tracks, so I went down and met her. I was really taken with her personality. She played me a few things on acoustic guitar, and then they played me the tracks and they were overproduced. As delicately as I could, I made comments. They thanked me, and I didn't see them for a long time. One day I was walking down the street, and I was in a really bad state of mind. I was really broke, and things were not going well. I'm walking down this street at night, and I heard this female voice calling my name. I couldn't see anyone. I was looking around, and then she appeared underneath this streetlamp. "Renata! What are you doing here?" She lived just up the road. She told me that she knew I was right about thinking the old stuff was overproduced. She'd written so many songs and wanted to make a record. We met up and she played me the songs. They blew my mind. I told her we had to make the record, and we did. She was the angel who pulled me back from the abyss.
http://www.davidjonline.com/
Read more dialogue from our interview with David.
Read More Dialogue from this Interview
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by Alex Maiolo
Independent scenes were popping up all over the US and UK in the '80s and '90s. Labels like Touch & Go and Merge started in spare bedrooms. Simple Machines went so far as to give away their...
Howard Johnson: Pro and Home Studio thoughts
by The FezGuys
Howard Johnston is the co-owner and chief engineer of Different Fur Studio, tucked away in the once ignored, now ultra hip dot-com Inner Mission of San Francisco. In business for over 25 years, Howard...
Paleo: A song a day for a year
by Roy Silverstein
David Strackany, a.k.a. Paleo, is a wandering musician/poet currently calling Brooklyn his home. However over the last couple of years you'd be more likely to find him across the US traveling across...
Interviews | No. 6
Dave Doughman: recording tips from Dayton
"Who the hell is Dave Doughman?", you might say. Well, I didn't quite know who he was until I stumbled across him running sound for Guided By Voices and Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments on...
More Dialogue with Kyle & Jason Lehning: Waylon Jennings, Randy Travis, Kenny Rogers, George Jones
Kyle Lehning's recording and production career is one to be reckoned with, featuring artists like Waylon Jennings, Randy Travis, England Dan & John Ford Coley, Kenny Rogers, and George Jones, plus...
Teri Landi: Leaving No Stone Unturned
by Richard Barone
As you walk into the offices of ABKCO Music & Records on New York's Fifth Avenue, you're immediately aware that you are entering the center of a rock 'n' roll universe. Winding through the middle...
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{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 713
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International Space Academy
10 Eye-Opening Photos That Prove Nature Is Full of Mysteries
If you have never seen an animal that can photosynthesize, if you didn't know that albino turtles exist, then we have something that can amaze you.
1. The sediment from this chemical reaction looks like a marshy forest.
2. The Amorphopallus Titan arum is one of the largest flowers in the world. It blooms once every 40 years for 4 days!
3. A native group of people called Melanesians who live on the Solomon Islands, northeast of Australia, are famous for their beautiful dark skin and naturally blonde hair.
4. "Palm print of an 8-year-old in a nutrient medium after the 8-year-old had played outside"
5. Here's a hedgehog's skeleton, in case you've never seen one before.
6. Incredibly rare baby albino sea turtle
7. The worlds tiniest and most poisonous dart frog is about 10mm large and is 100x more powerful than morphine.
8. Known as the wrap-around spider, this spider can flatten and wrap its body around tree limbs as camouflage.
9. A 54-million-year-old gecko trapped in amber
10. This sea slug, which looks like a leaf, can go without eating for 9 months because it can photosynthesize just like a plant while basking in the sun!
CERN Researchers Confirm Existence of the Force
Researchers at the Large Hadron Collider just recently started testing the accelerator for running at the higher energy of 13 TeV, and already they have found new insights into the fundamental structure of the universe. Though four fundamental forces – the strong force, the weak force, the electromagnetic force and gravity – have been well documented and confirmed in experiments over the years, CERN announced today the first unequivocal evidence for the Force. "Very impressive, this result is," said a diminutive green spokesperson for the laboratory. "The Force is what gives a particle physicist his powers," said CERN theorist Ben Kenobi of the University of Mos Eisley, Tatooine. "It's an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us; and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together." Though researchers are as yet unsure what exactly causes the Force, students and professors at the laboratory have already started to harness its power. Practical applications so far include
China Plans to Grow Plants and Insects on the Dark Side of the Moon
Did you know that profits from Pink Floyd's famous album, Dark Side of the Moon, helped fund Monty Python and the Holy Grail? How about the fact that Paul McCartney was originally supposed to sing on the album? Congrats! You now know more about that album than most people know about the actual dark side of the moon. Sure, NASA has photographed the far side of the moon in the past, but no one has ever landed on it, much less explored it. That's supposed to change this year if China's ambitious new Chang'e 4 mission is successful. The mission comes in two parts: the first part will launch in June and put a relay satellite into orbit 60,000 km behind the moon (meant to overcome the long-running difficulty of communication on the far side of the moon), while the second mission will launch a rover and lander to explore the surface. Included in this second launch will be a canister containing vegetables and insects—according to Zhang Yuanxun, who designed it: "The contai
NASA Admits Alcubierre Drive Initiative: Faster Than The Speed Of Light
Before we jump into this, you should know that a number of scientists are currently researching the feasibility of warp drive (and EMdrive and a number of other modes of faster than light travel); however, most think that such forms of space travel simply aren't viable, thanks to the fundamental physics of our universe. So although part of this article is simply, "Oh my gosh, look at this amazing design," that's not the entire point. To that end, let's take a moment to break this all down a bit so we have an understanding of what exactly is being proposed in relation to warp drive, and why it is met with such skepticism, before we get a bit too carried away… In 1994, physicist Miguel Alcubierre proposed a new kind of technology that would allow us to travel 10 times faster than the speed of light without actually breaking the speed of light. That seems a little contradictory, doesn't it? After all, we've been told time and again that light is the universal speed limit – nothing in the
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 4,657
|
Q: Add carousel image in nativescript app I'm learning nativescript.I want to add carousel image in the first Tab.I have found javascript & xml file on the net for it,but I don't know how I can use these java & xml files.Could you help me please ?
app.component.html:
<TabView #tabView [items]="tabviewitems" (selectedIndexChanged)="tabViewIndexChange(tabView.selectedIndex)" dir="rtl"></TabView>
app.component.ts
import { Component } from "@angular/core";
import { StackLayout } from "ui/layouts/stack-layout";
import { Label } from "ui/label";
import { TabView, SelectedIndexChangedEventData, TabViewItem } from "ui/tab-view";
import { View } from "ui/core/view";
@Component({
moduleId: module.id,
templateUrl: "./app.component.html",
})
export class AppComponent {
public tabviewitems: Array<TabViewItem>;
constructor() {
this.tabviewitems = [];
let innerFirstStackLayout = new StackLayout();
let firstLabel = new Label();
firstLabel.margin = "15";
firstLabel.text = "Label first page";
innerFirstStackLayout.addChild(firstLabel);
let innerSecondStackLayout = new StackLayout();
let secondLabel = new Label();
secondLabel.margin = "15";
secondLabel.text = "Label second page";
innerSecondStackLayout.addChild(secondLabel);
let innerThirdStackLayout = new StackLayout();
let thirdLabel = new Label();
thirdLabel.margin = "15";
thirdLabel.text = "Label third page";
innerThirdStackLayout.addChild(thirdLabel);
this.tabviewitems.push(this.createTabItem("Tab1", innerFirstStackLayout));
this.tabviewitems.push(this.createTabItem("Tab2", innerSecondStackLayout));
this.tabviewitems.push(this.createTabItem("Tab3", innerThirdStackLayout));
}
public tabViewIndexChange(res) {
alert("Tab View selected index: " + res);
}
createTabItem(title: string, view: View): TabViewItem {
const item = new TabViewItem();
item.title = title;
item.view = view;
return item;
}
}
carousel2.xml :
<Page xmlns="http://schemas.nativescript.org/tns.xsd" loaded="pageLoaded" xmlns:ns="nativescript-carousel">
<Page.actionBar>
<ActionBar title="Dynamic"></ActionBar>
</Page.actionBar>
<ScrollView>
<StackLayout>
<Label text="Define a template and assign the 'items' array." textWrap="true" margin="10,0,0,0"/>
<Label text="Also works well innside a ScrollView." textWrap="true" margin="0,0,20,0" />
<StackLayout height="100" verticalAlignment="center">
<Label text="Some content here..." textWrYou need to specify all --key-store-* options.
* --key-store-alias - Provides the alias for the keystore file specified with --key-store-path. You can use the --key-store-* options along with --release to produce a signed release build. You need to specify all --key-store-* options.
* --key-store-alias-password - Provides the password for the alias specified with --key-store-alias-password. You can use the --key-store-* options along with --release to produce a signed release build. You need to specify all --key-store-* options.
### Attributes
* <Device ID> is the index or Device Identifierap="true"/>
</StackLayout>
<GridLayout height="250">
<ns:Carousel id="myCarousel" height="250" color="white" pageChanged="myChangeEvent" pageTapped="mySelectedEvent" pageScrolling="myScrollingEvent" android:indicatorAnimation="slide"
items="{{ myDataArray }}" indicatorColor="#fff">
<ns:Carousel.itemTemplate>
<ns:CarouselItem verticalAlignment="center" backgroundColor="{{ color }}" height="250">
<GridLayout rows="*" columns="*,*">
<Label text="{{ title }}" horizontalAlignment="center" verticalAlignment="center" col="0"/>
<Image src="{{ image }}" height="100" col="1" />
</GridLayout>
</ns:CarouselItem>
</ns:Carousel.itemTemplate>
</ns:Carousel>
</GridLayout>
<Label text="Indicator animation type: 'slide'" textWrap="true" ios:visibility="collapsed" margin="10,0,0,0"/>
<Button text="Select page 3" tap="selectPageEvent" margin="10,10,0,10"/>
<StackLayout height="400" margin="10,0,0,0">
<Label text="Some content here..." textWrap="true" />
</StackLayout>
</StackLayout>
</ScrollView>
</Page>
carousel2.js
var observableModule = require("data/observable");
var pageData = new observableModule.Observable();
var myDataArray = [
{title:"Slide 1", color: "#b3cde0", image:"https://raw.githubusercontent.com/manijak/nativescript-photoviewer/master/demo/res/01.jpg"},
{title:"Slide 2", color: "#6497b1", image:"https://raw.githubusercontent.com/manijak/nativescript-photoviewer/master/demo/res/02.jpg"},
{title:"Slide 3", color: "#005b96", image:"https://raw.githubusercontent.com/manijak/nativescript-photoviewer/master/demo/res/03.jpg"},
{title:"Slide 4", color: "#03396c", image:"https://raw.githubusercontent.com/manijak/nativescript-photoviewer/master/demo/res/04.jpg"}
/*{title:"Slide 5", color: "#011f4b", image: ""}*/
];
var myCarousel = null;
pageData.set("myDataArray", myDataArray);
function pageLoaded(args) {
var page = args.object;
page.bindingContext = pageData;
myCarousel = page.getViewById("myCarousel");
}
exports.pageLoaded = pageLoaded;
exports.selectPageEvent = function(args){
if(!myCarousel) return;
myCarousel.selectedPage = 2;
}
exports.myScrollingEvent = function(args){
console.log("Scrolling: " + args.state.offset);
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
}
| 7,447
|
Q: Loading trained Model in customize R package I am currently building a R package and I want to use a trained model in one of my R script. Is it possible to load the model (saved in .rds form)?
A: Yes, it's exactly the way you described it. Save object with saveRDS function and load it with readRDS. You have to remember to load every package you used for the model, and to prepare data in exact way for prediction.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
}
| 5,215
|
from core.tests.test_ga import *
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 4,382
|
\section{Introduction}
Originating in additive combinatorics, sum-set inequalities are bounds on the cardinalities of sum-sets (given $X_1,X_2$, the sumset $X_1+X_2\triangleq\{x_1+x_2: x_1\in X_1,x_2\in X_2\}$). Crossing over to network information theory, sum-set inequalities represent bounds on the entropies of sums of random variables, typically expressed in terms of the entropies of the constituent random variables. Prominent examples of such inequalities include Ruzsa's sum-triangle inequality in additive combinatorics \cite{Ruzsa} and the entropy power inequality in information theory \cite{Cover_Thomas}. Sum-set inequalities are essential to the study of the capacity of wireless interference networks. This is particularly true for the studies of capacity approximations known as generalized degrees of freedom (GDoF) \cite{Etkin_Tse_Wang} through deterministic models \cite{Avestimehr_Diggavi_Tse} which de-emphasize the additive noise to place the focus exclusively on the interactions between signals. Received signals in wireless networks are comprised of sums (more generally, linear combinations) of codewords from various codebooks, sent from various transmitters. GDoF optimal schemes seek to maximize the entropy of received linear combinations of signals where they are desired, while simultaneously minimizing the entropy of received linear combinations of the same signals where they are undesired (e.g., by zero-forcing or interference alignment \cite{Cadambe_Jafar_int}). The fundamental constraints on the structure of sum-sets, as revealed by sum-set inequalities are therefore the critical determinants of the GDoF of wireless interference networks. However, in spite of much recent progress in translating sum-set inequalities from additive combinatorics to network information theory \cite{Madiman}, the structure of sum sets remains scarcely understood, and continues to be an impediment for GDoF characterizations. In fact, the intricacies of the sum-set structure are such that even a coarse metric like the degrees of freedom (DoF) for constant channel realizations turns out to be sensitive to fragile details of no conceivable practical relevance -- e.g., whether the channel coefficients take rational or irrational values \cite{Etkin_Ordentlich}.
Useful insights need robust models and metrics which respond predominantly to those parameters that are known to be of the greatest practical significance. For wireless interference networks, the most significant aspects include the interplay of spatial dimensions (especially if multiple antennas are involved) with channel strengths and channel uncertainty levels \cite{Jafar_FnT}. Fortunately, the GDoF framework incorporates all three -- spatial dimensions, channel uncertainties and channel strength levels. Furthermore, the fragile aspects of the GDoF metric may be avoided by restricting channel state information at the transmitters (CSIT) to finite precision.
The study of DoF under finite precision channel knowledge was initiated by Lapidoth et al. in \cite{Lapidoth_Shamai_Wigger_BC}, leading to a conjecture on the collapse of DoF. In spite of various attempts at proving or disproving the conjecture the conjecture remained open for a decade. It was ultimately settled using an approach based on a combinatorial accounting of the size of the aligned image sets (AIS) under finite precision channel knowledge, in short the AIS approach in \cite{Arash_Jafar_PN}. The AIS approach modeled finite precision channel knowledge as the assumption that from the transmitters' perspective, all joint and conditional probability density functions of channel coefficients exist and are bounded. The bounded density assumption was found to be compatible with various levels of channel strengths and channel knowledge. The AIS approach was further developed to fully characterize the GDoF of the $2$ user MISO BC (broadcast channel with two antennas at the transmitter and one antenna at each of the two receivers) for arbitrary channel strength levels and arbitrary channel uncertainty levels for each channel coefficient, establishing the GDoF optimality of robust schemes in all cases \cite{Arash_Jafar_TC}. It has also led to GDoF characterizations for the $K$ user symmetric IC under finite precision CSIT \cite{Arash_Jafar_IC}, symmetric instances of $K$ user MISO BC \cite{Arash_Bofeng_Jafar_BC}, symmetric DoF of interference networks with finite precision CSIT and perfect CSIR \cite{Arash_Jafar_Coherence}, and GDoF of $2$ user symmetric MIMO IC with partial CSIT \cite{Arash_Jafar_MIMOsym_ArXiv}. Indeed, there exists the distant but exciting possibility that the AIS approach may ultimately lead us to the GDoF characterizations of broad classes of wireless networks. If so, then the resulting comprehensive and fundamental understanding of these complex networks -- the interplay between spatial dimensions, channel strengths, and channel uncertainty levels -- would be invaluable. However, in order to get there, it is evident that a robust understanding of sum-sets will be needed. Specifically, there is the need to identify the key sum-set inequalities for signals subject to arbitrary power levels under the robust bounded density assumption. This is the goal that we pursue in this work.
The paper is organized as follows. Section $2$ provides the necessary definitions. The main results, i.e., the sum-set inequalities are presented in Section 3 through progressively generalized theorems for ease of exposition, starting from a single-letter single-antenna form to the general multi-letter multi-antenna form that is needed to derive GDoF outer bounds for MIMO networks. In Section 4, we present an example to show how these sum-set inequalities allow us to obtain new GDoF characterizations for non-trivial networks under partial CSIT\footnote{Channel uncertainty and channel strengths are interchangeable to a certain extent in MIMO interference networks, because the channel uncertainty level governs the strength of residual interference when signals are zero-forced. This is previously noted in \cite{Gou_Jafar}.} that were previously open. The example is comprised of a $2$ user MIMO interference channel (IC) where the two transmitters are equipped with $M_1=5$ and $M_2=5$ antennas, their corresponding receivers with $N_1=2$ and $N_2=3$ antennas, the channel strength parameters are chosen to be $(\alpha_{11},\alpha_{12},\alpha_{21},\alpha_{22})=(1,\frac{3}{4},\frac{2}{3},1)$ and partial CSIT parameters are chosen to be $\beta_{12}=1/4$ and $\beta_{21}=1/3$. Remarkably, building upon these insights, in \cite{Bofeng_Arash_Jafar_ArXiv} we have found that the sum-set inequalities allow us to fully characterize the GDoF region of the MIMO IC with arbitrary antenna configurations $(M_1,M_2,N_1,N_2)$ under arbitrary levels of partial CSIT. Moreover, sum-set inequalities allowed the authors to characterize the full GDoF region of the two user MIMO BC with arbitrary antenna configurations $(M,N_1,N_2)$ under arbitrary levels of partial CSIT in \cite{Arash_Jafar_MIMOBC_Region}.
{\it Notation:} For $n\in\mathbb{N}$, define the notation $[n]=\{1,2,\cdots,n\}$. The cardinality of a set $A$ is denoted as $|A|$. The notation~ $X^{[n]}$ stands~ for $\{X(1), X(2), \cdots, X(n)\}$. Moreover, $X_{i}^{[n]}$ also stands for $\{X_i(t): \forall t\in[n]\}$. The
support of a random variable $X$ is denoted as supp$(X)$. The sets $\mathbb{R}$ and $\mathbb{R}^n$ stand for the set of real numbers and the set of all $n$-tuples of real numbers respectively. Moreover, the set $\mathbb{R}^{2+}$ is defined as the set of all pairs of non-negative numbers. If $A$ is a set of random variables, then $H(A)$ refers to the joint entropy of the random variables in $A$. Conditional entropies, mutual information and joint and conditional probability densities of sets of random variables are similarly interpreted. Moreover, we use the Landau $O(\cdot)$ and $o(\cdot)$ notations as follows. For functions $f(x), g(x)$ from $\mathbb{R}$ to $\mathbb{R}$, $f(x)=O(g(x))$ denotes that $\limsup_{x\rightarrow\infty}\frac{|f(x)|}{|g(x)|}<\infty$. $f(x)=o(g(x))$ denotes that $\limsup_{x\rightarrow\infty}\frac{|f(x)|}{|g(x)|}=0$. We use $\mathbb{P}(\cdot)$ to denote the probability function $\mbox{Prob}(\cdot)$. For any real number $x$ we define $\lfloor x\rfloor$ as the largest integer that is smaller than or equal to $x$ when $x>0$, the smallest integer that is larger than or equal to $x$ when $x<0$, and $x$ itself when $x$ is an integer. We also define $(x)^+$ as maximum of the number $x$ and $0$, i.e., $\max(x,0)$. The number $X_{r,s}$ may be represented as $X_{rs}$ if there is no cause for ambiguity.
\section{Definitions}
The information theoretic sum-set inequalities that we seek are motivated by the GDoF framework. Since in the next section we present general statements of sum-set inequalities, here we only present definitions needed for Section \ref{Results}. The definitions needed for the MIMO IC setting that we use as an example, are presented in Section \ref{MIMOIC}.
\begin{definition}[Power Levels] Consider integer valued variables $X_i$ over alphabet $\mathcal{X}_{\lambda_i}$,
\begin{eqnarray}
\mathcal{X}_{\lambda_i}&\triangleq&\{0,1,2,\cdots,\bar{P}^{\lambda_i}-1\}
\end{eqnarray}
where $\bar{P}^{\lambda_i}$ is a compact notation for $\left\lfloor\sqrt{P^{\lambda_i}}\right\rfloor$. We refer to $P\in\mathbb{R}_+$ as \emph{power}, and are primarily interested in limits as $P\rightarrow\infty$. Quantities that do not depend on $P$ will be referred to as constants. The constant $\lambda_i\in\mathbb{R}_+$ denotes the \emph{power level} of $X_i$.
\end{definition}
{We are interested in sum-set inequalities in terms of entropies of random variables such as $X_i$, normalized by $\log{\bar{P}}$ as ${P}\rightarrow\infty$, while the power levels $\lambda_i$ are held fixed. All the sumset inequalities in this work hold in this asymptotic sense, i.e., while disregarding terms that are negligible relative to $\log({P})$. Such terms are denoted as $o(\log({P}))$ terms.}
\begin {definition}\label{powerlevel} For any nonnegative real numbers $X$, $\lambda_1$ and $\lambda_2$, define $(X)_{\lambda_1}$ and $(X)^{\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}$ as,
\begin{eqnarray}
(X)_{\lambda_1}&\triangleq& X-\bar{P}^{\lambda_1} \left \lfloor \frac{X}{\bar{P}^{\lambda_1}} \right \rfloor\\
(X)^{\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}&\triangleq&\left \lfloor \frac{X-\bar{P}^{\lambda_2}\left \lfloor\frac{X}{ {\bar{P}}^{\lambda_2}}\right \rfloor }{{\bar{P}}^{\lambda_1}} \right \rfloor\label{mid}
\end{eqnarray}
\end {definition}
In words, for any $X\in\mathcal{X}_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}$, $(X)^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}$ retrieves the top $\lambda_2$ power levels of $X$, while $(X)_{\lambda_1}$ retrieves the bottom $\lambda_1$ levels of $X$. $(X)^{\lambda_3}_{\lambda_1}$ retrieves only the part of $X$ that lies between power levels $\lambda_1$ and $\lambda_3$. Note that $X\in \mathcal{X}_\lambda$ can be expressed as $X={\bar{P}^{\lambda_1}}{(X)}_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda}+{(X)}_{\lambda_1}$ for $0\leq\lambda_1<\lambda$. Equivalently, suppose $X_1\in\mathcal{X}_{\lambda_1}$, $X_2\in\mathcal{X}_{\lambda_2}$, $0<\lambda_2$ and $X=X_1+X_2\bar{P}^{\lambda_1}$. Then $X_1={(X)}_{\lambda_1}$, $X_2={(X)}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}$. A conceptual illustration of power level partitions is shown in
Figure \ref{tg}.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\begin{tikzpicture}
\draw [black, thick] (1,0) rectangle (2,6) node[midway] {$X$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.18,0)--(2.18,2.5) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.18,2.5)--(2.18,4) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.18,4)--(2.18,6) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_3$};
\draw [help lines] (2,0)--(3,0);
\draw [help lines] (2,2.5)--(5,2.5);
\draw [help lines] (2,4)--(7,4);
\draw [help lines] (2,6)--(7,6);
\draw [thick](3,0) -| (4,2.5)
node[pos=0.75,right] {$(X)_{\lambda_1}$}
-| (3,0);
\draw [thick](5,2.5) -| (6,4)
node[pos=0.75,right] {$(X)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}$}
-| (5,2.5);
\draw [thick](7,4) -| (8,6)
node[pos=0.75,right] {$(X)_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\lambda_3}$}
-| (7,4);
\end{tikzpicture}
\caption[]{Conceptual depiction of an arbitrary variable $X\in\mathcal{X}_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\lambda_3}$, and its power-level partitions $(X)_{\lambda_1}$, $(X)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}$ and $(X)_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\lambda_3}$.}\label{tg}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\begin {definition}
For the vector ${\bf V}=\begin{bmatrix}v_1&v_2&\cdots&v_k\end{bmatrix}^T$, we define $({\bf V})_{\lambda_1}$ and $({\bf V})^{\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}$ as,
\begin{eqnarray}
({\bf V})_{\lambda_1}&\triangleq& \begin{bmatrix}(v_1)_{\lambda_1}&(v_2)_{\lambda_1}&\cdots&(v_k)_{\lambda_1}\end{bmatrix}^T\\
({\bf V})^{\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}&\triangleq& \begin{bmatrix}(v_1)^{\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}&(v_2)^{\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}&\cdots&(v_k)^{\lambda_2}_{\lambda_1}\end{bmatrix}^T
\end{eqnarray}
\end{definition}
\begin{definition}[Bounded Density Channel Coefficients]\label{defbounded} Bounded density channels are represented by a set of real valued random variables, $\mathcal{G}$ such that the magnitude of each random variable $g\in\mathcal{G}$ is bounded away from zero and infinity, $0<\Delta_1\leq |g|\leq\Delta_2<\infty$, for some constants $\Delta_1,\Delta_2$, and there exists a finite positive constant $f_{\max}$, such that for all finite cardinality disjoint subsets $\mathcal{G}_1, \mathcal{G}_2$ of $\mathcal{G}$, the joint probability density function of all random variables in $\mathcal{G}_1$, conditioned on all random variables in $\mathcal{G}_2$, exists and is bounded above by $f_{\max}^{|\mathcal{G}_1|}$.
\end{definition}
\begin{definition}[Arbitrary Channel Coefficients] Let $\mathcal{H}$ be a set of arbitrary constant values that are bounded above by $\Delta_2$, i.e., if $h\in\mathcal{H}$ then $|h|\leq\Delta_2<\infty$.
\end{definition}
\begin {definition}\label{deflc} For {real} numbers {\color{black}$x_1\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_1},x_2\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_2},\cdots,x_k\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_k}$} and the vectors $\vec{\gamma}=(\gamma_1,\gamma_2,\cdots, \gamma_k)$ and $\vec{\delta}=(\delta_1,\delta_2,\cdots, \delta_k)$ define the notations $L_j^b(x_i,1\le i\le k)$, $L_j(x_i,1\le i\le k)$, {\color{black}$L_j^{b\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}(x_i,1\le i\le k)$ and $L_j^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}(x_i,1\le i\le k)$ } to represent,
\begin {eqnarray}
L^b_j(x_1,x_2,\cdots,x_k )&=&\sum_{1\le i\le k} \lfloor g_{j_i}x_i\rfloor\\
L_j(x_1,x_2,\cdots,x_k)&=&\sum_{1\le i\le k} \lfloor h_{j_i}x_i\rfloor\\
L_j^{b\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}(x_1,x_2,\cdots,x_k)&=&\sum_{1\le i\le k} \lfloor g_{j_i}(x_i)^{\gamma_i}_{\delta_i}\rfloor\\
L_j^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}(x_1,x_2,\cdots,x_k)&=&\sum_{1\le i\le k} \lfloor h_{j_i}(x_i)^{\gamma_i}_{\delta_i}\rfloor
\end{eqnarray}
for distinct random variables $g_{j_i}\in\mathcal{G}$, some arbitrary real valued and finite constants {$h_{j_i}\in\mathcal{H}$} and some arbitrary non-negative real valued constants $\delta_i,\gamma_i$. For the vector $V=\begin{bmatrix}v_1&v_2&\cdots&v_k\end{bmatrix}^T$ we also define the notations $L^b_j(V)$ and $L_j(V)$ to represent,
\begin {eqnarray}
L^b_j(V)=\sum_{1\le i\le k} \lfloor g_{j_i}v_i\rfloor\\
L_j(V)=\sum_{1\le i\le k} \lfloor h_{j_i}v_i\rfloor
\end{eqnarray}
for distinct random variables $g_{j_i}\in\mathcal{G}$ and $h_{j_i}\in\mathcal{H}$.
\end {definition}
Note that, the subscript $j$ is used to distinguish among multiple linear combinations, and may be dropped if there is no potential for ambiguity. We refer to the $L^b$ functions as bounded density linear combinations.
{\color{black}
\begin {definition}\label{def:length} For the linear combinations $A=L^{b\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}(x_i,1\le i\le k)$ and $B=L^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}(x_i,1\le i\le k)$ where $x_1\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_1},x_2\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_2},\cdots,x_k\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_k}$ we define $\mathcal{T}(A)$ and $\mathcal{T}(B)$ as,
\begin {eqnarray}
\mathcal{T}(A)=\mathcal{T}(B)=\max_{j\in[k]}\min(\eta_j,(\gamma_{j}-\delta_{j})^+).\label{total}
\end{eqnarray}
\end {definition}}
Note that the terminology from Definition \eqref{deflc} is invoked in Definition \eqref{def:length}. Figure \ref{fig:TA} provides a visual illustration of $L^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}$ and $\mathcal{T}(A)$. From the definition of $\mathcal{T}(A)$ and $\mathcal{T}(B)$ in \eqref{total}, it follows that,
\begin {eqnarray}
A&\in&\{a:a\in\mathbb{Z}, |a| \le k\Delta_2\bar{P}^{\mathcal{T}(A)}\}\label{re1}\\
B&\in&\{b:b\in\mathbb{Z}, |b| \le k\Delta_2\bar{P}^{\mathcal{T}(B)}\}\label{re2}
\end{eqnarray}
This is because all elements of $\mathcal{G},\mathcal{H}$ are bounded from above by $\Delta_2$.
\begin{figure}[!h]
\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.9, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\begin{scope}[shift={(-0.5,0)}]
\draw[ thick, pattern = crosshatch dots, pattern color =blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,2) node[fill=white, midway]{$x_2$};
\draw[ thick, pattern = crosshatch, pattern color =blue] (0,2) rectangle (1,5) node[fill=white, midway]{$x_1$};
\draw (0.5, 5) node[above]{$X_1$};
\draw[thick, <->](-0.2,0)--(-0.2,2) node[midway, left]{$\eta_2$};
\draw[thick, <->](1.2,0)--(1.2,0.5) -- node[ right]{$\gamma_2$} (1.2,1.5);
\draw[thick, <->](1.4,0)--(1.4,0.5) node[midway, right]{$\delta_2$};
\draw[thick, pattern = crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue](2,0.5) rectangle (3,1.5);
\draw (2.5,1.5) node[above]{$(x_2)^{\gamma_2}_{\delta_2}$};
\draw[help lines] (1,0.5)--(2,0.5);
\draw[help lines] (1,1.5)--(2,1.5);
\draw[thick, <->](-0.2,2)--(-0.2,5) node[midway, left]{$\eta_1$};
\draw[thick, <->](1.2,2)--(1.2,2.5) -- node[ right]{$\gamma_1$} (1.2,4.5);
\draw[thick, <->](1.4,2)--(1.4,2.5) node[midway, right]{$\delta_1$};
\draw[thick, pattern = crosshatch, pattern color=blue](2,2.5) rectangle (3,4.5);
\draw[help lines] (1,2.5)--(2,2.5);
\draw[help lines] (1,4.5)--(2,4.5);
\draw (2.5,4.5) node[above]{$(x_1)^{\gamma_1}_{\delta_1}$};
\end{scope}
\begin{scope}[shift={(4.3,1.5)}]
\draw[very thick, rounded corners] (-0.5, -1.5) rectangle (5.5, 3.5);
\draw[thick, pattern = crosshatch, pattern color=blue](0,0) rectangle (1,2);
\draw[thick, pattern = crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue](1,0) rectangle (2,1);
\draw[thick, pattern = grid, pattern color=red](2,0) rectangle (3,2.4);
\draw[thick, pattern = vertical lines, pattern color=red](3,0) rectangle (4,1.2);
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(4,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$A=L^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}$};
\draw[thick,<->] (4.2,0)--(4.2,2.4) node[midway,right]{\footnotesize $\mathcal{T}(A)$};
\draw[help lines] (0,2.4)--(4.2,2.4);
\end{scope}
\begin{scope}[shift={(11,0)}]
\draw (2.5, 6) node[above]{$X_2$};
\draw[ thick, pattern = vertical lines, pattern color =red] (2,3) rectangle (3,6) node[fill=white, midway]{$x_3$};
\draw[thick, <->](3.2,3)--(3.2,6) node[midway, right]{$\eta_3$};
\draw[ thick, pattern = vertical lines, pattern color =red] (0,4.5) rectangle (1,5.7);
\draw[thick, <->](1.8,3)--(1.8,4.5) -- node[left]{$\gamma_3$} (1.8,5.7);
\draw[thick, <->](1.6,3)-- node[left]{$\delta_3$} (1.6,4.5);
\draw[help lines] (1,4.5)--(2,4.5);
\draw[help lines] (1,5.7)--(2,5.7);
\draw (0.5, 5.7) node[above]{$(x_3)^{\gamma_3}_{\delta_3}$};
\draw[ thick, pattern = grid, pattern color =red] (2,0) rectangle (3,3) node[fill=white, midway]{$x_4$};
\draw[thick, <->](3.2,0)--(3.2,3) node[midway, right]{$\eta_4$};
\draw[ thick, pattern = grid, pattern color =red] (0,0.4) rectangle (1,2.8);
\draw (0.5, 2.8) node[above]{$(x_4)^{\gamma_4}_{\delta_4}$};
\draw[thick, <->](1.6,0)--(1.6,0.4) node[midway, left]{$\delta_4$};
\draw[thick, <->](1.8,0)--(1.8,2.8) node[midway, left]{$\gamma_4$};
\draw[help lines] (1,0.4)--(2,0.4);
\draw[help lines] (1,2.8)--(2,2.8);
\end{scope}
\end{tikzpicture}
\caption{Visual illustration of $L^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}$ and $\mathcal{T}(A)$. In this example, $x_1\in \mathcal{X}_{\eta_1}$ and $x_2\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_2}$ are obtained as partitions of $X_1\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_1+\eta_2}$. Similarly, $x_3\in \mathcal{X}_{\eta_3}$ and $x_4\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_4}$ are obtained as partitions of $X_2\in\mathcal{X}_{\eta_3+\eta_4}$. Note that $(\gamma_i, \delta_i)$ are only used to further trim the size of $x_i$, yielding $(x_i)_{\delta_i}^{\gamma_i}$ as the trimmed versions. These trimmed variables are then combined with arbitrary coefficients to produce $A=L^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}$. Finally, note that $\mathcal{T}(A)$ represents the size (power level) of the largest trimmed variable involved in $L^{\vec{\gamma}\vec{\delta}}$.}\label{fig:TA}
\end{figure}
\begin{definition}\label{defvec} For any vector $V=\begin{bmatrix}v_1&\cdots&v_k\end{bmatrix}^T$ and non-negative integer numbers $m$ and $n$ less than $k$, define
\begin{eqnarray}
V_{m,n}&\triangleq&\left\{
\begin{array}{ll}
\begin{bmatrix}v_{m+1}&\cdots&v_{m+n}\end{bmatrix}^T,& m+n\le k\\
\begin{bmatrix}v_{m+1}&\cdots&v_k&v_1&\cdots&v_{m+n-k}\end{bmatrix}^T,& k<m+n
\end{array}
\right.
\end{eqnarray}
Moreover, for the two vectors $V=\begin{bmatrix}v_1&\cdots&v_{k_1}\end{bmatrix}^T$ and $W=\begin{bmatrix}w_1&\cdots&w_{k_2}\end{bmatrix}^T$ define $V\bigtriangledown W$ as $\begin{bmatrix}v_1&\cdots&v_{k_1}&w_1&\cdots&w_{k_2}\end{bmatrix}^T$.
\end{definition}
\section{Results}\label{Results}
\begin{theorem} \label{Theorem AIS01}
For $\lambda_1\geq \lambda_2\geq 0$, consider random variables $X_{1},X_{2} \in \mathcal{X}_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2}$, all independent of $\mathcal{G}$, and define
\begin {eqnarray}
Z&=&L^b(X_1,X_2)\\
Z_{1}&=& L_{1}((X_{1})_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2},(X_{2})_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2})\\
Z_{2}&=& L_{2}((X_{1})_{\lambda_1},(X_{2})_{\lambda_1},(X_{1})_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2},(X_{2})_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2})
\end{eqnarray}
then
\begin {eqnarray}
H(Z\mid \mathcal{G})&\geq&H(Z_1,Z_2)+o(\log{\bar{P}})\label{dsd1old}
\end{eqnarray}
\end{theorem}
The following remarks place Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} in perspective and discuss some of its generalizations.
\begin{enumerate}
\item Let $\mathcal{G}(Z)\subset\mathcal{G}$ denote the set of all bounded density channel coefficients that appear in $Z=L^b(X_2,X_2)$, and let $W$ be a random variable such that conditioned on any $\mathcal{G}_o\subset (\mathcal{G}/\mathcal{G}(Z))\cup \{W\}$, the channel coefficients $\mathcal{G}(Z)$ satisfy the bounded density assumption. Then (\ref{dsd1}) generalizes to the following conditional form.
\begin{eqnarray}
H(Z\mid \mathcal{G},W)&\geq&H(Z_1,Z_2|W)+o(\log{\bar{P}})\label{dsd1}
\end{eqnarray}
The proof presented in Appendix \ref{proof:AIS01} covers this generalization. In various applications of these sum-set inequalities, the conditioning variable $W$ could represent terms such as $L_3(X_1,X_2)$, $(X_1)_{\delta}^{\gamma}$ or $L_4^b((X_1)_{\frac{1}{2}},X_2)$.
\item A typical restriction in information theoretic sum-set inequalities is the independence of random variables. In contrast, note that the statement of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} also holds for dependent random variables.
\item Since the linear combining coefficients $h_i$ involved in $L_1$ and $L_2$ can take arbitrary (including zero) values, several specializations of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} follow immediately, e.g.,
\begin{eqnarray}
H(Z|\mathcal{G})&\geq&H(Z_1, L_{2}((X_{1})_{\lambda_1},(X_{2})_{\lambda_1}))+o(\log{\bar{P}})\\
H(Z|\mathcal{G})&\geq&H((X_{1})_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2},(X_{2})_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_1+\lambda_2})+o(\log{\bar{P}})
\end{eqnarray}
Figure \ref{eexample1} visually illustrates these inequalities in terms of the power levels.
\begin{figure}[!h]
\begin{eqnarray*}
H\left(\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.9, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (0,1.3) rectangle (1,2.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (1,0) rectangle (2,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (1,1.3) rectangle (2,2.3);
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,0)--(2.2,1.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,1.3)--(2.2,2.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(2,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z=L^b$};
\draw (0.5, 2.3) node[above]{$X_1$};
\draw (1.5, 2.3) node[above]{$X_2$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
&\geq&
H\left(
\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.9, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (1,0) rectangle (2,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (2,0) rectangle (3,1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (3,0) rectangle (4,1);
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(4,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z_1=L_1$};
\path (4.2,0 ) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (5,0) rectangle (6,1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (6,0) rectangle (7,1);
\draw (0.5,1.3) node[above]{\tiny $(X_1)_{\lambda_1}$};
\draw (1.5,1.3) node[above]{\tiny $(X_2)_{\lambda_1}$};
\draw (2.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_1)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw (3.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_2)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw (5.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_1)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw (6.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_2)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (4.2,0)--(4.2,1.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick, <->] (7.2,0)--(7.2,1) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (5,-0.2)--(7,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z_2=L_2$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)\\
H\left(\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.9, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (0,1.3) rectangle (1,2.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (1,0) rectangle (2,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (1,1.3) rectangle (2,2.3);
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,0)--(2.2,1.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,1.3)--(2.2,2.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(2,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z=L^b$};
\draw (0.5,2.3) node[above]{$X_1$};
\draw (1.5,2.3) node[above]{$X_2$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
&\geq&
H\left(
\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.9, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (1,0) rectangle (2,1.3);
\path (2.2,0 ) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (3,0) rectangle (4,1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (4,0) rectangle (5,1);
\draw (0.5,1.3) node[above]{\tiny $(X_1)_{\lambda_1}$};
\draw (1.5,1.3) node[above]{\tiny $(X_2)_{\lambda_1}$};
\draw (3.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_1)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw (4.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_2)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,0)--(2.2,1.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick, <->] (5.2,0)--(5.2,1) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(2,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z_1=L_1$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (3,-0.2)--(5,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z_2=L_2$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)\\
H\left(\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.9, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (0,1.3) rectangle (1,2.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (1,0) rectangle (2,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (1,1.3) rectangle (2,2.3);
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,0)--(2.2,1.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,1.3)--(2.2,2.3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(2,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z=L^b$};
\draw (0.5,2.3) node[above]{$X_1$};
\draw (1.5,2.3) node[above]{$X_2$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
&\geq&
H\left(
\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.9, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\path (1.2,0 ) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (2,0) rectangle (3,1);
\draw (0.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_1)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw (2.5,1) node[above]{\tiny $(X_2)_{\lambda_1}^{\lambda_2}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (1.2,0)--(1.2,1) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,0)--(3.2,1) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
\end{eqnarray*}
\caption[]{Illustration of various specializations of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01}. On the left is the entropy of a sum (bounded density linear combination) of two dependent random variables, which is bounded below by joint entropy of two arbitrary linear combinations of constituent random variables. The bounded density assumption for the left hand side is critical. Without it, for example, interference alignment or zero-forcing could be used to immediately violate the last inequality.}\label{eexample1}
\end{figure}
\item Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} also holds if $L_1, L_2$ are replaced with bounded density linear combinations, i.e., $L_1^{b}, L_2^{b}$.
\item While in the GDoF framework, Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} is typically used when $\lambda_1\geq\lambda_2$ as assumed, it is possible to generalize the result of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} to allow $\lambda_2\geq\lambda_1$. In that case, the inequality (\ref{dsd1}) becomes $H(Z\mid W,\mathcal{G})\geq H(Z_1, Z_2\mid W)-(\lambda_2-\lambda_1)^+\log(\bar{P})+o(\log{\bar{P}})$. The proof presented in Appendix \ref{proof:AIS01} covers this generalization.
\item The result of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} lends itself to extensive generalizations in terms of the number of random variables, and the number of power level partitions. Such a generalization is presented in the following theorem.
\begin{theorem} \label{Theorem AIS02}
Consider {\color{black}$M$ non-negative numbers $\lambda_1,\cdots,\lambda_M$ and} random variables $X_j \in \mathcal{X}_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\cdots+\lambda_M}$, $j\in[N]$ independent of $\mathcal{G}$, and define
\begin {eqnarray}
Z&=&L^b(X_1,X_2, \cdots, X_N)\\
Z_{1}&=& L_{1}^{\vec{\gamma}_1\vec{\delta}_1}((X_{j})_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_r}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_r}, i\in I_1, j\in[N])\\
Z_{2}&=& L_{2}^{\vec{\gamma}_2\vec{\delta}_2}((X_{j})_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_r}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_r}, i\in I_2, j\in[N])\\
&\vdots&\notag\\
Z_{l}&=&L_{l}^{\vec{\gamma}_l\vec{\delta}_l}((X_{j})_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_r}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_r}, i\in I_l, j\in[N])
\end{eqnarray}
$I_1, I_2, \cdots, I_l\subset [M]$ such that $\forall a,b\in[M]$,
$a<b\Rightarrow m(a)\geq m(b)$, where we define
\begin{eqnarray}
m(a)&=& \min\{i: i\in I_a\}
\end{eqnarray}
If for each $s\in\{1,2,\cdots, l-1\}$,
\begin {eqnarray}
\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\cdots+\lambda_{(m(s)-1)}&\geq&\mathcal{T}(Z_{s+1})+\mathcal{T}(Z_{s+2})+\cdots+\mathcal{T}(Z_l)\label{con1}
\end{eqnarray}
then,
\begin {eqnarray}
H(Z\mid \mathcal{G}, W)&\geq& H(Z_1,Z_2, \cdots, Z_l|W)+o(\log{\bar{P}})\label{dsd2}
\end{eqnarray}
\end{theorem}
Recall that for any real number $x$, we define $(x)^+=\max(x,0)$.
\begin{figure}[!h]
\begin{eqnarray*}
H\left(\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.7, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (0,3) rectangle (1,5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=blue] (0,5) rectangle (1,7.5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=blue] (0,7.5) rectangle (1,9);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (1,0) rectangle (2,3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (1,3) rectangle (2,5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=red] (1,5) rectangle (2,7.5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (1,7.5) rectangle (2,9);
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,0)--(2.2,3) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,3)--(2.2,5) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,5)--(2.2,7.5) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_3$};
\draw[thick, <->] (2.2,7.5)--(2.2,9) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_4$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(2,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z=L^b$};
\draw (0.5, 9) node[above]{$X_1$};
\draw (1.5, 9) node[above]{$X_2$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
&\geq&
H\left(
\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.7, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=blue] (0,9) rectangle (1,9.5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (1,9) rectangle (2,9.7);
\draw[thick,|-|](0,8.8)--(2,8.8) node[midway, below]{ $Z_1=L_1^{\vec{\gamma_1}\vec{\delta_1}}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.2,9)--(-0.2,10.5) node[midway, left]{$\lambda_4$};
\draw[help lines](0,9.7)--(2,9.7);
\draw[thick,<->](2.2,9)--(2.2,9.7) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_1)$};
\path (4, 9) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=blue] (0,5) rectangle (1,6);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (1,5) rectangle (2,5.5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=blue] (2,5) rectangle (3,7.2);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (3,5) rectangle (4,6.5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (4,5) rectangle (5,6);
\draw[thick,<->](-0.2,5)--(-0.2,6.5) node[right]{$\lambda_4$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.4,5)--(-0.4,7.5) node[left]{$\lambda_3$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.6,5)--(-0.6,7) node[left]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick,<->](5.2,5)--(5.2,7.2) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_2)$};
\draw[help lines](0,7.2)--(5,7.2);
\path (6, 5) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[thick,|-|](0,4.8)--(5,4.8) node[midway, below]{ $Z_2=L_2^{\vec{\gamma_2}\vec{\delta_2}}$};
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (0,0) rectangle (1,1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=blue] (1,0) rectangle (2,0.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=red] (2,0) rectangle (3,2.1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (3,0) rectangle (4,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (4,0) rectangle (5,1.6);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (5,0) rectangle (6,2.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (6,0) rectangle (7,2.6);
\draw[thick,<->](-0.2,0)--(-0.2,1.5) node[right]{$\lambda_4$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.4,0)--(-0.4,3) node[left]{$\lambda_1$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.6,0)--(-0.6,2.5) node[left]{$\lambda_3$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.8,0)--(-0.8,2) node[left]{$\lambda_2$};
\draw[thick,<->](7.2,0)--(7.2,2.8) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_3)$};
\draw[help lines](0,2.8)--(7,2.8);
\draw[thick,|-|](0,-0.2)--(7,-0.2) node[midway, below]{ $Z_3=L_3^{\vec{\gamma_3}\vec{\delta_3}}$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
\end{eqnarray*}
\caption[]{Illustration of an application of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS02}. On the left is the entropy of the sum (bounded density linear combination) of $N=2$ dependent random variables, $X_1, X_2\in\mathcal{X}_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\lambda_3+\lambda_4}$, $(M=4)$, which is bounded below by joint entropy of $l=3$ arbitrary linear combinations, $Z_1, Z_2, Z_3$, of power level partitions of the two random variables. In this example, $I_1=\{4\}, I_2=\{2,3,4\}, I_3=\{1,2,3,4\}$. Therefore, ${m(1)}=4, {m(2)}=2$, and ${m(3)}=1$. Condition (\ref{con1}) is verified as $\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\lambda_3\geq \mathcal{T}(Z_2)+\mathcal{T}(Z_3)$ and $\lambda_1\geq \mathcal{T}(Z_3)$.} \label{grant}
\end{figure}
\item Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} is recovered as a special case of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS02} if $M=N=2$, $I_1=\{2\}$, $I_2=\{1,2\}$, $\delta_{kij}=0$ and $\gamma_{kij}=\max_{q\in[M]}\lambda_q$ for any $k,i,j\in\{1,2\}$.
\item While applying Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS02} in the GDoF framework, a multi-letter extension is required. Such a generalization is presented in the following theorem. The same applies for extensions to complex valued random variables which can be obtained along the same lines as previous bounds based on the AIS approach, e.g., Section VII in \cite{Arash_Jafar_PN}.
\begin{theorem} \label{Theorem AIS03}
Consider $M$ non-negative numbers $\lambda_1,\cdots,\lambda_M$ and random variables $X_j (t) \in \mathcal{X}_{\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\cdots+\lambda_M}$, $j\in[N]$, $t\in\mathbb{N}$ independent of $\mathcal{G}$, and define
\begin {eqnarray}
Z(t)&=&L^b(t)(X_1(t),X_2(t), \cdots, X_N(t))\label{mn1}\\
Z_{1}(t)&=& L_{1}^{\vec{\gamma}_1\vec{\delta}_1}(t)((X_{j}(t))_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_r}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_r}, i\in I_1, j\in[N])\label{mn2}\\
Z_{2}(t)&=& L_{2}^{\vec{\gamma}_2\vec{\delta}_2}(t)((X_{j}(t))_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_r}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_r}, i\in I_2, j\in[N])\label{mn3}\\
&\vdots&\notag\\
Z_{l}(t)&=&L_{l}^{\vec{\gamma}_l\vec{\delta}_l}(t)((X_{j}(t))_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_r}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_r}, i\in I_l, j\in[N])\label{mn4}
\end{eqnarray}
The channel uses are indexed by {$t$}$\in\mathbb{N}$. $I_1, I_2, \cdots, I_l$ are subsets of $\{1,2,\cdots, M\}$ such that
$m(a)\geq m(b)$ whenever $a,b\in\{1,2,\cdots, M\}$ and $a<b$, then
\begin {eqnarray}
H(Z^{[n]}\mid W,\mathcal{G})&\geq& H(Z_1^{[n]},Z_2^{[n]}, \cdots, Z_l^{[n]}\mid W)+n~o(\log{\bar{P}})\label{dssd2}
\end{eqnarray}
if for each $s\in\{1,2,\cdots, l-1\}$,
\begin {eqnarray}
\mathcal{T}(Z_{s+1}(t))+\mathcal{T}(Z_{s+2}(t))+\cdots+\mathcal{T}(Z_l(t))&\leq&\lambda_1+\lambda_2+\cdots+\lambda_{(m(s)-1)}\label{t3con3}
\end{eqnarray}
\end{theorem}
{\color{black}Note that, for any $i\in[l]$ the set $I_i$ indicates what power levels are used by each $Z_i(t)$. For instance $I_3=\{1\}$ enforces $Z_3(t)$ to be a linear combination of bottom $\lambda_1$ part of $X_j(t)$ for all $j\in[N]$, i.e., $Z_{3}(t)= L_{3}^{\vec{\gamma}_3\vec{\delta}_3}(t)((X_{j}(t))_{\lambda_1}, j\in[N])$.}
\item While applying Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS03} in the GDoF framework, a multi-antenna extension is required. The results of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS03} can be generalized as follows,
\begin{theorem} \label{Theorem AIS04}
Consider $KM$ non-negative numbers {$\{\lambda_{km}: k\in[K],m\in[M]\}$} and random variables $X_j (t) \in \mathcal{X}_{\max_{k\in[K]}\{\lambda_{k,1}+\lambda_{k,2}+\cdots+\lambda_{k,M}\}}$, $j\in[N]$, $t\in\mathbb{N}$, independent of $\mathcal{G}$, and $\forall k\in[K], K\le N$, define
\begin {eqnarray}
Z_k(t)&=&L_k^b(t)(X_1(t),X_2(t), \cdots, X_N(t))\label{mn1}\\
Z_{k,1}(t)&=& L_{k1}^{\vec{\gamma}_{k1}\vec{\delta}_{k1}}(t)((X_{j}(t))_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_{kr}}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_{kr}}, i\in I_{k,1}, j\in[N])\label{mn2}\\
Z_{k,2}(t)&=& L_{k2}^{\vec{\gamma}_{k2}\vec{\delta}_{k2}}(t)((X_{j}(t))_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_{kr}}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_{kr}}, i\in I_{k,2}, j\in[N])\label{mn3}\\
&\vdots&\notag\\
Z_{k,l_k}(t)&=&L_{kl_k}^{\vec{\gamma}_{kl_k}\vec{\delta}_{kl_k}}(t)((X_{j}(t))_{\sum_{r=1}^{i-1}\lambda_{kr}}^{\sum_{r=1}^i\lambda_{kr}}, i\in I_{k,l_k}, j\in[N])\label{mn4}
\end{eqnarray}
The channel uses are indexed by $t\in\mathbb{N}$. $I_{kk'}\subset [M], k\in[K], k'\in[l_k],$ such that $i<j\Rightarrow m(k,i)\geq m(k,j)$, where $$m(a,b)\triangleq \min\{m: m\in I_{a,b}\}.$$ If for all $k\in[K]$ and for each $s\in\{1,2,\cdots, l_k-1\}$,
\begin {eqnarray}
\mathcal{T}(Z_{k,s+1})+\mathcal{T}(Z_{k,s+2})+\cdots+\mathcal{T}(Z_{k,l_k})&\leq& \lambda_{k,1}+\lambda_{k,2}+\cdots+\lambda_{k,(m(k,s)-1)}\label{condt4}
\end{eqnarray}
then
\begin {eqnarray}
H(Z_1^{[n]},\cdots,Z_K^{[n]}\mid W,\mathcal{G})&\geq& H(Z_{1,1}^{[n]},\cdots,Z_{K,l_K}^{[n]}\mid W)+Kn~o(\log{\bar{P}})\label{dssd4}
\end{eqnarray}
\end{theorem}
\begin{figure}[!h]
\begin{eqnarray*}
H\left(\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.7, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0+11) rectangle (1,3+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (0,3+11) rectangle (1,5+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=blue] (0,5+11) rectangle (1,7.5+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=blue] (0,7.5+11) rectangle (1,9+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (1,0+11) rectangle (2,3+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (1,3+11) rectangle (2,5+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=red] (1,5+11) rectangle (2,7.5+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (1,7.5+11) rectangle (2,9+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=green] (2,0+11) rectangle (3,3+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=green] (2,3+11) rectangle (3,5+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=green] (2,5+11) rectangle (3,7.5+11);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=green] (2,7.5+11) rectangle (3,9+11);
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,0+11)--(3.2,3+11) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{11}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,3+11)--(3.2,5+11) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{12}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,5+11)--(3.2,7.5+11) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{13}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,7.5+11)--(3.2,9+11) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{14}$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2+11)--(3,-0.2+11) node[midway, below]{$Z_1=L_1^b$};
\draw (0.5, 9+11) node[above]{$X_1$};
\draw (1.5, 9+11) node[above]{$X_2$};
\draw (2.5, 9+11) node[above]{$X_3$};
\path (3, 10) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[ thick, pattern= dots, pattern color=blue] (0,0) rectangle (1,3.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north east lines, pattern color=blue] (0,3.8) rectangle (1,5.2);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north west lines, pattern color=blue] (0,5.2) rectangle (1,8.1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=blue] (0,8.1) rectangle (1,9);
\draw[ thick, pattern= dots, pattern color=red] (1,0) rectangle (2,3.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north east lines, pattern color=red] (1,3.8) rectangle (2,5.2);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north west lines, pattern color=red] (1,5.2) rectangle (2,8.1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=red] (1,8.1) rectangle (2,9);
\draw[ thick, pattern= dots, pattern color=green] (2,0) rectangle (3,3.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north east lines, pattern color=green] (2,3.8) rectangle (3,5.2);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north west lines, pattern color=green] (2,5.2) rectangle (3,8.1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=green] (2,8.1) rectangle (3,9);
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,0)--(3.2,3.8) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{21}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,3.8)--(3.2,5.2) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{22}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,5.2)--(3.2,8.1) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{23}$};
\draw[thick, <->] (3.2,8.1)--(3.2,9) node[midway, right]{$\lambda_{24}$};
\draw[thick, |-|] (0,-0.2)--(3,-0.2) node[midway, below]{$Z_2=L_2^b$};
\draw (0.5, 9) node[above]{$X_1$};
\draw (1.5, 9) node[above]{$X_2$};
\draw (2.5, 9) node[above]{$X_3$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
&\geq&
H\left(
\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=0.8, baseline=(current bounding box.center)]
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=blue] (-1,0.1+9) rectangle (0,0.1+9.6);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (0,0.1+9) rectangle (1,0.1+9.4);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=green] (1,0.1+9) rectangle (2,0.1+9.7);
\draw[thick,|-|](-1,0.1+8.8)--(2,0.1+8.8) node[midway, below]{ $Z_{11}=L_{11}^{\vec{\gamma_{11}}\vec{\delta_{11}}}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-1.2,0.1+9)--(-1.2,0.1+10.5) node[midway, left]{$\lambda_{14}$};
\draw[help lines](-1,0.1+9.7)--(2,0.1+9.7);
\draw[thick,<->](2.2,0.1+9)--(2.2,0.1+9.7) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_{11})$};
\path (3.6, 0.1+9) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=blue] (4.9+0,0.1+9) rectangle (4.9+1,0.1+9.4);
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=red] (4.9+1,0.1+9) rectangle (4.9+2,0.1+9.2);
\draw[thick,|-|](4.9+0,0.1+8.8)--(4.9+2,0.1+8.8) node[midway, below]{ $Z_{21}=L_{21}^{\vec{\gamma_{21}}\vec{\delta_{21}}}$};
\draw[thick,<->](4.9+-0.1,0.1+9)--(4.9+-0.1,0.1+9.9) node[midway, left]{$\lambda_{24}$};
\draw[help lines](4.9+0,0.1+9.4)--(4.9+2,0.1+9.4);
\draw[thick,<->](4.9+2.2,0.1+9)--(4.9+2.2,0.1+9.4) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_{21})$};
\path (4.9+3.8, 0.1+9) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=blue] (0-0.5,5) rectangle (1-0.5,6);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (1-0.5,5) rectangle (2-0.5,5.5);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (2-0.5,5) rectangle (3-0.5,6.9);
\draw[thick,<->](-0.2-0.5,5)--(-0.2-0.5,6.5) node[right]{$\lambda_{14}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.4-0.5,5)--(-0.4-0.5,7) node[left]{$\lambda_{12}$};
\draw[thick,<->](3.2-0.5,5)--(3.2-0.5,6.9) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_{12})$};
\draw[help lines](0,6.9)--(3-0.5,6.9);
\path (3.6-0.5, 5) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[thick,|-|](0-0.5,4.8)--(3-0.5,4.8) node[midway, below]{ $Z_{12}=L_{12}^{\vec{\gamma_{12}}\vec{\delta_{12}}}$};
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=green] (4.8+0,5) rectangle (4.8+1,5.3);\draw[ thick, pattern=north west lines, pattern color=blue] (4.8+1,5) rectangle (4.8+2,6.2);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north west lines, pattern color=red] (4.8+2,5) rectangle (4.8+3,7.2);
\draw[thick,<->](4.8+-0.2,5)--(4.8+-0.2,5.9) node[right]{$\lambda_{24}$};
\draw[thick,<->](4.8+-0.4,5)--(4.8+-0.4,7.5) node[left]{$\lambda_{23}$};
\draw[thick,<->](4.8+3.2,5)--(4.8+3.2,7.2) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_{22})$};
\draw[help lines](4.8+0,7.2)--(4.8+3,7.2);
\path (4.8+3.5, 5) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[thick,|-|](4.8+0,4.8)--(4.8+3,4.8) node[midway, below]{ $Z_{22}=L_{22}^{\vec{\gamma_{22}}\vec{\delta_{22}}}$};
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=red] (0,0) rectangle (1,1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=vertical lines, pattern color=blue] (1,0) rectangle (2,0.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern=grid, pattern color=green] (2,0) rectangle (3,2.1);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=blue] (3,0) rectangle (4,1.3);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch, pattern color=red] (4,0) rectangle (5,1.6);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=green] (5,0) rectangle (6,2.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern=crosshatch dots, pattern color=red] (6,0) rectangle (7,2.6);
\draw[thick,<->](-0.2,0)--(-0.2,1.5) node[right]{$\lambda_{14}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.4,0)--(-0.4,3) node[left]{$\lambda_{11}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.6,0)--(-0.6,2.5) node[left]{$\lambda_{13}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.8,0)--(-0.8,2) node[left]{$\lambda_{12}$};
\draw[thick,<->](7.2,0)--(7.2,2.8) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_{13})$};
\draw[help lines](0,2.8)--(7,2.8);
\path (6, -1) node[right]{\Huge ,};
\draw[thick,|-|](0,-0.2)--(7,-0.2) node[midway, below]{ $Z_{13}=L_{13}^{\vec{\gamma_{13}}\vec{\delta_{13}}}$};
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=red] (0,-5) rectangle (1,-4.4);
\draw[ thick, pattern=horizontal lines, pattern color=green] (1,-5) rectangle (2,-4.6);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north west lines, pattern color=green] (2,-5) rectangle (3,-3.9);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north east lines, pattern color=blue] (3,-5) rectangle (4,-4.7);
\draw[ thick, pattern=north east lines, pattern color=green] (4,-5) rectangle (5,-3.8);
\draw[ thick, pattern= dots, pattern color=blue] (5,-5) rectangle (6,-2.6);
\draw[ thick, pattern= dots, pattern color=green] (6,-5) rectangle (7,-2.9);
\draw[thick,<->](-0.2,-5)--(-0.2,-4.1) node[right]{$\lambda_{24}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.4,-5)--(-0.4,-1.2) node[left]{$\lambda_{21}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.6,-5)--(-0.6,-2.1) node[left]{$\lambda_{23}$};
\draw[thick,<->](-0.8,-5)--(-0.8,-3.6) node[left]{$\lambda_{22}$};
\draw[thick,<->](7.2,-5)--(7.2,-2.6) node[midway, right]{ $\mathcal{T}(Z_{23})$};
\draw[help lines](0,-2.6)--(7,-2.6);
\draw[thick,|-|](0,-5.2)--(7,-5.2) node[midway, below]{ $Z_{23}=L_{23}^{\vec{\gamma_{23}}\vec{\delta_{23}}}$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\right)
\end{eqnarray*}
\caption[]{Illustration of an application of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04}. {\color{black}Note that in this figure we dropped the time index $(t)$ for convenience}. On the left is the joint entropy of the sum (bounded density linear combination) of $N=3$ dependent random variables, $X_1(t), X_2(t),X_3(t)\in\mathcal{X}_{\max_{k\in[2]}\{\lambda_{k1}+\lambda_{k2}+\lambda_{k3}+\lambda_{k4}\}}$, $(M=4)$, which is bounded below by joint entropy of $l_1+l_2=6$ arbitrary linear combinations, $Z_{11}, Z_{12}, Z_{13},Z_{21}, Z_{22}, Z_{23}$, of power level partitions of the two random variables. In this example, $I_{11}=I_{21}=\{4\}, I_{12}=\{2,4\}, I_{22}=\{3,4\}, I_{13}=I_{23}=\{1,2,3,4\}$. Condition (\ref{condt4}) is verified as $\lambda_{11}+\lambda_{12}+\lambda_{13}\geq \mathcal{T}(Z_{12})+\mathcal{T}(Z_{13})$, $\lambda_{21}+\lambda_{22}+\lambda_{23}\geq \mathcal{T}(Z_{22})+\mathcal{T}(Z_{23})$, $\lambda_{21}\geq \mathcal{T}(Z_{23})$ and $\lambda_{11}\geq \mathcal{T}(Z_{13})$.} \label{grant}
\end{figure}
See Appendix \ref{prooft4} for the proof of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04}. Note that the proof of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04} also proves Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS02} and Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS03} which may be recovered as specializations of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04}.
A visual illustration of an application of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04} is provided in Figure \ref{grant}.
\item The results of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS01} and its generalization in Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04} can be further combined with sub-modularity properties of the entropy function\footnote{If $\Omega$ is a finite set, a submodular function is a set function $ f:2^{\Omega}\rightarrow \mathbb{R}$, where $ 2^\Omega$ denotes the power set of $ \Omega$, which satisfies the following property;\\
For every $S, T \subseteq \Omega$ we have that $f(S)+f(T)\geq f(S\cup T)+f(S\cap T)$ \cite{subm}.} to obtain a variety of sum-set inequalities specialized for different GDoF settings.
\item To show how the new sum-set inequalities presented in Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04} are useful to obtain tight GDoF bounds in conjunction with submodularity properties of entropy, an example that arise in the context of the $2$ user MIMO IC is presented in Section \ref{MIMOIC}.
\end{enumerate}
\section{GDoF Outer Bound for a $2$ User MIMO IC under Partial CSIT}\label{MIMOIC}
In this section, as an example of the use of the sum-set inequalities, we obtain a tight GDoF outer bound for a non-trivial two user MIMO IC setting with asymmetric antenna configuration and asymmetric partial CSIT. Specifically, we consider the two user MIMO IC with $(M_1,M_2,N_1,N_2)=(5,5,2,3)$ as shown in Figure \ref{regionxc}. We assume, $(\alpha_{11},\alpha_{12},\alpha_{21},\alpha_{22})=(1,\frac{3}{4},\frac{2}{3},1)$ and $\beta_{12}=\frac{1}{4},\beta_{21}=\frac{1}{3}$ and derive a tight GDoF bound for this channel using our sum-set inequalities. Achievability for this case is already known from \cite{Bofeng_Arash_Jafar_ArXiv} and \cite{Hao_Rassouli_Clerckx}
\begin{figure}[h]
\centering
\begin{tikzpicture}[scale=1]
\foreach \m in {1,..., 5}
{
\node[circle, draw=black, inner sep = 0.2] (M1\m) at (1, -0.65*\m) {\scriptsize $X_{1\m}$};
};
\foreach \m in {1,..., 5}
{
\node[circle, draw=black, inner sep = 0.2] (M2\m) at (1, -6-0.65*\m) {\scriptsize $X_{2\m}$};
};
\begin{scope}[shift={(1,0)}]
\foreach \n in {1,..., 2}
{
\node[circle, draw=black, inner sep = 0.2] (N1\n) at (8, -0.65*\n) {\scriptsize $Y_{1\n}$};
};
\foreach \n in {1,...,3}
{
\node[circle, draw=black, inner sep = 0.2] (N2\n) at (8, -6-0.65*\n) {\scriptsize $Y_{2\n}$};
};
\end{scope}
\foreach \m in {1, ..., 5}
{
\foreach \n in {1, ..., 2}
{
\draw[thick, color=blue](M1\m)--(N1\n);
}
}
\foreach \m in {1, ..., 5}
{
\foreach \n in {1, ..., 3}
{
\draw[thick, color=blue](M2\m)--(N2\n);
}
}
\foreach \m in {1, ..., 5}
{
\foreach \n in {1, ..., 3}
{
\draw[thin, color=red](M1\m)--(N2\n);
}
}
\foreach \m in {1, ..., 5}
{
\foreach \n in {1, ..., 2}
{
\draw[thin, color=red](M2\m)--(N1\n);
}
}
\draw[thin, fill=white] (5,-0.5) rectangle (6.7,-2.3) node[midway, align=center] {\scriptsize ${\bf G}_{11}$ \\ \scriptsize $\alpha_{11}=1$\\ \scriptsize $\beta_{11}=1$};
\draw[thin, fill=white] (6,-2.5) rectangle (7.7,-4.3) node[midway, align=center] {\scriptsize ${\bf G}_{12}$ \\ \scriptsize $\alpha_{12}=3/4$\\ \scriptsize $\beta_{12}=1/4$};
\draw[thin, fill=white] (6,-4.5) rectangle (7.7,-6.3) node[midway, align=center] {\scriptsize ${\bf G}_{21}$ \\ \scriptsize $\alpha_{21}=2/3$\\ \scriptsize $\beta_{21}=1/3$};
\draw[thin, fill=white] (5,-6.5) rectangle (6.7,-8.3) node[midway, align=center] {\scriptsize ${\bf G}_{22}$ \\ \scriptsize $\alpha_{22}=1$\\ \scriptsize $\beta_{22}=1$};
\end{tikzpicture}
\caption[]{MIMO IC setting under consideration.}
\label{regionxc}
\end{figure}
\subsection{The Channel}
The channel model for the two user $(M_1,M_2,N_1,N_2)=(5,5,2,3)$ MIMO IC with ~{$(\alpha_{11},\alpha_{12},\alpha_{21},\alpha_{22})=(1,\frac{3}{4},\frac{2}{3},1)$} is defined by the following input-output equations.
\begin{eqnarray}
\mathbf{Y}_{1}(t)&=&\sqrt{P}\mathbf{G}_{11}(t)\mathbf{X}_{1}(t)+\sqrt{P^{\frac{3}{4}}}\mathbf{G}_{12}(t)\mathbf{X}_{2}(t)+\mathbf{\Gamma}_{1}(t), \label{eq::received1}\\
\mathbf{Y}_{2}(t)&=&\sqrt{P^{\frac{2}{3}}}\mathbf{G}_{21}(t)\mathbf{X}_{1}(t)+\sqrt{P}\mathbf{G}_{22}(t)\mathbf{X}_{2}(t)+\mathbf{\Gamma}_{2}(t),\label{eq::received2}
\end{eqnarray}
Here, $\mathbf{X}_{1}(t)=[{X}_{11}(t)\ {X}_{12}(t)\ {X}_{13}(t)\ {X}_{14}(t)\ {X}_{15}(t)]^T$ and $\mathbf{X}_{2}(t)=[{X}_{21}(t)\ {X}_{22}(t)\ {X}_{23}(t)\ {X}_{24}(t)\ {X}_{25}(t) ]^T$ are the ${5\times1}$ signal vectors sent from the first and second transmitters respectively, normalized so that each is subject to unit power
constraint. $\mathbf{Y}_{1}(t)=[{Y}_{11}(t)\ {Y}_{12}(t)]^T$ and $\mathbf{Y}_{2}(t)=[{Y}_{21}(t)\ {Y}_{22}(t)\ {Y}_{23}(t)]^T$ are the ${2\times1}$ and ${3\times1}$ received signal vectors at the first and second receivers, respectively. $\mathbf{\Gamma}_{1}(t)$ and $\mathbf{\Gamma}_{2}(t)$ are the ${2\times1}$ and ${3\times1}$ vectors whose components are zero-mean unit-variance additive white Gaussian noise (AWGN). The $N_r\times M_s$ matrix ${\bf G}_{rs}(t)$ is the channel fading coefficient matrix between the $r$-th receiver and the $s$-th transmitter for any $r,s\in\{1,2\}$. The entry in the $n$-th row and $m$-th column of the matrix ${\bf G}_{rs}(t)$ is ${G}_{rsnm}(t)$.
\subsubsection{Partial CSIT} \label{defp}
Under partial CSIT, the channel coefficients are represented as
\begin{eqnarray*}
G_{rsnm}(t)&=&\hat{G}_{rsnm}(t)+\sqrt{P^{-\beta_{rs}}}\tilde{G}_{rsnm}(t)
\end{eqnarray*}
Recall that $G_{rsnm}(t)$ is the channel fading coefficient between the $n$-th antenna of the $r$-th receiver and the $m$-th antenna of the $s$-th transmitter. $\hat{G}_{rsnm}(t)$ is the channel estimate and $\tilde{G}_{rsnm}(t)$ is the estimation error term. To avoid degenerate conditions, for each $N_r\times M_s$ channel matrix ${\bf G}_{rs}(t)$, we require that all its $N_r\times N_r$ submatrices are non-singular, i.e., their determinants are bound away from zero. To this end, for all $t\in[n],~r,s\in\{1,2\}$, and for all choices of $N_r$ transmit antenna indices $\{m_1,m_2,\cdots,m_{N_r}:m_i\in [M_s]\}$ define the determinant $D(t)$ as
\begin{eqnarray}
D(t)\triangleq \begin{vmatrix}
G_{rs1m_1}(t)& G_{rs1m_2}(t)& \cdots & G_{rs1m_{N_r}}(t)\\
\vdots&\vdots & \ddots &\vdots \\
G_{rsN_rm_1}(t)& G_{rsN_rm_2}(t)& \cdots& G_{rsN_rm_{N_r}}(t)
\end{vmatrix}.\label{deter}
\end{eqnarray}
Then we require that there exists a positive constant $\Delta_1>0$, such that $|D(t)|\geq \Delta_1$, for all $t\in[n],~r,s\in\{1,2\},\{m_1,m_2,\cdots,m_{N_r}:m_i\in [M_s]\}.$
The channel variables $\hat{G}_{rsnm}(t), \tilde{G}_{rsnm}(t)$ are distinct random variables drawn from the set $\mathcal{G}$. The realizations of $\hat{G}_{rsnm}(t)$ are known to the transmitter, but the realizations of $\tilde{G}_{rsnm}(t)$ are not available to the transmitter. We also assume that the channel coefficients $|{G}_{rsnm}(t)|$ are bounded away from zero, i.e.,
\begin{eqnarray}
\Delta_1&\le&|{G}_{rsnm}(t)|, \forall t\in[n],~r,s\in\{1,2\},m\in [M_s],n\in [N_r]\label{Deter2}
\end{eqnarray}
Note that under the partial CSIT model, the variance of the channel coefficients $G_{rsnm}(t)$ behaves as $\sim P^{-\beta_{rs}}$ and the peak of the probability density function behaves as $\sim\sqrt{P^{\beta_{rs}}}$.
For any $r,s\in\{1,2\}$, in order to span the full range of partial channel knowledge at the transmitters, the corresponding range of $\beta_{rs}$ parameters, assumed throughout this work, is $0\leq\beta_{rs}\leq1$. $\beta_{rs}=0$ and $\beta_{rs}=1$ correspond to the two extremes where the CSIT is essentially absent, or perfect, respectively. Note that the value of $\beta_{11}$ and $\beta_{22}$ will not affect the GDoF.
\subsubsection{GDoF}
The definitions of achievable rates $R_i(P)$ and capacity region $\mathcal{C}(P)$ are standard. The DoF region is defined as
\begin{eqnarray}
\mathcal{D}&=&\{(d_1,d_2): \exists (R_1(P),R_2(P))\in\mathcal{C}(P), \mbox{ s.t. } d_k=\lim_{P\rightarrow\infty}\frac{R_k(P)}{\frac{1}{2}\log{(P)}}, \forall k\in\{1,2\}\} \label {region}
\end{eqnarray}
\subsection{Channel Model}
The channel model is derived similar to the channel model for the general two user IC with arbitrary number of antennas in \cite{Arash_Jafar_IC}. We will avoid repetition of explanations
for those steps that are essentially identical to \cite{Arash_Jafar_IC}, and focus
instead on the deviations from the original proof. As in \cite{Arash_Jafar_IC},
the starting point is to bound the problem with deterministic
model, such that a GDoF outer bound on the deterministic
model is also a GDoF outer bound for the original problem. Since the derivation of the deterministic model is essentially
identical to \cite{Arash_Jafar_IC}, here we simply state the resulting equivalent deterministic
model.
\subsubsection{Equivalent Deterministic Model}\label{DM_1}
As in \cite{Arash_Jafar_IC}, without loss of generality for DoF characterizations, we will use the deterministic model for the equivalent channel.
\begin{eqnarray}
\bar{\bf Y}_{1}(t)&=&L_{1}^b(t)\left(\bar{\bf X}_{1c}(t)\bigtriangledown (\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2a}(t))^1_{\frac{1}{4}}\bigtriangledown (\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2c}(t))^1_{\frac{1}{2}}\right)\label{rrre2}\\
\bar{\mathbf{Y}}_{2}(t)&=&L_{2}^b(t)\left(\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2c}(t)\bigtriangledown (\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{1a}(t))^1_{\frac{1}{3}}\bigtriangledown (\bar{\bf X}_{1c}(t))^1_{\frac{2}{3}}\right)\label{rre3}
\end{eqnarray}
for all $t\in[n]$. $\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{1a}(t)$, $\bar{{X}}_{1b}(t)$, $\bar{{X}}_{1c}(t)$, $\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2a}(t)$, $\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2c}(t)$ and $\bar{\mathbf{Y}}_1(t)$ are defined as,
\begin{eqnarray}
\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{1}(t)&=&\begin{bmatrix}\bar{X}_{11}(t)&\bar{X}_{12}(t)&\bar{X}_{13}(t)&\bar{X}_{14}(t)&\bar{X}_{15}(t)\end{bmatrix}^T\\
\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{1a}(t)&=&\begin{bmatrix}\bar{X}_{11}(t)&\bar{X}_{12}(t)&\bar{X}_{13}(t)\end{bmatrix}^T\\
\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{1c}(t)&=&\begin{bmatrix}\bar{X}_{14}(t)&\bar{X}_{15}(t)\end{bmatrix}^T\\
\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2}(t)&=&\begin{bmatrix}\bar{X}_{21}(t)&\bar{X}_{22}(t)&\bar{X}_{23}(t)&\bar{X}_{24}(t)&\bar{X}_{25}(t)\end{bmatrix}^T\\
\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2a}(t)&=&\begin{bmatrix}\bar{X}_{21}(t)&\bar{X}_{22}(t)\end{bmatrix}^T\\
\bar{\mathbf{X}}_{2c}(t)&=&\begin{bmatrix}\bar{X}_{23}(t)&\bar{X}_{24}(t)&\bar{X}_{25}(t)\end{bmatrix}^T
\end{eqnarray}
and $\bar{X}_{1m}(t),\bar{X}_{2m}(t)\in\{0, 1, \cdots, {\bar{P}}\}$, $\forall m\in[5]$.
\subsection{GDoF region of the two user MIMO IC} \label{essboundIC}
\begin{theorem}\label{theoremIC} The GDoF region of the two user~ $(M_1,M_2,N_1,N_2)=(5,5,2,3)$ MIMO IC with $(\alpha_{11},\alpha_{12},\alpha_{21},\alpha_{22})=(1,\frac{3}{4},\frac{2}{3},1)$ and $\beta_{12}=\frac{1}{4},\beta_{21}=\frac{1}{3}$, is as follows
\begin{eqnarray}
\left\{\right.(d_1,d_2)\in {\color{olive}\mathbb{R}^{2+}},~d_1\le2,~d_2\le3,~\frac{d_1}{2}+\frac{d_2}{3}\le{\frac{3}{2}},~d_1+d_2\le3+\frac{7}{9}\left.\right\}\label{L_new1}
\end{eqnarray}
\end{theorem}
Note that, these bounds turns out to be tight, i.e., the achievability and the outer bounds coincide with each others, see \cite{Bofeng_Arash_Jafar_ArXiv}.\\
Proof of Theorem \ref{theoremIC} is relegated to Appendix \ref {PIC} and is straightforward except for the following lemma which is the main novelty of the outer bound proof. It is in deriving this key lemma that we require both the sum-set inequalities of Theorem \ref{Theorem AIS04} and the sub-modularity of entropy functions.
\begin{lemma}\label{lemma1} For the two user $(M_1,M_2,N_1,N_2)=(5,5,2,3)$ MIMO IC with $(\alpha_{11},\alpha_{12},\alpha_{21},\alpha_{22})=(1,\frac{3}{4},\frac{2}{3},1)$ and $\beta_{12}=\frac{1}{4},\beta_{21}=\frac{1}{3}$ levels of partial CSIT, we have,
\begin{eqnarray}
2H((\bar{\mathbf{X}}^{[n]}_{2c})^1_{\frac{1}{2}})&{\le}&2H(\bar{\bf Y}^{n}_{1}\mid \bar{\mathbf{X}}^{[n]}_{1},\mathcal{G}){+}H((\bar{\bf Y}^{[n]}_{1})_{\frac{2}{3}}\mid (\bar{\bf Y}^{[n]}_{1})_{\frac{2}{3}}^{1},\bar{\mathbf{X}}^{[n]}_{1},\mathcal{G})+n~o~(\log{\bar{P}})\label{firstlem}
\end{eqnarray}
See Figure \ref{lemmaxxv} for the comparison of the two sides of (\ref{firstlem}).
\end{lemma}
\begin{figure}[h]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.8\textwidth]{p9d-5523.pdf}
\caption[]{The two sides of (\ref{firstlem}) are compared.}
\label{lemmaxxv}
\end{figure}
See Appendix \ref{appendix1} for proof of Lemma \ref{lemma1}.
\pagebreak
\section{Conclusion}
We present a class of sum-set inequalities for bounded set linear combinations of random variables typically encountered in the GDoF framework. The bounds are obtained by building upon the aligned image sets (AIS) approach. Through an example, we showed that these inequalities are useful for obtaining tight GDoF bounds for MIMO interference networks with arbitrary antenna configurations and arbitrary levels of channel uncertainty for each channel. Indeed, we expect these inequalities to be broadly useful for obtaining tight GDoF bounds for MIMO wireless interference and broadcast networks under varying levels of channel strengths and channel uncertainty.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
| 8,297
|
**ESSENTIAL TOOLS, TECHNIQUES, AND
RECIPES FOR THE MODERN AT- HOME COOK **
**_Lauren Braun Costello
Chef, Culinary Instructor, Food Writer_**
Copyright © 2009 by Lauren Braun Costello. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Adams Media, a division of F+W Media, Inc.
57 Littlefield Street, Avon, MA 02322. U.S.A.
_www.adamsmedia.com_
ISBN 10: 1-60550-145-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-60550-145-1
eISBN: 978-1-44051-339-8
Printed in the United States of America.
J I H G F E D C B A
**Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data**
available from the publisher.
This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information with regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional advice. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.
— From a _Declaration of Principles_ jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their product are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Adams Media was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.
Interior art by Eric Andrews.
_This book is available at quantity discounts for bulk purchases.
For information, please call 1-800-289-0963._
**Dedication**
For my father, competence personified.
**competent** \com **.** pe **.** tent\
_adjective:_ having requisite or adequate abilities
[as in _competent_ cook]; specifically having the capacity to be:
organized: plan ahead, appreciate the structured process
clean: hold a high standard of sanitation
neat: abhor clutter, know where things are
thrifty: avoid wasting food and resources
efficient: take time to save time, group like tasks
informed: seek information on tools, techniques, and recipes
joyful: understand that cooking is about giving and receiving pleasure
Acknowledgments
_The Competent Cook_ has been a work in progress for many years. I could not have written it without the support and encouragement of many people. I offer my sincerest gratitude and heartfelt thanks to:
Molly Lyons, my agent and friend, for your abiding belief in this project. There would be no book without your brilliant ideas, unfailing encouragement, and steady persistence.
Noel Volpe, for your devoted friendship, magnificent generosity, and two quiet, comfortable places to work. I literally could not have done this without you.
Russell Reich, for your devoted friendship, skilled editing, and undying support to the finish line. Your encouragement and insights have impacted every page.
Meredith O'Hayre, Laura Daly, and everyone at Adams Media, for all your efforts on behalf of the book, especially your enthusiasm.
Brent and Valerie Whitmore of CDKitchen.com for first publishing my food column, "The Competent Cook," which became the inspiration for this book.
All my teachers and colleagues who helped make me a competent cook: Barbara Braun, Grandpa Ted, Aunt Candy, Nana, Chef Henri, Chef Sixto, Chef Roger, Chef Michel Nischan, Maggie Odell, Liliana Scali, Ashley O'Neal, Kim Pistone, Rian Smolik, Tim Shaw, Julie Negrin, and Irene Yager.
My many students who have influenced and inspired this book, in particular, the Borenstein Family, Judy Goodman, Anne Grossman, Nicole Putzel, and Ellen Schwarzman.
Very special thanks to Dorothy Cann Hamilton and Penelope Pate Greene for believing in me.
To my family and friends, I am indebted to you for carrying me through all the hard work with support and love:
Ken and Hara Braun, Alexandra Bruskoff, Yolanda M. Chendak, Marcia S. Cohen, Nicole and Lucas Carrasco, Dana B. Davis, Paula Dolson, Betsy Feinstein, Charlotte and Bernard Feinstein, Limor Geller, Lara Glazier, Kathy Goldstein, Timothy P. Graf, Carol Leibenson, Tamara McKenna, Maureen Bennett O'Connor, Joan S. Richter, Zibby Right, Lindsay Smithen, Rachel L. Spector, and Paula E. Vayas.
To my husband, Sean: thank you not only for supporting my dream in every way possible, but for awakening it in me. Without you, there never would have been a "Chef Lauren." I will love you always.
To my son, Jonathan: thank you for being such a delicious boy! Feeding you is my greatest pleasure. But you feed me even more with your affection, wonder, and unabashed joy. I love you more than you could ever know.
To my father, Ken: thank you for making me a better writer, for all your loving and supportive guidance, and for coming up with the very clever title, _The Competent Cook_.
To my sister, Nicole: thank you for your love and support (and the beautiful photo!).
To Fanny Lopez and Lili Sandoval: thank you for taking such good care of Jonathan with love and devotion, being so flexible, and making it possible for me to work on this book without worry.
Contents
Introduction
**Part 1** **Essential Tools and Techniques**
[**Chapter 1**
Kitchen Organization](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c21_r1.html#d7e125916)
[**Chapter 2**
The Essential Tools](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c22_r1.html#d7e226225)
[**Chapter 3**
The Essential Techniques](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c23_r1.html#d7e507942)
[**Chapter 4**
The Baker's Essential Tools and Techniques](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c24_r1.html#d7e851461)
[**Chapter 5**
The Serious Cook's Essential Tools and Techniques](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c25_r1.html#d7e1107176)
[**Chapter 6**
The Health-Conscious Cook's Essential Tools and Techniques](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c26_r1.html#d7e1295486)
[**Chapter 7**
The Grill Master's Essential Tools and Techniques ](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c27_r1.html#d7e1395093)
[**Chapter 8**
Nonessential Equipment Miscellany](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c28_r1.html#d7e1486699)
[**Chapter 9**
How to Shop for Food and Store It Properly](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c29_r1.html#d7e16402111)
**Part 2** **Essential Recipes**
[**Chapter 10**
Breakfast](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c32_r1.html#d7e17448121)
[**Chapter 11**
Nibbles and Starters](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c38_r1.html#d7e18995128)
[**Chapter 12**
Soups and Salads](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c44_r1.html#d7e20430134)
[**Chapter 13**
Main Dishes](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c50_r1.html#d7e22313144)
[**Chapter 14**
Side Dishes](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c60_r1.html#d7e26679163)
[**Chapter 15**
Desserts](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c69_r1.html#d7e29187174)
[**Chapter 16**
For the Baker](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c85_r1.html#d7e33417192)
[**Chapter 17**
For the Serious Cook](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c91_r1.html#d7e35415201)
[**Chapter 18**
For the Health-Conscious Cook](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c97_r1.html#d7e37241210)
[**Chapter 19**
For the Grill Master](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c102_r1.html#d7e38540216)
[**Chapter 20**
For the Holidays](Cost_9781440513398_epub_c108_r1.html#d7e39999223)
**Appendix A** **Equipment Materials**
**Appendix B** **Measurement Conversions**
**Appendix C** **Glossary**
**Appendix D** **Cooking with Eggs**
Introduction
AS A COOK, you likely crave the essential cooking knowledge that will lead to competence in the kitchen. You're probably wondering: What do I need to have? What do I need to know? What do I need to do?
Cooking is such a personal pursuit. Only _you_ fully understand your tastes, comfort, skills, environment, routine, and budget. Yet in a marketplace that has every conceivable gadget, on a culinary information superhighway of encyclopedic proportions, and with a bottomless global print and web recipe database, it's hard to recognize what is essential.
_The Competent Cook_ identifies what you must have, what you should know, and what you ought to do to be considered a competent cook. Yes, you can find a wide variety of resources that cover every conceivable aspect of cooking. They are both useful and worthwhile. Bigger is not better, though, and more is not always more helpful. This book only concerns itself with the _essential_ elements of cooking in two component parts: tools and techniques, and recipes. It is designed to answer: "What do you _really_ need to know?"
As a chef and caterer, I have come to realize that with all the tools accessible to me, I rely on very few items to execute virtually every cooking task I encounter. As a cooking instructor, when eager students ask me what equipment they need, or what knives I recommend, my answers always go back to what I actually use day in and day out, both professionally and personally. These answers are the foundation of _The Competent Cook._
Sure, I have my preferred pots and pans (I love my All-Clad stainless steel 10-inch sauté pan and my Le Creuset enameled cast iron Dutch oven), and favorite knives (my Kyocera 5-inch white ceramic chef 's knife is so sharp, and beautiful, too). But what is best for me in my kitchen with my needs might not be ideal for you. For that reason, I do not usually recommend brands. I think it's best for you to learn what is required, understand the attributes of those items, and then do your own choosing, taking your unique tastes and newly acquired knowledge into consideration.
This book provides a thorough explanation of the fundamentals. If you obtain the basics listed here, and achieve proficiency with these methods and recipes, you will experience many of the countless pleasures of cooking: the confidence, enjoyment, and sense of accomplishment that only true _competence_ can unleash.
**_Part 1_**
Ess _e_ ntial Tools **and** Techniqu _e_ s
A CUPBOARD OF COUNTLESS POTS AND PANS. Drawers bursting with gadgets. Counters cluttered with appliances. This is not the picture of an efficient kitchen. Having the right tools and knowing what to do with them is the best way to prepare for any cooking task. "How much" is not the question, and "more" certainly is not the answer. Ask instead, "what is essential?"
Thankfully, quantity is not the end game in cooking well. The kinds of tools you use and your mastery of essential techniques (paired with the best ingredients, of course) determines the quality of the food you cook. Very little is actually needed in your cupboards and drawers. Depending on your personal affinity, only a few appliances are required to execute virtually any recipe you wish to prepare. The essential pieces are the universal baseline for _any_ cook. Your skill in using those tools with your chosen ingredients is what defines your mastery of technique.
Technique is important, too. The manipulation of heat to transform food is what cooking is all about—not assembling prepackaged goods to make a meal. Your influence—your _competence_ —is your unique gift that makes the food you cook "one of a kind." You might not employ equally all the essential techniques outlined in the pages that follow. Perhaps you sauté and broil more frequently than you braise or bake. Knowing how to do it all, or at least understanding the basic principles of each method, however, makes you an authentically competent cook.
CHAPTER
1
Kitchen Organization
The Layout of Your Kitchen
Cabinet Organization
Gas or Electric
Cook for the Kitchen You Have
THE KITCHEN IS WHERE IT ALL BEGINS. Before the recipe, the ingredients, the equipment, the cooking process, or the completed dish comes your workspace. From tiny kitchenettes to expansive center-island showpieces, the environment in which you cook defines your opportunities and limitations as a cook. How your kitchen is organized plays a major role in your cooking experience.
The Layout of Your Kitchen
The type of kitchen you have is the prime determinant of how you move in the space. Whether you have a huge kitchen with three ovens or a small closet with a mini fridge, the space you have establishes what type and the quantity of kitchenware you need. The layout and appliances also influence the cooking methods you use most frequently.
A kitchen is made of three functional components:
**1. Food storage:** refrigeration and pantry
**2. Cooking:** stove and oven
**3. Preparation and cleanup:** countertop and sink
The components are best integrated in what is known as a **working triangle** , where you move efficiently between the refrigerator, stove, and sink. The principle of triangulation makes any kitchen layout as functional as possible because it centers your workspace and limits superfluous movement.
Expansive kitchens are often less efficient workspaces because the working triangles are so huge that you'll feel as if the triangle doesn't even exist. Like a large closet, a giant kitchen is easy to fill, and since there is abundant space, the same choices do not need to be made as with smaller kitchens—choices that can make you a more competent cook.
If size does not determine how well a kitchen functions, what does? The equipment you have and the way it is organized defines the workspace. The first step in getting organized is understanding what kind of layout you have.
There are five basic kitchen plans.
Single-wall
In a single-wall kitchen, all the appliances, cabinets, and counter space are on one wall. This kitchen design is generally due to space constraints and has no functional benefit to the cooking process. Since there is no working triangle, it's not easy to work in because you have to shuffle back and forth along one line.
L-shaped
In an L-shaped kitchen, two connecting walls form a right angle, and thus a triangle. The main workspace tends to be in the heart of the right angle, with the equipment pushed more toward the ends. The corners are good for deep storage, such as rotating, round "lazy susan" shelves.
Galley
This is a "corridor" kitchen with the cabinets and appliances on opposing, facing walls. It makes the best use of small spaces, and is an exceptional example of triangulation even for large spaces. No matter the size, a galley is basically a hallway, with two points of the triangle on one wall, limiting excessive movement. If too wide, then a galley is just a room without a working triangle.
U-shaped
The three-wall, horseshoe layout creates a natural working triangle, which is highly functional for serious cooks. Three adjoining walls create two corners for deep storage and ample counter space.
Island
This layout is generally a U or L with an island in the middle or at the edge. Typically spacious with abundant counter space, the island kitchen might provide multiple working triangles.
Where to Put What You Need
No matter what layout you have or its size, there is a sensible way to organize your equipment. These general guidelines apply in every kitchen, irrespective of design or activity level:
• Keep spices, oils, and implements within arm's reach of the stovetop.
• Avoid storing oils and condiments near heating elements to prevent them from going rancid quickly.
• Put oven mitts and kitchen towels right next to your heat sources.
• Pots and pans should be stored with the most frequently used pieces on top.
• Store knives in a sheath, block, or drawer tray, but never loose in a drawer.
Cabinet Organization
One of the most important things you can do to be a more competent cook is know your inventory. Be aware of the fresh foods and dry goods you have in stock, and be familiar with and have appropriate access to all your kitchenware. When you know what you have and, more important, can access it easily, you make the right ingredient and equipment choices as you cook in your kitchen.
The Rule of FIFO
We are inclined to use only what is in front of our faces, or what comes to mind when we are planning to cook. However, you'll make better choices if you follow the rule of First In, First Out, or FIFO. Store your perishables with the oldest in front and the newest in back. Along those lines, you should make it a habit of rotating nonperishables from time to time to ensure that you are aware of your full inventory and making the most of it.
The same is true for the freezer and the pantry. Move items in the back to the front so you see what you have. Have you been buying jars of tomato sauce all this time only to discover that you already had two hidden behind some boxes of pasta? Use what you already have, then buy more. You'll avoid clutter, spend money more wisely, and waste less food.
Give Like Items the Same Home
Many people tend to spread kitchen equipment around to make use of all the cabinets available, especially in spacious kitchens. This is not necessarily the best option. It makes much more sense to have all the sauté pans and saucepans on one shelf, for example, than to disperse them between two or more cupboards. If you open Cabinet 1 to find that a certain sauté pan is not there, you will waste time hunting for it in Cabinet 2. Condensing like items also helps with cleanup, since you automatically intuit where to store things when you finish using them.
Identify the Equipment You Use Most Frequently
Placing plastic storage containers high on a shelf out of reach and stacked mixing bowls buried deep below the counter is an inefficient use of space. Your kitchen should not make you work harder—it should be organized to make you work smarter, and ultimately work _for_ you.
If you live in a one- or two-person household and end up with leftovers every time you cook, do not keep the storage containers in an impractical spot. If you love to make pasta, why not store the pots and strainers either above the counter at eye level for easy reach, or below the counter at the top of the pile of larger items?
Storing pots and pans can be a challenge because managing the lids that match is often an onerous task. Arrange pot covers and lids in a lid rack on a separate shelf, adjacent to the stacked pots. The separate and designated lid and pot areas prevent tumbling piles every time you reach in to grab a particular piece.
Ask Questions, Then Make Changes
Identify the way you eat and cook, then make the equipment needed available to you to prepare those meals easily. Do you eat lots of salads? Don't bury your mixing bowls deep within your saucepans. Are you a frequent baker? Place all your muffin tins and cake pans in a place where you can reach them without any frustration. Assess your kitchen real estate, as well as your cooking and eating needs, and then assign storage space for your equipment accordingly. Put the items you use most frequently someplace you can reach easily.
Once you view your kitchen like a workspace, you'll be able to organize it with ease. No one would ever store the telephone in the filing cabinet, or the keyboard on the desk chair. Think of your kitchen inventory as the tools you need to make a meal proficiently and successfully. With a new and improved order, you will become a more competent cook.
tThere are still other considerations to understanding your kitchen layout and knowing your food and equipment inventory. The kitchen's energy sources—even its relationship to the rest of your home—play a role in how you cook.
Gas or Electric
Which is better? There are discernable benefits to both, especially depending on the heat source in question.
Gas stoves provide the greatest control over heat adjustment since the flame is visible and responds instantly to your changes. However, they have many component parts to clean. Newer electric stovetops by comparison are easier to clean thanks to the flat, smooth surface. But the residual heat is slower to dissipate on an electric stove, which makes the heat source in general more challenging to control. That is, the conduction surface of an electric stove gets very hot quickly, but takes much longer to cool down. There are now induction stoves that do not provide any heat at all per se; instead, they produce a magnetic wave above the surface, and require induction cookware with magnetic bases to create the heat. This heat is almost instantaneous and more controllable than regular electric stovetop heat.
**_convection is just a bunch of hot air_**
Convection ovens use the physical movement of hot air to blow heat from the source to the food. All ovens have some small amount of convection naturally taking place, but ovens labeled "convection" have amplified air circulation. That means possible shorter cooking times or lower oven temperatures from what the recipe says.
The general consensus on gas ovens versus electric is the opposite. The coils of electric ovens tend to provide more even heat, which aids in browning roasts beautifully and baking breads uniformly. The flame heat of a gas oven cooks food less evenly and less predictably.
Neither gas nor electric heat will make you a better cook. Understanding the heat sources you have and learning how to work _with_ them will make you a far more competent one. A recipe made in one kitchen might come out differently in another; the cook's sensibilities, the equipment used, and the heat source are just some of the dozens of factors that play a role.
Cook for the Kitchen You Have
When you buy a piece of beef, you should consider many issues: the number of people you need to feed, your budget, the cut of meat you prefer, and the cooking method you will use. Believe it or not, your kitchen and its appliances also should be a part of your thinking.
Why? If you have a kitchen with no windows right next to your bedroom, broiling a large bone-in rib eye steak is likely not the best idea. Smoke might fill the oven chamber and subsequently the kitchen, flowing right into your sleep space. Perhaps a better choice would be to stir-fry some London broil or braise some short ribs on the stove. That's how you consider the pluses and minuses of _your_ kitchen space, and then make wise choices when you cook.
**_a must-have that hopefully you never have to use_**
Every kitchen must have a fire extinguisher. There are no exceptions. If you do not have one, go out and buy one immediately. May you never need to use it, but if you do you'll be so thankful you have it.
CHAPTER
2
The Essential Tools
Chef's Knife
Paring Knife
Bread Knife
Cutting Board
Can Opener
Spatula
Wooden Spoon
Ladle
Tongs
Peeler
Kitchen Shears
Sauté Pans
Baking Pan
Sheet Pan
Saucepan
Stockpot
Strainer
Measuring Cups and Spoons
Mixing Bowls
Whisk
THERE ARE SO MANY KITCHEN GADGETS available on the market today, it can be hard to know which ones you must have. Surely you do not need the wand that "magically" slices avocado right out of the shell.
Do not take a second look at that gizmo shaped like a grid that dices onions _for_ you. The preposterousness of the single-task kitchen toy was best satirized in the first "Bridget Jones" movie when Bridget's mother resorts to selling a hard-boiled egg-peeling trinket at the local department store. Do we really need a separate tool for each and every task?
For centuries, competent cooks have produced exceptional results with limited equipment. As Julia Child used to say, your hands are your best tool in the kitchen. Professional cooks do not use garlic presses, asparagus baskets, or tomato knives. A garlic press actually wastes garlic and is a nuisance to clean when all you have to do is smash the clove with the flat side of your chef 's knife, peel, and chop. Asparagus baskets are just as silly when you already have a large and deep saucepan to use. When it comes to cutting tomatoes or nearly anything else, the very sharp edge of a well-maintained chef 's knife does the job every time.
Space is always at a premium in any kitchen. Nothing could be more wasteful than throwing away time and money along with precious storage real estate. So what does every cook need in order to function? What are the truly essential tools?
"The Essential Top 20" outlines what every kitchen must have at a bare minimum. Whether you dabble between toaster waffles and boxed macaroni and cheese, or sample all the new recipes from your favorite monthly food magazine, the following list is your essential cooking equipment.
THE ESSENTIAL TOP 20
Chef's Knife
If there were room in the world for only one kitchen tool, it would be the knife. Conceptually, knives have been around for at least two million years, dating back to a time when a sharp-edged stone or jagged seashell was a hot commodity. With the onset of the Iron Age only a few thousand years ago, the sharp, strong metallic blade was born.
Knives come in all shapes and sizes, crafted for a variety of uses ranging from chopping to slicing, but the components of a knife are universal:
• **Blade** —the cutting apparatus of a knife, from the tip to the heel
• **Bolster** —the finger guard with which you grip the knife using your thumb and index finger
• **Edge** —the sharp bottom of the blade
• **Handle** —the part of the knife you hold with your last three fingers
• **Heel** —the opposite end of the blade from the tip
• **Rivets** —the pins that hold together the tang and handle
• **Spine** —the top of the blade
• **Tang** —the part of the blade that extends into the handle
• **Tip** —the pointy end of the blade
The chef 's, or cook's, knife is the most indispensable culinary tool in both home and professional kitchens. Its primary function, to chop, is accomplished by pinching the bolster with the index finger and thumb while rocking the blade back and forth on the cutting board.
The blade size can range from 5 to 14 inches, but the 8-inch knife is the most common and versatile. Regardless of size, the blade should be deep and somewhat heavy with a straight edge. A deep blade makes it easier to hold the knife properly, and is also more effective in cutting large pieces of food. Full-tang knives (when the blade extends all the way to the end of the handle) provide the best support to the blade.
Shapes vary as well. A traditional western chef 's knife has a blade that gradually curves upward with a sharp point at the tip, which allows the knife to rock back and forth across the board. A Japanese chef 's knife, called a santoku knife, has a flat edge with a blade that curves downward at the tip (sheepsfoot-style). Many people incorrectly associate santoku knives with hollowed indents along the blade that keep food from sticking to it as the knife cuts. It is the shape of the blade, not a scalloped surface pattern, that defines a santoku knife ( _santoku_ means "three virtues," as in slicing, dicing, and mincing). The blades of both western and Japanese chef 's knives can have hollowed edges to help food fall away easily.
Chef 's knives come in a range of materials: low-carbon steel, stainless steel, high-carbon stainless steel, titanium, and even ceramic. Metallic blades can be forged (heated and pounded to form) or stamped (cut to shape and size from cold rolled steel). Forged blades tend to be heavier than stamped blades—a benefit or drawback, depending on your needs. Here are some pros and cons to different materials:
• **Ceramic** blades chip easily and require special sharpening equipment, but are light, exceptionally hard, resistant to stains, stay sharp longer, and impart no flavor to food.
• **High-carbon steel** is the most popular and pervasive chef 's knife material in home kitchens. The material does not rust and holds a sharp edge, but it is quite expensive.
• **Low-carbon steel** —the material of knives for centuries—hold a sharp edge, but impart a metallic flavor to food, discolors, and can even stain food.
• **Titanium** , similarly lightweight to ceramic, also imparts no flavor to food, but is not as hard as steel, and thus does not hold as sharp an edge.
Please see Appendix A for more information on knife materials.
It is far better to have one high-quality chef 's knife than half a dozen low-quality knives of varying shapes and sizes. This knife will do more than chop—it will carve, slice, bone, and butcher, if need be. Select a knife that feels good in your hand and is made of a material you are comfortable caring for in the long run. Do you like a heavy handle? Check out a traditional chef 's knife. Is an even weight distribution between the blade and handle more comfortable to you? Sample some santokus. Like most implements, the knife acts as an extension of your hand, so its size relative to your own is a critical consideration.
There are dozens more knives available, such as filleting knives, butcher knives, cleavers, slicers, oyster knives, and grapefruit knives, to name a few. But quantity and variety are not critical to successful results in the kitchen. The quality and sharpness of the blades, on the other hand, are key.
The key to cutting effectively is using only a sharp knife. A sharp knife does the work for you, making your motions effortless and fluid. A dull knife is ultimately very dangerous: the blade does not provide the cut, forcing you to exert your body to make the blade penetrate. If the blade is not sharp enough to anchor itself in the food, and you have to apply pressure to move through it, then you risk slipping and losing control of the knife. Prevent injury: use a sharp knife.
Never put a knife in the dishwasher, as the heat dulls the blade over time. Wash knives by hand with warm water and soap. Dry them immediately and thoroughly with a cloth or rag, from the spine to the edge, to ensure safety. Avoid scraping the knife against the cutting board repeatedly to pick up the last bits of chopping; turn the knife on its spine and use that flat surface to scrape instead. Store knives in a wooden block, sheath, or drawer tray for safekeeping. If knives are used and maintained properly, they can last a lifetime.
**_hone your blade_**
Every home cook should have a tool to straighten and sharpen a knife's edge after each use. Whether it is a steel or stone, a honing tool helps to maintain the investment of a good knife by realigning its edge. Sharpen your knives professionally when the edges are lost.
Paring Knife
The paring knife looks like a miniature chef 's knife. The blade is typically about 3 inches long. If it is longer, it is usually called a utility knife. It can be used to slice garlic, remove a tomato core, scrape the skin off a carrot in place of a peeler, or cut eyes from a potato. Wherever the chef 's knife is just too big for the job, the paring knife will do. Even though it is a small knife for small tasks, quality is still important. Look for a sturdy blade that will not chip or bend.
Bread Knife
Every cook must have one knife with a long, serrated blade that can cut through foods both crispy and delicate without crushing them. Bread knife blades resemble woodworking tools and are used with the same saw-like motion.
Unlike straight-edged knives (chef 's and paring), a bread knife is not easily sharpened. Each individual serration needs to be sharpened. You can tell when you have a dull bread knife, because it tears instead of cuts. However, if you use your bread knife exclusively for its named task, wash and dry it properly, and treat it with care, you will have it for a lifetime and likely won't need to worry about sharpening it. Should it need sharpening, take it to a professional.
Cutting Board
The surface on which you cut and prepare food is as important as any tool. There are several materials available, including wood, plastic, marble, and tempered glass. The best surfaces are those in which the knife's edge anchors itself easily. This provides stability and control, two essential virtues in cutting.
Wood and plastic cutting boards are ideal work surfaces for trimming, cutting, pounding, and rolling. Both materials are soft enough for a sharp knife to grip the surface as it moves across the board. Wood boards are often thick (called butcher blocks) and give the added benefit of additional height. Plastic boards—even the thick ones—tend to be thinner than wooden boards, but are dishwasher-safe. Marble is not appropriate for any use other than baking where it serves as an exceptionally smooth and cold surface for rolling dough. Its hard composition can chip a knife's blade. Tempered glass is never a good option, as it is bumpy, hard, and slippery.
Flexible, light plastic cutting boards are excellent space savers and aid in transferring choppings to vessels. Thick, heavy wooden or plastic boards are the better choice for more substantial tasks like breaking down whole birds, carving heavy roasts, and paring large, dense fruits and vegetables.
You need only one cutting board. To that end, a large, heavy plastic board is the ideal choice since it can go in the dishwasher. Buy the biggest one you can use and store. If you have room for more than one board, buy a few in various colors for sanitation purposes to avoid cross-contamination: red for meat; blue for dairy; green for fruits and vegetables; yellow for fish.
Never put a wooden board in the dishwasher or leave it to soak in the sink; it will warp and splinter over time. Clean it with soap under running hot water. Dry it immediately.
Can Opener
No matter what kind of cook you are, your kitchen is incomplete without a can opener. Whether you live on canned soups and chili, or you often make homemade sauce from San Marzano tomatoes, you must have a can opener.
There are several kinds of can openers on the market, ranging from manual to electric. Space should be your primary concern: if limited, a regular manual can opener does the job. Large, electric can openers are appealingly easy to use, but might not be worth the space they occupy.
All can openers have a circular blade that rotates around the rim of the can. Some are designed to open cans from the side of the can instead of from the lid itself, which prevents the top from having a sharp edge that can cut you.
You can buy a basic "church key" for making holes in the tops of cans as spouts, but this kind of opener is useful exclusively for cans containing only liquid.
Spatula
Without a spatula, you cannot flip flapjacks, turn trout, or lift latkes. A standard spatula, also called a turner, is a flat piece of metal or plastic, possibly slotted, attached to a handle. If you are using a griddle, you always need a spatula. No matter how you cook pieces of fish, you need a spatula to transfer them from cooking vessel to plate.
One spatula is all you need, but there are several kinds worth considering, depending on your kitchen inventory and cooking habits. Ideally the handle should be raised or at an angle, offset from the blade, so that you can keep your hands at a distance from the heat.
The most important thing to remember is that the material of the spatula and pan should match. For example, do not use a metal spatula in a coated pan or you risk scraping and scratching the pan. Metal spatulas are for use with metal pans; heatproof plastic spatulas are a must for use with coated, nonstick surfaces.
Spatulas can be either firm or flexible, whether metal or plastic. Firm spatulas are sturdy enough to lift heavy items like burgers and crab cakes. Flexible spatulas, often curved at the end for additional control and support, aid in turning and lifting delicate items like fish filet.
Wooden Spoon
Doesn't it seem like an image of a wooden spoon is part of every cooking website or company logo out there? That's probably because the wooden spoon is the symbol of cooking. All cooking comes down to movement—that of ingredients, heat, flavors, even the cook herself. The iconic wooden spoon moves, stirs, pushes, and folds food.
Some wooden spoons are traditional hollowed orbs that do not just stir food, but gather it. Others are tapered paddles that hug the pan for increased efficiency in scraping. Short, wide handles are good for stir-frying, while long, thin handles are ideal for stirring in a deep pot. The more serious a cook you are, the greater variety of shapes and sizes you likely need.
Why wood and not metal? Wood does not conduct heat like aluminum or stainless steel (notice how you can stir a hot stew with a long wooden spoon and the handle never gets extremely hot or burns your fingers). Hardwoods like bamboo, cherry, and olive are excellent materials, as they are relatively nonporous compared to softer woods like pine. That means, if cleaned properly (no dishwasher, please), wooden spoons made from hardwoods will not break or splinter.
Wooden spoons of any kind do have one drawback: they are absorbent. They stain and smell of the foods they have touched. Do you like to cook Indian and Italian? Have one for _tikka_ and one for tomato sauce. And definitely do not use either spoon for your cake batter. It is best to have a few wooden spoons on hand, especially given how essential and relatively inexpensive they are.
Ladle
There is not much to say about ladles other than that they are the necessary implement to serve soup and stew. Ladles come in stainless steel, plastic, and wood. Stainless steel is the most durable. The best ladles have deep bowls at the base of long handles that curve at the tip so the ladle can hang from the side of the pot. If you are going to own just one ladle, the ideal size is 6-ounce. There are 4- and 8-ounce ladles, too.
**_get choked up_**
Most people do not hold a ladle properly. The long handle permits the ladle to hang down in a deep pot. Do not hold the ladle from the top of that long handle. Instead, hold the ladle closest to the cup, at the bottom of the handle. This ensures greater control and fewer spills.
Tongs
Your hands are your best tool—but not when things are hot. Tongs allow you to lift and turn. The shorter the tongs, the greater control you have. But there are instances, like needing to reach across a hot grill, where a long set of tongs helps you grab the food without burning your arm.
Spring-action tongs that lock into place are fairly easy to work with and even easier to store. The spring provides resistance when you pinch, and the lock keeps the tongs closed to fit in a drawer, canister, or dishwasher basket. The downside, of course, is that such tongs can lock in place in the midst of your using them. Tongs that have a sliding ring that locks at the neck to keep them closed for storage, but slides to the bottom to open, avoid the problem of locking mid-use.
Stainless steel tongs are best as they are sturdiest, but plastic or nylon versions are also available.
Peeler
Swivel or fixed? That is the essential peeler blade question. It's all a matter of preference. The swivel blade, whether anchored vertically or horizontally in a plastic or metallic arch, adjusts with the curvature of the item being peeled, but the blade itself is straight. Think of it as power steering. A fixed blade is the original peeler, and requires more effort but yields greater control. The blade itself usually has two slits so you can peel either towards or away from yourself.
If you like to peel towards yourself, anchoring your thumb on the food, then the fixed blade is the only way to go. If peeling away from yourself is more comfortable, a swivel-blade peeler, particularly a vertically oriented one, is best.
**_ginger has its roots_**
That's why using a peeler to remove the skin is a tough job. Use a regular spoon from your flatware instead. Hold the ginger in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. Turn the edge of the spoon over the ginger skin and scrape. The skin will come off and there will be little waste.
Kitchen Shears
It is important to have a pair of scissors just for kitchen use—even if you never plan to butterfly a quail. Not only is it more sanitary to use one pair for cutting paper at your desk and another for removing the backbone of a bird, but this ensures a longer life for the blades of both scissors. Use kitchen shears to snip chives, cut the dough of a coffee ring, break bones, or just to open a bag of frozen peas.
Rubberized handles make for easy cleaning and gripping, but many kitchen shears are all stainless steel. Do not put them in the dishwasher; always wipe them dry immediately following a careful manual cleaning. Remember: scissors are essentially two knives held together with a rivet, so the same rules apply to both tools.
Sauté Pans: Regular and Nonstick
Whether you call it a frying pan, skillet, or sauté pan, this piece of equipment almost does it all. When you sauté chicken, sear fish, make pancakes, prepare a pan sauce, or fix a quick stir-fry, a sauté pan is your go-to gear. If it has a heatproof handle, you even can throw it in the oven and roast with it, too.
This all-purpose, shallow pan with flared sides is as perfect for French toast as it is for a veal chop. The low sides relative to the wide base allow for searing and dry-heat cooking. This shape helps moisture to evaporate, preventing it from collecting in the pan. Tight-fitting lids are what really make the pan even more versatile, enabling you to sweat, braise, and steam.
If you have just one sauté pan, buy one that is all-purpose in both material and size. A heavy-bottomed stainless steel pan with an aluminum core conducts heat well, handles high temperatures, and is durable. Sizes generally run from 8 to 14 inches, so a 10- or 12-inch pan is optimal if it is the only pan you buy. Look for a tight-fitting lid and heatproof handle to make the purchase worthwhile.
Nonstick sauté pans are easy to clean and essential for items like scrambled eggs and low-fat cuisine. They work best when used over gentle to medium heat. Use rubber, wood, silicone, and plastic implements to avoid scratching a nonstick surface. The drawback to a nonstick pan is that nothing sticks, so you cannot caramelize and develop _sucs_ (those crusty bits) at the bottom of the pan. Use a nonstick pan only for a nonstick task.
Baking Pan
The baking pan is known by more than one name. What you call it is generally guided by what you make in it: a brownie pan, lasagne dish, or casserole, for example. But the cooking technique is always the same: baking in an oven at a moderate temperature for a substantial period of time.
Whether glass, metal, porcelain, enamel cast iron, or earthenware, the baking pan is typically square or rectangular. Standard sizes are 8" × 8", 9" × 9", and 9" × 13", usually 2 inches deep. Ovals and circles are also popular. Some pans are elegant enough to be taken from oven to table for service, and are then usually called dishes. Both sweet and savory things can be made in baking pans, such as cakes or casseroles.
**_it's all in a name_**
It's dubbed a pan in the oven but a dish on the table. Did you know that it's called stuffing in a turkey, but dressing when baked solo in a pan? And then, it's dressing in a dish, of course, if the pan makes it to the table!
Sheet Pan
Also known as a baking sheet, cookie sheet, or jellyroll pan, this is the oven version of the sauté pan. You can bake, roast, or broil on this pan.
Line it with parchment paper or aluminum foil for a disposable nonstick surface. Sheet pans do come in coated nonstick finishes that make cleanup less of a challenge, but they do not function as well at higher temperatures.
Sheet pans often have a rolled 1-inch rim, ideal for roasting vegetables and preventing juices from dripping on the oven floor. Baking sheets with rimless edges are superb for easy cookie removal. Some sheet pans have one or two open edges for this purpose, with the remaining sides flared for safe and efficient handling.
The standard size of a sheet pan is 18" × 13". But get the biggest pan your oven can hold, which allows you to bake more at once. If you have just one, then opt for a pan with 1-inch rims so you can make the most use of it. If you have room for two baking sheets, then get one with rims and one without. Bakers should have two cookie sheets per oven (if you bake often and have two ovens, then you should have four sheet pans).
Saucepan
This is the all-purpose pot for cooking grains, warming sauces, and heating soups. Classic saucepans have straight, tall sides, but nowadays there are versions with flared and rounded sides. The straight-sided pans are ideal for cooking rice and couscous, while the flared pans are excellent for reducing sauces and making small-portioned braises. The general shape of a saucepan retains moisture since the sides are tall relative to the base.
The ideal all-purpose size for a saucepan is 2-quart. Since this is such a multi-purpose pot, owning both a 1½-quart and a 2½-quart pot is practical, if you have the room. Stainless steel is probably the most versatile metal, since it does not react with any foods, does not rust, and can be put in the dishwasher. However, stainless steel does not conduct heat as well as copper. Aluminum is a fine conductor of heat, like copper, and is far less expensive, but is highly reactive and therefore can discolor easily and taint the flavor of many foods. Enamel-coated cast iron saucepans are easy to clean, but somewhat cumbersome due to their heavy weight.
Many high-end pans are made with a combination of stainless steel and a superior heat-conducting metal like copper or aluminum. These are ideal because they conduct heat, but are nonreactive.
Stockpot
Even if you don't make homemade stock, you must own this pot. A stockpot is a versatile piece of equipment ranging in use from making soup to boiling corn on the cob.
Technically, a stockpot should have very tall sides compared to its surface area. This prevents liquid from evaporating and allows the heat to rise steadily from the bottom up. A heavy bottom is necessary to prevent ingredients from burning and the pan from warping. Aluminum conducts heat wonderfully well but can tarnish easily. Anodized aluminum, or stainless steel with an aluminum core, is the best option.
Stockpots come in a range of sizes, but the 8-quart version is ideal for the home cook. It is large enough to hold big meat bones and vegetables while still reasonably undemanding to move across the kitchen from sink to stove. Look for a stockpot with a snug-fitting lid—metal or glass—and large riveted handles that make it easy to carry.
Strainer
Without a strainer, rinsing and cleaning small food items would be a challenging task. Whether the holes are large or small, the material plastic or metal, the design round (spherical) or cylindrical (tall and straight with a circular opening at the top), a strainer of one kind or another is an essential item. Even if you are a takeout restaurant's best customer, the one day you decide to make a bowl of pasta you will need this piece of equipment.
Buy the largest strainer with a stable base that fits in your sink, and then expand from there with special strainers that might be a boon to the way you cook. For example, if you cook a lot of varieties of rice, you should have a fine-mesh strainer for rinsing that holds the grain without letting it pass through the holes. But if you mostly boil potatoes or pasta, you certainly can live without a fine-mesh strainer.
Strainers come in hard stainless steel, mesh, plastic, copper, enamel, and ceramic. The latter two can chip or break, respectively, and are best used for a casually chic way to serve washed whole fruit. Stainless steel and mesh are the best options in general, since plastic is not as durable, and copper is an unnecessarily high-maintenance material for this item. Stainless steel does not rust or interact with the hot foods for which strainers are so often used.
There are four basic kinds of strainers in the truest sense—tools that are used to rinse foods with water or separate liquids from solids: colander, chinois and china cap, pasta insert, and salad spinner. The colander is the essential strainer for every home cook.
Most colanders are basically bowls that are pierced with a pattern of small holes. The size of the holes varies as does the size of the colander. The liquid drains from both the sides and bottom, leaving the solids inside the bowl. Colanders that have large handles on either side of the bowl are the safest and therefore the best to buy.
But there are smaller strainers—whether stainless steel, mesh, or plastic—that have one long handle and one or more hooks on the opposite side to rest across a pot or sink. These are often used in place of slotted spoons to retrieve small foods in a large pot. The downside to these mesh strainers, if they are small, is that they are not particularly stable in comparison with a colander that has feet or a round circular base. Mesh strainers that go over the sink are sturdier than their scooping counterparts. They are, however, a nuisance to clean if used for pasta, which sticks and breaks when it touches the surface.
Measuring Cups and Spoons
The overwhelming majority of recipes call for volume, not weight, measurements. Every cook must be outfitted with tools to measure both liquids and dry goods. You need three sets of measuring tools: measuring spoons, dry measuring cups, and liquid measuring cups.
Do not reach for a teaspoon or tablespoon from your flatware and think those are precise measures for cooking or baking. Buy a set of measuring spoons, whether plastic or metal, to measure spices, seasonings, leavening agents, and vanilla extract. Sets typically come with ¼-teaspoon, ½-teaspoon, 1-teaspoon, ½-tablespoon, and 1-tablespoon measures.
Dry measuring cups are designed to scoop ingredients and be leveled to the brim. They are often made of metal or plastic, and come in sets of 1/8-, ¼-, 1/3-, ½- and 1-cup vessels. Liquid measures, on the other hand, are almost always made of a clear material, like plastic or glass, so you can measure the liquid as you pour it into the vessel. They are purposefully not measured to the brim to prevent spills, and also have spouts so the liquid can be poured off. Sizes range from 1 cup to 8 cups.
There is one more good reason to buy dry and wet measures: there is a volumetric difference between the two. Yes, that's right. Three cups of sugar is not the same as 3 cups of milk. Below 2 cups, there is no difference, but above 2 cups the dry measure can be in excess of 16 percent larger than the liquid measure.
Mixing Bowls
Mixing bowls are as versatile for preparation as are sauté pans for cooking. They hold trimmings and choppings, batters and doughs, meringues and marinades. Selecting mixing bowls can be a daunting task, especially with so many sizes, sets, and styles in the marketplace. There is much to consider beyond size and style: the material and its durability, heat resistance, reactivity, and storage.
Must you have a copper bowl to beat egg whites to a meringue? No. But copper is the single best material for the task since the protein in egg whites reacts with it to produce the greatest possible volume of a meringue. If you make meringue often, treat yourself to a large, unlined, round-bottom copper bowl. Just be sure not to use it for anything else—certainly not your favorite teriyaki marinade—because it can hold flavors.
For most everyone else, however, glass, metal or plastic bowls will do just fine for any task. Here are some pros and cons to each material:
• **Glass** bowls are excellent all-purpose tools since they are heavy and stable, dishwasher-safe, nonreactive, and heatproof. They can go in the microwave—even in the oven in some cases. And you can see through them. But they can break, too.
• **Stainless steel** bowls are dishwasher-safe, nonreactive, and unbreakable, making them the ideal choice for the home cook.
• **Plastic** bowls are lightweight and dishwasher-safe, and often have rubberized bottoms that help keep the bowls from wobbling as you work.
• **Wooden** bowls, like copper bowls, have limited use. If treated or laminated, they can be used for salads. Unfinished wooden bowls are often used with a mezzaluna to chop foods. But they are porous and should be cleaned by hand with little soap.
Mixing bowl sets are useful for any cook. Since bowls nest, they are easy to store, taking up no more space than the largest bowl. Nesting sets that offer several bowls ranging from a mere tablespoon to 6 quarts are certainly attractive and appealing, but not as utilitarian as, say, a 2-quart, 4-quart and 6-quart trio. Small bowls that hold just tablespoons or cups are best bought in sets themselves, since they are used for _mise en place_ (see Chapter 3), not for mixing.
**_bigger is better for bowls_**
Always reach for a bigger bowl than you think you need. It is far easier to whisk a vinaigrette in a large bowl, since it gives you greater range of motion. That means better emulsion and less mess. Consider, then, both the volume of food placed in the bowl, and the action taken to transform it, when selecting a bowl.
Whisk
When added manual power is needed to blend, beat, whip, or emulsify, the whisk is the tool to grab. Made of intersecting wires that curve to form an elongated orb attached to a handle, this tool incorporates air like nothing else. Indispensible to any cook, the whisk evenly integrates dry ingredients, blends eggs, beats batters, whips cream and egg whites, and emulsifies mayonnaise and vinaigrette.
Whisks for home use come in many shapes and sizes, ranging from 5 to 14 inches. A standard whisk, also referred to as a sauce or French whisk, is a narrow, elongated band of thick, intersecting, arched wires used to beat heavy sauces, savory or sweet. By contrast, a balloon whisk, as its name suggests, is a larger wand with a more rotund orb that makes beating cream or egg whites far easier. This bulbous shape, along with lighter and thinner wires, assists in incorporating more air into the food with every stroke. There are all-purpose whisks whose shapes are a combination of the two, an excellent choice for someone looking to buy just one implement.
There are other less traditional versions, such as the flat whisk, coiled whisk, or ball whisk. Flat whisks are a series of wires that do not intersect but arch over one another; their use is generally limited to making _roux_ , scraping the _sucs_ from the bottom of a pan, and blending eggs. Coiled whisks look like round scrub brushes or cocktail strainers whose chief advantage is fully touching the bottom of the pan. Ball whisks also reach the base of a pot or scrape the curves of a bowl due to the many freestanding wires, each finished with a weighted ball.
Although whisks are now made from plastic, rubber, and silicone, a classic stainless steel whisk is best. It is stronger and more durable, which allows the cook or baker to use the whisk as a true extension of the arm. This is especially useful not just for the act of beating, but also for scraping the bottom of the bowl.
Clean and dry a whisk thoroughly to prevent rust and discoloration.
CHAPTER
3
The Essential Techniques
Mise en Place
Knife Skills
Sautéing
Grilling
Broiling
Roasting
Poaching
Blanching
Braising
Frying
Baking
IF THE RIGHT TOOLS ARE A BOON TO COOKING WELL, then you should know how to use them. It's all in the execution. Cooking, at its essence, is the transformation of food. The ingredients themselves might be what invite us to the kitchen, and their distinct combination is what lures us to the table. But without the proper treatment, we cannot do them justice.
It's so easy to be seduced by the food itself, that the cooking method becomes an afterthought. "Oh, it doesn't matter if I bake the chicken or grill it. It's the rosemary and thyme that makes the dish." Not exactly. The seasoning does matter, but the cooking method matters just as much because it impacts the ingredients' transformation. Do you want a browned, seared exterior to the meat? Then grilling is the right choice. Baking will not produce the same result.
In order to be a truly competent cook, you need to know the basics of all the different ways you can apply heat to your ingredients. If you only know how to bake and sauté, you are limiting yourself and ultimately your food. Think of your favorite piece of fish and imagine it baked or sautéed. Now consider it roasted, poached, braised, fried, and so on. These various applications of heat bring forward different aspects of the food, revealing a variety of textures and flavors.
Choose the cooking method wisely. Know the proper techniques. Find out how to use your essential tools. But before you apply any heat, learn how to get organized and work with a knife. It all starts with how the food is handled before the heat is applied.
Mise en Place
_Mise en place_ (MEEZ ahn plas) is the essential best practice for any competent cook—every other technique depends on it. Meaning "put in place" in French, mise en place is having all your ingredients prepped before you begin cooking. Your labor can be divided into preparation (washing, peeling, weighing, cutting, and measuring) and cooking (applying heat, assembling, and combining foods). Mise en place, then, is everything you do before you start to cook.
Look at any recipe and you'll see instructions for the mise en place. The standard recipe format itself is meant to divide labor into preparation and cooking, two necessarily distinct stages. Think of the ingredient list at the top of a recipe not just as a shopping list, but a to-do list before you start cooking. Consider the quantities and size/shape specifications of the recipe as a plan of what you need to do first.
When a recipe lists ingredients with quantities and sizes ("2 carrots, peeled and diced"), you should have them prepared that way before you follow the second part, the procedure. Do all the measuring, peeling, trimming, and cutting, place each item in individual vessels, then cook.
Speaking of vessels, you should mise en place your tools as well as your ingredients. Most recipes do not list the required equipment as they do the ingredients (though, recipes in this book do). Some equipment is mentioned in the instructions: "heat the oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat." Other information can be inferred; when you read, "add the onions, stirring constantly until softened," understand that you'll need a wooden spoon to do the stirring. It's far better to have all your equipment ready before you begin the cooking process than to hunt for it during the action.
To appreciate fully the value of mise en place, think of the simplest dishes. If you want to make a tomato and mushroom omelet, how would it even be possible without mise en place? The tomatoes and mushrooms must be chopped before the eggs hit the pan so that the moment the eggs are ready for their filling, you can be ready to execute. If the tomatoes and mushrooms are not ready at the moment you need them, you will have rubbery or burnt eggs at best. Go one step further back: the eggs must be beaten before you heat the pan and add the fat. If not, you risk overheating the pan and burning the fat while you crack and beat the eggs.
**_punctuation matters in recipes_**
Is there a difference between "1 cup chopped walnuts" and "1 cup walnuts, chopped?" Most definitely. The ingredient "1 cup chopped walnuts" means that you place already chopped walnuts into a dry measuring vessel until you reach the volume of 1 cup. However, "1 cup walnuts, chopped" means that you should measure one cup of whole walnuts and then chop them, which yields perhaps ¾ or 2/3 cup chopped walnuts.
It is critical to prepare the ingredients—wash, peel, cut, measure—and select the equipment before you begin the cooking process. Make sure that you read and understand what the recipe calls for in advance. Follow this foundational principle to competent cooking, and you'll become instantly more efficient and effective.
Knife Skills
It is by design that the first four items on the Essential Top 20 tools list are three knives and a cutting board. Cooking begins with the preparation. How you break down your ingredients is the first phase of how you eventually taste your food as a finished dish. The cooking method you plan to use informs the way you must prepare your ingredients.
Holding the Knife
It is surprising how many home cooks have been cooking for decades yet do not actually hold the knife as they should. They might even turn out some exceptionally tasty fare. Imagine a basketball player who can shoot the ball, but cannot dribble or pass . . . nothing truly competent about that. Please refer to the image on for a refresher on the parts of a knife.
» THE CHEF'S KNIFE
A chef 's knife is the most frequently used tool, and there is a specific way to handle it. You must hold it with the thumb and the index finger pinching the blade right next to the bolster, while your fist and remaining three fingers grip the handle. This is the safest and most effective way to use the knife. If you hold the knife with your index finger stretched across the blade's narrow spine then you do not have control over the edge. Improperly handling the knife in this way makes for an unstable and wobbly blade. Should your index finger slip from that slender and slippery surface, your knife might falter and you risk cutting yourself.
Speaking of cutting yourself, never expose your fingers to the blade with your "guiding hand," the hand that is holding the food being cut. You must stabilize the food, but you can do it with your fingers safely tucked away in a "claw grip." Curl your fingers inward so that they are perpendicular to the cutting board, gently anchoring the food. When the knife moves across the board, the surface of the blade can directly touch the backs of your fingers without you ever fearing that its sharp edge will cut your skin.
» PARING AND BREAD KNIVES
Paring and bread knives are a little different, of course. A paring knife often needs to be held with the index finger stretched across the spine of the blade. This is perfectly safe, however, for two reasons: size and application. The blade of a paring knife is roughly the length of an index finger, if not smaller. And the paring knife is used for those special tasks requiring the precision of your finger's guidance matched with the knife's sharpness.
A bread knife cannot be held like a chef 's knife. The blade is not deep enough to be held that way and its function is not to move across a board or be pressed through food, but to saw through something with a hard exterior and tender center. Hold a bread knife with your fist entirely on the handle and saw back and forth. Don't press. Cut. You must move gently back and forth through the food to reach the cutting board.
Moving the Knife
The countless preparation methods (slicing, chopping, mincing, dicing, and so on) that you encounter while you cook require different movements of the knife. Following are instructions for some of the most basic methods.
» SLICING
The most basic way to use a chef 's knife is to move it front to back though the food, a form of slicing. First, anchor the curved tip of the knife on the cutting board (after all, that's why it's curved); the remainder of the blade and your hand are raised off the board at an angle. of the blade and your hand are raised off the board at Place the food underneath the blade, closest to the tip, and bring the knife down through the food to the board so that the entire straight edge is flush with the board.
To ensure that that cut has been made, move the knife forward, with the entire blade firmly on the board (and the curved tip now decidedly off the board). Cut through the food up to the heel of the blade. The knife is long for this reason. You make the cut in two stages: first by bringing the knife from the top of the food to the bottom, and then from the front of the food to the back. As you slide the knife through to the back of the food, you then return the knife to the start position, with the curved tip anchored on the cutting board.
**_caveat cutter_**
Have you ever cut a scallion and then realized it is a row of attached circles? That's because the heel of the blade has not touched the cutting board before you move the knife forward and ultimately upward to make another cut. Pay close attention to the feeling—and listen for the sound—of the board stopping the knife.
With the comfort that comes from experience, you'll find that this action repeats itself quickly as you move the knife across the board. In doing so, the knife never actually leaves the board; some part of the edge is always touching its surface. Keeping the knife on the board at all times enables an organic, steady, swift movement. Unless you are an extremely proficient chopper, lifting the knife off the board with each cut is an awkward, unstable, and tiring waste of time.
Another slicing method is to move the chef 's knife back to front, instead of front to back, through the food. The movement is quick and brief, used primarily for slicing small and thin pieces of food. You begin the same way as you do in the aforementioned method, but the heel of the blade never fully touches the board. It is the curved tip of the knife that does the work as you repeatedly move from the back of the food to the front, the tip of the edge never leaving the cutting board.
» CHOPPING
Chopping is an entirely different rocking motion that requires a special way of holding the knife. As in all cutting techniques, the tip of the blade rests on the cutting board. Your guiding hand presses the spine of the blade with the tips of your outstretched fingers (but your thumb). You do not anchor the food with this technique—you are using one hand to hold the knife and the other hand to guide it by spreading your fingers across the spine. Making full use of the curve, you rock the knife up and down over the food (usually herbs), managing the movement with your guiding hand.
Garlic can be treated this way for a very fine mince. In fact, this method (coupled with a few pinches of salt to extract the garlic's moisture) is how you make garlic paste. Never chop onions or shallots like this. They are so important, they have a singular method all their own.
» CHOPPING ONIONS AND SHALLOTS
Onions and shallots are succulent, juicy bulbs whose simultaneously sweet and savory flavor makes them essential foundational ingredients in an endless number of recipes. To keep the juice in the onion and off the cutting board, you must follow a specific procedure:
1 Trim the onion of its tip, and of the fur on its root.
2 Slice the onion in half lengthwise, from top to bottom; peel and discard the skin.
3 Place one half on the cutting board, with the top of the onion facing the knife.
4 Turn the knife on its side so that the sharp edge faces the onion's center from the tip, and the flat blade faces the cutting board.
5 Decide how big you want the chopped onion pieces to be. Keeping the blade parallel with the cutting board, slice several rows (usually at least three) to the root of the onion, but not through it, leaving the root intact. (FIGURE 1)
6 Now turn the sharp edge of the knife to the top of the onion (the outer layer), with the tip of your knife in line with the root. Still leaving the root intact, slice the onion from top to bottom in the same width as the slices you previously made from bottom to top. (FIGURE 2)
7 To make the final cut into diced bits, slice the onion cross-wise. (FIGURE 3)
**How to Cut an Onion**
**FIGURE 1**
**FIGURE 2**
**FIGURE 3**
Mastering this method might take a bit of time, so go easy on yourself. But it is well worth learning. In the end, this is the easiest and most efficient way to cut an onion.
Cuts and Shapes
Slice, julienne, baton (jardinière), macedoine, bruno-ise, dice, mirepoix, chiffonade, suprême: These are all different shapes into which you can cut a vegetable. Don't be put off by the French terms. These words each stand for a very specific size and shape, and knowing the terms will make you a more competent cook. There is nothing terribly informative about "thin strips"—yet "julienne" means just that, plus the exactitude of a precise measurement.
**Cuts and Shapes**
**JULIENNE**
**BATON**
**MACEDOINE**
**BRUNOISE**
**CHIFFONADE**
**SUPRÊME**
**Slice** —a slice is the most basic cut. It is the very first cut made after something has been peeled and pared (trimmed), and can be any shape or size depending on the food being cut and your plans for it. A slice is paring the food: breaking it down so you can begin to shape it. You cannot go from a whole potato to chunks or dices in one or two cuts. You'll always begin with slices, then customize your cuts based on what you need for your end result.
**Julienne** —both a noun and a verb, this word means to cut food, usually vegetables, into long, thin matchsticks. Technically, the measurement is about 1/16-inch square × 3 inches. To make this shape, cut the vegetable into 3-inch-long sections, then 1/16-inch slices, then trim those slices to have an even edge on all sides, then finally cut those slices into 1/16-inch strips.
**Baton** —also known as _jardinière_ , a baton is a cubed stick, measuring about 1/5-inch square × 2 inches. In order to make proper batons, you must start with slices perfectly trimmed on all sides. The thickness of the slices must match the width of the baton, 1/5 inch, in other words.
**Macedoine** (mass-eh-DWAN)—this word means to be cut into perfect cubes. Technically the measurement is about 1/5-inch cubed. To make this shape, cut the vegetable into 1/5-inch-thick slices, lengthwise into 1/5-inch-wide batons, then finally crosswise into 1/5-inch cubes.
**Brunoise** (broo-NWAHZ)—a mini macedoine of sorts, the finest and tiniest of dices (so small their appearance as perfect cubes can hardly be detected). The classical measurement is about 1/16-inch cubed. To make this shape, cut the vegetable into 1/16-inch slices, lengthwise into juliennes, then finally crosswise into 1/16-inch cubes.
**Dice** —this term is not specific in size or shape. A dice can be very small, or relatively large. The important thing is that the shape and size are consistent and uniform. Almost anything can be diced, from apples and tomatoes to carrots and onions (remember: onions have their own special dicing method;). It's important to know that to get dices, you first must make slices and strips.
**Mirepoix** (mir-PWAH)—aromatic vegetables, cut in small, unshaped chunks, used frequently when making stock, soups or sauces, or as a bed on which to braise or roast meat. Mirepoix classically consists of two parts onion, one part carrot, and one part celery. It is often browned in fat before it is used to impart flavor, and is removed before the final product is served.
**Chiffonade** (SHEEF-oh-nahd)—both a noun and verb, this is a method of cutting herbs like basil, or leafy greens like lettuce that produces ribbons or thin strips. Literally it means "made of rags." Stack clean leaves, roll them into a cigar shape, and slice the roll crosswise into fine strips.
**Suprême** (soo-PREM)—both a noun and a verb, this method is used to section a citrus fruit. First remove the skin and the pith from the fruit. Then cut away from the membrane by slicing the flesh next to the membrane on either side. You are left with a suprême. (There is a secondary meaning to the term: a boneless breast of duck or chicken is sometimes called a suprême.)
Sautéing
Sauté literally means "to jump" in French. That is what your food does when it is panfried quickly in a small amount of fat or oil, until brown and thoroughly cooked, in a skillet or sauté pan over direct heat (uncovered). Sautéing involves direct heat from the pan on the surface of the food.
The sauté pan and fat must be hot before the food is added, otherwise the food might absorb oil and become soggy, or stick to the pan. The food must be dry to prevent the fat from spattering when you place the food in the pan. Ideally the food should not be ice cold from the refrigerator, which could cool the pan abruptly. Remove foods from the refrigerator 15 to 30 minutes before sautéing.
Since sautéed food needs to cook quickly and completely (when it leaves the pan it requires no further cooking before it is served), tender cuts of meat in small sizes are good choices.
**_stir-frying is sautéing, too_**
The French have sautéing, but the Chinese have stir-frying. A wok is heated to a high heat and then fat, seasoning, bite-sized meats, and vegetables are quickly added one after the other (those that take the longest to cook are added first). The cook continually stirs the food and then serves it immediately.
When you add food to a hot sauté pan, you should hear a sizzle. If not, the pan is not hot enough. The pan is hot when the oil moves quickly and easily across its surface as you tilt it, or when the butter begins to foam. If the oil smokes, it has burned, just like blackened butter. Wipe the pan clean and begin again. Alternatively, you can grease the food instead of the pan, as in brushing a filet of fish before placing it in a hot pan; listen for the same sizzle sound to know the pan is hot enough for cooking. If you lower food into a pan and don't hear the sizzle, remove it immediately if it has not stuck instantly. If the food sticks to the pan, leave the food where it is and let the pan get hot. Don't worry too much about it. Just avoid that misstep for the future.
Never crowd the pan when you sauté, otherwise the food steams instead of sears. Keep the food in a single layer with ample space between pieces. Work in batches when necessary. Allow the food to respond to the heat—do not shake or move the pan—until the food has first browned. Depending on the size of the item being sautéed, use tongs to lift and turn, or a spoon to move the food.
Grilling
When man discovered fire, he became the first outdoor grill cook. Without a grate but with an ample supply of twigs and branches, he cooked game directly over a flame. Born of this method, grilling is the technique of cooking food over a grate of hot coals, or on a ridged heat source. This dry-heat cooking method leaves food with grill marks from the hot grid. Food cooks quickly when grilled, due to the high, direct heat.
Outdoor grilling can be as rudimentary as holding a gridiron (or grid) filled with food over an open flame in a fire pit, or as high-tech as the turn of a knob on a sophisticated gas grill fueled by a propane tank. Indoor grilling is usually done with a ridged pan on the stovetop or an independent electric heat source like a panini press.
Tender meat cuts like sirloin steak, pork chops, and ground chuck hamburgers are appropriate choices for the direct heat of the grill. Tougher meats like beef brisket and pork shoulder, and larger pieces like whole birds and roasts, cannot be cooked well quickly with such dry, high, direct heat. These items require indirect grilling where they are placed further from the flame and cooked with the cover closed over a much lower heat. Indirect grilling turns the grill into an oven of sorts, with heat circulating the food, not just penetrating from the bottom.
To grill food in any context, the grid must be thoroughly clean and very hot. If either of these two requirements falls short, the cooking process is compromised. Food sticks to dirty and insufficiently hot grids. For the surface proteins of any meat to coagulate and release from the grid, the grid must be clean enough to touch the food directly without any surface crud, and hot enough to make a sear. A dirty grill shows, especially with ridged indoor grill surfaces. Black flecks of burnt crust from previous use "pepper" the food between the grill marks. The problem is, it isn't pepper. It's food residue.
Gas grilling is incredibly easy: no fire to light, no waiting for coals to burn and heat, and no messy ash to clean. The biggest benefit to gas grilling is the adjustable heat source. Just turn on the gas, heat the grill, and turn the switch off when you're done. But the clean-burning gas does not impart that smoky, charred flavor of a charcoal grill. While the white-hot heat of charcoal briquettes cannot be adjusted, it does uniquely flavor the food with an unmistakable outdoor-grill taste.
Considered a healthy cooking method, grilling requires only a small amount of fat. Some foods, such as rib eye steak, are fatty enough without requiring added grease to grill on a hot grate. Leaner foods, like skinless chicken breast, need to be brushed with oil or a marinade to prevent them from sticking to the grill.
**_how hot is high heat?_**
At least 500°F when you cook on an outdoor grill, whether charcoal or gas. How can you tell if the grill has reached the right temperature? Hold your hand several inches above the grate. If the heat is so hot that you have to remove your hand in under three seconds, you have high heat. Different parts of the grill might be hotter than others, so move the food around accordingly.
Doneness of meat can be tested with an instant-read probing thermometer or the cook's clean fingers. The rarer the meat is, the softer it will be to the touch. The best way to learn what rare versus well-done feels like: use a thermometer and also touch the meat. Over time, you will become competent at sensing when the meat is ready without needing the confirmation of the thermometer.
Broiling
Broiling differs from grilling in that the food is placed below a heat source. Like grilling, broiling is a form of quick, high-heat cooking that provides a flavorful, charred, and browned surface to meats and fish.
Most ovens (gas or electric) have a broiler section that is used to cook meats, fish, and poultry, or melt or toast other foods like cheese— either right below the ceiling of the oven chamber, or in a separate drawer below. In fact, most oven manufacturers provide a broiling pan with the oven: a shallow, enameled steel rectangular pan without handles, outfitted with a snug-fitting tray with slits.
To broil food, preheat the oven to "broil" or the highest temperature setting available (500°F). If you're broiling in the main oven chamber, place the rack a measured distance (3 to 6 inches) below the direct, dry heat. The broiling pan should be hot before the food is placed on it. Since the heat is so high and direct, you do not need to grease the pan. The food, however, should have a natural fat content or be brushed with fat to cook without sticking.
Broiled food can burn easily, so keep a watchful eye and alert nose. If you smell the food burning, remove it from the oven and perhaps lower the rack one level, or open the broiler drawer a crack to dissipate the direct heat.
**_lost in translation_**
In the UK, "grilling" means broiling (cooking under the heat source). To barbecue in Belfast, Ireland is to grill in Grand Rapids, Michigan (think hamburgers and hot dogs). But talk to someone in Greensboro, North Carolina, and they might tell you that barbecue is only made in a smoker (probably pulled pork and ribs).
Roasting
Once upon a time, meat was roasted under an open flame on a turning spit of iron—not terribly different from the rotisserie we know today. Roasting is a form of surround-heat cooking, applying indirect heat to the food. The food is generally uncovered and exposed to dry, moderately high heat in the oven, which produces a well-browned surface and seals in the juices.
Reasonably tender pieces of meat or poultry should be used for roasting. Many fish, root vegetables, and winter squashes are good candidates, too. Food that is going to be roasted for a particularly long time, such as the Thanksgiving turkey, may be tented to prevent it from drying out.
Small cuts of meats and most vegetables can be roasted at a relatively high heat (approximately 400°F) to cook quickly and evenly, and will acquire a browned surface without losing too much moisture. Some recipes call for slow roasting (approximately 325°F), like a turkey or rump roast, to make for a more tender, juicy piece of meat. A combination of the two methods is an ideal approach: first, brown meat quickly in the oven, and then cook it further without drying out the flesh.
After any meat is roasted, it is important to allow it to rest for at least 10 minutes (up to 30 minutes for large whole roasts and birds) so that the internal juices redistribute evenly before carving. If carved immediately from the oven, all the concentrated juices run from the meat, making what could have been very juicy, dry and tough.
Poaching
Poaching, unlike the aforementioned methods, is a form of extraction. Poaching cooks food by gently simmering it, submerged in liquid (water, wine, stock, etc.), just below the boiling point. The amount of liquid and poaching temperature depends on the food being poached. Particularly delicate foods like eggs, fish, and fruit can fall apart easily and require lower poaching temperatures than less fragile foods like chicken breast.
**_"season" means with salt and pepper_**
Season your savory food with salt, and usually pepper, too. Salt brightens and highlights the natural flavors of foods. Cook with kosher or sea salt and then taste the dish a few times along the way to determine if the flavors are balanced. Season the dish again before you serve it. It takes practice to learn how to season. Like lots of things in life, the best way to learn is by making mistakes.
Small pieces of food can be submerged in the already simmering poaching liquid, whereas whole birds are brought to a simmer with the liquid, as in chicken soup. Meat should be cold from the refrigerator in order to allow the natural juices to extract into the cooking liquid, ultimately flavoring the cooking liquid, which essentially self-bastes the food.
Blanching
One of the most elementary methods of cooking vegetables is called "blanching" or "parboiling." This is when heavily salted water is brought to a boil and vegetables are plunged into the pot, cooking for a brief period of time. The French refer to this as _á l'anglaise_ , meaning "in the English style." The salted water, intended to be reminiscent of the sea, seasons the vegetables and helps to set the color from the moment the vegetables are dropped into the pot. Blanching string beans, for example, makes them tender enough to bend without snapping.
There once was a time when boiling green beans until they were soft and olive-green was in vogue, or at the very least tolerated. Today, that is considered an overcooked preparation that yields an insipid taste and unpleasant texture. But the pendulum can swing too far to the other side sometimes; asparagus should not be so crunchy that it could break with one slight bend of the stalk, or a sugar snap so undercooked that the peas inside are still raw. Green vegetables should be tender to the tooth, not soft. Their cooked color should be a brighter green than the raw state.
So many people, though, continue to make the unfortunate mistake of overcooking their vegetables, turning them brown, mushy, and limp. Nutritionists tout the benefits of green vegetables, in particular, citing them as excellent sources of vitamins and amino acids. When overcooked, they can lose many of their nutrients and enzymes. Properly cooking these essential foods provides superior flavor and improved nutritional value.
In order to blanch vegetables, you should follow a few simple guidelines:
• For every quart (4 cups) of water, add at least 1 teaspoon kosher or sea salt.
• Do not crowd the pot, so the vegetables can cook evenly and quickly. Make sure you select a vessel that you can fill with ample water to hold your vegetables.
• Let the water come to a vigorous boil (212°F), when the water rolls and bubbles. Once there is active movement in the pot, plunge all the vegetables in at once to ensure even cooking time.
• Once the water returns to a boil, the cooking time begins. (Remove the vegetables from the refrigerator when you put the water on to boil so they are not too cold when put in the pot.)
The blanching process is quick and efficient, so it is critical to stay near the pot while the vegetables are in the water. Most green vegetables cook within 30 seconds to 5 minutes from the time the water returns to a boil. Using tongs, remove one piece of vegetable (e.g., string bean, snow pea, or asparagus) and taste. If the vegetable is still crunchy with a bit of snap, then continue cooking. Another way to test for doneness is to pierce the vegetable (e.g., broccoli) with a paring knife. If the knife penetrates the surface without resistance, the vegetables are ready.
The final step in the blanching process is shocking your vegetables. No, that doesn't mean telling them a secret or confessing your sins. Remove the vegetables when ready either with a slotted spoon or strainer, or drain them in a colander. Then immediately plunge them into an ice water bath or run them under a steady stream of cold water until they are cool. Shocking your vegetables is like an insurance policy for flavor and color. It stops the cooking process and further sets the color.
Braising
This is the quintessential "slow and low" cooking technique, where food is cooked for a long time over a low flame. Known as the mixed method, braising both concentrates and then extracts flavors. Cooks generally braise tougher, "second" cuts of meat. Usually the meat is seared first to concentrate the juices and brown the exterior surface, then submerged partially in liquid to slowly extract those same juices.
**_medium rare" veggies "_**
Blanching vegetables until they are no longer raw but still relatively crisp has many applications. This can be a good place to stop cooking if you are preparing sugar snap peas for crudités and want a taste somewhere between raw and cooked. This is also a good stopping point if you are cooking large batches of vegetables ahead of time and will sauté them later before serving them.
Braising is a form of cooking that can be executed either on the stovetop or in the oven. The basic technique is cooking by wet heat—the food is partially immersed in hot liquid in a cooking vessel (as opposed to dry heat cooking, such as roasting). The goal is to integrate the flavors of the solids and liquids in the pot.
The chief principle of this method is the exchange of flavors and juices. The item being cooked gives off juices to the liquid, which in turn imparts flavor to the food item. This is one of the reasons that fattier cuts of meat braise well—the fat renders, giving off flavor to the liquid, which then returns flavor to the meat. Cooking the food slowly over a low heat also helps to tenderize meat by breaking down the connective tissue that otherwise would be too tough to consume if cooked quickly by grilling or sautéing. The difference between braising and poaching: You fully submerge the food in liquid when poaching, but you do _not_ fully submerge the food when you braise.
Frying
Frying is synonymous with fat. When we hear "fried" we usually think of the food as "deep-fried" in a cauldron of piping hot grease. Food can be shallow-fried, too, immersed in enough fat to cover about half the item.
This is probably the one cooking method you think you don't need to know. You might not even eat fried foods in the first place, and if you do, you would rather order them at a restaurant on occasion than dirty your kitchen with grease. The frying thermometer was not listed in the Essential Top 20, and the only recipe in the book that covers frying does not call for deep-frying. All that aside, you cannot claim culinary competence if you do not know the procedure for frying food.
**_concentration vs. extraction_**
There are two general ways we cook meat: concentration or extraction. Concentration is the method of cooking in which you lock in, or concentrate, the juices by coagulating the surface protein. Examples of this are grilling, broiling, sautéing, and roasting. Extraction is the method by which juices are drawn out of the product during cooking, such as poaching.
Which Pans to Use
Deep-frying requires a deep vessel so that food can be completely submerged in fat. Shallow-frying is usually done in a regular sauté pan or cast iron skillet where enough oil is placed in the pan to reach half-way up the side of the item(s) being fried. The food must be dry (remember: water and oil don't mix and that is no exception when incredibly hot) and room temperature; cold food dramatically lowers the temperature of the cooking oil, which increases the possibility for the food to absorb the oil. Crowding the pan also can lower the oil temperature since the heat has to be distributed to more individual units, and thus takes longer to rise.
Use Care with Hot Oil
Never plunge food into hot fat, or you surely will burn yourself. Instead, gently lower the food right into the cooking oil, letting at least part of the food touch the hot fat before you release it, even if you are using your hands. It might seem counterintuitive to bring your exposed skin close to something so hot, but this is absolutely the best way to avoid a splash, which is how people generally burn themselves when frying.
Hot fat cooks food quickly, crisping its surface while keeping the inside moist and tender. The texture and flavor of properly fried food is crunchy, rich, and luscious. If the food tastes greasy and has absorbed too much of the cooking oil, then it either was fried for too long or at too low a temperature.
Which Oil to Use
Oil reaches a much higher temperature than water. Depending on the specific type, oil can climb to 500°F. Most fried food recipes call for the fat to be between 350°F and 375°F. The lighter the oil, generally the higher the smoke point (the temperature at which the oil begins to decompose and visible fumes (smoke) are given off). When oil is heated and begins to smoke, the fatty acids in the oil become damaged, even turning into harmful substances. This is why it is important to select the right oil for the proper task.
Olive oil is seldom used for deep-frying foods, as compared to corn Olive oil is seldom used for deep-frying foods, as compared or peanut oil, due to its lower smoke point. Grapeseed oil, like olive oil, is one of the healthier fats, but has a higher smoke point than olive oil. Safflower, sunflower, and canola oils all have high smoke points, as does vegetable lard, which is characteristically solid at room temperature. Fats with high smoke points fry food well.
**_double-fry those fries, please_**
French fries might be the most pedestrian food, but they actually require careful technique to turn out just right—crispy and golden brown on the outside, soft and tender on the inside without a trace of grease. Fried twice, once at a lower temperature to cook the potato, and then a second time at a higher temperature to provide the crispy golden exterior, French fries are deceptively fussy for such a seemingly simple dish.
The Process
To fry food, add the fat to a cold pan, leaving at least 2 inches of space between the oil and the top of the pan. When the food is submerged in the oil, the oil rises. The heavier and larger the food, the more the fat rises. If you are deep-frying chicken parts, for example, leave several inches between the fat and the top of the pot.
Heat the pan and the fat together, and use a deep-fat frying thermometer to read the oil temperature. As the oil gets hot it will shimmer and shine. Once it reaches the desired temperature, gently add the food to the oil. Adjust the heat as needed to maintain as stable a temperature as possible.
Never leave a pot of frying food unattended. It is too dangerous and too risky for the food.
Baking
Baking is an elusive term. On the one hand, we know that it means cooking cakes, pastries, pies, cookies, and breads in the oven. Yet we also consider as baked anything that we toss in the oven at a moderate temperature for a protracted period of time, sweet or savory.
Like roasting, baking is a method of cooking by dry, surround-heat in an enclosed chamber, namely an oven. The distinction, then, is the temperature and length of time the food is cooked. Baking is done at a lower temperature than roasting and for a longer period of time. There is the potential for foods to dry out, so baked dishes are often covered to retain moisture.
Casseroles like lasagne and potatoes au gratin are baked, as are many chicken dishes. Oven-fried foods are essentially baked in the oven instead of fried in a pan (the "fried" part is meant to convey that the food should be crunchy and golden brown).
CHAPTER
4
The Baker's Essential Tools and Techniques
Hand Mixer
Standing Mixer
Pastry Brush
Timer
Spatula
Pastry Bag and Tip
Scale
Pastry Scraper
Silicone Baking Liner
Cake Pans: Round and Square
Muffin and Loaf Pans
Springform Pan
Rolling Pin
Sifter
Pie Pan
Tart Pan
Cookie Cutters
Ramekins
Cooling Rack
ONCE YOU HAVE THE ESSENTIAL TOP 20 TOOLS, you can fill in the blanks in other areas of your cooking repertoire. For instance, you might be uninterested in baking in general, but love to make cookies from time to time. Take a look at the Baker's Essential Tools and invest in a quality cookie sheet and silicone baking liner.
THE BAKER'S ESSENTIAL TOOLS
Hand Mixer
Anyone who bakes regularly must have a hand mixer. This tool allows you to stir, mix, whip, blend, and beat ingredients with electric power when you really need the machine to do the work. It occupies a lot less space than a standing mixer, and it does not require you to use a machine-specific bowl. A hand mixer can effortlessly beat eggs, blend cake batter, mix cookie dough, and whip meringue. The best part: cleanup. All you need to do is wash the beaters and wipe the hand-held machine.
A good model has several speeds, ranging from a slow stir to a vigorous beating. It is important that the slowest speed is gentle enough to blend dry ingredients without having powder spatter from the bowl. Look for a model with a built-in, upward-counting timer. The next time you need to beat cream and sugar for two minutes per a recipe's instructions, you'll know exactly when to stop. Choose a hand mixer that feels comfortable and is not terribly heavy or noisy. Virtually all hand mixers come with a detachable pair of standard beaters as well as a single whisk. Some even come with blender rods (to mix drinks) and dough hooks.
Standing Mixer
If the hand mixer is basic like a moped, then the standing mixer is luxurious like a limousine. Just like the hand mixer, this large kitchen appliance stirs, mixes, whips, blends, and beats. But it also kneads and, with the appropriate attachments, makes fresh pasta, juices fruits and vegetables, and grinds meat. Home bread bakers consider this machine as essential as savory cooks do a chef 's knife.
The customary beaters for most standinig mixers are a flat paddle, wire whisk, and dough hook. The flat paddle is used for cake batter and cookie dough, while the wire whisk is used for whipping egg whites to make meringue. The dough hook kneads dough. Bowl size varies.
Standing mixers are heavy by design, generally about 20 pounds or more, in order to stand still while beating dense dough vigorously. If you plan to store your standing mixer on a countertop, measure the distance between the counter and the overhead cabinets to ensure you have enough height for this large appliance.
Pastry Brush
The pastry brush is so utilitarian that savory cooks use it, too, for both dry and wet applications. Whether brushing excess flour from a rolled dough, "washing" a pastry with beaten egg before it goes in the oven, or glazing a cake with simple syrup, the pastry brush is the tool to use.
Just like paint brushes, pastry brushes come in many sizes, but the average size is about 6 inches long, with 2- to 3-inch bristles about 1½ inches wide. The best pastry brushes traditionally have wooden handles and sterilized natural boar hair or nylon bristles. Silicone brushes are popular because they are heat-resistant and do not singe on contact with a hot metal surface, as can natural-hair brushes. They also do not absorb and transfer food flavors. Silicone brushes are acceptable for daubing barbecue sauce on meats on the grill, but not refined enough for delicate pastries, even the ones that have more slender bristles.
Invest in at least two pastry brushes—one large and one small—to accommodate various tasks. Ideally, you should buy two sets—one pair for your baking needs and the other for savory uses.
**_excellent egg wash_**
Do what the pros do and add a teaspoon or two of ice water, or heavy cream (one or the other, not both), per beaten egg to make superior egg wash for brushing on doughs before baking. The water gives the crust a golden hue, while the cream helps to add shine.
Timer
The time noted in a recipe is an important benchmark that guides and binds us to the cooking process, even though it might not indicate how long it ultimately takes to make the dish. The most seasoned cooks rely on timers at the very least to help them monitor food. For bakers, however, timers are deeply trusted guides that are a required tool of precise measurement.
Sandglasses, wind-up dials, or digital clocks are common timers. Sand-glasses, or hourglasses, are the original version of this essential tool. They are not terribly useful other than indicating when the time has expired; that is, they do not indicate at any given moment how much time has passed or remains, nor do they let you know when the time is up unless you happen to be staring at it as the last grain of sand passes through the glass. What sandglasses lack in precision, they make up for in novelty. But wind-up dials or digital timers are superior implements.
A wind-up dial goes up to one hour, which is not helpful if you are roasting a roast beef for an hour and a quarter. They require no batteries and are noisy, even while counting down the time. While they are more accurate than sandglasses, they lack the benefits of a digital timer.
Yes, digital timers run on batteries, and beep instead of buzz. But they are precise down to the second. And speaking of down, they can count down _and_ up. So you can set the timer to 30 minutes and watch it work its way down to zero, as well as start the clock at zero and count the time upwards. This is particularly useful to meticulous cooks who wish to note the time it actually takes them to execute a recipe. The recipe says 20 minutes, but it actually took you 26? If you use a digital timer with a count-up feature, you'll have this information at your fingertips to record it for the future. Plus, you can take the timer with you to other parts of the house—you're not forced to stay within earshot of your oven's timer. For these reasons, it's a good idea to have a separate digital timer beyond what's already on your oven.
Spatula
This can be a confusing word in the kitchen because there are three kinds: one is a lifter and turner, the second is a spoon and scraper, and the third is a cake froster and icer (see Offset Spatula below). The spoon and scraper spatula is an essential item to anyone who works with batters (e.g., cupcake or quick bread).
Spoon and Scraper Spatulas
Stiff or flexible, flat or spooned, a spatula can be made of rubber, plastic, or silicone with either a wooden or plastic handle. Flat spatulas, particularly the flexible variety, are excellent scrapers because they can grab any corner or curve. Spooned spatulas are almost always flexible and scoop things nicely; however, they scrape less efficiently than flat-blade spatulas since they are generally thicker in order to support the spoon shape.
The heatproof silicone flat spatula is ideal should you find yourself scraping a warm custard from a hot saucepan. It comes in a variety of pleasing colors. Handle length and blade size vary. Whichever spatula you select, consider the tasks for which you plan to use it.
Offset Spatula
This, the third kind of spatula, is the baker's best tool for glazing, icing, frosting, and spreading. It is a long, narrow stainless steel blade with a rounded tip anchored in a wooden or plastic handle that resembles a knife with no sharp edge. The standard blade size is a little more than 1 inch wide and at least 9 inches long. There are miniature offset spatulas, just 4 or 5 inches long, and they are used for frosting small items like single-portion pastries and cupcakes.
Why is it called an offset spatula? The blade is angled a bit below the handle. There are flat frosting spatulas, but the offset kind gives you the added bonus of using it to (you guessed it!) lift and turn.
Pastry Bag and Tip
When a spatula or spoon won't do, the baker grabs a pastry bag and tip. You can fill cupcake tins precisely using a pastry bag of cake batter, and then decorate cooled cupcakes using a pastry bag of frosting. The bag holds the food, and the tip (also called a tube) is the cone you push into the small, open end of the bag that gives design and shape as food passes through its mouth.
Pastry bags are traditionally made of canvas, a material that can hold heavy items like thick mashed potatoes to be piped in a twice-baked potato. Canvas, though, is burdensome to clean, so many people today prefer pastry bags made of coated fabric or nylon. Disposable, clear plastic pastry bags are very popular, too. If you select a natural fiber pastry bag, be sure to clean and dry it thoroughly before storing it. Open the pastry bag and stand it on a drying rack like a cone until it is bone-dry.
Tips come in all sizes and designs, ranging from very large to incredibly tiny openings, codified by a special number system. The standard tip is flat, meaning that the opening is a flat circle, yielding a tube of the food passed through it. Star tips—whether open, closed, or French—have many tall, sharp points radiating from the circle, which produce fluted patterns. Plastic tips are available, but they are inferior to their seamless nickel-plated, stainless steel counterparts.
Scale
Due to the superior accuracy of weight measurement, bread bakers and pastry chefs prefer a scale to volumetric devices, such as cups and spoons. Recipes for bread and pastry, unlike savory dishes, often call for grams or ounces, not cups. If you cook with foreign cookbooks, you likely encounter weight measurements, too.
Kitchen scales are either electronic or mechanical. Electronic scales require a battery, of course, but are easy to read thanks to a digital screen. Mechanical scales for home kitchens usually fall in the spring-action category where a bowl is placed on a tray that pushes on a calibrated spring. They hold a lot more weight than the average electric scale, but have dial faces and can be more challenging to read than digital displays.
The best electronic scales let you set a bowl on the scale's tray and then reset the weight to zero so that when you add the food you wish to measure, the weight registered is for the food alone. You can even do this leaving ingredients in the bowl should you want to measure uniquely each ingredient you place in the bowl without having to remove the preceding items.
When you purchase a scale, make sure you are getting one large enough to suit your needs and that it measures in both grams and ounces.
Pastry Scraper
Instead of using your hands to scrape sticky dough from a bowl, use a pastry scraper. Flexible enough to move along every curved line of a bowl but stiff enough to hold the dough, scrapers are like spatulas without handles. Like so many tools, this is yet another example of an implement that serves to enhance the function of the baker's hand.
Select a plastic scraper with a rounded edge for gathering dough from a bowl. A rectangular metal scraper, called a bench scraper, is best used for gathering dough from a flat work surface, like a counter or board (what is called a bread baker's "bench").
Silicone Baking Liner
We used to grease sheet pans or line them with parchment paper. Now the silicone baking liner makes bakers' lives easier in more ways than one.
Silicone can withstand heat up to nearly 500°F. So, when you read a recipe that says to "grease a cookie sheet" or "line a pan with parchment paper," simply think, "use a silicone baking liner." Not only does food slide right off this mess-free mat, but the flexible material makes it a cinch to store. Roll it or leave it flat after a quick sponge wash in the sink or run in the dishwasher. Sizes vary from as small as toaster oven trays to as large as full sheet pan-size for a professional kitchen. An 11" × 16" liner is the best size for most home bakers.
**_the secret life of brownies_**
How do they get those brownies so perfectly cut in the local gourmet store, with those crisp edges and no crumbs? They freeze them first. Line the brownie pan with aluminum foil hanging 2 inches over two of its sides. Once the brownies have cooled completely, lift them from the pan using the foil and place them in the freezer for about an hour. Peel away the foil, then slice the brownies on a cutting board using a sharp chef's knife. Perfect every time!
Since this innovation is so new in the general scheme of cooking's long history, there is a brand worth mentioning. What Kleenex is to tissues, Band-Aid is to bandages, and Tupperware is to food storage containers, SILPAT is to silicone baking liners. The distinctive design of the original, a silicone-coated woven fiberglass mat, helps to distribute heat evenly. SILPAT liners last almost forever; they need to be replaced eventually—after a few thousand uses, or so.
Cake Pans: Round and Square
The most important thing to bear in mind when selecting a cake pan is the material. Glass and coated (nonstick) dark metal pans tend to conduct heat very well and bake batters faster with thicker crusts than do earthenware and uncoated light metal pans. Since cake batters are often light, most bakers want a thin crust. However, many bakers are willing to have darker and tougher crusts for the ease of turning out a cake from a nonstick surface. If this is not a fair trade in your mind, then line an uncoated metal cake pan with greased parchment paper instead.
Traditional cake pans are 9 inches round, 2 inches deep, and made of aluminum. Today, standard cake pans also come in 8 inches, round or square (2 inches deep), and often are made of a mix of aluminum and steel, coated or uncoated. Square pans are typically used for brownies.
Many cake recipes are for layered cakes, like German chocolate or Birthday Cake with Buttercream Frosting. These recipes usually make enough batter for two 8- or 9-inch round pans. If you bake a lot of cakes, have two cake pans of the same size and material.
There are other cake pans to consider: tube pans, plain and patterned bundt pans, as well as specialty shapes for almost any occasion.
Muffin and Loaf Pans
Muffin tins and loaf pans, not surprisingly, come in the same materials as cake pans. Since cupcakes are really just tiny cakes, use uncoated light metal muffin tins with paper or foil liners. A superb nonstick option is a silicone muffin tray—flexible for easy, no-liner-needed muffin removal. Quick breads and yeast breads can handle thicker crusts and you want them to release from the loaf pan freely, so a glass or coated nonstick pan is a good choice.
Muffin tins come in a range of sizes, both for the size of the muffin and the number of muffins the pan holds. There are three standard muffin sizes: mini (1/8 cup batter), regular (½ cup batter), and jumbo (1 cup batter). These sizes come in 6-, 12-, and 24-muffin pans. If you are one who prefers the muffin crown to the base, you can even buy a specialized tin that just bakes the muffin tops.
Springform Pan
Cheesecake bakers cannot live without this brilliantly designed cake pan. The separate bottom and spring-action ring make removal possible for moist and heavy cakes with crumb crusts that would otherwise be damaged if turned out from a standard pan onto a cooling rack.
Coated or uncoated, all metal springform pans have clamps on the side that, when opened, widen the ring and release it from the side of the cake. The bottoms have a thin groove along the perimeter to create a tight seal with the ring. Sometimes the bottoms have a waffle pattern to help circulate air, which prevents soggy crusts. Sizes range from individual 4-inch pans, to standard 8- or 9-inch pans, up to 11- or 12-inch pans.
Clean and dry the bottom and ring separately and thoroughly before fastening them back together for storage and future use.
Rolling Pin
Homemade pie, pastry, and cookie doughs chill in the refrigerator in balls, but need to be rolled perfectly smooth and flat before being shaped for baking. The rolling pin is the only tool that can do that.
In an era of new-and-improved everything, the rolling pin remains perfectly unchanged. The original design and material of a French rolling pin—a long and slender cylinder made of hardwood—is still the preferred model among professionals. The iconic American rolling pin, with its two side handles and heavy (usually wooden but occasionally marble) cylinder that rolls freely around ball bearings or a center axle, was once the home baker's standard. More people are now familiar with the French rolling pin and its unquestionable superiority.
While the American rolling pin does not require much muscle to move across dough given its weight and construction, it is cumbersome to control. Though you have to use a little more strength to move the much lighter French rolling pin, you have closer contact with the dough and a better feeling of its transformation as you move the pin across its surface. The French rolling pin enables you to adjust pressure at one end or the other to maintain fluid movement, providing finesse and enhanced maneuverability. This allows you to work faster, which is much better for temperature-sensitive dough.
French rolling pins are about 20 inches long and 2 inches in diameter. They come tapered or untapered, in hardwood or nylon. Both smooth surfaces require a standard dusting of flour. The nylon pin can go in the dishwasher while the wooden one must be manually washed and dried.
Sifter
Long ago, flour was sold loose in barrels at the market. Foreign objects like pebbles or insects needed to be removed, and natural lumps needed to be sifted into fine grains of flour. Thankfully, these are no longer concerns. Today, all-purpose flour is packaged, pest- and lump-free. We now sift flour first to aerate it, lightening it to ensure that the flour does not pack too densely in volume measures, and also to combine it with other ingredients.
Sifters—metal cups with single- or double-layer mesh bottoms— work three ways: a crank handle, squeeze handle, or hold-and-shake construction. A crank handle moves a wheel that pushes the flour through the mesh base, whereas a squeeze handle spins a spider that stirs the ingredients through the mesh. A sifter that is merely a mesh-bottomed vessel with a side handle is the simplest and easiest kind to use; just hold it and gently shake.
Use a sifter for more than just flour. You can dust a cake evenly and beautifully using a sifter filled with cocoa powder or confectioners' sugar.
Pie Pan
Apple pie is the American dessert. Any self-proclaimed baker, then, needs to have a pie pan. Like many other baking pans, the important distinguishing characteristic is the material. Glass, ceramic, or metal (coated or uncoated aluminum) pans are available.
Pie pans have sloped sides for the most part and come in three standard sizes: 8-, 9-, and 10-inch, with a standard depth of 1½ inches. standard sizes: 8-, 9-, and 10-inch, with a standard depth of A "deep" pie dish will be about twice as deep. Some pans have straight sides. Most have flat rims, while others have ruffled edges into which you can press and crimp the dough for a decorative look.
**_two pies for the price of one_**
Piecrust recipes yield two crusts, since so many American pie recipes are double-crusted (top and bottom). If you prefer open-faced pies like pecan or single-crust pies like apple crumb, why not just plan to make two pies at once? Buy two identical pie pans and you will always be prepared.
Pie pans become pie _dishes_ when they make their way to the table. Since pies cannot be removed from their cooking vessels for service (they are sliced right from the pan), earthenware is the more attractive material, but glass distributes heat the most evenly. Nonstick metal darkens dough, which is helpful to a piecrust with a wet filling, but that material also scratches easily.
Tart Pan
If the pie is classically American, then the tart is its European relative. Refined, shallow, and crisp, a tart is a reflection of its pan's size and shape.
**_blind bake with beans_**
Some tarts and pies require no cooking, just a finished shell (such as key lime and chocolate cream). "Blind baking" pastry and pie doughs—that is, with nothing in them—produces puffed, misshapen shells if baked unweighted. To maintain the desired hollow shape of an empty pie shell, line it with parchment paper or aluminum foil while raw and fill it with dried beans, or ceramic or metal pie weights before baking.
Tart pans come in either coated or uncoated metal, but pastry doughs, like piecrust and shortbread, have so much butter in them, they surely will not stick. Sizes range from individual tartlet to extra large, with the standard round pan 9 inches in diameter and just 1 inch deep (there are some rectangular pans, perfect for savory tarts like tomato and goat cheese). Sides can be straight or more typically are fluted. Bottoms are either fixed or loose.
Fixed tart pans are not very useful since a tart is almost always beautifully served free from its cooking vessel. Loose-bottom pans let the fluted sides fall and unearth the tart on its base when the pan is set over a raised item, like a can of soup, smaller than the diameter of the tart base.
Cookie Cutters
Kids of all ages love to make shaped cookies. Sugar cookie pumpkins for Halloween, gingerbread men for Christmas, and chocolate hearts for Valentine's Day make holiday celebrations more festive and fun. Cookie cutters come in every imaginable shape and size, and are sold individually or in sets.
The most basic collection is a nesting set of round cutters. Cookie cutters can be tin, plastic, copper, or stainless steel. The important criteria are sharp edges on the bottom for easy, crisp cutting of dough (no stretching or tearing allowed), and rolled edges on top for safe, pain-free pressing.
Scrub cookie cutters by hand to make sure no dough is wedged in any corner or stuck in any seam. Dry metal cutters immediately to prevent rusting.
Ramekins
The ramekin is to the soufflé what the pie dish is to apple pie; you cannot make the recipe without its proper vessel. Both functional and ideally good-looking, a ramekin is made of ceramic. The classic look is clean and crisp, just like the chef 's toque (hat): bright white with a ridged outside and smooth inside. Not just for your favorite soufflé, a ramekin can be used to serve puddings, mousses, and custards.
If you buy one ramekin, you might as well buy four, six, or eight. A full set comes in handy. Use them at the table to hold garnishes, or as containers to hold the fillings the next time you make omelets.
Cooling Rack
Every cookie, cake, and pastry needs a safe place to cool. After all, cooling is the final requisite step in the baking process. A cooling rack not only acts as a designated area for your baked goods to rest, it allows them to cool properly.
**_ice a cool cake with frosting_**
Ice. Cool. Frost. It's no coincidence that all the words are about cold temperature. The cake has to be cooled completely before you ice it with frosting, frost it with icing, or cover it with buttercream (it's your call). If you ice a warm cake with frosting you get . . . drum roll . . . glaze! Of course, you can make glaze (thin icing) from the start and drizzle it on a cool cake.
Hot foods from the oven cool fastest when air can circulate on all sides of the cooking vessel or the food itself. This prevents steam from being trapped between baked goods and pan. Remove cookies from a sheet pan immediately to a cooling rack, but allow a cake to cool first for a few minutes before you turn it from its pan on to a rack.
Rectangular or round, cooling racks are raised from the counter with short feet or taller, collapsible legs that often stack. Standard or coated metal makes for a sturdy and nonstick rack. Choose a cooling rack with a grid, a tighter pattern than parallel lines through which smaller items can slip.
THE BAKER'S ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES
Baking is all about precision and procedure. Deviating from a recipe's ratios for doughnut dough, or cavalierly combining wet and dry ingredients at once for cake batter, likely will yield a different result from what the recipe writer intended. Measure carefully. Follow the instructions. If the cake box says to beat the batter for three minutes with an electric mixer and you do it for a mere thirty seconds, do not be surprised if the batter is not as light and fluffy as you expected it to be. Process counts. Method matters. If you follow a basic set of principles when you bake, you will achieve success.
Read the recipe carefully.
If you just glance at a recipe and begin cooking, you might miss something important: extra large eggs instead of the standard large, a tablespoon of vanilla extract instead of a teaspoon, or toasting the nuts before adding them to the dish.
Preheat the oven.
Once you have read the recipe but before you begin to measure the ingredients, preheat the oven. Ovens take time to reach temperature. None of your time will be wasted if the oven does its job while you prepare the recipe. And while you're at it, make sure the racks are in the desired position so you can put the pan in the oven quickly without letting all that freshly made hot air escape.
Measure correctly.
There are two aspects of measuring ingredients correctly: using the appropriate vessel and making a level measurement.
Wet and dry measures should not be used interchangeably. Clear glass or plastic measuring cups with spouts are for liquids like milk, oil, lemon juice, and molasses. Dry measures, by contrast, which you cannot see through and have no spouts, are for flour, sugar, butter, and sour cream. _But sour cream is wet!_ , you say. True, but it's not a liquid. You cannot make half a cup sour cream level in a 1-cup liquid measure. A half cup of milk poured into a 1-cup measure is level on its own. That is the test of whether a wet item belongs in a wet or dry measure.
Level measurements are the baking standard. Unless the recipe calls for a heaping tablespoon of sugar, it is tacitly understood that you should make the sugar level with the top of the measuring device. Use the tablespoon to scoop the sugar, then take the back of a dinner knife to scrape away the excess sugar. Level measurements are so critical to the baking procedure that there is a specific method used for measuring flour by volume.
"Spoon and sweep" flour.
While brown sugar is supposed to be packed into a dry measuring cup (pressed down to leave no air between granules so that as much sugar as possible is in the cup), flour never should be. The principle is that since volume measurements are less precise than weight measurements, aerating the flour as you put it in the measuring cup provides some context for parity.
Hold the empty measuring cup over the container of flour and gradually place small scoops of flour into the cup using a regular spoon. "Spoon" an excessive amount so that it overflows. Do not use the measuring cup itself to scoop. Never tap the measuring cup so that some of the excess falls away and the flour settles in the cup; this counters the point of aerating it in the first place. Using the back of a dinner knife, "sweep" the excess flour away and make what is left level with the measuring cup.
Cream butter and sugar together until light and fluffy.
Sound familiar? Well, it's a common instruction, good advice, and a necessary procedure in baking. This stage plays a critical role in the quality of the finished product.
Creaming butter and sugar together creates air bubbles in the batter that helps the leavening process, which translates to light and fluffy texture. The air bubbles allow steam to disperse evenly amongst the fat, making cakes and cookies rise (leavening agents like baking soda just make those air bubbles bigger).
Butter should be soft but not warm—slightly colder than room temperature is ideal (about 68°F). Do not liquefy the butter in any way by melting it in the microwave, for example. You want the rough sugar crystals to cut into the soft but solid butterfat. The fat, in turn, surrounds each sugar crystal with air trapped inside.
It does not matter if you "cream" by hand with a whisk or use an electric mixer, though the former will take about twice as long (eight to ten minutes). All that matters is that you achieve the "light and fluffy" part. As long as you reach the destination, it doesn't matter how you get there.
Beat sugar and eggs properly.
Sugar cooks eggs. Yes, that's right. If you pour sugar on eggs and do not stir immediately, the sugar will curdle the eggs eventually. Go ahead . . . try it. You'll see.
When a recipe instructs you, for instance, to beat 3/4 cup sugar with 6 eggs (or egg yolks) it is important that you do it immediately. Have the whisk next to the bowl so you are ready to beat the eggs once you add the sugar. Stir vigorously in a circular motion for a few minutes until the eggs lighten in color to a pale yellow hue and fluffy texture.
This technique, known as _blanchir_ in formal cooking terms, has the benefit of preventing the sugar from curdling the eggs, and the act of whitening and lightening helps to leaven batters, much like the proper creaming of butter and sugar does.
Combine dry and wet ingredients separately.
There are exceptions to this general rule (most notably, pancakes) and, of course, you should follow the recipe's directions. Most of the time, however, you combine all the dry ingredients, then combine the wet ingredients separately from the dry, and then combine the two mixtures together.
CHAPTER
5
The Serious Cook's Essential Tools and Techniques
Food Processor
Blender
Spice Grinder
Microplane
Mandoline
Slotted Spoon
Meat Cleaver
Box Grater
Dutch Oven
Roasting Pan
A SERIOUS COOK—someone who avoids taking shortcuts and enjoys digging deeply into the pleasures of the craft—needs serious tools. The Essential Top 20 is all that you need most of the time. But if you like to make your own breadcrumbs and braise meats, you'll need some specific tools to get the job done well. It's just not possible to get the precision of a perfectly ground spice quickly and efficiently without a spice grinder. Velvety smooth puréed soups and sauces are made in a blender or food processor. Even if you do not consider yourself a serious cook or aspire to be one, take a look at the list and consider, at the very least, investing in a Microplane. You'll never buy preground Parmesan again!
THE SERIOUS COOK'S ESSENTIAL TOOLS
Food Processor
Big cooking jobs require a lot of preparation. Food processors make it so much easier to grate cheese, shred carrots, slice potatoes, chop nuts, and prepare fresh breadcrumbs. They even make pie dough and mayonnaise! Just as useful in the final stages of cooking, too, food processors purée vegetables and blend soups. They are to serious cooks what hand mixers are to bakers: essential.
Food processors come in several sizes, ranging from mini-choppers to 20-cup machines. The typical size for home cooks is a 10- to 14-cup model. Like a standing mixer, a food processor should be heavy enough not to move on the counter while the motor is running. Speaking of the motor running, food processors are noisy machines. Some are quieter than others, but you should expect it to be loud when the machine is on. Still, it's well worth it since food processors get the job done very quickly.
The clear plastic bowl of a food processor locks into the motorized base. The lid comes with a tall tube feature that allows you to pass food safely through its mouth during operation. Generally outfitted with a chopping blade, dough blade, slicing disc, and shredding disc, food processors come with a lot of parts. There is a lot to clean, but it is dishwasher-safe with the exception of the base that can be wiped clean with a towel. Some models come with several buttons on the base to control the power, but the standard modes are "on," "off," and "pulse."
Blender
There are two kinds of blenders worth considering: standing and immersion. Standing blenders are what most people think of when they say "blender." The motorized base sits on the countertop holding a tall glass, plastic, or metal container with a tight-fitting lid. Pour a soup base into a blender for a velvety smooth finish, or liquefy fruits and vegetables for sauces. Standing blenders crush ice, but cannot chop onions due to the vertical nature of the blade and the vessel. They blend wet things very well, but are not designed to grind dry things.
Immersion blenders are compact, lightweight motorized wands that can purée soup right in the pot. Their chief advantage over traditional countertop blenders is that they do the job in the container of your choosing. No need to transfer a hot soup to a blender's pitcher in batches. Just immerse the wand in the vessel, press the button on the handle, and _voila_ : the rotating blade purées the soup. The motorized handle separates from the bottom blade attachment for easy cleaning and storage. Some models even come with a cup attachment for small tasks like chopping nuts and garlic, or crushing ice.
Standing blenders are more powerful than noncommercial immersion blenders, and therefore do a better job, in general. But they take up a lot more space and are more cumbersome to clean. If you love making smoothies, buy a blender. If soup is a favorite, consider the simplicity of working with an immersion blender.
**_a food processor for the Flintstones_**
Thousands of years ago, people used the mortar and pestle, a small bowl with a stubby pounding implement (perhaps a hunk of tree and well suited stone?). Today we have food processors, blenders, spice mills, and grinders that do the job effortlessly in seconds. However, do not overlook the tactile delight of working with a mortar and pestle. You can feel your food transform and slowly develop flavors as you physically mash, grind, and pound the ingredients together. That's exactly why so many cooks still rely on this ancient tool.
Spice Grinder
Freshly ground spices are more fragrant and powerful than the pre-ground bottled kind. But what do you do when you want to toast whole cumin seeds and then grind them to a fine powder like the untoasted version found in little bottles in the supermarket?
Think mini coffee grinder. That's what a spice grinder is. Sure, a salt or pepper mill is a spice grinder of sorts. But it can never make a superfine powder that an electric grinder can. Today manufacturers market these little machines specifically as spice grinders. If you cannot find one, use a mini coffee grinder that you solely designate for spices. You do not want your next batch of morning brew to taste like stew _._
Microplane
Cooks who uses this tool swear they cannot live without it. Also known as a rasp, the Microplane was originally used to shape and smooth a variety of building materials, ranging from wood to rubber. Fitted with hundreds of tiny stainless steel razors, this hand-held tool revolutionized cooking when a frustrated home cook borrowed her husband's woodworking tool to zest an orange. Bless her.
Microplanes come flat, box, or rotary. Whatever the shape, Micro-planes can zest citrus fruit, grate hard cheese and carrots to the finest grade, or turn whole nutmeg into powder. They are easy to clean and occupy little space considering how much value they add. Go out and get one.
Mandoline
Even the most adept cooks can use a little help sometimes to achieve precision and save time. A mandoline (man-doh-LEEN) is a manual apparatus that does the fancy cutting for you. Julienne, waffle cuts, and paper-thin slices are easy; just slide vegetables across a blade mounted on a rectangular surface. This is an especially appealing tool if you are an adventurous cook with a sophisticated aesthetic who is still developing those knife skills. With a mandoline, the cook moves the food over the blade instead of moving a knife blade over the food.
**_the namesake_**
Yes, a cook's mandoline was named after the stringed musical instrument. And like a musician playing particular notes on a mandolin, the cook can use a mandoline for particular cuts. Other food-related gear named after musical instruments include the drum sieve (called a "tamis" in French), "cloche" (bell-shaped dome for upscale food service named after the French word for bell), and champagne flute. One more fun food homograph: "flageolets" are both beans and recorder-like woodwind instruments.
There are two kinds of mandolines: French and Japanese. The French mandoline is the clunkier, heavier version. Typically made of stainless steel, though some models are plastic, an elongated tray holds two blades across from one another. Small handles on the underside of the tray adjust the position and texture of the blades to make distinct cuts (only one blade is used at a time). The tray itself stands securely at an angle on collapsible legs.
The Japanese mandoline is a streamlined version of the French, lightweight with a less complex construction and therefore a considerably lower price tag. Made of plastic with three removable blades (straight edge, fine tooth, and wide tooth) that can be adjusted with the simple turn of a knob, the Japanese mandoline is easy to clean and store. Since it has no legs, it can be more difficult to stabilize while you work, although some models come attached to a plastic container that steadies the device and simultaneously gathers the trimmings. Try both kinds and select the mandoline that's more comfortable for you and fits in your storage space.
Slotted Spoon
Is a spoon with holes an essential tool for a serious cook like you? Yes. Every major ethnicity boasts a dumpling as a staple dish. No matter the cuisines you like to cook, you will come across a dumpling.
With a slotted spoon you can lift the dumpling from the pot of boiling water, or hot oil, at the same time you strain it. Without a slotted spoon—a strainer of sorts—you would have to pour the pot of water or oil over a colander to retrieve the dumplings. This can be done with boiling water, but absolutely out of the question with hot oil. Even if safety were not a concern, most dumplings are too delicate to be handled this way. Lifting them gently from their cooking pots prevents them from being crushed or torn.
**_around the world in 80 dumplings_**
Maybe there aren't 80 varieties exactly, but the list is undeniably extensive: Italian raviolis and meatballs, German knodels, Indian koftas, French quenelles, Chinese wontons, Jewish kneidls (matzo balls) and kreplach (meat-filled noodle dumplings), Japanese shumai and gyoza, Korean mandu, Middle Eastern falafel, Brazlian coxinha, Russian pelmeni and vareniki, Polish pierogi . . . can you name a few more?
Slotted spoons can be wooden, plastic, or metallic. Their shapes and sizes vary, as do their perforations (slits versus holes). A shallow, slotted oval spoon is ideal for lifting wontons, whereas a perforated ladle is better for matzo balls due to its corresponding contours.
Skimmers are large, flat, slotted spoons with extra long handles specifically used to remove fried foods from hot oil. If you deep-fry foods, a skimmer is a must-have. Whether it is made of twisted or coiled wire, mesh or perforated stainless steel, select a skimmer for the task at hand (i.e., twisted wire is the Chinese standard while coiled is best for doughnuts).
Meat Cleaver
A meat cleaver is used in Chinese cooking the way a chef 's knife is employed in the western kitchen: for slicing, dicing, chopping, and mincing. Though not an all-purpose knife for the typical American cook, the meat cleaver is an essential piece of equipment for the serious cook who wants to do some butchering.
The heavy blade cuts through bones with one decisive chop. Butterfly a chicken and remove the backbone, section ribs effortlessly, or pound a chicken breast into a _scallopini_ or _paillard_ using the flat body of the blade. You can ask your butcher to do this for you, but you certainly can do it yourself with this tool.
Select the heaviest cleaver you can find with a handle you can grip securely. The majority of the weight should come from the stainless steel blade, which might feel a bit unbalanced compared to the even weight of a chef 's knife. Some blades have a hole at the top corner furthest from the handle for hanging. Blade size ranges from 6 to 8 inches.
**_roll with it_**
The Chinese "roll" cut exposes the maximum surface area of a vegetable to heat, making the food cook more quickly (a requirement of stir-frying). It is a beautiful bias cut for large items like Japanese eggplant, carrot, radish, and zucchini. Using a cleaver or chef's knife, make one diagonal slice at the beginning of the vegetable, then roll it a quarter of the way and cut again. Repeat until the vegetable is cut and you have large diamond-shaped pieces.
Box Grater
A box grater is useful for small jobs when taking out the food processor isn't worth the effort. Shred cheese and carrots for salads, or grate them for pasta sauces with this basic and timeless tool. Move the food across a sharp blade as you do when using a mandoline.
There are many graters with just one blade, and yet there are many blade styles available. That's why a box grater is such a well-conceived tool. With four tall sides, the box grater has four distinct perforated blades that shred, finely shred, grate, and, in some cases, slice (some box graters even have five or six sides).
Look for a model with a removable base that collects the shavings. Confirm that the handle at the top is comfortable to grip. Stainless steel is the best material for the blades, but the handle can be rubber.
Box graters are convenient for cutting but, due to their protruding sharp punctures, are predictably difficult to clean. A good scrub brush and some "elbow grease" do the trick. Just don't put the box grater in the dishwasher without a good manual scrubbing first, or you might find caked-on carrots that are even more challenging to remove.
Dutch Oven
The Dutch oven is the original slow cooker. A deep and wide round or oval cooking vessel with a tight-fitting lid, this wonderfully practical pot is perfect for braising in the oven and can be used even for deep-frying on the stovetop.
The iconic Dutch oven is made of enameled cast iron, and is actually called a French oven per its most popular manufacturer, Le Creuset. These pots have matching lids of the same material with a knob that is heatproof up to 450°F, far higher than the typical braising temperature. Since this Dutch oven encases the food entirely in cast iron with a shiny, nonstick enamel finish, food stays very hot and cooks very evenly when used in the oven. If used on the stovetop, the bottom of the vessel can scorch foods at the base since the pot holds heat so well. The handles are made of the same material as the pot, so never touch them without an oven mitt or towel.
There are several brands of Dutch ovens, some of which are not necessarily enameled cast iron. Stainless steel, cast aluminum, and copper pots are also available, though they might be called stew pots, braisers, or casseroles. Sizes range from a modest 2 quarts up to 12 or more quarts. Usually such a vessel is used for big cuts of meat made at holidays or for family gatherings, so buy the biggest one you can for your space and budget (5 to 7 quarts is a useful yet manageable size).
**_burn a pan? boil it_**
If you burn a thick crust onto the bottom of a pan, do not race to the sink to clean it. That's the worst thing you can do. All that scrubbing further sets everything below the top layer of crud. Instead, fill the pot two-thirds of the way with water, bring to a boil over high heat, then simmer over low heat for an hour on the stovetop. This loosens all the caked-on crud from the top to bottom. Then take the pot to the sink to scrub it clean. The crud will come right off.
Roasting Pan
You might only use this pan for turkey (you can use a rolled sheet pan for chickens, rib roasts, and pork loins), but if you are a serious cook you probably are on duty Thanksgiving Day.
A typical roasting pan is rectangular and shallow with straight sides and rounded corners, has angled or vertical handles, and is large enough to hold the turkey, but shallow enough to let it brown. Dimensions range anywhere from 14 to 20 inches long, 10 to 14 inches wide, 2 to 4 inches deep. It must be sturdy enough to hold a heavy hunk of meat, but light enough to maneuver. Classic materials include stainless steel, lined copper, anodized aluminum, and stainless steel with aluminum cores.
Most roasting pans come without racks, and depending on what you are cooking, the recipe, and its methods, you might not even need one. Some roasting pans, however, do come with racks: a shallow rack that resembles a footed cooling rack but shaped to fit perfectly in the pan; a V-shaped rack (2 sloped sides); or a basket rack (1 flat bottom and 2 sloped sides).
Pick up a roasting pan to gauge how heavy it is before you buy it. Imagine it with the bird, ham, or roast beef you plan to cook in it. Remember that the pan will be much heavier and hundreds of degrees hot. You need to be able to carry it from oven to stovetop or counter. As for handling the pan, upright handles perpendicular to the length of the pan are the easiest to manage since they give your mitted hands room to grip.
THE SERIOUS COOK'S ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES
Cooking is a lifelong pursuit. Knowing how to season properly with salt, sensing when to adjust the heat, or recognizing how to turn tribulation into triumph is something you grow into over time. You never finish learning how to work with food or improving your ability with a chef 's knife. Beyond basic knife skills and cooking methods, serious cuisine involves the special touches and fine accents of a dish. If you aspire to this level of competence, there are several techniques you need to know so you never need to buy bottled salad dressing, and can make your own sauces.
Create an emulsion.
If you've ever mixed oil and vinegar together, you know it's true: they don't mix. You can shake a bottle as hard as possible, but the oil and vinegar never stay blended. That's because they lack a liaison—a stabilizing binder that helps to suspend the two liquids. Mustard is a classic liaison for making vinaigrette. Egg yolk is the liaison for making mayonnaise.
To properly emulsify oil and vinegar for vinaigrette, add some mustard to the vinegar. Then, very slowly, pour the oil in a thin, steady stream as you continuously whisk the vinegar and mustard in the bowl. The mixture will go from translucent to opaque as the oil and vinegar come together, bound by the mustard. As you continue to pour and whisk, the mixture becomes thicker.
Following this "slow and steady" procedure is essential to emulsion, a relevant technique in competent cooking. If you just dump the oil, vinegar, and mustard in a bowl and stir, you won't get a stable emulsion (one that never breaks once it has been made).
Deglaze a pan.
When you sauté or roast meats and vegetables, lots of crusty browned bits called sucs (SOOKS) are glazed on the bottom of the pan. These are the foundation of exceptionally good pan sauces. After you remove the meat and vegetables from the pan, you can deglaze it to retrieve the sucs. All you need is a wooden spoon, liquid, and heat.
To deglaze, return the empty pan to a medium-high heat and add wine, stock, juice, vinegar, or water (depending on the ingredients in the dish you're preparing). Scrape vigorously as you remove the sucs from the pan and disperse them in the liquid, which will cloud and darken. All the flavors of the food that was prepared in the pan now permeate the liquid you added, which is the perfect foundation for a quick and refined sauce.
Reduce to concentrate and thicken.
Once you have deglazed a pan, you can begin to develop the flavors you have married with the sucs and the liquid. Reduction is the process of intensifying flavor and thickening texture through evaporation. In other words, when you reduce a sauce, you concentrate and heighten the flavors by allowing the water to cook off from the pan, decreasing the volume with which you started, in turn thickening what is left.
Note that you can reduce a pan sauce only so far. There is a tipping point at which you lose too much of what is in the pan, and not just in volume—it's when the sauce becomes too thick, too little remains, or the flavors are too concentrated. Experience, unfortunately, is the best way to tell that you've reached that point. If you reduce a pan sauce too much, you can cook away some of the fundamental flavors you're aiming to develop.
Thicken sauces with fat and starch.
If you have reduced a pan sauce as much as you can without losing too much volume or flavor, but it just isn't viscous enough, add something to bind and thicken.
There are several ways to do this. Sometimes just swirling some cold butter in the pan does the trick when a pan sauce is almost as thick as you want it. If the sauce is simply too thin, add a slurry—a combination of a raw starch (arrowroot, potato starch, or corn starch) and cold liquid (water, white wine, or stock)—to the liquid, slowly, over heat while stirring constantly until the sauce thickens. Alternatively, you can whisk in a mixture of equal parts flour and room temperature butter, called _beurre manié_ or kneaded butter. When the butter melts, it suspends the flour particles in the sauce, thickening without lumps. Reducing heavy cream by half its volume and whisking it into a warm reduced stock thickens as well.
Sometimes you need to build a sauce with the thickening agent as the foundation, and the liquid as the building block. _Béchamel_ , or white sauce, is a sauce made entirely of milk and seasoning, thickened with a roux. A roux is also equal parts fat and flour, except that instead of being added to a pan of hot liquid, the butter and flour are combined first in an empty pan, cooked for a minute or two, and then hot liquid is added.
CHAPTER
6
The Health-Conscious Cook's Essential Tools and Techniques
Steamer
Electric Juicer
Electric Grill
Salad Spinner
Oil Mister
THE AT-HOME MODERN COOK is conscious of health and nutrition. Delicious food does not have to be decadently prepared; indulgence in flavor trumps fat and calories. Inherently healthy techniques like steaming become foolproof with the proper tools. Even if healthy cooking is not a priority for you, all the recipes are worth sampling for brightly flavored fare.
THE HEALTH-CONSCIOUS COOK'S ESSENTIAL TOOLS
Steamer
Steamed food is synonymous with health food primarily because you don't need to use any fat. Water and heat work together in a covered vessel to produce a vapor that quickly cooks the food. Nutritionists tout the benefits of steaming, including the retention of nutrients and enzymes.
There are four basic steaming tools: a steamer basket, a steamer insert, an electric steamer, or a bamboo steamer. Following is more information about each type.
Steamer Baskets
Steamer baskets are wonderful contraptions: stainless steel discs with perforated overlapping petals that close like flower buds for storage and expand to fit the pot perfectly. When fully open, they are almost flat and can be washed in the dishwasher. Steamer baskets usually have three legs and a center handle, all four of which are removable for cleaning. Easy to use and maintain, steamer baskets make steaming food as easy as can be.
Steamer Inserts
Steamer inserts are special accessory items from the manufacturer just like the saucepans in which they are bulged to fit, but with perforated bottoms. Sometimes an insert and pan are sold as a set (pasta inserts can be used as steamer baskets). The water goes in the bottom pot and the food to be steamed rests in the perforated pan. Sizes range from a few to several quarts.
Electric Steamers
Electric steamers are bulky appliances with electric water tanks for bases and clear stacking or side-by-side compartments for the food. They have digital display buttons and touch-pad controls for convenience, but can weigh up to 10 pounds.
Bamboo Steamers
Bamboo steamers, by contrast, are shallow, round, stackable vessels made of natural bamboo with lattice-weave lids that trap steam without creating condensation that would otherwise fall back on the food and make it soggy. Food sticks to bamboo, however, so the steamer must be lined with a large leaf (banana, cabbage, lettuce) or plate.
Electric Juicer
Juicing raw fruits and vegetables retains even more nutrients than does steaming. An orange sliced in half is easy to juice by hand, but how about an apple, raspberry, carrot, or cucumber? An electric juicer lets you juice anything you like, from pineapple to peas.
Electric juicers work by extracting juice and pulp from the food, leaving behind the fibrous matter. A motorized centrifuge typically pushes juice through the front spout of the mixer and the waste into a separate receptacle in the back.
Look for a model with a wide feeding tube to accommodate sizable chunks, as well as a splash-guarded spout to prevent splattered juice on your counters and walls. Electric juicers are quite noisy, but they juice most foods very quickly so the sound is bearable.
Electric Grill
Thanks to compact electric grills, indoor countertop grilling is possible, enjoyable, and healthy. The nonstick surface allows you to grill food without added fat for leaner, lighter fare.
Electric grills are either open or closed, with one or two nonstick cooking surfaces. Open models resemble an outdoor grill with a rack that rests above a heating element, or a grid that is the heating element itself with embedded electric coils. Food needs to be turned to cook on both sides. Closed electric grills, like waffle irons and panini presses, have heated electric coils on the base and the top to provide direct heat contact, cooking both sides of food at once.
Ridges and their widths vary. Some grids are detachable and dishwasher safe. Others are slightly angled forward to let unwanted fat drip from the cooking surface. Most electric grills come with a light that indicates when the machine is hot—beneficial for letting you know when the grill is ready for use, and whether it has cooled down for cleaning.
The greater the wattage, the stronger the machine, which means the better the grill marks you'll get in less time. After you determine what size you and your kitchen can handle, select the machine with the most power. Grills range in power from 700 to more than 2000 watts.
Salad Spinner
To enjoy lettuce, it must be clean, crisp, and dry. Damp lettuce might not be so terrible on its own. Add salad dressing to a wet leaf, though, and watch it fall away or become watered down at best (remember the old adage that water and oil don't mix). A salad spinner beats filling the sink with cold water and giving some Bibb a bath any day. Outfitted with two bowls—an internal plastic basket in which to rinse and hold the lettuce, and a larger bowl to hold the excess water—the salad spinner takes your rinsed greens and spins them dry.
As the internal basket spins faster and faster, the centrifugal force pushes the lettuce from the middle of the basket to the sides, pulling all the unwanted water with it. The most popular salad spinners today work with a pump that activates the spinning motion with a few manual pushes. The spinning can be stopped at once with a button that doubles as the lock to keep the pump down for storage. Other models work with a pull-cord mechanism, which is gentler on the greens but takes a few more tugs than pushes of the pump. A crank salad spinner requires you to turn a crank to spin the basket.
Select the size that best suits your daily needs and work in batches when necessary. Prewashed baby lettuces are lovely and exceptionally convenient, but with a salad spinner you can clean and dry fresh heads of lettuce for a lot less money.
**_take herbs for a spin_**
The salad spinner is useful for more than just lettuce. Fresh, leafy herbs like parsley, cilantro, basil, and dill can be quite dirty. Trim herb bunches of their roots and long stems, and rinse them in the salad spinner basket until clean. Spin them dry and store them tightly rolled in a slightly damp paper towel in the refrigerator. They will remain crisp and vibrant for days.
Oil Mister
Every health-conscious cook carefully monitors fat content. A nonaerosol mister (healthier for you and the environment) helps you add oil lightly and evenly by spraying with a fine mist. This gives you a lot of control over how much fat you use.
An oil mister also gives you control over _what kind_ of fat you use. Unlike the ubiquitous aerosol cans sold in supermarkets, an oil mister enables you to select the quality and type of oil that suits you. Would you like a touch of toasted sesame oil flavor on that sesame-crusted salmon? You cannot find a spray bottle of toasted sesame oil unless you fill it yourself.
THE HEALTH-CONSCIOUS COOK'S ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES
Healthy cooking encompasses so many aspects of food preparation: the ingredients, the ratios, the cooking methods, and the portions. It's critical to employ colorful fruits and vegetables, lean proteins, and low-fat or fat-free techniques. With the exception of deep-frying, a health-conscious cook should use every basic Essential Cooking Technique. In addition, steaming, juicing, and cooking in parchment paper are excellent methods to master.
Steam vegetables until crisp-tender.
"Crisp-tender" means that the broccoli should be easily penetrable with a knife, but firm enough to hold its shape with a toothsome bite. Neither crunchy nor mushy, a perfectly steamed vegetable retains many of its nutrients and natural taste while taking on a pleasing, cooked texture.
Steaming works by water and heat acting together—along with the natural moisture of the vegetable, poultry, or fish—to create a vapor that cooks food gently. No added fat is needed for steam heat, and there is obviously no possibility for dried-out results. Procedures vary depending on the apparatus you use, but the principle is always the same.
If you are using a steamer basket, place the basket in a saucepan large enough to hold the food to be steamed. Fill the pot with water just below the surface of the basket (about an inch or two). Bring the water to boil and place the food in the basket (broccoli florets, sugar snap peas, carrot slices, etc.). Cover the pot with a tight-fitting lid. Most vegetables cook in a matter of a few minutes. Test for doneness by piercing one of the vegetables with a paring knife. If the vegetable resists the knife, cover with the lid and continue steaming. When the vegetables are ready, season them with whatever you and your doctor allow.
Use your juicer for more than just drinks.
If you are a health-conscious cook, it's likely you are already an expert on fruit juice concoctions and exotic vegetable elixirs. Have you tried using these juices to marinate, or make sauces and soups?
It probably seems obvious to marinate sea bass in a mixture of freshly squeezed orange juice and olive oil for a healthy, flavorful dish. It might not be as apparent that you can make a creamy, colorful sauce from vegetable juice. As an accompaniment to your favorite steamed fish, make a deceptively creamy yet light sauce. Juice two sweet potatoes and one carrot, let the starch fall to the bottom of the vessel, pour off the juice, and heat the nectar over low heat until it thickens a bit. Add a touch of low-fat coconut milk with a small dollop of curry paste, and spoon the sauce over the fish.
Experiment with fruit and vegetables juices you like to drink. Poach fish or chicken in a dilution of your favorite mix with water or stock for a subtle flavor boost. Reduce fruit juice from 2 cups to just ¼ cup for a thick and syrupy drizzle on roast meats or fish. They contain a high concentration of natural sugar, so a little bit goes a long way. Starchy vegetables like sweet potatoes, peas, corn, and several winter squashes thicken when their juice is heated slowly.
Cook en papillote.
There is a very special way to steam food without using any steaming equipment. Cooking with lightly greased parchment paper, or _en papillote_ (ehn-pahp-ee-YOHT) as the French say, is a fun and creative way to cook a healthy meal. The method simply involves placing vegetables and fish in a large piece of tightly sealed, greased parchment paper and baking in the oven until it puffs.
Take a large piece of parchment paper, about 12 inches long, and fold it in half lengthwise. As if you were making a heart-shaped Valentine in grade school, draw a large semicircle that tapers in at the bottom toward the fold. Cut through the paper so you have a heart when unfolded. Put the paper on a sheet pan, and place julienned vegetables and fresh herbs in the center of one half of the heart close to the fold, leaving plenty of room around the edges (at least one inch). Top with a piece of fish seasoned with a slice of lemon and a splash of white wine.
Fold the top of the paper over the food and seal by making a double fold along the edge, each new fold overlapping the one before it. The key to success is in making sure the package remains sealed, otherwise it will not trap steam nor puff. Brush the pleated edge with egg white to "glue" it together if need be. Brush the top of the parchment parcel lightly with olive oil to attract the heat and place in a 425°F oven for approximately 10 minutes until the parchment is golden and— hopefully—puffed. The food will be cooked even if the package never puffs, for whatever reason.
Don't be disappointed if you see a beautifully puffed parcel in the oven only to watch it deflate as you move it to the counter. The high oven heat is what activates the steam and holds the puff. The cold kitchen air cannot sustain it over time.
CHAPTER
7
The Grill Master'ntial Tools and Techniques
Cleaning Brush
Meat Thermometer
Skewers
Meat Fork
Grilling Plank
MANIPULATING HEAT ON A LARGE GRILL is not dissimilar to controlling the flame of a stovetop burner. Nevertheless, there are special tools and techniques for the outdoor cook. Certain techniques amplify the flavor and appearance of grilled food, such as proper marinating and marking meat. Grilling is more fun when you have the tools you need to do it well and know how to use them properly.
THE GRILL MASTER'S ESSENTIAL TOOLS
Cleaning Brush
You cannot hide a dirty grill. It shows all over the food: charred black bits crusted on the chicken, or tears in the meat because the food stuck to the dirty grill when it should have released itself from the clean, hot grid. Any cooking surface needs to be cleaned thoroughly after each use, and the grill is no exception.
Look for a long-handle brush with brass bristles and a metal scraper at its tip. The handle can be wood, heatproof plastic, or metal. The metal scraper does the tough job of removing large bits of food from the grid after cooking; the brass bristles are strong enough to brush away the smaller pieces. Clean a grill twice, before and after each use.
Meat Thermometer
Temperature is both a health and individual concern: no one wants pink chicken, but lots of people rightly like lamb that way. There are lots of tricks to testing the doneness of meat (poke the meat, then pinch your fingers or tap your face to compare doneness to hand or facial areas . . . believe it or not, that technique is not nearly as senseless as slicing open the food and judging juice and flesh color midway through cooking). Only a thermometer inserted into the center of the meat flesh, far from the bone, can provide a reliable literal reading of internal temperature.
All food thermometers (as opposed to appliance thermometers for ovens and refrigerators) have probes and come either with dial or digital faces. Instant-read thermometers are ideal tools for testing the temperature of meat at the end of the cooking process. Mechanical dial thermometers have a hand that moves clockwise along a numbered (0–220°F) face and stops at the meat's temperature. Electronic digital devices take the reading and display the number once it has been reached, in a matter of seconds.
There are other kinds of meat thermometers that let you monitor the temperature of the meat as it cooks. These are best used for large roasts and oven cooking in general, if you require a constant reading.
Thermometers must be correctly calibrated, otherwise the reading is inaccurate and therefore useless. If you suspect your thermometer might not be working, boil water and stick the probe in the pot. If you get within a degree of 212°F or 100°C, your thermometer is working properly.
**_mercury rising_**
The internal temperature of meat typically increases anywhere from 5 to 10 degrees while the meat rests, depending on the cut and its size. That means from the time you take the steak off the grill and take it to the table it has continued cooking, perhaps going from medium rare to medium.
Skewers
Metal skewers are essential grilling tools because they do not burn or break as do the bamboo variety. Skewered meat, with its small and uniform pieces, cooks quickly and evenly. Depending on the size of the skewer, the food comes off the grill in service-ready portions. Who doesn't love a tasty kebab?
The majority of metal skewers are stainless steel, though some have nonstick finishes or are made of cast iron. Skewers can be straight or circular, flat or round, single- or double-pronged. The softer the item you are grilling, the wider and flatter the spear should be if the skewer is single-pronged. The handles are often decorative, but a simple loop design is just as comfortable.
Meat Fork
Don't lift a steak by stabbing it with a long metal fork. You'll pierce the flesh and lose some of the succulent juice that makes steak so luscious. Use your tongs instead. Reserve the meat fork for the final and critical stage of carving.
Most meat forks are at least one foot long with two exceptionally sharp stainless steel tines that can be flat or curved, straight or bowed. There are three-tine forks, but they tend to be shorter and thus best left for indoor tasks. You can also find special bayonet-style forks that have particularly long prongs.
Anchor meat with a cooking fork and carve with your best nonserrated blade once the meat has had ample time to rest, after all the interior juices have had a chance to redistribute throughout the meat.
Why not just use a dinner fork? Because it is simply too small and would make carving an unwieldy enterprise. The substantial size of the cooking fork with its gigantic tines provides you the room and comfort you need to carve with an appropriately large knife. The cooking fork, then, matches the size of the knife's blade. The dinner fork belongs with a table knife.
**_a fork's first duty_**
Forks were originally used in the ancient world strictly as cooking and serving implements, making their way to the table in the Middle East more than a thousand years later. It was not until the sixteenth century that using the fork as an eating utensil became widespread in Europe amongst the nobility. What did everyone else do? What they had always done—used their hands to eat.
Grilling Plank
Grilled salmon sounds so delicious—that is, until you try to make it. Even though salmon is one of the fattier—and tastier—fish on the menu, grilling it can result in burnt, torn, or ripped flesh. Rectangular planks made of fragrant woods like cedar, alder, apple, cherry, and maple make grilling fish a much more inviting prospect.
Grilling planks provide the fish (or meat) a large, flat surface that produces smoke, which ultimately flavors the food. They are single-use items (no cleanup!), and usually come in sets of four for just a few dollars each.
Wood, as you know, catches fire. So, a grilling plank must be properly soaked for two hours or more prior to use. A side of salmon, for example, might take 20 to 30 minutes on the grill to cook. If the plank is sufficiently soaked, it won't catch fire before the fish is cooked.
Place the fish on the soaked grilling plank, put the plank on the grill, and cook.
THE GRILL MASTER'S ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES
Marinate properly.
Marinating serves two purposes:
1 **Flavor:** First and foremost, it adds flavor and seasoning to meat prior to being cooked.
2 **Tenderize:** Since marinades are applied anywhere from half an hour up to more than a day before cooking, they also tenderize meat by breaking down the protein's connective tissue. This process makes meat more moist, juicy, and pleasant to the tooth.
A proper marinade should have a balance of flavors and tenderizers. Citrus juices, vinegars, oils, and even alcohol tenderize protein. Herbs and spices also are important. A good rule of thumb is to pair seasonings and flavors that you like. If you enjoy garlic and ginger together, they will certainly make a desirable marinade. Are jalapeños and lime more your speed? You have the beginnings of a tasty tenderizer.
Marinate food in a nonreactive, nonmetallic container (plastic, glass, ceramic, or sealed food storage bag) in the refrigerator. It's potentially hazardous to marinate foods outside the refrigerator, since bacteria can grow in a room-temperature environment. Marinades should be evenly distributed to cover as much of the food as possible. To this end, turn the food at a few intervals in the marinating process. For example, if you prepare a beef marinade midday to be cooked the following day, turn the meat before you go to bed, and once more in the morning.
Marinating time is determined by the ingredients in the marinade and, more important, by the type of protein for which the marinade is being used:
• **Fish and seafood** generally should be marinated anywhere from 20 minutes to one hour.
• **Chicken** should be marinated for at least half an hour, but typically no more than six hours.
• **Pork** should be marinated between two and four hours, or overnight for big roasts.
• **Beef,** by contrast, may be marinated overnight no matter the cut.
The connective tissue in the protein can break down too much if meat is marinated for too long. The meat will taste mealy and lose its natural texture. In some cases, marinating protein for too long actually begins to cook the product. Ingredients play a major role. If a marinade is too acidic and the protein has been sitting in it for too long, especially where fish is concerned, the product will begin to cook in those juices (as in ceviche).
Marinade should not be used as a sauce for the finished dish. However, if it has been brought to a boil and cooked for at least five minutes, any bacteria that might have been transmitted from raw meat, poultry, or fish would be destroyed.
Mark your meat.
Those perfectly square criss-cross marks branded on grilled meat make any steak look more appetizing. It's like finishing the look of a handsome suit with a pocket square—that special, extra touch that signals a competent cook at work.
Marking your meat (known as _quadrillage_ ) refers to a series of perfectly vertical and horizontal lines, or squares. Place the axis of the steak at a 90-degree angle from the lines of the grid. After a minute or two—just enough time for the surface proteins to coagulate so you can lift the meat without it sticking to the grid—lift the meat and turn it 90 degrees.
Only one side of the steak needs to be marked. The diner only sees the presentation side of any plated food. So, when you turn the steak over for the second phase of cooking, it does not matter where it lands (not for aesthetic reasons, that is).
CHAPTER
8
Nonessential Equipment Miscellany
Knives
Tools to Chop, Separate, and Cut
Pots and Pans and Appliances
Utterly Irrelevant Equipment Miscellany
THE FOLLOWING ARE PERFECTLY USEFUL, respectable tools, just nonessential in general. A few of them might interest you, or perhaps virtually all of them suit your personal cooking needs. Before purchasing anything from the list below, ask yourself if you can get the job done perfectly with the tools you already have. If the answer is no, add any of these items to your equipment inventory as long as you will use them.
Knives
Boning Knife
This knife has a stiff, narrow blade and sharp point, used to remove bones from meat, poultry, and fish. If you like butterflying your own leg of lamb, use a boning knife. Alternatively, use your large chef 's knife to get the job done.
Carving Knife
This knife's blade is even longer than a chef 's knife (anywhere from 8 inches to 15 inches) and much thinner, which is useful in slicing large roasts, hams, and other meats. You can cut very precise, thin slices with this implement, but a chef 's knife will also do the trick.
Fish Knife
This knife has a long, flexible blade, used to remove the skin from fish and cut the flesh. The flexibility allows you to keep the knife parallel with the cutting board as you slide the fish across the blade to remove the skin. For most at-home cooks, a chef 's knife will work fine.
Utility Knife
This knife is a little bigger than a paring knife and a bit smaller than a chef 's knife. It's perfectly utilitarian, but not any more advantageous than either of those essential tools.
Tools to Chop, Separate, and Cut
Apple Corer
This tool is used to remove the apple core while keeping the rest of the apple intact, with one swift push of the sharp, hollow, cylindrical blade through the apple. This is only useful if you plan to keep the apple whole; otherwise, you can quarter the apple with a chef 's knife, and slice away the seeds and core from each piece.
Baster
A clear plastic syringe with a rubber or silicone bulb top, this tool resembles a gigantic medicine dropper, and is used to baste roasts with pan drippings created during the cooking process. Alternatively, simply use a long-handled spoon.
Biscuit Cutters
These specialty cookie cutters tend to have arched handles across the top of the ring, for pressing and twisting the cutter to ensure a clean cut, as opposed to a tear, in the biscuit dough. Instead of a biscuit cutter, you could use several other tools: a plain round cookie cutter, the open top of a juice glass, or even a knife.
Candy Thermometer
This implement—whether digital, dial, or liquid—measures the temperature, and subsequently the stage, of a sugar solution. It also can be used to measure hot oil when deep-frying.
Chaneller
A channeling tool scrapes out a defined ribbon of skin and flesh as you run the sharp point down the length of, say, a cucumber. This repeating pattern is particularly decorative when the vegetable is cut crosswise, making flower-like slices. Such frivolity is lovely but certainly not essential— you could use a peeler to make some simple, decorative cuts.
Cheese Plane
This tool slices through hard and semihard cheeses, as well as chocolate. It works the same way a peeler does, except that you keep what you slice.
China Cap
Also a conical sieve, but with small holes. Stocks typically are passed through a china cap first, then through a chinois, if necessary, to catch the finer-grade waste. Alternatively, you can line a standard strainer with a double layer of cheesecloth to strain the stock.
Chinois
A conical fine mesh sieve used to strain stocks, sauces, and custards. It's easy to push liquid through this specialty strainer because of its shape. It's not essential for a home cook who doesn't make stocks and sauces frequently, especially since you can line a standard strainer with a double layer of cheesecloth for a similar effect.
Egg Slicer
This contraption holds a peeled hard-boiled egg in place in a slotted dish and then cuts through the flesh with a plate of blades or wires. It produces clean, evenly cut egg slices—but so would your chef 's knife.
Fluted Pastry Wheel
Also known as a "jagger," this tool is useful to pasta makers and bakers alike. It rolls across dough like a pizza wheel, but makes a decorative jagged edge, perfect for pretty lattice crusts or ravioli edges.
Food Mill
This tool purées fruits and vegetables while straining out skins, seeds, and fibers. It is more versatile than a ricer, even if a bit unwieldy to use. Food is placed in a bowl with a slotted bottom. A slanted disc attached to a handle pushes the food through the mill as you crank. Instead, just use your chef 's knife and a cutting board.
Funnel
A plastic or metal cone with a cylindrical opening at the bottom, this tool helps pour liquids from wide-mouthed vessels into containers with small openings. If you don't have a funnel, simply pour carefully and realize that you might spill a little.
Gravy Separator
This specialty measuring cup with a low spout helps separate fat from pan juices. When you pour the drippings into this cup, the fat rises to the top and the juice sinks to the bottom. Since the spout is so low, it pours off mostly juice. You could use a spoon instead, of course.
Meat Mallet
A metal or wood "hammer" with a head that has one smooth side for pounding and flattening meat, and one pointed side for tenderizing meat. This is a useful tool for cooks who frequently prepare veal dishes that require thin cutlets, called scallopini. Instead of using a meat mallet, you could lay a chef 's knife sideways on top of the meat and carefully pound the knife with your hand.
Melon Baller
This short stick with one metallic scoop at each end (one larger than the other) makes perfectly round balls of melon flesh. Another aesthetically pleasing touch that certainly is not essential for serving bite-size pieces of melon.
Mezzaluna
As in the Italian words for "half moon," a tool made of a curved steel blade with a horizontal handle used to chop food by rocking back and forth in a depressed cutting board or wooden bowl. Using a chef 's knife on a cutting board will do the same job, however.
Mini-chopper
Literally a miniature version of a standard food processor, this tool chops small quantities of food with a single blade. It's perfect for chopping half a cup of nuts when you don't feel like lugging out the big one. They call it a mini-chopper for a reason: it only chops. There's no dough blade, or slicing and grating discs. Once again, your chef 's knife and a cutting board can get the job done.
Olive Pitter
Also known as a cherry stoner because it does the same thing for cherries it does for olives. For people who cook frequently with fresh olives (or cherries) in large quantities, this tool sure beats carving out the pit with a paring knife. It deftly pushes out the pit while leaving the olive or cherry intact.
Pasta Fork
Typically made of metal or plastic, this implement is really a slotted ladle with teeth used to grab long noodles like spaghetti or linguine. It's not an essential tool since tongs do the same job with greater control.
Pastry Blender or Cutter
This tool has a wooden, metal, or rubber handle with several arched metallic blades attached that form a "D" shape. It's used to cut solid fat into a flour-based mixture when making any variety of pastry dough. It's a useful tool that keeps your fingers clean, but does the same job your fingers would!
Pizza Peel
This giant wooden (or metal) paddle easily slips underneath a pizza to remove it from the pizza stone or brick oven floor. Instead of bothering with this large tool, simply use gravity, and let the pizza slide off the pan or stone and onto a cutting board.
Pizza Stone
This flat piece of stone or ceramic is used to bake pizzas in a regular oven by evenly distributing heat to the crust and absorbing excess moisture. It's intended to provide the same effect of a brick oven (a crisp crust). If you make your own pizza dough and take pride in the craft, then this tool might top your list. If not, a sheet pan works just as well.
Pizza Wheel
This sharp-edged wheel riveted to a handle rolls and cuts as it moves across a pizza to divide a "pie" into slices. Your knife can do the same thing, and is less likely to tear the dough.
Reamer
Usually made of plastic, wood, or metal, this tool makes it easy to juice citrus fruit. It has a fluted, pear-shaped top with a small handle. Push half a lemon over the tip, twisting and turning as you go. It really helps release all the juice. You could use a dinner fork, as well.
Ricer
If you make mashed potatoes often, this is a wonderful tool. It looks like a giant garlic press. This gadget pushes the flesh through a slotted disc with a steady squeeze of the handle. As you apply pressure, the potatoes emerge looking like rice, hence the name. People find all sorts of clever ways to mash potatoes without one of these tools.
Turkey Lifters
These tiny pitchforks are used, predictably, once a year when the Thanksgiving bird needs to go from the roasting pan to the serving platter. Stab the bird from both sides on the bottom and lift. Or use your hands with rubber oven mitts, or two wooden spoons through the cavity, or two spatulas (all of which have uses other than simply lifting a turkey).
Pots and Pans and Appliances
Double Boiler
This is a pot within a pot. One saucepan sits directly on top of another saucepan. The bottom pot is filled with water and the top pot holds something that needs heat, but might scald or burn from a direct heat source, such as chocolate to be melted. It's a handy concept, but a mixing bowl on top of a saucepan works even better if you need to whisk, since every inch is curved.
Fish Poacher
The elongated, rectangular shape of this pot with rounded corners is a boon to anyone who wants to poach a whole side of salmon. There is a perforated rack with handles within the pot that enables you to lower and lift the fish into simmering water. But how often do you poach a whole side of salmon?
Griddle
This flat metal plate is used on the stove to cook pancakes, eggs, and any other food that could be cooked in a sauté pan. The singular benefit of a griddle is that it usually fits over two burners, instead of one, and thus accommodates twice as much food.
Pasta Machine
This is available as an attachment to an existing appliance (standing mixer), as a hand-cranked apparatus, or as an electric machine. Since most of us survive on dried pasta from the box, a pasta machine doesn't generally warrant "essential" status.
Rice Cooker
This is an electric pot designed to cook just rice. For the large family that eats rice two times a day, a rice cooker is a useful piece of equipment. Otherwise, why not use a saucepan?
Slow Cooker
Also called by the brand name CrockPot, this electric device is hugely popular for making one-pot meals since it cooks while you sleep or work. Throw some meat, stock, vegetables, and seasoning in the slow cooker, plug it in and turn it on, and go about your day (or night). Depending on the recipe, the food cooks anywhere from 4 to 8 hours. However, you could get the same effect by cooking in a dutch oven over very low heat on your stovetop, or in an oven set to a very low temperature.
Waffle Iron
An electric device with two hinged metal plates that have the honeycomb pattern characteristic of waffles. When the pancake-like leavening batter is poured on the bottom plate and the top plate is closed, the waffles form and cook.
Wok
A round-bottomed vessel traditionally made of carbon steel, used in Chinese cooking, especially stir-frying. It's basically a deep sauté pan with high sides, without the flat bottom. If stir-frying is a fixture in your cooking repertoire, then a wok is a useful pan to own. Otherwise, for the occasional stir-fry, you can get by with a sauté pan.
Utterly Irrelevant Equipment Miscellany
Steer clear of these single-use gadgets, doodads, and thingamajigs. They are dust collectors that take up too much valuable space in an already crowded cupboard or jam-packed drawer.
If you previously own and love any of these items, please take no offense. It isn't that some of them don't do something useful. It's just that they do not do anything better than _you_ can do yourself with a superior tool (almost always a knife or your hands).
You are the competent cook. Remember that the next time one of these shiny, new trinkets calls out your name at the local "toy" store.
Asparagus Pot
This tall, narrow pot allows asparagus to cook vertically, boiling the stems while the tips steam. However, if properly trimmed of the tough stem, asparagus will steam or blanch evenly while horizontal in a decidedly essential sauté pan or stockpot.
Avocado Slicer
These wands with two working ends both pit and slice the avocado. The bottom of the handle pits the avocado; the top resembles the head of a tennis racket with several sharp wires that produce uniform slices. You can also prepare an avocado using the paring and chef 's knives you already have. Cut the avocado in two, and stab the pit with the paring knife and twist (it comes right out). Then peel the skin off the avocado, or spoon out the flesh in one swift motion with a spoon. Slice the avocado as thick or as thin as you like with your chef 's knife.
Cake Tester
A probing tool to be inserted in a cake to test for doneness, it's simply a round plastic paddle or metal ring that holds a long thin wire. Yes, testing a cake before you permanently remove it from the oven is a good thing. But any toothpick can handle the challenge.
Corn Zipper
We all love corn cut fresh off the cob. Just stand an ear of corn in a large mixing bowl and run the chef 's knife down the side of the cob to remove the kernels. Or, use this tool that looks like a horizontal vegetable peeler equipped with a pair of sharp teeth to do the same job pretty much the same way.
Garlic Peeler
This flexible rubber cylinder holds a garlic clove, and removes the peel when you roll it back and forth with the palm of your hand. You could also smash the garlic with the flat side of your chef 's knife, or trim the root and peel back the skin with a paring knife when you need to keep the cloves whole.
Garlic Press
This tool has come a long way: now you can press or slice garlic if the garlic press has two compartments. When you press the garlic through the perforated disc, it emerges mashed. Well, part of it emerges mashed. The rest stays stuck inside the press, unless you pry it out with your fingers. (So much for avoiding smelly hands with this tool!) If you run your chef 's knife over a garlic clove again and again, adding a light pinch of salt once or twice, you will eventually have paste, or mashed garlic. As for making paper-thin slices, use your paring knife, take your time, and practice, as any competent cook would do.
Herb Shears
These specialty scissors distinguish themselves from standard kitchen shears with their unique handle that has two circular openings (one large, one small) designed to pass through stems to remove leaves, as with rosemary, thyme, and oregano. Both your knife and fingers can do the job better: use your knife to cut and chop the herbs, and your fingers to pinch the stem and pull back and remove the leaves.
Mango Pitter
This tool looks a lot like the kind of apple corer that both cores and slices the apple into wedges. It's a plastic ring with two handles on opposite sides, with a sharp, oval blade in the middle. Stand the mango up and press the pitter down to excise the pit. You need to align the mango with the tool so the thin and narrow pit is parallel with the blade—something you have to do anyway when you slice the mango with a chef 's knife.
Mozzarella Slicer
This oversized egg slicer, as it were, holds the mozzarella in a slotted base and cuts the cheese in uniform slices with a hinged metal plate set with several wires. Hard-boiled eggs can be very tricky to slice since the yolk might not be centered in, and slides easily from, the white. But mozzarella—even the fresh buffalo kind—can be sliced with a chef 's knife as easily as any other food.
Onion Dicer
This plastic base with a hinged, sharp metallic grid dices an onion in one shot. You can do that just as well with your chef's knife, and you can control the size of the pieces, too. You are, after all, a competent cook!
Pineapple Slicer
Once the pineapple is trimmed of its exterior, you can core and slice the fruit with one twist of this gadget's handle. Unfortunately, this tool wastes a lot of perfectly edible pineapple flesh. And what if you want chunks or wedges or a fine dice? You'll need to use your chef 's knife for that. Of course, you're eminently qualified.
Rolling Herb Mincer
This is like four pizza wheels attached to one handle. The idea is to roll the tool back and forth to mince the herbs. It's a pretty clunky shape, sure to jam any drawer. Your chef 's knife was meant to mince herbs, so use that instead.
Salad Scissors
Another specialty pair of scissors, this tool's curved blades chop through salads in a bowl. Lettuce has to be trimmed, its leaves separated from the core, in order to be washed. So, the cutting board and knife are already on the counter. If you are using a prewashed mix like mesclun or baby romaine, then you have nothing to cut.
Tomato Knife
This tool is designed with a serrated blade strictly to cut tomatoes. It would be a better use of space and money to maintain your chef's knife so it is always sharp, in which case it would never fail to slice a tomato.
Tomato Slicer
Just when you think you've seen it all! This tool works in the same way as the nonessential egg slicer and utterly irrelevant mozzarella slicer. Only tomatoes up to a certain size fit in this bulky contraption. A chef's knife never discriminates. If cared for and maintained, it will cut anything.
CHAPTER
9
How to Shop for Food and Store It Properly
The Essential Pantry
The Shopping Schedule: Daily, Weekly, Monthly, Yearly
The Storage Guide: Fridge, Freezer, Cupboard, or Counter
Get to Know Your Grocer
EVERY ASPECT OF THE COOKING PROCESS MATTERS. Earlier chapters covered how your kitchen and equipment play important roles in the food you put on the table. The techniques and recipes you apply are equally relevant, of course. The food you use—and when you buy it and how you store it—is just as impactful.
The Essential Pantry
Certain tools and techniques are required to cook competently, so it naturally follows that you need a certain baseline of ingredients and supplies, too. There are foods so pervasive in recipes from across the globe that they always should be on hand in your pantry and fridge. And certain supplies also should be stocked in your kitchen.
Of course, your own tastes, preferences, and health concerns inform your sense of "essential" ingredients. Perhaps you come from a Mediterranean background and a cupboard without olives just won't do. If your family is Chinese, you better have garlic and ginger on hand at all times. Should an allergy preclude you from cooking with almonds, you won't buy any nuts. Gauge essential supplies by your cooking routine or aspirations.
The following lists are a good start to competent cooking, including making the recipes in this book and improvising on your own.
The Cupboard
• all-purpose flour
• baking powder
• baking soda
• balsamic vinegar
• basmati rice
• breadcrumbs
• brown sugar
• canned beans (chickpeas, black beans, or cannellini)
• canola or grapeseed oil
• chicken stock
• cinnamon
• coarse sea salt in a mill
• dried fruits (raisins, currants, cranberries, apricots, or prunes)
• dried oregano
• dried pasta
• dried thyme
• fine kosher salt
• garlic powder
• granulated sugar
• honey
• olive oil
• paprika
• precooked couscous
• red wine vinegar
• rice wine vinegar
• tamari or soy sauce
• toasted sesame oil
• Tabasco sauce
• tomato paste
• vanilla extract
• whole black peppercorns in a mill
• Worcestershire sauce
The Refrigerator
• Dijon mustard
• fresh ginger
• fresh herbs (parsley, basil, thyme, rosemary, or mint)
• head of garlic
• lemon
• mayonnaise
• nuts (slivered almonds, pecans, and walnuts) stored in the freezer
• pitted kalamata olives
• unsalted butter
Supplies
• aluminum foil
• bamboo skewers
• cotton twine
• dish towels
• oven mitts
• parchment paper
• plastic storage bags
• plastic wrap
• rubber gloves
• wax paper
The Shopping Schedule: Daily, Weekly, Monthly, Yearly
Knowing what to buy and when to buy it is easy, as long as you follow a simple schedule. Some foods are best bought on a day-to-day basis, as needed, while others can be purchased just once or twice a year. As a general guideline, see the frequency with which you buy each item as an indication of its shelf life. The following chart will give you an idea of how often you'll need to buy certain items. Keep in mind that you don't have to buy the items in the categories "daily," "monthly," every single day or every single month; it means that the items will only stay fresh for a full week or a few months, respectively.
The Storage Guide: Fridge, Freezer, Cupboard, or Counter
You can buy the best ingredients in the world, but if you don't store them properly, it's all a lost cause. There are four places dry and fresh goods can be stored: the refrigerator, freezer, cupboard (pantry), or counter. The grocery store provides one of the best cues. How was the food stored when you purchased it? You didn't find the whole butternut squash in the refrigerator, so there's no need to store it that way at home. Once fresh fruits and vegetables are cut and flesh is exposed, however, they must be stored in the fridge.
Refrigerated food should be kept at or below 38–40°F; frozen food should be maintained at or below 0°F. If you are not sure if your appliances are at the proper temperature, use designated thermometers to test them. Avoid storing any food in a warm place, such as near a hot oven, frequently running dishwasher, or sun-filled window. "A cool dry place" is the phrase to keep in mind for the cupboard and counter. "Cool," in this case, means nowhere north of about 70°F. And when it comes to oils, that cool, dry place should be dark, too, to inhibit the oil from turning rancid. Here are some other tips:
**_the sniff test_**
How long should you keep spices? Should you throw the milk out if it's two days past the "sell by" date on the carton? Do eggs ever expire? Spices are generally good for one year. You should only throw the milk out if it has gone bad (remember, it's a "sell by" date, not a "consume by" date). Yes, eggs do expire . . . eventually. For most foods, you can tell if they have gone bad by smelling them. Dried herbs and spices likely won't smell bad—they just won't smell like much of anything at all. Milk smells rotten when it has gone bad. If it isn't malodorous and also tastes good, then it has not yet spoiled. Eggs have a shelf life of a few weeks. If you have a carton from a few months back, just get rid of it.
• Before you place your leftover macaroni and cheese in the refrigerator, make sure it has cooled down (to at least 90°F) to make sure it doesn't negatively impact the temperature, and therefore everything else, in the refrigerator. Don't crowd the fridge or freezer, so that air can circulate freely and effectively.
• Shelve your raw foods below your cooked foods. You never want the juice from a package of chicken breasts to drip onto last night's sesame noodles that you hope to enjoy for lunch tomorrow. You can easily avoid such careless cross-contamination.
• Label foods so you know what's in the container and how long it has been there. Leftovers stored in the refrigerator need to be eaten within a week. Always wrap foods for the freezer tightly in plastic wrap first, then in aluminum foil for added protection. Such foods should never be left there for more than six months, no matter what.
The following chart provides a general guide for what types of foods should be stored where. You'll see certain items in two categories if they can be placed in either location depending on when you plan to use the item. Nuts go in the freezer because they can go rancid quickly; since they defrost quickly, freezing them ensures that you can use them as needed. Peaches and all the other stone fruits (nectarines, plums, apricots) are best left on the counter. The cupboard is completely dark, whereas the counter is exposed to ceiling and indirect outdoor light because (if you have windows in your kitchen). Never place any groceries to be stored on the counter in direct sunlight. When in doubt, of course, store food in the fridge.
Get to Know Your Grocer
The best way to make the local grocery store feel more like _your_ grocery store is to speak up! Get to know the management and staff by letting them know what you want and like. Grocers want to serve their customers and earn a profit. If they know what you buy regularly, they can stock it and both of you will benefit.
Talk to the manager about items you want to buy. Have you always wanted to make short ribs but they don't have them at the butcher counter? Is there a fish you want to try but never see available? Would you like more seasonal organic produce but don't yet see it in your local grocery store? Let the manager know about it. If you need something for a party or big dinner you are planning, but have never seen it where you shop, call the manager and ask if he can help. Just because it's not something your grocer regularly stocks doesn't mean it can't be ordered for you.
When you develop a relationship with your grocer, butcher, and fishmonger, you'll get more than just the produce, meat, and fish you'll buy. Once the staff knows you, they'll be more likely to alert you to specials and particularly good meat and fish that come their way. And if you let them know your cooking preferences, they'll keep you in mind when they place orders. After all, they aim to maintain the same relationship with their vendors who sell them the food as you do with them. If you take an active role, the benefits can trickle down to you.
**_Part 2_
Ess _e_ ntial Recip _e_ s**
WHAT MAKES A RECIPE ESSENTIAL? As a competent cook, you should know how to make classics, like roast chicken and apple pie. Such timeless dishes never go out of style, and continue to satisfy us, generation after generation. Ease of preparation is another important characteristic that makes a recipe essential. When something is simple to make but impresses both your palate and the dinner guests, then you know you have a keeper. A good recipe also details exactly what you need—and what you should expect—for the dish.
Making a recipe your own, however, is one of the more gratifying aspects of the cooking process. After all, a recipe is merely a record of what one cook created—a set of instructions and suggestions of how to repeat the process. Any number of small changes you make here and there turns someone else's recipe into _your_ recipe.
Take lasagne, for example. Virtually any lasagne recipe has been made countless times and will be reinvented again and again. The creation of a unique recipe, then, comes from the selection of ingredients (Parmesan instead of pecorino), the particular ratios used (30 ounces of crushed tomatoes to 8 ounces of tomato sauce rather than another alternative), and the nuances of the cooking method (adding noodles dry instead of soaking or boiling them).
Don't diminish your role by treating a recipe as gospel. Instead, look at a recipe as a concept—an idea—for a combination of flavors and a method of preparing ingredients. With this attitude, you might find yourself more willing to experiment. After all, you know what you like to eat, and you have spent a lifetime doing it. You know what flavor pairings you favor, and what ingredients you dislike. This makes you more than qualified to trust your instincts when working with a recipe.
There is one exception to all this creativity and experimentation. Baking is much more scientific than savory cooking. Strictly follow baking instructions, especially where the chemistry of the recipe is concerned. For example, don't tamper with the baking soda, salt, egg, and flour ratios of a cake batter, but feel free to add a pinch of ginger, or some toasted nuts to add a new dimension. In other words, it is generally safe to adjust the flavor of a baked good, but not the basics of the batter.
So, what are the essential recipes worth mastering and reinventing? These are dishes so evergreen and timeless, that all competent cooks must have them in their repertoire. All cooks can and _should_ put their own twist on these favorites; variations are conveniently noted here for inspiration. Applying the proper techniques, and employing the right equipment, will guarantee successful results and, in turn, satisfying classics. Trust your instincts and your palate. Try the Essential Recipes on the pages that follow and make them your own.
CHAPTER
10
Breakfast
The Ultimate Omelet
Decadent Granola
Buttermilk Pancakes
Challah French Toast
Blueberry Sour Cream Muffins
The Ultimate Omelet
The ultimate omelet is French, rolled as opposed to flat, generally has a completely smooth, unbrowned surface, and is slightly runny in the middle. Taste and preference prevail, of course, but this is the classic preparation. The key to making a superb omelet is scrambling the eggs first, then setting the omelet. Never overstuff it, or you'll have a hard time rolling it. If egg white omelets are more your speed, try making the following recipe with 3 large egg whites and just one yolk. You'll never go back to just egg whites again!
**_For the omelet:_**
**3 large eggs (ideally, room temperature)**
**2 teaspoons unsalted butter**
**salt and pepper to taste**
**_For the filling, choose one of the following per omelet:_**
**¼ cup grated cheese**
**3 tablespoons caramelized onions**
**¼ cup chopped tomatoes**
**2 button mushrooms, sliced**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
measuring spoon
dry measuring cup
small mixing bowl
fork
nonstick 8-inch sauté pan
flat wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sauté
**DON'T GET WHISKED AWAY**
Do not use a whisk to beat eggs for omelets or scrambling. Your goal is simply to combine thoroughly the white and the yolk, not to incorporate air. Mix with a fork, but do not overbeat the eggs. Your omelet will be remarkably lighter and fluffier this way.
**MAKES 1 OMELET.**
1 Break eggs into a bowl and mix well with a fork. Heat a nonstick 8-inch skillet over medium heat with 2 teaspoons butter. When the butter foams, add the eggs and let them be, just until they start to set along the edge. Stir continuously with a wooden spoon until they are at a runny scramble stage. Spread them evenly in the pan. When the omelet is lightly set, stop stirring and remove the omelet from the heat. (The point at which you stop stirring is the key to having a smooth omelet.)
2 Place the filling in the middle of the omelet. Using a wooden spoon, fold the edge of the omelet over onto itself, tilt the pan from the handle, and lightly tap the pan so that the omelet moves down to the edge of the pan. Form the omelet with a wooden spoon.
3 Roll the omelet onto a warm plate seam-side down. Adjust the form if necessary by shaping with a clean towel. Serve immediately.
Decadent Granola
When granola is sweet and nutty, it is irresistible morning, noon, and night. Use it for breakfast with yogurt, as an afternoon snack, or as a sundae topping for vanilla ice cream. A little bit of this decadent granola goes a very long way. It is rich and luxurious in ingredients, flavors, and textures. There's no reason why you can't have your granola and eat it, too!
**_For the syrup:_**
**½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter**
**½ cup canola oil**
**½ cup light brown sugar**
**½ cup honey**
**_For the dry ingredients:_**
**1 cup oats**
**3 cups All Bran Flakes**
**2 cups corn flakes**
**½ cup wheat germ**
**½ cup shelled sunflower seeds**
**½ cup sesame seeds**
**½ cup desiccated coconut (unsweetened and shredded)**
**½ cup pecans**
**½ cup walnuts**
**½ cups cashews**
**½ cup sliced almonds**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
small saucepan
mixing bowl
wooden spoon
sheet pan
spatula
fork
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
baking
**MAKES 10 CUPS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F.
2 In a small saucepan, combine the syrup ingredients and bring to a boil over low heat. Meanwhile, combine all the dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Pour the syrup over the dry ingredients and mix well to coat. Pour the mixture onto a large, rimmed sheet pan and spread evenly.
3 Bake until all the syrup has been absorbed and the dry ingredients have recrisped, tossing every 5 minutes, for about one hour. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool. Loosen the granola with a fork continually until the mixture has cooled completely (otherwise it will set into one giant slab).
_Store in an airtight container for up to two weeks._
Buttermilk Pancakes
Whether you call them flapjacks, pancakes, griddlecakes, or hotcakes, these fluffy breakfast skillet creations are part of our American culinary heritage. There is undoubtedly an art to making the perfect pancake—one that is fluffy, yet tender and spongy enough to soak up all that sweet maple syrup. Buttermilk has a distinct and slightly sour flavor. If you prefer, use whole milk for an equally tasty pancake.
**2 cups all-purpose flour**
**¼ cup sugar**
**2 teaspoons baking powder**
**¾ teaspoon salt**
**2 cups buttermilk**
**¼ cup butter, melted**
**2 extra large eggs**
**1 teaspoon vanilla extract**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
mixing bowl
whisk
nonstick 10-inch sauté pan, cast iron skillet, or griddle
spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sautéing (searing)
**MAKES ABOUT 16 4-INCH PANCAKES.**
1 Preheat a nonstick sauté pan or griddle.
2 In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Make a small well in the center of the bowl. Add the buttermilk, melted butter, eggs, and vanilla. Gently whisk the wet and dry ingredients together, just until thoroughly combined, but not lump-free.
3 Using a dry measuring cup, pour .-cup batter onto the hot pan (with or without sizzling fat, such as butter or oil) for each pancake. Cook until the top of the pancake bubbles, about 1 to 2 minutes. Turn the pancake with a spatula and cook just until the underside is golden brown, aboout 1 minute.
**_batter basics_**
Making pancakes is highly procedural. Here's some helpful advice:
**Do not overbeat the batter.** Believe it or not, lumps in pancake batter are not only acceptable; they are desirable because it indicates that the ingredients have been gently combined. The lumps settle as the batter sits and as the pancakes cook. When the batter is beaten too vigorously, the results might yield a flatter, thinner, and certainly tougher pancake.
**Make sure the pan is hot.** There are many ways to test a dry pan to see if it is ready for batter. The easiest method is to drop a few bits of water on the dry pan. If those drops bounce and sizzle, then the pan is ready. If the water sits still and holds its shape, the pan is too cool. In the event that the water evaporates the second it hits the pan, then the pan is most likely too hot.
**Don't count on the first pancake.** Often the first few pancakes don't come out as well as the rest. This usually has to do with the heat of the pan. We turn on the heat and expect it to be ready in just moments, but the truth is it can take several minutes for a pan to come to temperature.
**Use fat on cast iron, but not with a nonstick surface.** Once the pan is hot enough, small amounts of fat can be added before spooning the batter onto the pan. If you are using a nonstick skillet, you'll find that adding fat makes for a patterned skin, whereas cooking pancakes in a dry nonstick pan results in an even hue. Fat is needed on a cast iron pan, which makes for a crisp exterior to the pancake.
**Use a measuring cup to pour the batter.** To achieve the standard 5-inch size and an even circular shape, use 1/3 cup dry measure (silver dollars require a mere tablespoon of batter). Fill the measuring cup with batter and pour it onto the pan, just a few inches from the pan's surface. Once you begin pouring the batter, keep your hand steady and do not move. This helps to make a fluffy pancake.
**Turn a pancake just once.** If you turn a pancake over and over, it can toughen. When the top of the pancake bubbles, it is ready to be turned with a spatula. Once turned, it takes only about half as long for the second side to cook.
**Keep pancakes warm while you finish cooking.** Preheat an oven to 200°F before you begin cooking. As the pancakes come off the sauté pan or griddle, place them on a sheet pan in a single layer and hold them in the oven. They can be slightly overlapped if they won't fit in a single layer.
Challah French Toast
Challah is a tender, golden egg bread, the perfect base for an egg-soaked panfried breakfast dish. You may substitute any bread you like with this recipe. Just be sure to follow the technique of thoroughly soaking the bread in the egg mixture before toasting it in the pan so that every bite is moist. The subtle hint of vanilla, cinnamon, and freshly grated orange zest makes this a truly scrumptious dish.
**1 loaf braided challah, cut in ½-inch slices**
**6 eggs**
**1/3 cup half and half **
**2 teaspoons vanilla extract**
**1 teaspoon cinnamon**
**zest of an orange (optional)**
**4 tablespoons butter**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
bread knife
large mixing bowl
whisk
fork
rimmed sheet pan or casserole
sauté pan
spatula
grater or Microplane (optional)
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sautéing
**KEEP IT TOASTY**
It is nearly impossible to keep the first slice of French toast as warm as the last while you're cooking. Before you begin preparing the recipe, preheat the oven to 250°F. As the French toast comes out of the sauté pan, place it on a sheet pan, either flat or slightly overlapping and hold it in the warm oven until the last piece is done. Then serve everyone at once.
**MAKES 4–6 SERVINGS.**
1 In a large mixing bowl, combine the eggs, half and half, vanilla, cinnamon, and orange zest.
2 Soak the bread slices, one by one, in the egg mixture, stabbing them several times with a fork to help the bread moisten. Turn each slice in the egg mixture to coat well and transfer to a sheet pan or casserole.
3 Once all the bread has been coated in the egg mixture, place a tablespoon of butter in a large sauté pan and heat over medium heat. Once the butter begins to foam, add a few slices of bread to the pan and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, or until the bottom of the bread is golden brown. Turn and continue cooking for another 2 minutes. Repeat this process until all the slices are cooked.
4 Serve immediately with maple syrup and fresh fruit.
Blueberry Sour Cream Muffins
This recipe comes together so quickly that you can prepare these muffins fresh for breakfast the same morning. Use the base of this recipe to bake any kind of muffin you like: substitute the blueberries with raspberries, chocolate chips, etc.
**_For the crumb topping:_**
**½ cup light brown sugar**
**1/3 cup all-purpose flour **
**¼ cup unsalted butter (half a stick), cubed**
**1 teaspoon ground cinnamon**
**_For the muffins:_**
**3 eggs**
**2 cups sugar**
**1 cup vegetable oil**
**1 cup sour cream (8-ounce container)**
**1 tablespoon vanilla extract**
**2½ cups all-purpose flour**
**½ teaspoon baking soda**
**½ teaspoon baking powder**
**½ teaspoon salt**
**1½ cups fresh blueberries**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
muffin tin
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
large, medium, and small mixing bowls
hand mixer
whisk
rubber spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
beating eggs and sugar (blanchir)
baking
**MAKES 18 MUFFINS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin tin with paper muffin liners and set aside.
2 Make the crumb topping first. In a small bowl, mix the sugar, flour, butter, and cinnamon with your fingers, pressing the butter so it combines with the other ingredients. Set aside.
3 In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs and sugar using a hand mixer (beat them together until thick, creamy and lighter in color). Beat in the oil, sour cream, and vanilla.
4 In a medium mixing bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Add it to the egg mixture, and mix well. Gently fold in the blueberries using a rubber spatula.
5 Fill the paper-lined muffin tin three-quarters with batter. Sprinkle each muffin with some crumb topping. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. Remove the pan to a rack to cool.
CHAPTER
11
Nibbles and Starters
Classic Tuna Tartare
Cheese Fondue
Wild Mushroom Ragout Crostini with Truffle Oil
Asian Beef Salad in Cucumber Cups
Italian Vegetable Tartlets
Classic Tuna Tartare
Ruby-red tuna flesh cut into jewel-like little cubes is one of the simplest and more luxurious hors d'oeuvres. Served on toast points or thinly sliced baguette, this dish is the ideal start to almost any meal. Ask your fishmonger for a center cut of tuna. You don't want any grey or black flesh. Cut the tuna as fine as you can—the smaller the better—for a refined appearance and texture.
**1 pound sushi-grade tuna, finely diced**
**1 shallot, minced**
**2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil**
**2 tablespoons minced chives**
**juice of half a lemon**
**splash of Tabasco sauce**
**salt and pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
mixing bowl
rubber spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
**TUNA TARTARE TWO WAYS**
Tuna tartare can be enjoyed as above, or with an Asian twist. Replace the olive oil with toasted sesame oil, and swap out the shallots for scallions. Use lime juice instead of lemon. Skip the Tabasco and add toasted black and white sesame seeds instead. Now you have a brand new recipe!
**LUCKY LEFTOVERS**
Didn't finish all the tuna tartare? Beat an egg, fold in the tuna tartare along with a handful of breadcrumbs, and form into a patty. You have just prepared an elegant tuna burger. Sauté it in a little olive oil in a nonstick pan. Enjoy it over greens or on a toasted brioche bun with sliced avocado.
**MAKES 8–12 SERVINGS.**
1 Combine the tuna, shallot, and oil, then gently fold in the chive, lemon juice, and Tabasco. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.
2 Serve on toast points, crackers, or baguette.
_Tuna tartare must be served within 24 hours of preparation._
Cheese Fondue
Preparing classic cheese fondue at home requires only one thing: high quality, freshly grated Gruyère cheese. A special fondue pot is elegant but not necessary for service. Rubbing a garlic clove along the inside of the pot perfumes the cheese mixture. Dry white wine adds depth of flavor and helps to break down the cheese as it melts. Cornstarch provides an even and thick texture that perfectly coats and holds onto the bread. Crusty freshly baked bread is the best accompaniment to cheese fondue, but tart apples and boiled potatoes are appropriate alternatives.
**8 ounces grated Gruyère**
**8 ounces grated Emmentaler**
**2 tablespoons cornstarch**
**1 clove garlic, smashed**
**1½ cups dry white wine**
**1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice**
**freshly ground pepper, to taste**
**freshly ground nutmeg, to taste**
**2 loaves bread with thick crust cut into 1-inch cubes**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
chef's knife
bread knife
box grater or food processor
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
stockpot, Dutch oven, or fondue pot
wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
**SWISS BORN WITH A FRENCH NAME**
Fondue literally means "melted" in French. It was Swiss mountain herders who created this dish of necessity, getting by on what they had available. Scraps of cheese and wine were melted in a clay pot called the "caquelon," and bread was dipped in the liquid cheese. Fondue eventually made its way down the hills of Switzerland to domestic servants who improved the dish by using finer cheeses and wines accessible to them where they worked. The well-traveled aristocracy helped to spread this dish across Europe.
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Combine the grated cheeses with cornstarch in a large mixing bowl. Toss well to coat and set aside.
2 Rub the inside of a fondue pot or small Dutch oven with the smashed garlic. Pour wine into the pot and heat over medium heat until warm. Add the lemon juice. Then add the cheese by the handful, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon. Once each handful is melted, add more cheese until all the cheese has melted and the mixture has the consistency of a creamy sauce. Add pepper and nutmeg to taste.
3 Bring to a boil, then remove the pot from the heat and transfer to a table burner. Adjust the flame so the fondue continues bubbling lightly. Alternatively, bring the pot to the table and set on a trivet.
4 Serve with cubed bread on fondue forks or long skewers. Dunk and stir well to cover bread with cheese mixture.
Mushroom Ragout Crostini with Truffle Oil
Savory, sautéed mushrooms and salty melted cheese finished with a hint of truffle oil is a mouth-watering combination. Any selection of mushrooms will work. The key is to let all the moisture released by the mushrooms evaporate before adding the cheeses so the final product is thick and creamy, not runny and wet.
**_For the crostini:_**
**1 French baguette, sliced on bias in ¼-inch slices**
**_For the mushroom ragout:_**
**2 tablespoons vegetable oil**
**1 shallot, finely diced**
**3 cups mushrooms, such as shitake, crimini, oyster, and chanterelles**
**¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese**
**¼ cup soft goat cheese**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**2 tablespoons chopped parsley**
**2 tablespoons truffle oil**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
bread knife
chef's knife
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
sheet pan
large sauté pan
wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
sautéing
**MAKES APPROXIMATELY 2 CUPS.**
1 For the crostini, preheat the oven to 400°F. Place the thinly sliced baguette on a sheet pan and bake until crisp, about 8 to 10 minutes. Cool on a wire rack and set aside (or store in an airtight container for up to one week).
2 For the mushroom ragout, heat the vegetable oil over medium-high heat in a large sauté pan. Add the shallots and sauté until tender. Then add the mushrooms and sauté until tender and the excess moisture has evaporated, about 10 minutes. Add both cheeses, stirring until melted.
3 Remove the pan from the heat, season with salt and pepper, then add the parsley and truffle oil. Top each crostini with the warm mushroom mixture and serve at once.
_The mushroom ragout can be made several days in advance— without the truffle oil. Reheat the mixture in the microwave, then stir in the truffle oil right before you serve it._
Asian Beef Salad in Cucumber Cups
This is the perfect hors d'oeuvre for a summer dinner party. The citrus and herbs in the beef salad marry the subtle spice of the Thai bird chili pepper with the coolness of the cucumber. A melody of flavors and contrasting textures make this attractive and colorful dish an essential recipe for any competent cook.
**1 pound London broil**
**1 tablespoon soy sauce**
**zest and juice of 1 lime**
**1 tablespoon oyster sauce**
**¼ teaspoon sugar**
**½ cup cilantro, chopped**
**½ cup mint, chopped**
**½ Thai bird chili pepper, finely diced**
**1 tomato, seeded and diced**
**1 teaspoon toasted sesame seeds**
**2 hothouse cucumbers**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
grater or Microplane
broiling pan
large mixing bowl
rubber spatula
regular teaspoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
broiling
**SEEDING A TOMATO**
Seeding a tomato is very easy: Simply quarter the tomato from top (where the vine is) to bottom, then use a small spoon to scrape out the seeds from between the ribs.
**MAKES APPROXIMATELY 12 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the broiler with the pan in the oven. Season the steak with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper. Place the steak on the hot broiling pan and cook until rare to medium rare, about 8 to 10 minutes (do not overcook). Remove the pan from the oven and transfer the steak to a plate to rest for 10 minutes before slicing.
2 In a large mixing bowl, combine the soy sauce, lime zest and juice, oyster sauce, sugar, fresh herbs, pepper, tomato, and sesame seeds. Set aside.
3 Slice the steak against the grain in thin slices. Then cut those slices into short, thin strips. Toss the sliced steak with the citrus-herb mixture in the large mixing bowl. Set aside.
4 Cut cucumbers into 2-inch pieces and place flesh-side down on a sheet pan. Using a small spoon (or melon baller), remove the center of each cucumber piece to make a cup, leaving some flesh at the bottom to hold the salad. Divide the steak salad among the cucumber cups and serve.
_Make the filling up to one day in advance, but add the fresh herbs only up to one hour before serving. Cover and refrigerate._
Italian Vegetable Tartlets
These tartlets are tasty whether warm or at room temperature. Caramelized onions, sautéed squash with tomatoes, and briny olives practically melt into the buttery, flaky puffed pastry. Store-bought pesto adds a basil brightness while binding the vegetables to the pastry with its component Parmesan cheese. A competent cook probably prefers to make her own pesto, but using the jar for this recipe is a worthy time-saver.
**2 tablespoons olive oil, plus extra for drizzling over the tarts**
**1 large onion, finely chopped**
**1 zucchini, small dice**
**1 yellow squash, small dice**
**6 plum tomatoes, seeded and small dice**
**½ cup pesto**
**36 pitted nicoise olives, about 1 cup**
**fresh thyme leaves for sprinkling on tartlets, to taste**
**1 sheet puff pastry**
**kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
measuring spoons
dry measuring cup
cutting board
chef's knife
large sauté pan
wooden spoon
sheet pan
parchment paper
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
sautéing
baking
**MAKES 12 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Heat a large sauté pan over medium high heat, and add oil. Add onions and a generous pinch of kosher salt, and sweat until tender, stirring constantly. Continue to cook over medium high heat for 10 minutes, scraping up the brown bits that form at the bottom of the pan, or until the onions begin to caramelize. Add the squashes and tomatoes, and continue to cook until tender, about 5 minutes. Set aside.
3 Cut the puff pastry sheet into six strips, and cut each strip into six squares. The squares will be approximately 1½ to 2 square inches. Place the pastry squares on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.
4 Taste the vegetable mixture and season with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. Spread a small dollop of the pesto in the center of each pastry square, then top with a tablespoon of the vegetable mixture, leaving a small border. Place one olive in the center of each tartlet.
5 Sprinkle tartlets with fresh thyme leaves and a light drizzling of olive oil. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes or until the pastry has puffed and is golden brown.
CHAPTER
12
Soups and Salads
Classic Chicken Soup
Roasted Corn and Cod Chowder
Classic Vinaigrettes: Red Wine and Balsamic
Market Salad for Four Seasons
Quick Caesar Salad
Classic Chicken Soup
What is broadly known as "chicken soup" can be stock, broth, or consommé garnished with meat, vegetables, noodles, rice, or dumplings. In its most basic form, chicken soup is water, meat, and bones simmered for maximum flavor. When the arctic chill of winter gets the best of you, the best thing you can do is eat a bowl of chicken soup. Packed with nutrients and loaded with flavor, chicken soup can ease the common cold and soothe the soul.
**1, 4-pound chicken**
**water to cover**
**2 onions, washed and cut in quarters with skins on**
**2 tablespoons salt**
**2 whole carrots, peeled**
**2 whole celery stalks, cut in half**
**1 turnip, peeled and quartered**
**½ bunch fresh parsley**
**1 bunch fresh dill**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
measuring spoon
cutting board
chef's knife
peeler
stockpot
tongs or slotted spoon
strainer (with cheesecloth)
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
poaching
**JUMP IN FEET FIRST**
The secret to exceptional soup: chicken feet. Please do not be discouraged by this seemingly strange and old-fashioned ingredient. It really does make the very best chicken soup. Feet are high in gelatin, which makes for a viscous stock. If you can add half a dozen chicken feet to your soup, it will dramatically strengthen the flavor and color of your broth. Ask your butcher to order some for you. They are very inexpensive, if not free, and easy to get.
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Rinse and clean the chicken thoroughly, inside and out, with cold running water. Discard, or reserve for later use, the heart and liver. Combine the chicken and the onions in a large stockpot and cover with water by 2 inches. Bring to a simmer and cook over medium-low heat, uncovered, for 1½ hours.
2 Add the remaining ingredients except for the dill. Cover and cook over low heat for one more hour. Remove the chicken and vegetables with tongs or a slotted spoon and strain the soup into another stockpot or storage container. Add fresh dill and let the broth stand for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, reserve the chicken meat and chop vegetables to serve with the soup. Discard the dill and chill the soup, covered, overnight. The fat will come to the top of the soup and will be easy to skim with a spoon.
_Reserve the fat in the refrigerator for cooking as a flavorful alternative to butter or oil. Use the chicken meat for salad. Save vegetables for garnish in the soup, or discard._
**_time-tested technique_**
Making the very best chicken soup is a work in progress for a cook. Every time you make chicken soup, it should get a little better. Mastering the technique is within reach if you follow a few rules:
**Begin with a large stockpot.** The flavor comes from the meat and vegetables you put in the soup. You want to pack in as much as possible and cover with water. It is important to cook chicken soup over a low heat for a long time to get the most from the meat and bones. This guarantees the best possible flavor and richer color.
**Rinse the chicken carefully.** If you're using a whole bird, ensure that no blood or additional residue ends up in your soup. If you prefer using chicken quarters or eighths, that's perfectly fine. Some people like to use a bunch of wings and bottoms (legs and thighs), since dark meat is a bit fattier and decidedly more flavorful.
**Use the skin.** Whether you use a whole bird or chicken parts, you must keep the skin on the meat. Without the skin, the soup will not have much depth of flavor or color. Fat always can be skimmed once the soup has been made.
**Check the cavity.** You may add the neck from an organic bird only, but do not use the heart or liver from any bird for soup, often found sealed in the cavity of a prepackaged chicken.
**Balance the vegetables.** The essential aromatic vegetables of onions, carrots and celery—officially referred to as mirepoix in the chef world—round out the flavor of the soup. Mirepoix is virtually always 50 percent onion, 25 percent carrot, and 25 percent celery. The problem with many chicken soups and stocks is that they often have too much carrot or celery in relation to the onion. Too much carrot makes a soup sweet, even though it might enhance the color. Celery is a flavor that should not be identifiable on its own in meat broth. Make sure you use at least the same amount of onion as you do of carrot and celery combined.
**Season the soup at the end.** Once the soup has been made, season it with salt and pepper. Any seasoning you add at the beginning weakens by the end of the cooking process. Reseason before you serve the soup.
Roasted Corn and Cod Chowder
This recipe is a quick soup that has the depth and flavor of an all-day-on-the-stove stew. A chowder is traditionally a chunky seafood soup with potatoes and cream. The version here includes a fusion of flavors and nontraditional ingredients, including ginger, sweet potatoes, and cilantro. Use the recipe below and its procedure as a baseline to make a fish soup with your favorite foods.
**¼ cup olive oil**
**2 onions, chopped**
**2 cloves garlic, minced**
**1 tablespoon grated, peeled fresh ginger**
**1 tablespoon ground cumin**
**2 celery stalks, finely diced**
**4 tomatoes, seeded and diced**
**1 jalapeno, seeded and minced**
**6 cups fish, chicken, or vegetable stock**
**2 potatoes, peeled and diced**
**1 sweet potato, peeled and diced**
**3 ears corn, kernels roasted then removed**
**1 cup frozen sweet peas**
**1 cup heavy cream**
**2 pounds skinless cod, cut into small chunks (or other firm white fish, such as red snapper or halibut)**
**juice of one lime**
**salt and pepper to taste**
**3 tablespoons chopped cilantro**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
peeler
grater or Microplane
stockpot
wooden spoon
ladle
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
poaching
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
**FROM SOUTHWESTERN TO SOUTHEAST ASIAN**
If a recipe is a canvas, paint it any way you want. Take the Roasted Corn and Cod Chowder and move it from Santa Fe to Saigon. Replace the ginger with galangal, the cumin with green curry paste, the jalapeno with a Thai bird's eye chili pepper, and the cilantro with mint and basil. Swap the cream with some coconut milk, and use carrots instead of potatoes. You can even trade the cod for shrimp. Take whatever you want from the recipe and make it work for you.
1 Heat a stockpot over medium-high heat for 2 minutes, and add the olive oil. Add the onions and sauté, stirring until tender and translucent (about 10 minutes). Add the garlic, ginger, and cumin, and sauté for 2 minutes. Then add the celery, tomatoes, and jalapeno, and sauté for 2 minutes longer.
2 Add the stock, potatoes, and sweet potatoes, and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to medium and simmer, uncovered, until the potatoes are cooked half-way (still somewhat resistant when pierced with a knife), about 10 to 12 minutes.
3 Add the roasted corn kernels, sweet peas, cream, and fish. Simmer, uncovered, until just cooked, about 5 minutes. Add the lime juice, then season to taste with salt and pepper, then sprinkle with cilantro. Serve immediately.
_To roast corn all year-round, place cobs directly on the stovetop over an open flame. Cook for about 30 seconds a side or until charred, turning with tongs. If you have an electric range, put them under the broiler for a few minutes, turning as needed._
Classic Vinaigrettes: Red Wine and Balsamic
The salad dressing is just as important to the flavor of a salad as are the other ingredients. The right salad dressing can make basic greens and tomatoes taste seasoned and refreshing. It should be used somewhat sparingly—just enough to lightly coat each component of the salad, never weighing it down, nor turning it "wet." Dressing is not a sauce, but more like moist seasonings for your greens.
**_For the red wine vinaigrette:_**
**½ cup red wine vinegar**
**1½ cups vegetable oil**
**1 large garlic clove crushed**
**1 teaspoon Dijon mustard**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
Crush the garlic clove with a chef 's knife and remove the skin. Pour the vinegar into a large bowl and add the garlic clove. Let it sit for at least 20 minutes to infuse the vinegar. Remove the garlic. Add the mustard and seasoning to the vinegar, and blend with a whisk. Then add the oil very slowly to the vinegar mixture, a bit at a time, as you whisk vigorously, to emulsify. Serve immediately, then store tightly sealed in the refrigerator.
**_For the balsamic vinaigrette:_**
**½ cup olive oil**
**¼ cup balsamic vinegar**
**2 teaspoons Dijon mustard**
**1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh thyme leaves**
**1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary leaves**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
Combine the vinegar, mustard, and herbs. Slowly add the oil and whisk vigorously until the mixture emulsifies. Add kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. A pinch of brown sugar or teaspoon of honey may be added if the vinegar is too sharp.
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
chef's knife
wet measuring cup
measuring spoons
large mixing bowl
whisk
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
emulsion
**YOUR INGREDIENTS COUNT, SO COUNT YOUR INGREDIENTS**
No salad made with wilted, tired lettuce is good. The same holds true for the vinaigrette—it can only be as good as what goes into it. High quality vinegar and oil absolutely make a difference. If a vinaigrette tastes bitter or harsh, there are only two reasons: either the ingredients are of a poor quality, or there is too much vinegar in proportion to the oil. The ratio is usually one part vinegar to three parts oil.
**2 CUPS OF RED WINE VINAIGRETTE AND ¾ CUP OF BALSAMIC VINAIGRETTE.**
Market Salad for Four Seasons
Buying produce fresh from the market is the surest way to enjoy what's in season. Fresh berries and summer squashes are bountiful in warm-weather months, while citrus fruits and root vegetables peak in winter. A market salad that changes with the seasons is guaranteed to be delicious all year-round.
**_Winter:_**
**¼ cup freshly squeezed orange juice (from 1 orange)**
**½ cup extra virgin olive oil, plus 2 tablespoons**
**1 small butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cut into large dice**
**4 large beets**
**1 head of frisée**
**4 ounces soft goat cheese**
**kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
mixing bowls
whisk
peeler
sheet pan
parchment paper
saucepan
strainer or colander
regular spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
roasting
blanching
emulsion
**EACH SALAD MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 In a mixing bowl, whisk the orange juice and ½ cup olive oil. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Set aside.
3 Put the butternut squash on a sheet pan and toss with 2 tablespoons olive oil and a generous pinch of kosher salt. Roast in the oven for 20 minutes, or until golden and tender.
4 Meanwhile, prepare the beets. Scrubs the beets under cold running water. Trim and discard the stems. Do not peel the beets. Fill a small saucepan two-thirds with water and set over high heat. Once the water begins to boil, add the beets and a large pinch of kosher salt. Cook until the beets are fork tender, about 45 minutes. Strain the beets, and cool until easy to handle. Wearing gloves, rub the skins off the beets under cold running water.
5 Slice each beet into five slices and divide among four plates along with the roasted butternut squash. Using a spoon, drizzle a bit of orange-olive oil dressing over the beets and butternut squash.
6 Trim and discard the root of the frisee, and add the leaves to the remaining orange-olive oil dressing. Divide the leaves among the four plates on top of the beets and butternut squash. Sprinkle each plate with one ounce of crumbled goat cheese.
**_Spring:_**
**4 slices pancetta**
**1 cup shelled sweet peas, blanched**
**5 ounces mesclun salad mix**
**½ cup mixed fresh herbs, such as dill, parsley, chervil, cilantro, and mint**
**1/3 cup classic vinaigrette**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Line a sheet pan with parchment paper, then add the pancetta slices. Cook in the oven until crisp, about 10 minutes.
3 In a large mixing bowl, toss the mesclun and blanched peas with the vinaigrette. Divide among four plates and top each salad with a crumbled pancetta crisp.
**_Summer:_**
**2 tablespoons white wine vinegar**
**1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice**
**1 tablespoon Dijon mustard**
**1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil **
**kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste**
**5 ounces baby romaine**
**1 pint red and yellow grape tomatoes**
**½ pound haricots verts, trimmed and blanched**
**1 zucchini, cut in half lengthwise and very thinly sliced in half moons**
1 In a large mixing bowl, combine the vinegar, lemon juice, and mustard with a whisk. Slowly add the olive oil, whisking continuously, until the mixture emulsifies. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.
2 Add the baby romaine, grape tomatoes, haricots verts, and sliced zucchini. Toss well to coat and serve.
**_Fall:_**
**¼ cup balsamic vinaigrette**
**5 ounces arugula**
**6 fresh Mission figs, sliced in half, or 1 pear, quartered and each quarter sliced into thirds**
**1/3 cup toasted whole hazelnuts **
**1/3 cup crumbled Gorgonzola **
1 In a large mixing bowl, toss the arugula with the balsamic vinaigrette. Divide the dressed greens evenly among four plates.
2 Place three fig halves or pear slices on each plate, then sprinkle each plate with toasted hazelnuts and Gorgonzola.
3 Serve immediately.
Quick Caesar Salad
The classic Caesar salad is made with a coddled egg, an egg in its shell briefly immersed in simmering water to thicken and slightly cook the yolk. Most people don't have time for that, and worry about the potential presence of bacteria in the egg. This quick version makes a creamy dressing using store-bought mayonnaise. You can buy the croutons, too, but the following recipe is so easy, it's worth giving it a try. Throw in some grape tomatoes and crumbled bacon for a new twist on the old classic, BLT!
**_For the croutons:_**
**½ French baguette, ¼-inch slices**
**¼ cup olive oil**
**_For the Caesar salad:_**
**3 romaine hearts, leaves separated, washed, and dried**
**¼ cup mayonnaise**
**juice of one lemon**
**2 tablespoons olive oil**
**6 anchovy filets, finely chopped**
**1 garlic clove, minced**
**2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese**
**1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce**
**extra Parmesan for garnish**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
bread knife
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
sheet pan
pastry brush
chef's knife
mixing bowls
whisk
peeler
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
baking
**PEEL YOUR PARMESAN**
It's easy to make those stylish Parmesan curls you sometimes see in restaurants. Peel a chunk of Parmesan cheese the same way you would a carrot, and you'll have the perfect finish for salads and pasta. Use the same technique with a bar of chocolate to garnish desserts.
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the croutons, preheat the oven to 400°F. Cut each baguette slice into quarters and place on a sheet pan. Brush with olive oil and bake for 10 to 12 minutes or until golden brown and crisp. Cool on a wire rack and set aside (or store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to one week).
2 To make the salad, stack the romaine leaves, trim away the top and bottom, and cut the rest into bite sized pieces. In a large bowl, combine the mayonnaise, lemon juice, olive oil, anchovies, garlic, Parmesan, and Worcestershire. Add lettuce pieces and toss well to coat. Add croutons and garnish with Parmesan shavings.
CHAPTER
13
Main Dishes
Great Grilled Cheese
Macaroni and Cheese
Hams and Hots (Hamburgers and Hot Dogs)
Broiled Flank Steak
Roast Chicken and Potatoes
Lasagne al forno
Sautéed Sea Scallops in Brown Butter
Poached Salmon with Pickled Cucumber Salad
BBQ-Glazed Turkey Meatloaf
Beer-Braised Beef Short Ribs
Roasted Rack of Lamb with Herbed Breadcrumbs
Panfried Chicken Fingers with Three Dipping Sauces
Chicken Potpie
Great Grilled Cheese
Buttered, toasty bread. Oozing, milky cheese. The grilled cheese sandwich is simple yet perfect in every way (except for its name: grilled cheese is not actually grilled, it's panfried or sautéed). Somehow, though, it is possible to mess up this timeless and modest dish. Any competent cook should know the secrets to making great grilled cheese every time.
**2 slices bread**
**1 tablespoon butter, softened**
**1 or 2 slices cheddar, Swiss, Munster, or other cheese**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
knife
small sauté pan or cast iron skillet with lid
spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sautéing
**ATTENTION, TOMATO LOVERS!**
If you enjoy a slice of tomato with your grilled cheese, use two slices of cheese and place very thin slices of tomato (without too many wet seeds) between the cheese slices. This keeps the tomato from moistening the bread, and allows the cheese to melt better by being closer to the toasting bread and thus the heat source.
**MAKES 1 SANDWICH.**
1 Heat a pan (regular or nonstick) over medium-low heat and allow it to get hot before you cook.
2 Meanwhile, butter each slice of bread on one side with ½ tablespoon of butter.* Once the pan is hot, place a slice of bread in the pan buttered side down. Lower the heat, and top the bread with one or two slices of cheese, then top with the second slice of bread, butter side up.
3 Immediately place a lid on top of the skillet to help melt the cheese while the first slice of bread turns golden brown. After about 2 minutes, flip the sandwich to toast the second slice of bread. If the cheese still needs to melt a bit more, cover the pan with a lid again. If the cheese is melted to your satisfaction, at this point you may finish the cooking process sans lid.
_*This might seem counterintuitive, but it is the best way to achieve a uniform taste and color. It actually helps to reduce the amount of butter needed to get the job done. If you spread soft butter on the outside (the side that touches the pan) of each slice of bread, you apply only as much as is needed._
Macaroni and Cheese
The key to making this classic is selecting quality cheese. Experiment with everything from goat cheese to Gorgonzola. Once you make macaroni and cheese from scratch, the boxed version will never do again.
**1 pound uncooked elbow pasta or macaroni**
**½ cup (1 stick) butter**
**½ cup all-purpose flour**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**2 teaspoons Dijon mustard**
**2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce**
**4 cups whole milk**
**¼ teaspoon nutmeg**
**2 cups shredded Gruyère cheese**
**2 cups shredded sharp Cheddar cheese**
**1 cup fresh breadcrumbs or extra shredded cheese for topping**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
box grater
large saucepan or stockpot
small saucepan
colander or strainer
wooden spoon
whisk
casserole or baking pan
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
thickening sauces (with a roux)
baking
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F.
2 Cook noodles as directed on the package. Rinse with cold water once drained to prevent them from sticking together.
3 Warm the milk in a small saucepan and set aside.
4 Melt the butter in a large saucepan over low heat. Stir in the flour, salt, black pepper, mustard, and Worcestershire. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture is smooth and bubbling. Remove from the heat and slowly whisk in the warmed milk.
5 Return to the heat and bring to a gentle boil, stirring constantly to create a smooth, lump-free sauce. Reduce the heat to a simmer and stir the mixture until thickened to the point of coating the back of a spoon. Add the nutmeg. Remove from heat. Stir in cheeses until melted and well incorporated.
6 Gently stir drained macaroni into the cheese sauce. Pour into a casserole dish. Top with breadcrumbs or extra cheese. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes uncovered, or until bubbly and lightly browned.
Hams and Hots (Hamburgers and Hot Dogs)
Experimenting with flavors and techniques for even the most basic dishes makes you a more competent cook. There are literally hundreds of ways to season hamburger meat and dozens of ways to garnish the hamburger bun. Hot dogs are perhaps a little less versatile, but there is certainly more to a hot dog than mustard and sauerkraut.
**_For the hamburgers:_**
**2 pounds 85 percent lean ground chuck or sirloin**
**1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce**
**2 teaspoons salt**
**1 teaspoon ground black pepper**
**2 cloves garlic, minced**
**2 tablespoons barbecue sauce (optional)**
**6 hamburger buns**
**_For the hot dogs:_**
**6 all-beef frankfurters**
**6 hot dog buns**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
mixing bowl
paring knife
saucepan
cast iron skillet, griddle, electric grill, or outdoor grill
spatula
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
grilling, broiling, or sautéing
poaching
**MAKES 6 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the hamburgers, combine the ground beef, Worcestershire, salt, pepper, minced garlic, and barbecue sauce with your hands. Divide the mixture into sixths, and form six round patties, each slightly larger than the size of the bun (the burgers shrink during cooking).
2 Heat a cast iron skillet, griddle, electric grill, or outdoor grill. If you are using a skillet or griddle, heat the pan over high heat to start, but then lower to a medium-low heat so that the burgers do not burn as they cook. Turn the burgers when juices appear on the surface—only once. Do not press the burgers down repeatedly, or turn them over and over. This removes moisture and toughens the meat.
3 Serve the burgers on buns with your favorite toppings.
4 To make the hot dogs, fill a large saucepan two-thirds full of water and bring to a boil. Run a knife around each frankfurter, making a spiral cut top to bottom around the body. Place them in the boiling water and reduce to a simmer. Once the spirals open up, after about 10 minutes, remove the hot dogs from the water and place them on a hot grill, cooking them until they are lightly charred.
5 Serve the hot dogs on buns with your favorite toppings.
**_hamburger helper_**
A grilled, juicy beef burger on a bun with all the fixings is so appetizing. Even the most unadulterated burger—a plain unseasoned beef patty—cooked over an open flame can be so darn good. What makes a burger even better?
**Meat selection is essential.** Ground beef that is more than 90% lean is too lean for a juicy burger, especially if you like your burger medium to well done; it just won't be that flavorful or moist. 80 to 85 percent lean is ideal for a grilled hamburger. If you are going to make a burger, remember that a little bit of fat is your friend.
**Season the meat.** Salt and pepper are basic seasonings for any meat, and a hamburger is no exception. Adding ketchup, barbecue sauce, or Worcestershire to the meat adds moisture and flavor. A pat of butter in the center of the burger permeates the cooked patty, which translates to the tastiest moisture there could be. Crumbled blue cheese lends a sophisticated flavor and unexpected ooze to a hamburger patty. Liquid smoke (for those nonpurists who would consider using it) is a fun and easy way to add a hickory wood chip accent. Any flavor you customarily enjoy on top of the burger can go inside—onions, tomatoes, crumbled bacon, and cheese. There is really no limit to how creative and decadent you can be.
**Garnish the burger and the bun.** Topping a burger is even more fun than filling it. Ketchup, lettuce, tomato, onions, and pickles are classic options. Cheese, of course, is a perfect match. Some people like mayonnaise, while others like mustard. Fried eggs, chili, and bacon are good protein picks. A sandwich bun is traditional, but there are lots of ways to hold a burger. A toasted English muffin is delicious, as is toasted rye bread (one of the key ingredients in a patty melt). Lettuce leaves are an appropriate choice for those carb-counters.
Broiled Flank Steak
Flank steak is a long and flat cut from the cow's belly, with a moderate amount of fat. Since it comes from working muscle, the meat is naturally tougher than other cuts and benefits from a lengthy marinade. The marinade permeates the steak due to the meat's porous texture, making it tender and flavorful when cooked. Flank steak's texture and taste is best when rare or medium rare.
**¼ cup vegetable oil**
**¼ cup Worcestershire sauce**
**¼ cup soy sauce**
**2 tablespoons brown sugar, or ¼ cup maple syrup**
**1 tablespoon dry/ground mustard**
**4 cloves garlic, mashed into paste**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**½ teaspoon ground black pepper**
**2 pounds flank steak**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
casserole
whisk
broiling or sheet pan
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
broiling
**GO AGAINST THE GRAIN**
Yes, you should be creative and break from convention from time to time. But never when it comes to slicing beef. Going against the grain, in this case, is to follow strictly a culinary commandment. Always slice beef against the grain of the meat. If you fail to cut perpendicular to the lines in the beef, it will be tough and chewy.
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Combine all the ingredients in a shallow casserole and add the steak, turning to coat several times. Marinate the steak in the pan, or in a sealed plastic bag, for at least one hour up to overnight, turning periodically to coat both sides evenly.
2 Preheat the broiler to high. Place an oven rack just below the broiler. Put the broiling pan in the oven for five minutes to become hot. Place the meat on the broiler pan and return to the oven for anywhere from 8 to 12 minutes (ranging from very rare to well done).
3 Remove the meat from the oven and pan, and place it on a cutting board. Allow the meat to rest for 5 minutes before slicing.
Roast Chicken and Potatoes
How can something so simple be so good? It's the "simple" that makes this recipe a favorite comfort food. This perfect pair brings out the best in each other. When chicken is well seasoned, trussed, and roasted in the oven, it releases its fat, browning and crisping its skin for an authentically savory flavor. The excess chicken fat then flavors the potatoes, almost frying them in the oven for a truly mouthwatering side dish.
**1, 4-pound chicken**
**kosher salt**
**freshly ground black pepper**
**3 thyme sprigs**
**3 garlic cloves**
**4 large Idaho potatoes**
**1 teaspoon dried rosemary**
**1 teaspoon garlic powder**
**¼ cup olive oil**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT:**
wet measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large mixing bowl
wooden spoon
metal spatula
sheet pan or shallow roasting pan
tongs
kitchen twine
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
roasting
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 450°F.
2 Rinse the chicken, if necessary, and pat it dry inside and out. Remove any excess fat and trim the wings. Sprinkle the chicken cavity with ½ teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper, then add the fresh thyme leaves and garlic cloves inside. Sprinkle the outside of the chicken with ½ tablespoon salt and pepper. Truss the chicken and place it in a large, shallow roasting pan. Drizzle the chicken with 2 tablespoons olive oil.
3 Peel the potatoes and cut them lengthwise into sixths. In a large bowl, toss the potatoes with rosemary, garlic powder, olive oil, and 1 teaspoon kosher salt. Arrange the potatoes around the chicken in a single layer.
4 Place the pan in the oven, with the legs facing the back, at 450°F degrees for 30 minutes. Do not open the oven door. After 30 minutes, remove the pan from the oven and shut the door. Lower the heat to 350°F. Turn over each potato wedge using tongs, or a metal spatula if necessary, and return the pan to the oven to roast the chicken for another 45 minutes, or until the internal temperature of the chicken thigh reaches 170°F.
5 Allow the chicken to rest at least 10 to 15 minutes before carving. Serve the chicken with the potatoes.
Lasagne al forno
Lasagne "from the oven" is easy to make, and best when prepared in advance. It feeds a crowd, and travels well when you need to bring a dish to a family gathering or potluck dinner. The key to any good lasagne is the quality of the ingredients. Sauce made from scratch, fresh ricotta and buffalo mozzarella, and garden-picked herbs make all the difference.
**_For the meat sauce:_**
**3 tablespoons olive oil**
**2 medium onions, finely diced**
**3 garlic cloves, minced**
**2 pounds sweet Italian sausage, casings removed (or 1½ pounds sweet Italian sausage and ½ pound hot Italian sausage for a little "kick")**
**2, 15-ounce cans crushed tomatoes**
**1 8-ounce can tomato sauce**
**1 6-ounce can tomato paste**
**1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano**
**½ bunch fresh basil, chiffonade**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**_For the cheese filling:_**
**22 ounces fresh ricotta cheese (or 16 ounces ricotta, plus 6 ounces mascarpone)**
**1½ cups Parmesan, divided (1 cup and ½ cup)**
**1 large egg, lightly beaten**
**3 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley**
**½ teaspoon kosher salt**
**¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper**
**10 no-boil, oven-ready lasagne noodles**
**1 pound fresh buffalo mozzarella, thinly sliced**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large saucepan or stockpot
fork
can opener
large mixing bowls
rubber spatula
casserole or baking pan
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
sautéing
baking
**A PINCH OF RED PEPPER WILL DO**
If you only have access to prepackaged sausage, you might find that you can buy the sausage in 1- or 2-pound portions. If you don't feel like buying more sausage than you'll use (since the recipe calls for 1½ pounds sweet Italian sausage and ½ pound hot Italian sausage), just buy 2 pounds of sweet Italian sausage and add ½ teaspoon of crushed red pepper flakes to the sauce for the same effect.
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F and position the oven rack in the middle.
2 To make the meat sauce, heat the olive oil in a large saucepan. Add the onion and cook over medium-low heat until translucent (about 5 minutes). Add the garlic and stir for one more minute. Then add the sausage and cook over medium-low heat, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, for 10 to 15 minutes, or until fully cooked and no longer pink. Add the crushed tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato paste, oregano, basil, kosher salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Simmer uncovered over medium-low heat for 20 minutes.
3 While the sauce is simmering, make the cheese filling. In a large bowl, combine the ricotta, 1 cup of Parmesan, the beaten egg, chopped parsley, kosher salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Set aside.
4 Ladle one third of the meat sauce into a 9" × 12" × 2" casserole or baking pan. Spread the sauce over the bottom of the dish. Then add approximately half the pasta (in one layer, cover the sauce with the noodles), half the sliced mozzarella, half the cheese mixture, and one third of the sauce. Add another single layer of noodles, mozzarella, ricotta, and the remaining sauce. Sprinkle with the remaining ½ cup of Parmesan.
5 Bake uncovered for 35 minutes, or until the sauce is bubbling.
_This dish can be assembled up to one day in advance before baking. Even better, bake the lasagne a day or two before you want to serve it to allow the casserole to settle._
Sautéed Sea Scallops in Brown Butter
This wonderfully simple recipe, with just two components apart from the salt and pepper, is all about applying technique to bring out the best in the ingredients. Sea scallops are plump, pinkish white, and tender, pleasingly smooth in texture and taste. Toasting butter in a pan until the milk solids turn golden brown adds a nutty depth that pairs perfectly with the distinctly sweet flavor of sea scallops. Serve this dish with a simple green salad, or with String Beans Almandine.
**1 pound sea scallops, approximately 20**
**kosher salt**
**freshly ground black pepper**
**6 tablespoons (¾ stick) unsalted butter**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
sauté pan
spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sautéing
**BUTTER THAT GOES FROM BROWN TO BLACK**
Brown butter is often called "beurre noisette," named after the hazelnut color and nutty flavor achieved in browning the butter. Black butter ("beurre noir") is not really black; if it were, it literally would be burnt, toxic, and unfit for consumption. It's just one stage past brown butter, darker brown and even more nutty. Add a splash of lemon juice, rinsed capers, and some chopped parsley to black butter for savory sauce for fish and vegetables.
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Pat the scallops dry on the cutting board using a paper towel. Sprinkle the tops and bottoms generously with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper.
2 Place 2 tablespoons of the butter in a cold sauté pan and melt over high heat. Once the butter has melted and begins to foam, add the sea scallops. Cook for 1 to 2 minutes per side to achieve a golden brown surface without overcooking the scallops.
3 Remove the scallops to a serving dish, and tent with foil to keep warm. Set aside.
4 Add the remaining 4 tablespoons of butter to the pan and reduce the heat to medium low. As the butterfat melts, the milk solids will sink to the bottom of the pan and turn golden brown. Remove the pan from the heat, and spoon the brown butter sauce over the sea scallops. Serve immediately.
Poached Salmon with Pickled Cucumber Salad
As healthy as it is colorful, this is a classic cold main course, perfect for a summer lunch or a light dinner. Prepare both the salad and the fish the day before you plan to serve it, giving the cucumbers time to pickle and the fish time to chill.
**_For the fish:_**
**1 quart cold water**
**1 bottle dry white wine**
**1 lemon, thinly sliced**
**1 bay leaf**
**12 black peppercorns**
**8, 6–8-ounce salmon filets, skin-on**
**_For the cucumber salad:_**
**1 cup white wine vinegar**
**1 cup water**
**½ cup sugar**
**2 teaspoons kosher salt**
**1 teaspoon black peppercorns**
**½ teaspoon yellow mustard seeds**
**1 bay leaf**
**4 hothouse cucumbers, cut in .-inch slices**
**2 tablespoons chopped dill**
**½ cup finely diced red onion**
**salt and black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
deep sauté pan, shallow stock pot, or Dutch oven
spatula
saucepan
strainer
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
poaching
**EXTERIOR DESIGN**
When it comes to salads, it's up to you whether you want to peel a cucumber or leave the skin. You do have the option to make a design, highlighting the contrast between the opaque, dark green skin and the translucent, light green flesh. Use a vegetable peeler to remove alternating strips of skin. If you like the cucumber to have fluted edges that resemble a flower, use a channeling tool to dig thin strips of skin and flesh.
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the fish, add water, wine, lemon, and spices to a deep pan and place over low heat. Bring to a simmer just below the boiling point. Rinse and dry the filets, then place them skin-side down into the poaching liquid. Cover and simmer until done, approximately 10 minutes. To check, poke gently with a sharp skewer. If it passes through readily, the filet is done.
2 Remove the pan from heat and allow the contents to cool for several minutes before removing the filets. Lift the cooled filets from the pan with a spatula. Carefully transfer the filets onto a cutting board and peel off skin. Store the filets in the refrigerator (discard the poaching liquid).
3 To prepare the cucumber salad, combine the vinegar, water, sugar, kosher salt, peppercorns, mustard seeds, and bay leaf in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Remove from the heat immediately and strain the pickling liquid into a storage container, discarding the peppercorns, mustard seeds, and bay leaf. Stir for a few minutes to help release the heat. Let the mixture rest until it is no longer hot, or chill immediately over an ice bath.
4 Add the cucumbers, pepper, dill, and chopped red onion to the cooled pickling liquid. Cover and chill overnight in the refrigerator. The next day, season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.
5 Serve the chilled salmon filets with the pickled cucumber salad.
BBQ-Glazed Turkey Meatloaf
Meatloaf and potatoes might be from another era, but they can be prepared with today's diet in mind. Use lean ground turkey instead of the more fatty beef option, and sauté onions and apples to make the loaf lighter and more substantial. Lots of fresh herbs and a light glaze of a quick homemade barbecue sauce make this dish a hit with the grownups as well as the kids. Serve with a green salad and Baked Lemon Potatoes.
**1 small onion, diced**
**½ Fuji apple, peeled and finely diced**
**2 tablespoons olive oil**
**1 pound ground turkey**
**1 egg, lightly beaten**
**½ cup breadcrumbs**
**1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme**
**½ teaspoon kosher salt**
**¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**¼ cup smoky barbecue sauce**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet and dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
peeler
sauté pan
wooden spoon
large mixing bowl
sheet pan or loaf pan
pastry brush
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
sautéing
baking
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Place a rack in the middle, and preheat the oven to 375°F.
2 Heat a small sauté pan over medium heat and add the olive oil. Add the diced onion and apple, cooking for about 5 minutes, until the onion and apple have softened. Remove from the heat and set aside.
3 In a large mixing bowl, combine the ground turkey, egg, breadcrumbs, thyme, kosher salt, and freshly ground pepper. Fold in the sautéed onions and apples.
4 Lightly grease a sheet pan or loaf pan with olive oil. Form the meat mixture into a loaf and place in the pan. Brush the top with barbecue sauce. Bake uncovered for 30 minutes, or until the turkey is cooked and the loaf is firm.
5 Remove from the oven and let the loaf rest for 5 minutes before slicing into ½-inch thick pieces.
Beer-Braised Beef Short Ribs
Short ribs are meaty and tender pieces of beef from the rib section of the cow. You can get them cut either with or without the bone, but leaving the bone in is better because it adds a depth of flavor and viscosity to the cooking liquid.
**1 tablespoon vegetable oil**
**¼ pound bacon, chopped**
**4 large, meaty beef short ribs (about 4 pounds), cut in 4-inch pieces**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**2 garlic cloves, minced**
**2 tablespoons chopped ginger**
**2 cups pearl onions, skins removed**
**1 carrot, peeled and finely diced**
**1 celery stalk, finely diced**
**2 to 3 cups beef stock**
**1 can stout (such as Guinness)**
**1, 28-ounce can diced tomatoes**
**1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
peeler
can opener
Dutch oven or stockpot
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
braising
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 300°F. Pat the ribs dry and season all sides generously with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Set aside.
2 Heat a Dutch oven or stockpot over medium-high heat and add the oil. Add the bacon and cook until crisp and the fat renders. Remove the bacon from the pan to a dish lined with a paper towel and set aside. Cook the ribs in the bacon fat in batches until they are nicely browned on all sides, about 20 minutes.
3 Remove the ribs to a plate and set aside. Drain off all but two tablespoons of fat, and add the garlic, ginger, onions, carrot, celery, and additional kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to the pot. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables begin to soften, about 10 minutes.
4 Return the ribs and bacon to the pot. Add the stock, beer, and diced tomatoes (the liquid should come up the sides of the ribs, but not over the ribs; add more beef stock or water, if necessary). Bring the braising liquid to a simmer, then transfer the pot to the oven and cook for 2 hours, turning the meat once.
5 Once the meat is tender and comes away easily from the bone, transfer the ribs to a plate and set aside. Bring the braising liquid to a simmer and skim off the fat. Reduce the liquid to thicken the sauce a bit, then add the balsamic vinegar. Season to taste.
6 Return the ribs to the pot to reheat them, then serve.
Roasted Rack of Lamb with Herbed Breadcrumbs
Rack of lamb is the ideal elegant dinner for two. Lamb is tender and juicy, well paired with crisp herbed breadcrumbs and a hint of Dijon mustard. Serve rack of lamb with seasonal sides like Roasted Root Vegetables in autumn and winter, or Steamed Asparagus with Red Pepper Coulis in spring and summer.
**1 rack of lamb, frenched**
**1 tablespoon vegetable oil**
**sea salt**
**freshly ground black pepper**
**1 tablespoon Dijon mustard**
**½ cup fresh breadcrumbs**
**1 tablespoon chopped parsley**
**1 tablespoon chopped chervil**
**1 teaspoon chopped thyme**
**1 teaspoon chopped rosemary**
**1 garlic clove, finely minced**
**1 tablespoon olive oil**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large sauté pan
mixing bowl
rubber spatula or wooden spoon
sheet pan
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sautéing
roasting
**PITCH A TENT**
Whole birds and roasts need to rest before being served so the juices can redistribute in the flesh. They are large enough to hold on to the heat that they acquired in the oven for some time. If you worry about the roast losing heat, or need to shield the chicken from the draft of a cracked window, tent it with foil. Take a large piece of foil creased down the middle and make a roof open on all sides. This helps to retain heat, but also releases steam so the food does not become soggy or overcooked.
**MAKES 2 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 375°F.
2 Rub the rack with the vegetable oil and sprinkle it generously with fine sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat until hot, and add the rack, meat-side down. Sear for 3 minutes, then turn the rack upright (holding on to it with your tongs if necessary) to sear the bottom of the meat as well. Remove the pan from the heat and remove the rack to a cutting board.
3 Coat the top of the meat with the mustard. Combine the breadcrumbs, herbs, garlic, and olive oil in a small bowl. Spread this mixture over the top of the mustard-coated meat. Put the rack on a sheet pan in the oven and roast for 15 to 18 minutes.
4 Remove the rack from the oven, and let it rest for 10 minutes before carving it into four double chops. The lamb will be medium rare and warm for service.
Panfried Chicken Fingers with Three Dipping Sauces
Homemade fried chicken fingers are almost always much healthier and tastier than those available in restaurants.
**_For the smoky barbecue sauce:_**
**1 cup ketchup**
**2 tablespoons brown sugar**
**1 tablespoon molasses**
**1 tablespoon liquid smoke**
**1 tablespoon soy sauce**
**1 tablespoon Worcestershire**
**1 teaspoon powdered ginger**
**1 teaspoon garlic powder**
**1 teaspoon chili powder**
**½ teaspoon cumin**
**_For the chili orange sauce:_**
**½ cup orange marmalade**
**2 tablespoons orange juice**
**¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes**
**_For the honey mustard:_**
**2/3 cup mayonnaise **
**¼ cup honey**
**2 tablespoons Dijon mustard**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**_For the chicken fingers:_**
**4, 6-ounce split chicken breasts**
**½ cup flour**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**2 eggs, lightly beaten**
**1/3 cup buttermilk (optional) **
**1 cup homemade breadcrumbs or panko**
**vegetable oil for frying**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
small saucepans
wooden spoons
mixing bowls
cutting board
chef's knife
fork
cast iron skillet or large sauté pan (with straight sides)
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
frying
**MAKES 6 SERVINGS.**
**BREADING IS AS EASY AS 1-2-3**
Breading is very procedural. It can be a messy proposition if you don't follow the method. You need three bowls: one shallow bowl with flour and seasonings, a second shallow bowl with eggs and other wet ingredients, and a third shallow bowl with breadcrumbs. Moving from left to right is key, and so is keeping one hand dry and one hand wet. Directions are given for a right-handed person; reverse the procedures if you're left-handed. That is, flour the food with your left hand (dry), but dip it in egg with your right hand (wet). Move the food from the egg, shaking off excess, to the breadrcumbs using your wet, right hand. Dredge the food in the breadcrumbs with your dry, left hand and move it to a pan or plate. Never put your dry hand in the eggs, or your wet hand in the flour or breadcrumbs.
**BAKED, NOT FRIED**
If you don't want to splurge on fried chicken fingers, bake them instead. The preparation is the same, but the cooking is different. Preheat the oven to 425°F. Spray a sheet pan lightly and evenly with oil, and place the chicken fingers on the pan in a single layer, spraying them lightly with oil, too. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, or until cooked and golden brown.
1 First, prepare the sauces. To make the barbecue sauce, combine all the ingredients in a small saucepan and cook over a medium-low heat for 15 minutes. To make the chili orange sauce, thin the marmalade with the orange juice in a small saucepan over medium heat and stir in the red pepper flakes. To make the honey mustard sauce, combine all the ingredients in a small bowl.
2 Slice each chicken breast diagonally into 6 strips, making a total of 24 strips. Place the strips on a dish and set aside.
3 Combine the flour, salt, and pepper in a wide shallow bowl and set aside. Then beat the egg (and buttermilk, if using) with a fork in a wide shallow bowl and set aside. Put the breadcrumbs in a wide shallow bowl and set aside. From left to right, line up the seasoned flour, egg mixture, and breadcrumbs, respectively.
4 Dredge one chicken strip in the seasoned flour and shake off excess. Then dip the coated chicken into the egg mixture, then directly into the breadcrumbs. With a dry hand, toss well to coat and set aside. Repeat with the remaining chicken strips.
5 Heat 1 inch of vegetable oil in a cast iron skillet or large sauté pan over medium-high heat until the surface begins to shimmer. To test if the oil is hot, carefully lower the tip of one chicken finger into the oil. If the chicken finger sizzles and begins to brown, the oil is ready. If nothing happens, the oil is not yet hot, so remove the meat immediately.
6 Depending on the size of your pan, fry 6 to 8 chicken fingers at a time in 3 or 4 batches. Fry on one side for 2 to 3 minutes, or until the bottom and edges are golden brown. Turn each chicken finger carefully with tongs in the order in which they entered the pan, and fry for another 2 to 3 minutes, or until the chicken is fully cooked.
7 Remove the chicken fingers to a large platter or cutting board lined with paper towels to drain the fat. The chicken fingers can be warmed in a 400°F oven in a single layer on a sheet pan for 2 minutes.
Chicken Potpie
Comfort food has made a permanent comeback. Chicken potpie is still the essential one-dish cold-weather meal, packed with tender chicken, loads of colorful vegetables, and savory herbs. Throw anything in a potpie to make it fit your palate. You can even substitute the chicken with some salmon or cod for a spin on an English fish pie.
**1½ pounds cooked boneless chicken breast, cubed**
**6 tablespoons butter, divided**
**½ cup all-purpose flour**
**2 cups chicken stock**
**1½ cups whole milk**
**½ teaspoon ground nutmeg**
**1 cup pearl onions, peeled**
**3 carrots, sliced crosswise into coins**
**2 celery ribs, diced**
**1 sweet potato, diced**
**2 cups cubed butternut squash**
**1 cup frozen peas, thawed**
**leaves from 4 sprigs of thyme**
**¼ cup finely chopped parsley**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**Basic Pie Dough**
**1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon cold water**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
fork
large saucepan or small stockpot
wooden spoon
whisk
large sauté pan
rolling pin
casserole
pastry brush
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
sautéing
baking
thickening sauces (with a roux)
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
**STRIP HERBS FROM HEAD TO TOE**
Herbs like rosemary and thyme flower on woody stems that can be as thick and stiff as tiny twigs. Hold the stem in one hand and pull the herbs downward with the other hand, opposite to the direction in which they grow. They'll come right off the stem in just one motion.
1 Heat 4 tablespoons of the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Once melted, add the flour and whisk until smooth, stirring constantly for one minute. Add the chicken stock and whisk until smooth. Then add the milk and bring the mixture to a simmer, increasing the heat to medium-high. Continue to whisk the mixture until it thickens to a creamy consistency. Remove the pot from the heat and add the cubed cooked chicken and nutmeg. Season to taste with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Set aside.
2 Preheat the oven to 400°F and position the rack to the upper third of the oven. Heat the remaining 2 tablespoons butter in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add the pearl onions, carrots, celery, sweet potato, and butternut squash. Cook, stirring often, for 5 to 7 minutes. Add the vegetables to the chicken mixture, along with the peas, thyme, and parsley. Season again with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.
3 Roll the pie dough to the shape of the dish you are using to bake the pie. Fill this vessel with the creamed chicken and vegetables and place the dough on top. Tuck in the edges down against the sides and brush the top with the egg and water mixture.
4 Bake uncovered for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the filling is bubbling.
CHAPTER
14
Side Dishes
Applesauce
Festive Coleslaw
Shrimp Fried Rice
Creamy Mashed Potatoes
Butternut Squash Gratin
Braised Fennel
Cold Sesame Peanut Noodles
Spinach and Pignoli Orzo
String Beans Almandine
Roasted Root Vegetables
Applesauce
Applesauce is basically cooked apples. A touch of lemon, a sprinkling of sugar, and a few drops of water help the apples along as they release their juices and break down. It's so easy to do, that there is no sense in buying the jarred variety. Fresh apple taste comes through when applesauce is homemade. The flavor and moisture content of the applesauce change depending on the apple used. Granny Smith apples, for example, lend a full, dense flavor with a chunky texture, if desired. Cortland apples, on the other hand, have more water and therefore make a lighter, thinner, and finer applesauce.
**6 tart apples, peeled and cored**
**1 lemon**
**¼ cup granulated sugar**
**¼ cup water**
**dash of cinnamon or nutmeg, fresh ginger, horseradish (optional)**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
cutting board
peeler
chef's knife
saucepan
wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
**MAKES APPROXIMATELY 4 CUPS.**
1 Peel and core the apples, then cut them in half. Cut the lemon in half and use one half for rubbing the apples. Cut the apples into small chunks and place them into a medium saucepan. Add the sugar, water, and a squeeze of lemon juice from the remaining lemon half. Cook, covered, over low heat until the apples begin to break down and release their juices, about 15 to 20 minutes.
2 Remove the lid and continue cooking, stirring frequently until you reach the desired consistency. For chunky applesauce, cook for approximately 3 to 5 more minutes. For a smoother applesauce, cook for approximately 5 to 10 more minutes. Stir in desired seasoning and serve.
_Applesauce may be served warm or cold and can be stored in the refrigerator for up to two weeks._
Festive Coleslaw
Color is what makes this coleslaw festive. Bright purple cabbage, flecks of orange carrots, and strips of green pepper jump off the plate. The combination of mayonnaise with sour cream makes this coleslaw truly creamy. The celery seed adds that unidentifiable but distinctive flavor every competent cook seeks to impart. Top this slaw on your favorite sandwich or bring it to a barbecue. Throw in some grated apple or chopped pecans for another dimension.
**½ cup mayonnaise**
**¼ cup sour cream**
**2 teaspoons sugar**
**2 teaspoons lemon juice or cider vinegar**
**½ teaspoon celery seed**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**1 small head of red cabbage, chiffonade or finely shredded**
**1 carrot, shredded**
**1 small green pepper, julienned**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
peeler
box grater or food processor
large mixing bowl
rubber spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
**GET RIGHT TO THE CORE**
Cabbage has a woody, tough core. Before you begin shredding or cutting the cabbage, split it down the middle, stand it up on its base, and slice a triangle around the core. Remove the cut chunk from the base and discard. Repeat the process with the second half.
**MAKES 8–10 SERVINGS.**
1 In a large bowl, mix the mayonnaise, sour cream, sugar, lemon juice, and celery seed. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. Add the shredded cabbage, carrot, and green pepper. Toss well to coat.
2 Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.
_This dish is best if made one day in advance, which allows the dressing to slightly wilt and tenderize the cabbage._
Shrimp Fried Rice
Preparing fried rice at home turns a greasy take-out standby into a healthful, delicious dish. Using day-old rice not only saves time, but prevents the fried rice from being soggy and mushy (freshly cooked rice is too moist to stir-fry). Add roasted cashews or diced pineapple for extra punch. This dish is easily made vegetarian by eliminating the shrimp and egg.
**4 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided in half**
**½ pound small raw shrimp (approximately 20)**
**2 eggs, lightly beaten**
**4 garlic cloves, minced**
**1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger**
**4 scallions, trimmed and chopped, or ½ red onion finely diced**
**2/3 cup frozen peas and carrots, thawed **
**4 cups cooked long-grain white rice (cold)**
**¼ cup soy sauce**
**1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large nonstick sauté pan or wok
wooden spoon
spatula
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
sautéing
**RICE: THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT**
There is so much to learn about rice. But for any competent cook, there are just a few things you really need to know. Rice is classified by its grain. Long-grain rice, such as basmati or jasmine, is about four times as long as it is wide. When cooked properly, it is fluffy and each grain separates from the others. Short-grain rice, like Arborio rice used in paella or Koshihikari rice used for sushi, is nearly round in shape and has a far greater starch content than long-grain rice. Short grain rice, then, tends to stick to itself.
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Heat a large nonstick sauté pan or wok over medium high heat. Add 2 tablespoons vegetable oil and swirl to coat the pan. Place the shrimps along perimeter of the pan. Add the beaten egg in the center and allow it to set for several seconds before pushing the eggs to the center of the pan. Using a spatula, flip the egg mass and allow it to cook another several seconds before lifting it onto a plate to break into pieces. Stir the shrimp with a wooden spoon to finish cooking and place them next to the scrambled egg.
2 Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to the pan. Add the garlic and ginger and sauté until fragrant and soft, about 2 minutes. Add the scallion or onion and continue cooking for another 2 minutes. Add the rice, peas and carrots, soy sauce, and sesame oil, stirring constantly to evenly distribute and heat the ingredients. Use the back of a fork to break up the rice if it's sticking in chunks. Add the shrimp and egg, and mix well.
Creamy Mashed Potatoes
Mashed potatoes are usually satisfying no matter how they are made. Poaching them in half and half (equal parts milk and heavy cream) instead of water makes for a thoroughly creamy side dish. Idaho potatoes are always appropriate for mashed potatoes, but using Yukon Golds instead gives them a richer look and flavor.
**2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into**
**1-inch cubes**
**3 cups half and half**
**2 tablespoons butter**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
cutting board
chef's knife
peeler
large saucepan or small stockpot
strainer or slotted spoon
mixing bowls
wooden spoon
fork, food mill, or ricer
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
poaching
**MAKES 6 SERVINGS.**
1 Place potatoes in a large saucepan and cover with the half and half. Bring to a boil over medium high heat, then reduce to a simmer and continue cooking until the potatoes are tender, about 12 minutes.
2 Remove the potatoes from the pot to a large mixing bowl using a strainer or slotted spoon. Reserve the half and half.
3 Add the butter to the potatoes, along with some of the half and half. Mash with a fork (or put the potatoes through a food mill or ricer, for completely smooth mashed potatoes). Add more half and half until the potatoes reach the desired consistency. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.
Butternut Squash Gratin
Very similar to a potato gratin, this recipe requires evenly thin slices of squash in order for the dish to bake successfully so that every bit is equally tender and delightful. Serve this dish with Roast Duck with Glazed Bing Cherries or as an alternative to sweet potatoes for your Thanksgiving feast.
**1 large butternut squash (about 3 pounds)**
**1 tablespoon butter**
**1 tablespoon chopped thyme**
**2 teaspoons kosher salt**
**1 teaspoon ground black pepper**
**1 cup heavy cream**
**1 cup shredded Gruyère**
**3 tablespoons grated Parmesan**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT:**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
peeler
spoon
mandoline or food processor (optional)
casserole or baking pan
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
baking
broiling
**IN SEASON**
Winter squash varieties (butternut, acorn, turban, spaghetti, kabocha, and the like) are available from August to March, but they peak in October and November. So why not be called autumn squash? Squash are either categorized as "summer" or "winter." Summer squash are thin-skinned with delicate, soft flesh, such as zucchini and pattypan. Winter squash, on the other hand, have thick rinds that protect the hard flesh, making them last much longer than summer squash.
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Trim the squash by removing the stem and then cut the squash crosswise into two pieces: the neck and the bottom. Peel the skin of the neck so that the orange flesh comes through (remove the layer of green, like with a melon). Peel the round, bottom part of the squash, then cut in half lengthwise. Using a spoon, scoop out the seeds and stringy pulp. Cut both the neck and the bottom halves into 1/8\- to ¼-inch slices with a knife, mandoline, or food processor's slicing blade.
3 Butter a baking or gratin dish with the tablespoon of butter. Place enough squash slices in the dish to form a single layer and sprinkle with some of the kosher salt, freshly ground black pepper, chopped thyme, and Gruyère. Repeat until all the squash slices have been used.
4 Pour the cream evenly over the top of the squash. Cover with the Parmesan, and bake for about 35 to 45 minutes. You can brown the top of the gratin by placing it under a hot broiler for 4 to 5 minutes. Serve immediately.
_You can make this dish in advance, but do not place it under the broiler to brown the cheese until you are ready to serve._
Braised Fennel
Braising meat might take hours in the oven, but braising vegetables is quick and easy on the stovetop. The subtle licorice flavor of fennel and the competent cooking technique of braising makes this recipe an elegant vegetable dish. When fennel is halved or quartered, it takes on the contours of a pear with an onion-like interior. With just a few ingredients, you can develop a depth of flavor that is unmistakably sophisticated.
**2 fennel bulbs with fronds**
**2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil**
**¼ teaspoon salt**
**1/8 teaspoon black pepper **
**¾ cup chicken stock**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large sauté pan with a lid
wooden spoon
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
braising
**MAKES 4–6 SERVINGS.**
1 Cut off and discard the stalks from fennel bulbs, reserving the fronds. Chop one tablespoon of the fronds and discard the remainder. Cut bulbs lengthwise into quarters, or sixths if necessary, leaving the core intact.
2 Heat a large sauté pan over moderately high heat and add the oil. Brown the fennel slices, turning over once, 3 to 4 minutes total.
3 Reduce the heat to low. Sprinkle the fennel with salt and pepper, then add the stock. Cook, covered, until the fennel is tender, 10 to 12 minutes. Sprinkle with the chopped fennel fronds and serve.
Cold Sesame Peanut Noodles
Tender pasta soaks up a spicy sesame peanut sauce to create a chewy noodle dish with a crunchy peanut finish. The noodles will be sitting in what might appear to be excess liquid at first. Be patient because they will soak up a lot of it within a half-hour. Serve the noodles immediately if you like them "wet" and do not mind if they are warm. Ideally, make them a few hours ahead of time and refrigerate them if you like them to be a bit drier and cold.
**1 pound noodles, such as soba, spaghetti, or linguine**
**2 tablespoons sesame oil**
**½ cup canola oil**
**½ cup creamy peanut butter**
**½ cup strong brewed tea**
**4 garlic cloves, peeled and trimmed**
**½ cup soy sauce**
**¼ cup dry sherry**
**¼ cup white wine vinegar**
**3 tablespoons sugar**
**1 teaspoon black pepper**
**1 bunch scallions, chopped (white and green)**
**1 cup coarsely ground peanuts**
1 In a large pot, bring salted water to a boil and cook pasta. Strain the noodles, rinse with cold water, and transfer to a large mixing bowl. Toss with sesame oil and set aside.
2 In a blender, combine the canola oil, peanut butter, and tea. Then add in the remaining ingredients, except for the scallions and peanuts.
3 Pour the mixture over the noodles and toss well to coat. Allow the noodles to absorb the peanut sauce for at least a half-hour before garnishing with the chopped scallions and peanuts.
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet and dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
stockpot
colander
blender or food processor
large mixing bowl
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
Spinach and Pignoli Orzo
Warm or cold, this dish is delicious. You can use fresh spinach, but the pre-chopped frozen variety is perfectly appropriate here. Toasted pine nuts are a welcome textural contrast to the chewy orzo coated in Parmesan cheese. Stuff the mixture in scooped and seeded tomato halves for pretty, individually portioned servings.
**1 pound orzo**
**1, 10-ounce package frozen spinach, thawed and well drained**
**½ cup finely grated Parmesan cheese**
**¼ cup pignoli nuts, toasted**
**¼ cup basil, chiffonade**
**3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large saucepan
mesh strainer
large mixing bowl
rubber spatula or wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUE**
mise en place
**TOASTING NUTS**
Toasting nuts brings out the essential oils and therefore all the flavors. Add nuts to a dry and cold sauté pan over medium heat, shaking the pan every 30 seconds or so to move the nuts, and cook until fragrant and golden brown. Alternatively, toast almost any nut in an even layer on a sheet pan in a 375°F oven for about 8 to 10 minutes. Let your nose do as much work as the timer: once you smell the nuts, they are likely done. Pignolis are best toasted in a sauté pan because the moment they turn golden brown, if they are not removed from both the heat source and the pan, they'll burn.
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil. Add orzo and stir gently. Cook 4 to 7 minutes, checking occasionally. The pasta should be firm but cooked through. Strain the orzo through a large mesh strainer shaking off as much excess water as possible.
2 Toss the orzo with the drained chopped spinach, grated cheese, toasted pignoli nuts, and basil chiffonade. Add the olive oil and season to taste with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Stir well to coat and serve immediately.
String Beans Almandine
This timeless side dish pairs well with almost anything. The best part is that it's made using two techniques: blanching and sautéing. That means you can blanch the beans the day before your dinner, and then sauté them just before serving. Add some crumbled goat cheese, chopped bacon, or dried cranberries for that extra touch any time of year. Add all three for truly scrumptious holiday fare.
**1 pound haricots verts (French string beans), cleaned and trimmed**
**kosher salt**
**¼ cup sliced almonds**
**2 tablespoons unsalted butter**
**1 teaspoon chopped fresh dill**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large saucepan or small stockpot
colander
large sauté pan
wooden spoon
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
blanching
sautéing
**COLD BEANS KILL BOILING WATER**
Remove the beans from the refrigerator at least an hour before you plan to blanch them. If the beans are room temperature the water will return to a boil quickly, which makes for brighter, better beans.
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Fill a large pot with water and add 1 to 2 tablespoons salt so the water tastes like the sea. Bring to a rolling boil over high heat, then add the haricots verts. Once the water returns to a boil, blanch them uncovered until cooked crisp-tender (no longer crunchy, but with a little resistance), about 5 minutes.
2 Strain the haricots verts and then immediately plunge them into a bowl of ice water to shock the vegetables. Alternatively, strain beans in a colander and immediately run cold water over them until cool. Drain any excess water and set them aside.
3 In a large sauté pan without any fat, toast the almonds over medium high heat, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon, until they become a pale golden hue. Add the butter, and continue stirring until melted. Add the string beans, and toss well to warm them and distribute the almonds. Remove the pan from the heat, add the chopped dill and toss well to coat. Serve immediately.
Roasted Root Vegetables
Roasted root vegetables are colorful and have hearty, rustic, and slightly sweet flavors, a perfect match for rich, savory dishes like Beer-Braised Beef Short Ribs. This recipe uses the autumn colors as inspiration with red beets, purple shallots, orange carrots, yellow fingerling potatoes, and cream-colored parsnips. Any seasonal vegetable you like can go in the pan, including butternut squash, turnips, and Brussels sprouts. Drizzle with some fig vinegar, or top with a sprinkling of chopped toasted hazelnuts. It's important to keep the beets apart from the other vegetables until the last moment when you serve them so they don't stain everything red.
**6 small beets, peeled and quartered (or 2 large beets, peeled and cut in eighths)**
**1 tablespoon olive oil**
**a pinch of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**12 small whole shallots, trimmed and peeled**
**6 slender carrots, peeled and cut in 3-inch pieces**
**10 fingerling potatoes, cut in half lengthwise**
**3 large parsnips, peeled and cut in quarters at the top, in 3-inch pieces**
**1 tablespoon, freshly chopped thyme (or sage or rosemary)**
**3 tablespoons olive oil**
**2 teaspoons kosher salt**
**1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
measuring spoons
cutting board
peeler
chef's knife
paring knife
rubber gloves
small and large mixing bowls
sheet pan
wooden spoon
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
roasting
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Wearing rubber gloves, peel and quarter the beets. In a small bowl, toss them with 1 tablespoon olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Set aside and discard the gloves.
3 Combine all the other vegetables in a large mixing bowl and toss with the chopped thyme, olive oil, kosher salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Spread the vegetables in one layer on the sheet pan, leaving a little room at one end for the beets. Add the beets to the pan using tongs.
4 Roast in the preheated oven for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally (stir the beets separately from the other vegetables). Once the vegetables are tender and golden brown, remove them from the oven, quickly toss the beets with the other vegetables, and serve.
CHAPTER
15
Desserts
Basic Pie Dough
Classic Apple Pie
Vanilla Poached Pears
Triple Chocolate Brownies
Chewy Chocolate Chunk and Walnut Cookies
Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk Cookies
Chocolate Mousse
Key Lime Pie with Cashew Graham Cracker Crust
New York Cheesecake
Linzer Tarts
Apple Turnovers
Apricot and Almond Tart
Winter Citrus Salad with Pomegranate and Mint
Berry Peach Cobbler
Strawberry Shortcakes with Chantilly Cream
Basic Pie Dough
There is nothing quite as good as homemade piecrust. Tender and flaky, buttery and golden, the right dough makes a pie truly great. It is so easy to make, there really is no reason to buy it. The following recipe can be used for desserts as well as savory dishes, like Chicken Potpie. Make the dough with your hands, or use a food processor if you have one. Instructions are provided for both.
**2½ cups all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon powdered sugar**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**1¼ cup (2½ sticks) cold unsalted butter**
**1/3 cup ice water **
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
large mixing bowl
paring or chef's knife
food processor (optional)
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
**MAKES 2 PIE CRUSTS.**
1 **By hand:** Combine the flour, kosher salt, and sugar in a large mixing bowl. Cut the butter into tablespoon chunks, then cut each tablespoon into quarters. Scatter the butter pieces over the flour mixture and squeeze the butter with the tips of your fingers, working it into the flour, until the fat is the size of peas.
2 Drizzle the water over the mixture and continue working the dough with your fingers until all that fat and flour is incorporated and the dough comes together in a large ball.
3 Gather the dough, form it into two discs, wrap each in plastic and refrigerate.
1 **In the food processor:** Combine the flour, kosher salt, and sugar in a food processor for 10 seconds. Cut the butter into tablespoon chunks and scatter over the flour mixture (while the machine is off). Very carefully pulse in 2-second intervals until the fat is the size of peas.
2 With the machine turned off, drizzle the water over the mixture. Pulse until the dough begins to form into small balls. If the dough comes together when pressed with your fingers, gather the dough, form it into two discs, wrap each in plastic, and refrigerate. If it doesn't, drizzle a bit more ice water over the dough and pulse again.
Classic Apple Pie
The familiar flavors of apple pie are always pleasing. The size you cut your apples determines the body and texture of the filling once the pie is baked. The smaller you cut the apples, the less chunky and more mushy the filling will be.
**3 tablespoons all-purpose flour**
**1 teaspoon lemon zest**
**½ teaspoon ground cinnamon**
**1/8 teaspoon kosher salt **
**2/3 cup granulated sugar **
**6 apples, peeled, cored and cut into eights**
**1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice**
**Basic Pie Dough**
**1 egg, lightly beaten**
**1 tablespoon sugar**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
grater or Microplane
fork
mixing bowl
rolling pin
pie dish
pastry brush
paring knife
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
baking
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 425°F and position the rack in the middle.
2 In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, lemon zest, cinnamon, kosher salt, and sugar. Toss with apples and lemon juice. Set aside.
3 Roll out one piece of dough into a 12-inch round. Press it into a 9-inch pie pan. Trim the edge leaving ½-inch excess. Refrigerate while rolling out another piece of dough into an 11-inch round for the top crust.
4 Remove the pie shell from the refrigerator and spoon in the apple filling. Cover the pie with the second pastry crust and trim, leaving just ¼-inch excess. Press the edges together of the bottom and top crusts, then crimp with your thumb or a dinner fork.
5 Lightly brush the top with the beaten egg and sprinkle with one tablespoon of sugar. Cut three small slits in the center of the crust with a paring knife to make steam vents.
6 Bake the pie for 20 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 375°F and continue to bake for about 40 minutes, or until the top crust is golden and the filling is bubbling.
7 Cool for 2 to 3 hours before serving to allow the juices to settle and thicken.
Vanilla Poached Pears
Poached pears, like poached salmon, can be served warm or cold. They are a superb choice for dinner parties because they can be made in advance, are naturally single-serving items, and require no fuss. The red-hued pears are striking and sculptural on their own without any embellishment . . . except perhaps for a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
**4 firm pears, Bosc or Comice**
**1 bottle of red wine**
**1 cup sugar**
**1 cup water**
**1 vanilla pod, split open and beans removed**
**zest of one orange**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
cutting board
peeler
paring knife
grater or Microplane
large saucepan
parchment or paper towels
ladle or slotted spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
poaching
**DOUBLE THE SERVINGS BUT NOT THE RECIPE**
If you want to poach 8 pears, double the pears but not the poaching liquid ingredients. Multiply the recipe by 1½ instead of 2, and you'll have plenty of poaching liquid to get the job done.
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Peel the pears, core them from the bottom (using a paring knife or melon baller, if you have one), leaving on the stems. Split the vanilla pod lengthwise and then scrape each half with the back of the paring knife to remove the beans.
2 In a large saucepan, add all of the ingredients except the pears, including the vanilla pod and beans, and bring to a low boil. Reduce the heat and add the pears. Place a parchment lid or two full sheets of paper towel stacked and fully moistened with the poaching liquid on the pears (this keeps the pears moist with, and immersed in, the poaching liquid). Simmer until the pears are tender, yet slightly firm in the center, about 30 minutes.
3 Remove the pears and set aside. Discard the vanilla pod. Bring the mixture to a boil and cook over medium heat until the liquid is reduced by half.
4 Serve the pears in individual bowls or coupes with some poaching liquid.
Triple Chocolate Brownies
Chocoholics, look no further. These brownies are moist, rich and packed with chocolate at every turn. Just remember to let the brownies cool completely before you cut them.
**1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into pieces**
**2 cups semisweet chocolate chips**
**1 cup sugar**
**½ cup sifted unsweetened cocoa powder**
**1/3 cup flour **
**6 large eggs**
**½ teaspoon kosher salt**
**1 teaspoon vanilla extract**
**8 ounces dark chocolate**
**1 tablespoon vegetable shortening**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
baking pan
aluminum foil
saucepans
rubber spatula
mixing bowls
whisk
sheet pan
wax paper
cutting board
chef's knife
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
baking
**MAKES 20 BROWNIES.**
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line the brownie pan with aluminum foil hanging 2 inches over two of its sides. Grease well with butter and set aside.
2 Stir the butter and chocolate in a large saucepan over low heat until melted, then set it aside. Mix the sugar, cocoa, and flour in a large bowl. Add the eggs and whisk until well blended. Then add the vanilla extract and kosher salt.
3 Whisk the chocolate-butter mixture into the cocoa-sugar-egg mixture until thoroughly combined. Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for about 45 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Remove the pan to a rack to cool (the brownies might have puffed and cracked a bit; they will settle while they cool).
4 Once the brownies have cooled completely, lift them from the pan using the foil and place them in the freezer for about an hour. Line a sheet pan with wax paper and set it aside.
5 After an hour, remove the brownies from the freezer and peel away the foil. Slice the brownies into 2-inch squares on a cutting board using a sharp chef 's knife.
6 Melt the dark chocolate and vegetable shortening in a saucepan over medium low heat, or in a microwave-safe bowl. Drizzle the chocolate over the brownies with a spoon. Place them on a sheet pan lined with wax paper. Remove to store in an airtight container when set.
Chewy Chocolate Chunk and Walnut Cookies
Everybody seems to have an opinion about chocolate chip cookies. There is no right or wrong way—it's just a matter of preference. If you underbake your cookies by a few minutes so that the edges are golden and crisp, but the centers appear still slightly raw, you will have a chewy cookie. To make crispy chocolate chip cookies, bake them for a few minutes longer than the recipe calls for, and remove them from the sheet pan immediately to cool. The best way to achieve your ideal chocolate chip cookie is to experiment with ingredients and techniques. Try using different fats and sugars, as well as baking times.
**3 cups all purpose flour**
**1 teaspoon baking soda**
**½ teaspoon salt**
**1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter**
**1 cup light brown sugar**
**½ cup granulated white sugar**
**2 large eggs**
**2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract**
**16 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped**
**1 cup chopped walnuts**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
medium mixing bowl
large mixing bowl
hand or standing mixer
wooden spoon or rubber spatula
parchment paper or silicone baking liners
cookie sheets or sheet pans
spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
creaming butter and sugar
combine dry and wet ingredients separately
baking
**CRACKING THE COOKIE CODE**
Cookies made with butter spread out as they bake because butter melts at a lower temperature than, say, margarine or shortening. Cookies made with margarine, shortening, or even oil hold their shape better. The degree to which the cookies spread out in the baking process plays a role in whether they are flat and potentially crispy, or puffy and chewy.
**MAKES 5 DOZEN COOKIES.**
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking liners.
2 Combine the first three ingredients in a medium bowl and set aside.
3 In a large bowl, cream together the butter and both sugars with an electric mixer until fluffy. Add eggs one at a time and beat well. Mix in vanilla. Add dry ingredients and combine well. Fold in chocolate chunks and walnuts with a wooden spoon or rubber spatula.
4 Form dough into 1½-inch balls. Place each ball two inches apart on the baking sheets, and flatten with the bottom of a cup. Bake 8 to 10 minutes, or until lightly golden brown on the edges but appearing a bit underbaked in the center. Cool cookies on the sheet for 5 minutes and then transfer to wire racks to cool completely.
Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk Cookies
These cookies are so good, you'll want to make a double batch. Bake one half right away and enjoy the rich chocolate dough with oozing, creamy white chocolate chunks. Roll the other half in a log in tightly sealed plastic wrap, cover with another layer of aluminum foil, and freeze for up to three months.
**2 cups flour**
**¾ cup cocoa powder**
**1 teaspoon baking soda**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature**
**2/3 cup light brown sugar **
**2/3 cup white sugar **
**1 teaspoon vanilla extract**
**2 eggs**
**4, 4-ounce white chocolate bars, cut into small chunks**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
small mixing bowl
large mixing bowl
hand or standing mixer
wooden spoon or rubber spatula
parchment paper or silicone baking liners
cookie sheets or sheet pans
spatula
tablespoon
cooling rack
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
creaming butter and sugar
combine dry and wet ingredients separately
baking
**CHOCOLATE CAN'T BE WHITE**
The truth about white chocolate is short and sweet. This super-sweet confection does not contain any chocolate. That's right. No chocolate. It's derived from cocoa butter (the fat from the cocoa bean), which gives it the trace of a faint chocolate flavor. The cocoa butter is then blended with sugar and milk solids, hence white chocolate's creamy white color.
**MAKES 5 DOZEN COOKIES.**
1 Preheat oven to 350°F. Line two cookie sheets with silicone liners or parchment paper. Set aside.
2 In a small bowl, combine the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and kosher salt. Set aside.
3 In a large bowl, beat the butter, both sugars, and vanilla extract until smooth, creamy, and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, and beat until fully incorporated. Add the flour and cocoa mixture, and beat until smooth and incorporated. Add the white chocolate pieces and mix until evenly dispersed.
4 Drop the cookie dough by the tablespoon onto the lined cookie sheet at least one inch apart. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes. Allow the cookies to rest on the cookie sheet for 5 to 10 minutes before removing them to a rack to cool. Alternatively, roll the cookie dough into two logs, each wrapped in plastic wrap, then in aluminum foil. Refrigerate until firm. When ready to bake, slice the dough into ½-inch slices using a sharp knife and place them on a cookie sheet at least 1 inch apart. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes. Allow the cookies to rest on the cookie sheet for 5 to 10 minutes before removing them to a rack to cool.
Chocolate Mousse
Meringue (beaten egg whites) gives chocolate mousse the spongy, fluffy quality that makes it so distinct from its cousin, chocolate pudding. Whipped cream and meringue are gently folded into melted dark chocolate. Plan to make this dessert well in advance of serving it, since it requires chilling to hold its shape. Serve with fresh berries or toasted almonds for that extra special touch.
**8 ounces dark chocolate, chopped**
**1½ cups heavy cream**
**whites from 3 large eggs**
**1 tablespoon sugar**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
measuring spoon
cutting board
chef's knife
saucepan
rubber spatula
mixing bowls
balloon whisk, or hand or standing mixer
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
**MERINGUE MAGIC**
When egg whites are room temperature, they can be beaten up to seven times their volume. Remove eggs from the refrigerator at least 30 minutes prior to preparing a meringue. Be very careful when separating the yolk from the white. Pass the eggs through your hands instead of between shells to avoid a jagged edge from piercing the delicate yolk. Any presence of yolk in separated egg whites is considered contaminated, and will compromise the result of the meringue.
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Place a saucepan filled two-thirds with water over high heat and bring to a simmer. Add the chopped chocolate to a large metal or glass bowl, and place it on top of the saucepan. Reduce the heat to low, and stir constantly with a rubber spatula until the chocolate is thoroughly melted. Turn off the heat and leave the bowl in place.
2 Meanwhile, beat 1½ cups heavy cream in a large mixing bowl, using either a balloon whisk, or hand or standing mixer, until stiff peaks form. Set aside in the refrigerator.
3 In another bowl, beat the egg whites, using either a balloon whisk, or hand or standing mixer, until soft peaks form. Gradually add the sugar while beating continuously until stiff peaks form (meringue).
4 Remove the bowl of melted chocolate from the saucepan and gently fold the meringue into the chocolate mixture. Be careful not to stir or beat the mixture, otherwise you will lose a lot of air in the meringue. Now gently fold in the whipped cream until well blended.
5 Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate the mousse for at least 2 hours before serving.
Key Lime Pie with Cashew Graham Cracker Crust
The salty, roasted accent of cashew nuts in the crust is optimally paired with the sweet yet tangy citrus flavor of the creamy key lime custard. Key limes are more acidic and have a yellow, tarter juice than the large, seedless, green citrus fruits we find in virtually every grocery store. They are round and about the size of golf balls, often with a pale yellow-green skin. The key lime season is summer, from about June to August. Key lime juice is now sold bottled year-round. But fresh key lime juice is far superior, and the perfect ingredient for any competent cook's no-bake dessert.
**1 cup graham cracker crumbs**
**½ cup ground cashews**
**¼ cup sugar**
**5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted**
**14 ounces sweetened condensed milk**
**½ cup key lime juice**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoon
cutting board
chef's knife
mixing bowl
whisk
pie pan
wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the crust, combine the graham cracker crumbs, cashews, sugar, and butter. Using the back of a large spoon, press the crumb mixture firmly on the bottom and sides of an 8- or 9-inch pie dish. Chill or freeze the crust for 10 minutes before filling.
2 To make the filling, combine the sweetened condensed milk and key lime juice using a whisk.
3 Pour the filling into the pie shell and refrigerate overnight (or freeze for one hour and return to the refrigerator if you need to serve it before then).
_The filling may be made with four egg yolks to give added color to the pie. Combine the yolks and sweetened condensed milk before slowly adding key lime juice. Follow the same procedure as above._
New York Cheesecake
New York cheesecake is distinct from Italian cheesecake because it's made with cream cheese instead of ricotta. The cream cheese is sweetened with some sugar, beaten with eggs, and baked to a dense, rich, creamy finish. The crust is traditionally made with graham cracker crumbs, but ground Oreo cookies please any chocolate lover. Remove the cream cheese from the refrigerator an hour before you plan to bake the cake to help it soften (this will make beating it easier). Let the cake cool completely before slicing, giving it time to set.
**_For the crust:_**
**2 cups graham cracker crumbs, or 2 cups ground Oreo cookies (about 30 cookies)**
**3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted**
**3 tablespoons sugar (only if using graham cracker crumbs)**
**_For the filling:_**
**2 pounds cream cheese, softened**
**1 cup sugar**
**3 tablespoons all-purpose flour**
**1 tablespoon vanilla**
**1/3 cup heavy cream **
**4 large eggs**
**_For the topping:_**
**8 ounces sour cream**
**1 teaspoon vanilla**
**1 tablespoon superfine sugar**
**1 pint strawberries**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
mixing bowls
rubber spatula
springform pan
hand or standing mixer
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
baking
**MAKES 12 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 325°F.
2 To make the crust, combine the graham cracker or Oreo crumbs, sugar, and melted butter. Press the crumb mixture firmly on the bottom and sides of springform pan. Bake for 10 minutes.
3 Meanwhile, prepare the filling. Beat the cream cheese, sugar, flour, and vanilla with an electric mixer on medium speed until blended and creamy. Blend in the heavy cream, then lower the speed to low and add the eggs, one at a time, so that each egg is fully blended before the next one is added. Pour the filling in the pan.
4 Bake for one hour, or until the center is almost set. The cheesecake might rise like a soufflé and crack at the top. This is okay. Remove the cheesecake from the oven, and let it rest for an hour until it has cooled and settled to be more or less level with the top of the pan.
5 Prepare the topping. Combine the sour cream, sugar, and vanilla and spread over the top of the cheesecake. Refrigerate the cheesecake overnight.
6 Line the border of the sour cream top with strawberries. Run a paring knife around the edge of the pan before removing the springform rim.
Linzer Tarts
Dating back to the 1700s, the linzertorte was an almond crust tart with a black currant filling named after its hometown of Linz, Austria. Over time, a sandwich cookie evolved with a middle layer of raspberry preserves. The top cookie, dusted with confectioners' sugar, has a cutout to make the preserves visible.
**1 cup granulated sugar**
**¾ cup (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, softened**
**2 large eggs**
**1 teaspoon vanilla extract**
**2½ cups flour**
**¾ cup almonds or hazelnuts, finely ground**
**1 teaspoon baking powder**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**2 cups raspberry jam**
**confectioners' sugar for dusting**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
mixing bowls
hand or standing mixer
rubber spatula
wooden spoon
rolling pin
cookie cutters
silicone baking liners
cookie sheets
cooling rack
butter knife
sifter
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
beating sugar and eggs (blanchir)
combining wet and dry ingredients separately
baking
**MAKES 18 4-INCH SANDWICHES.**
1 Beat the sugar, butter, eggs, and vanilla in a large mixing bowl until creamy.
2 In a smaller bowl, sift flour, ground nuts, baking powder, and kosher salt. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and stir until well incorporated. Gather into a ball and press into a disc. Cover with plastic wrap, and put it in the refrigerator for at least one hour or overnight.
3 Preheat the oven to 350°F. Roll out the dough to .-inch thickness on a floured surface. Cut the cookies into rounds or flowers using cookie cutters. Cut a small circle or smaller flower on half the cut cookies to be the tops of the linzer tarts. Gather the scraps and repeat the process until all the dough is used.
4 Bake the cookies on a cookie sheet for 7 to 10 minutes, or until golden brown. Cool on a cooling rack. The cookies must be completely cool before the tarts can be assembled.
5 Spread a generous amount of raspberry jam on the cookie bottoms. Dust powdered sugar over the cutout cookie tops. Place the sugared cookie tops on the raspberry jam cookie bottoms and serve immediately or store in an airtight container.
Apple Turnovers
It's "easy as pie" to make apple turnovers, pastry pockets filled with sweet and tender apples. You can use puff pastry or pie dough to make a turnover. But be sure not to overstuff the pastry. It might literally burst at the seams.
**grated zest of 1 orange**
**2 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice**
**4 Granny Smith (tart) apples**
**3 tablespoons sugar, plus extra to sprinkle on top**
**1 tablespoon all-purpose flour**
**¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon**
**1 package (17.3 ounces, 2 sheets) frozen puff pastry, defrosted**
**1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon water, for egg wash**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
chef's knife
grater or Microplane
measuring spoons
mixing bowls
fork
rolling pin
pastry brush
sheet pan
parchment paper or silicone baking liner
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
baking
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Combine the orange zest and orange juice in a bowl. Peel, quarter, and core the apples and then cut them into large dice. Immediately toss the apples with the zest and juice to prevent them from turning brown. Add the sugar, flour, and cinnamon.
3 Flour a board and lightly roll each sheet of puff pastry to a 12" × 12" square. Cut each sheet into 4 smaller squares (8 squares total) and keep chilled until ready to use.
4 Brush the edges of each square with the egg wash and neatly place about 1/3 cup of the apple mixture on half of the square. Fold the pastry diagonally over the apple mixture and seal by pressing the edges with a fork. Transfer to a sheet pan lined with parchment paper or silicone baking liner. Brush the tops with egg wash, sprinkle with sugar, make 2 small slits, and bake for 20 minutes, until browned and puffed.
5 Serve warm or at room temperature.
Apricot and Almond Tart
This is a sophisticated tart that is incredibly easy to make. The base is store-bought puff pastry. The filling between the fruit and the pastry is frangipane, a creamy and buttery almond paste. This tart tastes best when served at room temperature.
**_For the frangipane:_**
**1/3 cup sugar **
**2/3 cup slivered almonds **
**6 tablespoons unsalted butter**
**1 egg**
**¼ teaspoon vanilla extract**
**¼ teaspoon almond extract**
**1½ tablespoons flour**
**_For the tart:_**
**1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed**
**12 fresh or canned apricot halves, pits removed**
**¼ cup sliced almonds, toasted**
**confectioners' sugar for dusting (optional)**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
food processor
rubber spatula
rolling pin
parchment paper or silicone baking liner
sheet pan
sifter (optional)
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
baking
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 425°F.
2 To make the frangipane, place the almonds and sugar in a food processor and grind until sandy. Add the butter and continue mixing. Then add the egg, vanilla, almond extract, and the flour and process until smooth.
3 To make the tart, on a floured work surface pass your rolling pin over the pastry just to flatten any ridges. Place it on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper or a silicone baking liner and cut out a 9-inch disc, discarding the scraps. Spread the almond paste in the center of the tart leaving a 1-inch border. Firmly place the apricot halves into the frangipane.
4 Bake the tart until the crust is puffy and golden brown, about 30 to 40 minutes. Let the tart cool for 20 minutes before sprinkling with the toasted almonds, and dusting with the confectioners' sugar.
Winter Citrus Salad with Pomegranate and Mint
Juicy, sweet citrus fruits peak in winter months. This fruit salad entices with the jewel-like colors of several varieties of grapefruit and orange. The pomegranate seeds offer a pleasing textural contrast. When you section the citrus fruit into suprêmes, be sure to do it over a large mixing bowl so you catch all the juice. The combination of juices at the bottom of the bowl is the most delicious nectar you'll ever taste!
**2 pink grapefruits, suprême**
**1 white grapefruit, suprême**
**2 navel oranges, suprême**
**2 blood oranges, suprême**
**1 pomegranate, seeded**
**10 mint leaves, chiffonade**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
large mixing bowls
fork
slotted spoon
strainer
cutting board
chef's knife
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
**AN UNDERWATER EFFORT**
Getting the seeds from the pomegranate fruit can be a challenge. Break the pomegranate open with a regular dinner fork. Then submerge the halves in a bowl of cold water and pull away the seeds with your fingers. The undesirable pith will float to the top, and the seeds will sink to the bottom. This way, you can discard what you don't want and strain exactly what you need. Also, you'll avoid splattering hot pink pomegranate juice all over your counter and walls.
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Suprême all the grapefruits and oranges over a large bowl, being sure not to waste any juice. Squeeze juice from the membrane of each fruit into the bowl. Be sure not to include any pith or seeds.
2 Break the pomegranate with a fork. Peel back the rind to expose the seeds in a large bowl with cool water. The seeds will sink to the bottom and the pith will float to the top. Remove the floating waste with a slotted spoon, then strain the seeds. Combine the pomegranate seeds with the citrus salad (juices and suprêmes).
3 Stack, roll, then chiffonade the mint leaves. Divide the salad among four shallow bowls and sprinkle with the mint chiffonade.
_This salad may be made ahead and stored in the refrigerator for up to 3 days. Do not add mint until service._
Berry Peach Cobbler
Berries and peaches are a natural summer pair. Their flavors and colors blend beautifully in this unfussy dessert. Cobbler is a sort of fruit pie with a crumb topping and no pastry base. It can be made in a single vessel to be served tableside, or it can be prepared in small, individual ramekins. Don't forget a dollop of yogurt, sour cream, frozen yogurt, or ice cream to top it off.
**_For the filling:_**
**1 cup blueberries**
**1 cup raspberries**
**1 cup blackberries**
**3 peaches, cut into chunks**
**juice of one lemon**
**¼ cup sugar**
**2 tablespoons flour**
**_For the topping:_**
**½ cup light brown sugar**
**½ cup all purpose flour**
**½ cup oats**
**¼ cup butter (half stick), cut into small pieces**
**½ teaspoon ground cinnamon**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large mixing bowls: wooden spoon
baking pan, or ramekins (with a sheet pan)
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
baking
**PEACH AND THE FAMILY STONE**
Stone fruits are those with a large pit in the center, such as peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines, cherries, dates, mangoes, and even coconuts.
**MAKES 6 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 375°F. Grease the baking pan or ramekins and set aside.
2 To make the topping, stir together the sugar and the flour in a large bowl. With your fingers, work the butter into the flour mixture to the texture of coarse crumbs. Add in oats and cinnamon. Set aside.
3 To make the berry and peach mixture, toss the fruit in lemon juice and sugar. Sprinkle with flour, then gently toss. Put the filling in a small baking pan, or evenly distribute the filling between the four ramekins. Top with some of the oat mixture, packing it down.
4 If using ramekins, place them on a sheet pan. Place the cobbler in the oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until the topping is browned and the berries are bubbling.
5 Serve warm or at room temperature.
Strawberry Shortcakes with Chantilly Cream
Strawberries macerated in sugar and orange juice are a vibrant and luscious topping to this classic American dessert. Sweetened whipped cream and a buttery cream biscuit give this strawberry shortcake recipe "essential" status. Use any component for other favorite dishes: top a bowl of vanilla yogurt with the strawberries and some Decadent Granola; cover the Chicken Potpie with the biscuit dough instead of pie dough; and use the Chantilly cream to garnish the Key Lime Pie with Cashew Graham Cracker Crust.
**_For the biscuits:_**
**2 cups all-purpose flour**
**1 tablespoon baking powder**
**2 teaspoons sugar**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**¼ cup cold unsalted butter**
**1 cup heavy cream**
**2 tablespoons melted butter**
**_For the filling:_**
**2 pints strawberries, hulled and quartered**
**3 tablespoons sugar**
**¼ cup freshly squeezed orange juice**
**_For the Chantilly cream:_**
**2 cups heavy cream**
**2 tablespoons confectioners' sugar**
**1 teaspoon vanilla extract**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large mixing bowls
wooden spoon
spatula
rolling pin
cookie or biscuit cutter
pastry brush
parchment paper or silicone baking liner
sheet pan
cooling rack
balloon whisk
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
baking
**MAKES 8–10 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 425°F.
2 To make the biscuits, thoroughly combine the flour, baking powder, sugar, and kosher salt in a large bowl. With your fingers, work the butter into the flour mixture to the texture of coarse crumbs. Add in the cream, and stir the mixture with a rubber spatula until it forms dough. Gather the dough into a ball and roll it on a floured work surface to a ½-inch-thick disc. Cut as many biscuits as possible using a floured biscuit or cookie cutter. Collect the scraps, roll to a ½-inch-thick piece again, and cut more. Place the rounds on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper or a silicone baking sheet. Brush the tops with the melted butter and bake for 15 minutes. Remove the biscuits from the oven and cool on a rack for 10 minutes.
3 Meanwhile, prepare the berries. Combine the berries, sugar, and orange juice in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Set aside while the biscuits bake.
4 Now prepare the Chantilly cream. Beat the cream with a balloon whisk in a large mixing bowl until it begins to foam and thicken slightly. Add the confectioners' sugar and vanilla extract and continue beating until soft peaks form.
5 To assemble the shortcakes, split open each biscuit horizontally. Spoon some of the strawberries on each biscuit bottom, then dollop with some Chantilly cream. Top with the biscuit tops, and add more strawberries and cream. Serve immediately.
_The biscuits can be made a day in advance. Do not assemble the dessert until you are ready to serve it._
CHAPTER
16
For the Baker
French Lemon Tart
Chocolate Soufflés with Mocha Crème Anglaise
Pumpkin Bread
Toasted Coconut Cookies
Birthday Cake with Buttercream Frosting
French Lemon Tart
Beautifully bright yellow lemon curd in a lemon-scented shortbread crust is a refreshing finish to any meal. The shortbread crust is blind baked before the filling is added, since the whole tart only bakes for 5 minutes. Raspberries and mint are the ideal garnish for a slender slice of this classic dessert.
**_For the crust:_**
**1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter**
**½ cup confectioners' sugar**
**2 cups all-purpose flour**
**1 tablespoon grated lemon zest**
**_For the filling:_**
**2/3 cup fresh lemon juice (about 5–6 lemons) **
**10 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces**
**1 cup granulated sugar, divided**
**3 large eggs**
**2 large egg yolks**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
paring or chef's knife
grater or Microplane
large mixing bowls
rubber spatula
wooden spoon
food processor (optional)
rolling pin
pie weights or dried beans
parchment paper or aluminum foil
saucepan
whisk
strainer or chinois
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
beating sugar and eggs (blanchir)
baking
**GET THE BALL ROLLING**
Before you cut a citrus fruit in half crosswise to juice it, roll it back and forth on the cutting board applying a bit of pressure with the palm of your hand. This action helps to loosen pulp and release the juice. You'll get much more from the lime, lemon, or orange this way.
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 375°F.
2 For the crust, mix all the ingredients in a food processor, pulsing every few seconds, until well combined. Alternatively, use your fingers or a pastry cutter to mix the butter into the flour and sugar. Form the dough into a disc and refrigerate until chilled enough to roll. Roll a flat disc large enough to fit in an 8- or 9-inch tart pan. Press the dough into the pan.
3 Once the tart pan is lined in dough, cover with parchment paper or foil and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Blind bake the tart shell for 20 to 30 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove the parchment paper and beans, and set the tart pan aside.
4 For the filling, heat the lemon juice, butter, and ¾ cup sugar over low heat in a pot until the butter has melted and the mixture comes to a gentle simmer, about 2 minutes.
5 Using a whisk, beat the eggs, egg yolk, and remaining ¼ cup sugar until the mixture is pale and light yellow, about 3 to 4 minutes. Slowly pour some of the hot lemon mixture into the egg yolk mixture to temper. Beat until blended and fluffy. Return this mixture to the pot with the remaining lemon juice mixture. Cook over a medium-low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the mixture is thickened, about 3 minutes.
6 Pass the lemon curd through a fine mesh strainer or chinois to collect any undesirable scrambled egg pieces. Transfer the strained mixture to a bowl and chill immediately (either over an ice bath or in the refrigerator). When cool, spoon the curd into the pastry shell.
7 Return the tart to the 375°F oven and bake for about 5 minutes to set the filling without coloring it. Remove the tart from the oven and let it cool. Then refrigerate the tart until the filling is firm.
8 Remove the tart from the refrigerator 10 to 15 minutes before serving.
Chocolate Soufflés with Mocha Crème Anglaise
Like omelets and risotto, a soufflé must be served the moment it leaves the oven. The hot air of the oven gets trapped in the air bubbles of the meringue-based batter, making the soufflé puff and rise. Once the soufflé hits the relatively colder air of the kitchen, it is only a matter of time before it deflates. Break the soufflé open with a fork, pour in the mocha sauce, and indulge!
**_For the soufflés:_**
**½ cup whole milk**
**2 teaspoons cornstarch**
**1/3 cup sugar **
**5 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped**
**3 large egg yolks**
**6 large egg whites**
**pinch of kosher salt**
**butter and extra sugar for the ramekins**
**_For the mocha crème anglaise:_**
**¾ cup whole milk**
**¾ cup heavy cream**
**3 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped**
**1/3 cup sugar **
**3 large egg yolks**
**1½ cups crushed coffee beans**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
paring or chef's knife
saucepans
wooden spoon
strainer or chinois
large mixing bowls
whisk
rubber spatula
hand or standing mixer
ramekins
baking sheet
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
beating sugar and eggs (blanchir)
baking
**MAKES 6 SERVINGS.**
1 First, set up the mise en place for the soufflés to give the egg whites time to come to room temperature. Then prepare the crème anglaise. Heat the milk, heavy cream, and crushed coffee beans in a saucepan over medium high heat and bring to a boil. Turn off the heat and allow the mixture to infuse for 20 minutes.
2 After 20 minutes, strain the mixture through a fine mesh sieve lined in cheesecloth, or through a chinois. Place the chopped chocolate in the pan and return the infused milk and cream to the pan. Let the chocolate and milk mixture rest for one minute, then combine with a whisk. Turn the heat to medium.
3 In a large mixing bowl, beat the yolks and sugar with a clean whisk until the mixture is pale yellow and light.
4 Temper the egg mixture with one third of the hot mocha mixture. Return this tempered egg mixture to the remaining hot mocha mixture in the pan and cook gently, over medium heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the mixture has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon and leaves a track when you run your fingertip through it.
5 Strain the sauce immediately into a large bowl through a sieve lined with cheesecloth, or a chinois, to rid of any remaining crushed coffee beans, as well as any potentially scrambled egg. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside.
6 To prepare the soufflés, place an oven rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 375°F. Lightly grease six small ramekins with butter and coat each with ½ tablespoon sugar, shaking out any excess.
7 Whisk together the milk, cornstarch, and half the . cup sugar in a saucepan until smooth. Cook, whisking over moderate heat until the mixture boils and thickens, about 1 to 2 minutes. Melt the chocolate in a bowl over a pot of simmering water, over low heat, until smooth. Remove the bowl from the heat and stir in the yolks, then beat in the thickened milk mixture. Set aside.
8 Beat all six egg whites with a pinch of salt in a large bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until the whites hold soft peaks. Gradually add the remaining sugar, then beat until the whites hold stiff peaks. Stir one quarter of the whites into the chocolate/yolk/milk mixture to lighten it, then gently but thoroughly fold in the remaining whites.
9 Spoon the mixture into ramekins. Make sure the rim of each ramekin is clean to allow the soufflés to rise (use your thumb to wipe away any excess butter, sugar, or batter). Place the ramekins on a baking sheet and bake until soufflés are puffed and golden brown, about 15 minutes.
10 Serve immediately with the mocha crème anglaise.
Pumpkin Bread
There is a lot of sugar in this bread, it's true. But it's by far the best tasting pumpkin bread there is. The batter is very dense before the pumpkin and milk are added, so use an electric mixer if you have one. Canned pumpkin works best with this recipe because of its smooth consistency. If you are carving a jack-o'-lantern and want to make use of the flesh, you can cook and purèe the pumpkin, and experiment with it in this recipe.
**3 cups sugar**
**1 cup vegetable oil**
**4 eggs**
**2 teaspoons vanilla**
**3½ cups flour**
**1½ teaspoons kosher salt**
**1½ teaspoons cinnamon**
**1½ teaspoons nutmeg**
**2 teaspoons baking soda**
**2/3 cup whole milk **
**1, 15-ounce can pumpkin (1 ¾ cups)**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
mixing bowls
rubber spatula
loaf pans
hand mixer or standing mixer
cooling rack
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
combine dry and wet ingredients separately
baking
**THE NOT-SO-MESSY BUSINESS OF GREASING PANS**
So many quick bread, cake, and muffin recipes call for a greased pan. Whatever fat you use in the batter is the fat you should use to grease the pan. Use your fingers or a paper towel. Do not use excessive fat; you need only enough to coat the pan lightly and evenly.
**MAKES 2 LARGE LOAVES.**
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease two loaf pans with oil or butter and set aside.
2 Mix the sugar, oil, eggs, and vanilla in a large bowl. Combine the flour, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and baking soda in a small bowl. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and blend.
3 Alternately combine portions of the pumpkin and milk with other ingredients, mixing well after each addition.
4 Pour the batter into two greased loaf pans. Bake for one hour or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out dry. Be careful not to overbake or the bread inside the pans might burn.
5 Let the loaves rest for 10 minutes before turning out onto a cooling rack.
Toasted Coconut Cookies
Delicious as an afternoon pick-me-up with a cup of tea, these cookies also make a lovely garnish to a bowl of coconut sorbet.
**1, 7-ounce package sweetened shredded coconut**
**2¼ cups flour**
**1 teaspoon baking powder**
**½ teaspoon cinnamon**
**½ teaspoon kosher salt**
**¾ cup light brown sugar**
**¾ cup (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, softened**
**2 large eggs**
**1 teaspoon vanilla extract**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
sheet pan
mixing bowls
wooden spoon
hand or standing mixer
rubber spatula
silicone baking liners
cookie sheets
cooling rack
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
combine wet and dry ingredients separately
beating sugar and eggs (blanchir)
baking
**MAKES 3 DOZEN COOKIES.**
1 Preheat the oven to 325°F.
2 Spread the coconut in an even layer on a baking sheet. Toast in the oven until golden brown, about 10 minutes. Set aside.
3 In a small bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and kosher salt. Set aside.
4 Using a mixer, cream the sugar and butter until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Then add the vanilla.
5 Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and blend just until well incorporated. Stir in the toasted coconut with a wooden spoon.
6 Gather the dough and divide in half. Place each half on a piece of plastic wrap and roll into a tightly sealed log. Put the two logs in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours or overnight.
7 Once the dough has chilled, preheat the oven to 350°F. Unwrap one of the logs and cut into ¼-inch slices using a chef 's knife. Place one inch apart on a lined cookie sheet and bake until the edges turn golden brown, about 12 minutes. Remove from the oven and place the cookies on a cooling rack for 5 minutes.
Birthday Cake with Buttercream Frosting
If you are a competent cook and a baker at heart, you probably enjoy making birthday cakes for your loved ones. Cake from the box and frosting from the jar is fine, but a homemade layer cake is a most special birthday gift. The frosting in this recipe is a basic vanilla that can be dyed any color you like. If you want winter white icing, go to a specialty cake supply store to purchase colorless vanilla extract, and use only vegetable shortening.
**_For the cake:_**
**2¾ cups self-rising (cake) flour**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened**
**2¼ cups sugar**
**4 large eggs**
**1 tablespoon vanilla extract**
**1¼ cups whole milk**
**_For the buttercream frosting:_**
**1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened**
**¼ cup vegetable shortening**
**8 cups confectioners' sugar**
**½ cup whole milk**
**1 teaspoon vanilla extract**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cake pans
parchment paper
mixing bowls
sifter
hand or standing mixer
rubber spatula
cooling rack
cutting board
bread knife
wax paper
offset spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
beating sugar and eggs
baking
**FLOUR POWER**
The difference between cake flour and all-purpose flour is the percentage of gluten, a protein that provides structure and texture. Cake flour is about 4 percent gluten, whereas all-purpose flour is 10 to 11 percent gluten.
**MAKES 12–16 SERVINGS.**
**THE PARCHMENT LID LESSON**
Sometimes a lid made of paper does a better job than one that came with the pan. A hole in the center allows some steam to escape, while the lid itself keeps ingredients covered and moist.
Take a sheet of parchment paper and fold it half, then fold it in half again (you should have a square). Fold that square in half again diagonally, and then fold it one more time. Place the point of the folded parchment paper over the center of the pot to measure its radius. Trim the excess parchment paper just inside the edge of the pan, and then snip the tip to create a small opening in the center of the lid. When you unfold the paper, you will have a perfect lid for your pot with a steam hole.
Follow the same technique for making a cake pan liner, but do not snip the tip of the parchment since you don't need a center hole.
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease and lightly flour two round cake pans, then line the bottom with parchment paper (see Parchment Lid Lesson).
2 In a small mixing bowl, sift the self-rising flour with the kosher salt and set aside.
3 In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter with an electric mixer until smooth. Gradually beat in the sugar and beat until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well to incorporate after each addition. Beat in the vanilla. Add the flour mixture and milk in thirds, beating well after each addition.
4 Pour half the batter in each cake pan and bake for 25 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean when inserted in the cake.
5 Let the cakes cool for 15 minutes before turning out onto a cooling rack to cool completely.
6 To make the icing, beat the butter and shortening in large mixing bowl. Add half the confectioners' sugar, plus all the milk and vanilla. Beat until creamy and smooth. Then add the sugar, ½ cup at a time, until the frosting is thick enough to be spreadable. If you want to dye the icing, now is the time to add a few drops of food coloring.
7 To assemble the layer cake, be sure the cakes have cooled completely. If they have rounded tops, and are not perfectly flat, trim them. Using a bread knife, move the knife back and forth as you slice across the top of the cake to make a perfectly flat layer.
8 Put several small pieces of wax paper around the edge of a plate or cake stand to protect the plate from getting messy and smudged while you frost the cake. Place one cake in the center, the trimmed top facing up. Using an offset spatula, frost the sides and top of the cake. Then add the second cake to the frosted cake, but this time with the trimmed top down, touching the frosted cake. Frost the cake, paying close attention to blending the sides well so you do not see the layers.
9 Carefully remove the wax paper before serving.
CHAPTER
17
For the Serious Cook
Red Wine Risotto
Salmon Purses in Puff Pastry with Shitake Cream Sauce
Braised Lamb Shanks
Roast Duck with Glazed Bing Cherries
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Fried Sage
Red Wine Risotto
Risotto is both a method and a finished dish: short-grain rice is sautéed in fat and "toasted" before hot liquid is added as the rice cooks. It is usually cream colored. This recipe is fit for a serious cook because it celebrates, through the use of red wine, the joy of experimentation.
**5 ounces dried porcini mushrooms**
**2 cups hot water**
**4 cups vegetable or chicken stock, hot**
**3 tablespoons olive oil**
**¼ pound shitake mushrooms, sliced**
**¼ pound crimini mushrooms, sliced**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil**
**1 medium onion, cut into ¼ -inch dice**
**2 cups Arborio rice**
**½ cup red wine**
**4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter**
**½ cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, plus more for garnish**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
box grater or Microplane
saucepans
wooden spoon
strainer (with cheesecloth)
sauté pan
ladle
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sautéing
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Soak the porcini mushrooms in 2 cups of hot water. Let them soak for 20 minutes, then drain, reserving the liquid. Pour the liquid through a fine sieve lined with cheesecloth or paper towels to catch any grit. Add the clean mushroom liquid to warm stock. Keep stock warm over medium-low heat. Dry the reconstituted porcinis with paper towels and set aside.
2 In a large sauté pan, heat the 3 tablespoons olive oil. Sauté the shitakes and criminis over medium-high heat just to soften, about 3 to 4 minutes. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper and set aside.
3 Heat a medium-sized heavy saucepan over medium heat, and add the ¼ cup olive oil. Add the onion and cook until softened and translucent but not browned, 8 to 10 minutes. Once the onions are translucent, add the rice and stir with a wooden spoon until toasted and opaque, 3 to 4 minutes.
4 Add the wine to the toasting rice, and then add four 6-ounce ladles of stock and cook, stirring, until it is absorbed. Continue adding the stock a ladle at a time, waiting until the liquid is absorbed before adding more. Cook until the rice is tender and creamy, yet still a little al dente, about 20 minutes. Stir in the sautéed mushrooms, butter, and cheese until well mixed.
5 Portion the risotto into four serving plates, topping with extra cheese.
Salmon Purses in Puffed Pastry with Shitake Cream Sauce
This dish looks like a beautifully wrapped gift, and that's exactly what it is: a moist and tender pavé of salmon covered in puff pastry, tied with a chive "ribbon." The shitake cream sauce takes mere minutes to make but tastes like a fine restaurant prepared it. Assemble the purses a few hours ahead of time for convenience, store them in the refrigerator, and bake just before serving.
**_For the fish:_**
**1 pound salmon, cut into 4 square pieces, skin removed**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**1 sheet puff pastry**
**1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon water, for the egg wash**
**4 chives**
**_For the sauce:_**
**1½ cups heavy cream**
**1 tablespoon butter**
**1 large shallot, minced**
**2 cups sliced shitake mushrooms**
**½ cup white wine**
**½ cup fumet (fish stock) or chicken stock**
**1 tablespoon lemon juice**
**1 tablespoon chopped parsley**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
small bowl
fork
parchment paper or silicone baking liner
sheet pan
rolling pin
pastry brush
small saucepan
spatula
sauté pan
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
baking
blanching
sautéing
deglazing
reducing sauce
**FUMET, S'IL VOUS PLAIT**
Fumet is the French word for fish stock. It's made with the heads and tails of white-fleshed fish, plus some onions and leeks. It takes less than an hour to make and freezes well.
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Line a sheet pan with a piece of parchment paper or a silicone baking liner and set aside.
3 Cut the puff pastry sheet into quarters. Roll out each piece of pastry to fit around a piece of salmon. Place a piece of salmon in each puff pastry square. Season the tops of the fish generously with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Gather together the edges of the dough and twist and pinch to form a purse. Set each purse on the sheet pan and brush lightly with the egg mixture. Place the pan in the oven and bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the pastry is golden brown.
4 While the purses are baking, blanch the chives. Bring a small saucepan of water to a boil and plunge the chives for 10 seconds. Remove the chives to a paper towel and set aside. Discard the boiling water and reserve the saucepan.
5 Now prepare the sauce. Reduce the heavy cream in a saucepan by about half and set it aside. Heat the butter in a sauté pan. When the foam subsides, add the shallot and sweat until tender, about 2 minutes. Add the mushroom slices and sauté until tender and wilted. Add the white wine and fish fumet to the mushroom mixture to deglaze the pan. Cook until the wine and fumet is reduced by at least half. Add the reduced cream to the mushrooms and continue to reduce the sauce until it has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon.
6 Remove the sauce from the heat and add the lemon juice, chopped parsley, kosher salt, and freshly ground pepper to taste.
7 Remove the salmon purses from the oven, and tie each with a chive ribbon. Spoon the sauce evenly onto four plates and top with the garnished salmon purses. Serve immediately.
Braised Lamb Shanks
Shanks are legs, which means they are walking muscle. Any part of the animal that gets a lot of exercise is going to yield tougher meat, which is perfect for the tenderizing effect of braising. A red wine and tomato base produces a deeply colored and flavored gravy. By cutting the meat off the bone and returning it to the sauce, you have almost a stew.
**4 lamb shanks**
**3 tablespoons olive oil**
**1 large onion, cut into chunks**
**4 carrots, cut into chunks**
**2 celery stalks, cut into chunks**
**6 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed**
**4 sprigs thyme**
**2 sprigs rosemary**
**1 bay leaf**
**2 cups red wine**
**3 cups brown chicken or veal stock**
**2 cups diced canned tomatoes, drained**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
Dutch oven or large saucepan with lid
wooden spoon
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
braising
**MAKES 4–6 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 300°F.
2 Trim the shanks, if necessary, of excess fat. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper. Heat a small Dutch oven or large saucepan with olive oil. Sauté the lamb shanks, in batches, until well browned on all sides. Remove and set aside.
3 Add the onions, carrots, celery, and garlic to the same pot and cook for a few minutes, until softened. Add the thyme, rosemary, and bay leaf. Then add the wine to deglaze the pan. Add the stock and tomatoes. Season lightly with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper, then return the shanks to the pot.
4 Cover the pot with a tight-fitting lid and place it in the oven for about 2½ hours. When the shanks are tender, remove the pot from the oven and let the shanks rest for about 10 minutes. After resting, serve the shanks whole with the sauce, or cut the meat from the bone and return it to the sauce. Season with additional kosher salt and freshly ground pepper before serving.
Roast Duck with Glazed Bing Cherries
It's almost unthinkable that a dinner this impressive could come together in under an hour, if you are willing to tackle the first part of the recipe in advance. Duck is notoriously fatty. Boiling it first and then roasting it renders a lot of the fat so that most bites are the best bites—tender, gamey duck with thin, crispy skin. Glazed Bing cherries provide a pleasantly sweet note to this classic melody.
**_For the duck:_**
**1,5-pound Long Island or Peking duckling (fully defrosted, if frozen)**
**1 teaspoon kosher salt**
**½ teaspoon finely ground black pepper**
**_For the cherries:_**
**1 cup pitted fresh Bing cherries**
**1/3 cup balsamic vinegar **
**2 tablespoons honey**
**1 sprig of thyme**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large stockpot with lid
fork
plate
wooden spoons
roasting or heavy-bottomed sheet pan
small saucepan
spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
roasting
poaching
**MAKES 2 SERVINGS.**
**BALANCING ACT**
If you are ever stuck with a less-than-desirable quality vinegar, simply add a little honey or sugar to the mix. The sweetness removes the intense acidity of the vinegar, smoothing out the flavor.
1 Fill a tall stockpot with enough cold water to cover the duck (make sure there is enough room left in the pot for the duck). Cover the pot and bring to a boil over high heat.
2 Meanwhile, using the tines of a fork at an angle, prick the skin of the duck all over, especially the fattiest areas, such as the breast and thighs. Do not pierce the meat.
3 Once the water is vigorously boiling, carefully lower the duck into the stockpot, neck end first, allowing the cavity to fill with water so the duck sinks to the bottom of the pot. Place a heavy dinner plate over the duck to weigh it down so it is always submerged. When the water returns to a boil, reduce the heat and simmer gently for 40 minutes.
4 When the duck has finished simmering, remove the plate and carefully lift out the duck, using two wooden spoons, one in each hand, through the cavity. Carefully hold the duck over the stockpot to drain any liquid from the cavity.
5 Place the duck on a cutting board lined with a few paper towels. Pat the duck dry thoroughly and coat the skin on all sides with the kosher salt and freshly ground pepper. Transfer the duck to a roasting pan, breast-side up.
6 Now preheat the oven to 500°F and move the rack to the bottom third of the oven. In the time it takes the oven to come to temperature, the duck will have time to dry its skin prior to roasting, which makes for the crispiest skin.
7 As the oven preheats and the duck air-dries, prepare the glazed cherries. In a small saucepan, combine the cherries, vinegar, honey, and thyme and bring to strong simmer. Cook for 10 to 15 minutes until the liquid has thickened to a syrup and the cherries have softened. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Set aside.
8 Place the duck in the oven legs first. Roast for 30 minutes. After the first 15 minutes, remove the pan from the oven and shut the door. Spoon out the fat that accumulates in the roasting pan to prevent the fat from smoking. To prevent the back of the duck from sticking to the pan, move the duck around with a spatula.
9 Return the duck to the oven for the remaining 15 minutes. Before carving, let the duck rest for 10 minutes. Serve one breast and one leg with the thigh attached per person, drizzled with the glazed cherries.
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Fried Sage
Gnocchi are potato-based dumplings, named for their shape (gnocco means "lump" in Italian). The dough in this recipe is made with sweet potato instead, which provides a lovely orange color and unique taste. Fried sage offers both a fragrant finish to the dish, as well as a textural highlight thanks to its paper-thin crunch. Toasted chopped hazelnuts or crumbled Italian almond cookies also make beguiling garnishes for this versatile from-scratch appetizer, main course, or side dish.
**_For the gnocchi:_**
**3 large sweet potatoes (about ¾ pound each), baked, cooled, and peeled**
**12 ounces ricotta cheese**
**1 cup freshly grated Parmesan, plus extra for garnish**
**1 tablespoon dark brown sugar**
**1 tablespoon maple syrup**
**1½ teaspoons kosher salt**
**¼ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg**
**¼ teaspoon ground cardamom**
**3 cups all-purpose flour**
**_For the sage:_**
**1 bunch fresh sage, leaves only**
**½ cup olive oil**
**½ cup (1 stick) butter**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting boards
chef's knife
box grater
grater or Microplane
fork
large mixing bowl
rubber spatula
large saucepans or stockpot
strainer or slotted spoon
sheet pan (lined with parchment paper)
small and large sauté pans
tongs
wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
frying
sautéing
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 In a large bowl, mash the sweet potato flesh with a fork. Fold in the ricotta, Parmesan, brown sugar, maple syrup, salt, nutmeg, and cardamom. Mix well to blend, then sprinkle in the flour, ½ cup at a time, and gather the dough into a ball.
2 Divide the dough into quarters. On a floured surface, roll each piece of dough with the palms of your lightly floured hands into a long rope, about ¾-inch wide. Cut each rope into 1-inch pieces. Roll gnocchi over the tines of a fork to make a patterned surface. Transfer the gnocchi to another cutting board.
3 In a large saucepan or stockpot, bring salted water to a boil over high heat. Cook the gnocchi in batches until tender, about 5 minutes. Strain with a slotted spoon on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.
4 Once all the gnocchi are cooked, fry the sage. Heat the olive oil in a small sauté pan over medium heat until it shimmers. Add a few sage leaves at a time and fry until the surface of the sage bubbles and crisps, about 10 seconds (turn if necessary). Transfer the fried sage to a paper towel to drain. Repeat until all the sage leaves have been fried.
5 In a large sauté pan, melt the butter and cook until it begins to turn golden brown. Add the gnocchi, and heat through, tossing well to coat in the brown butter. Transfer to a serving bowl or individual dishes, sprinkle with freshly grated Parmesan, and garnish with the fried sage.
CHAPTER
18
For the Health-Conscious Cook
Carrot Ginger Soup
Fish Tacos with Watermelon and Jicama Slaw
Mango Curry Chicken Salad
Baked Lemon Potatoes
Steamed Asparagus with Red Pepper Coulis
Carrot Ginger Soup
There are dozens of recipes for carrot soup, but this recipe uses carrot juice instead of the more typical chicken or vegetable stock as its base. The result is an intensely carrot-flavored soup that can be served hot or chilled. If you do not care for ginger, consider using a teaspoon of cumin or curry powder instead. Use fresh carrot juice—not from the can—even if you do not juice your own.
**_For the soup:_**
**6 cups carrot juice, divided**
**3 cups chopped carrots**
**1 small onion, chopped**
**1-inch piece of ginger, peeled and thinly sliced**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**_Optional garnishes:_**
**dollop of plain nonfat yogurt**
**toasted sunflower seeds**
**chopped chives**
**shelled pistachios**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet and dry measuring cups
cutting board
chef's knife
electric juicer
large saucepan with lid
wooden spoon
blender
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
juicing
poaching
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 In a large saucepan, add 4 cups of carrot juice, the chopped carrots, chopped onions, and sliced ginger. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, cover, and reduce heat to low. Cook until the carrots are tender, about 10 minutes.
2 Transfer the contents of the saucepan to a blender and purée in batches. Add some of the additional 2 cups carrot juice to help blend, if necessary. Return the puréed mixture to the saucepan with the remaining carrot juice, stirring gently until thickened and thoroughly heated through.
3 Season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Garnish as desired.
Fish Tacos with Watermelon and Jicama Slaw
These fish tacos are filled with flavor, but low in fat and calories. A firm white fish, like tilapia or snapper, packs a powerful punch with a coating of spices.
**_For the slaw:_**
**1 cup watermelon, julienne**
**1 small jicama, julienne**
**¼ cup chopped cilantro**
**juice of two limes**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**_For the tacos:_**
**2 teaspoons ground coriander**
**2 teaspoons ground cumin**
**2 teaspoons chili powder**
**2 teaspoons black pepper**
**2 teaspoons kosher salt**
**2 pounds tilapia, red snapper, or fluke**
**3 tablespoons olive oil**
**8 flour tortillas**
**_Garnish:_**
**1 avocado, sliced**
**½ cup nonfat sour cream**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large mixing bowl
rubber spatula
shallow bowl
pastry brush
nonstick sauté pan
spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
sautéing
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 Prepare the slaw by gently tossing the watermelon, jicama, chopped cilantro, and lime juice in a large bowl. Season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Set aside.
2 Stir together the coriander, cumin, chili powder, black pepper, and kosher salt in a shallow bowl. Brush the fish on all sides with the olive oil, then coat both sides evenly with the spice mixture. Heat a nonstick skillet over medium heat, and add the fish. Cook for about 3 to 4 minutes per side.
3 Divide the fish into eight portions. Place two tortillas on each of four plates. Top each tortilla with a portion of fish, some slaw, a few slices of avocado, and a tablespoon of nonfat sour cream.
Mango Curry Chicken Salad
Even people who swear they don't like curry love this chicken salad. Made with yogurt instead of mayonnaise, packed with unpeeled crisp green apple and sweet golden raisins, and finished with a touch of mango chutney, this recipe makes a satisfying and healthy lunch. Serve this colorful dish over greens or on a toasted whole-wheat pita. Chop the chicken and apples into a small dice, and serve the salad in endive spears for an elegant hors d'oeuvre. The recipe doubles easily to feed a larger crowd.
**1 pound boneless chicken breast**
**1/3 cup plain yogurt **
**1 tablespoon curry powder**
**2 tablespoons mango chutney**
**¼ cup golden raisins**
**½ Granny Smith apple, diced**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
saucepan
tongs
large mixing bowl
rubber spatula
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
poaching
knife skills
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 To poach the chicken, place the breasts in a medium saucepan. Cover with cold water, and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Lower the heat and cover. Poach the chicken for 15 minutes or until firm to the touch. Remove the chicken from the liquid and cool for 20 minutes on a cutting board. Then cut the chicken into ½-inch dice.
2 In a mixing bowl, combine the plain yogurt, curry powder, and chutney. Add the chicken, raisins, and apple. Season to taste with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Mix gently until combined. Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.
_The chicken can be poached up to several days in advance. Alternatively, use leftover chicken from a roasted whole bird, chicken soup, etc._
Baked Lemon Potatoes
This recipe is inspired by _potates lemonates_ , a Greek dish of potatoes baked in lemon juice and olive oil. Greece has an ancient and rich culture, but the appeal of its cuisine is rooted in simplicity and honesty. Any authentic Greek kitchen boasts a pantry of healthful foods: sea salt, black pepper, olive oil, lemons, oregano, paprika, onions, and garlic. Seasoned with traditional Mediterranean flavors and baked until tender, this recipe is as delicious as it is guilt-free. Best of all, it can be paired with virtually anything.
**2 pounds waxy potatoes, peeled and cut into evenly sized chunks**
**2 tablespoons dried oregano**
**¼ cup olive oil**
**juice of two lemons**
**sea salt to taste**
**water**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
measuring spoon
cutting board
chef's knife
baking pan or casserole
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
baking
**WHY WAXY POTATOES?**
Waxy potatoes are low-starch potatoes, also called boiling potatoes. The most typical varieties are white or red round potatoes. Such potatoes hold their shape best after cooking, but other types are preferred for baking, frying, or mashing. Waxy potatoes work best in the Baked Lemon Potatoes recipe because this preparation technique falls somewhere between baking, roasting, and braising. The potatoes are placed in a baking pan, but the 400°F temperature is more typical of roasting. The process is akin to braising because the potatoes are partially submerged in water and lemon juice. Since the liquid ultimately evaporates, and the tops of the potatoes crisp and brown while the bottoms stay moist and tender, it is ultimately a baked dish.
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Place the potatoes in one layer in a shallow baking pan or casserole. Sprinkle with the oregano, then drizzle with the olive oil and the juice of two lemons. Sprinkle with sea salt, then pour enough water into the pan so that the potatoes are almost covered.
3 Bake uncovered for 30 to 40 minutes until the liquid has almost completely evaporated and the potatoes are tender to the touch and light golden brown on top.
Steamed Asparagus with Red Pepper Coulis
Steamed asparagus spears are wonderfully paired with a bright red pepper sauce in this recipe. In fact, the red pepper coulis is so easy and so delicious, you'll find yourself serving it with chicken, drizzling it over fish, and using it as a sandwich spread or vegetable dip. Season the asparagus spears with a little sea salt before you serve them so they taste as vibrant as they look.
**_For the red pepper coulis:_**
**4 red bell peppers**
**4 tablespoons olive oil, divided**
**2 tablespoons red wine vinegar**
**2–3 tablespoons water**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**_For the asparagus:_**
**2 bunches asparagus**
**olive oil**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
sheet pan
tongs
large mixing bowl
blender or food processor
peeler
saucepan or stockpot
steamer basket
strainer or colander
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
roasting
steaming
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2 Slice the peppers in half, removing stems, seeds, and white ribs. Rub the peppers with 2 tablespoons olive oil and place them on a sheet pan, skin-side up. Roast in the oven for about half an hour, or until they become charred and soft. Remove the sheet pan from the oven and place the peppers in a bowl. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap for about 5 minutes to allow the peppers to steam and soften further. Uncover and let them cool before handling them to peel.
3 Once cool, remove and discard the skins. Place the peppers in a blender or food processor. Purée with the vinegar, remaining olive oil, and water. Season to taste with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Set aside.
4 To make the asparagus, trim the spears of their tough, dry bottoms and discard. One by one, peel each asparagus from about an inch below the tip to the bottom to get rid of the tough and fibrous outer skin.
5 Place a steamer basket in a deep saucepan or shallow stockpot, and fill with water to the surface of the basket. Bring to a boil. Once the water comes to a boil, lower the asparagus spears in the pot and cook for about 1 to 2 minutes, or until bright green, but tender when pierced with a paring knife.
6 Serve steamed asparagus drizzled with red pepper coulis.
CHAPTER
19
For the Grill Master
Pork Teriyaki Skewers with Peppers and Pineapple
Ahi Tuna Steaks with Toasted Mustard Seeds and Yogurt Sauce
Grilled Chicken Satay Skewers with Coconut Lemongrass Sauce
Grilled Eggplant with Mint and Feta
Grilled Corn on the Cob with Chili Lime Butter
Pork Teriyaki Skewers with Peppers and Pineapple
The marinade in this recipe is not a traditional teriyaki sauce (reduced soy sauce and sugar) because it has oil, ginger, dry mustard, and garlic. It can be used for virtually any meat or fish dish, whether grilled, broiled, or sautéed. Make this recipe with chicken, steak, or swordfish.
**_For the marinade:_**
**½ cup soy sauce**
**¼ cup vegetable oil**
**2 tablespoons dark brown sugar**
**2 teaspoons dry mustard**
**1 teaspoon powdered ginger**
**4 cloves garlic, mashed into paste**
**_For the kebabs:_**
**2 pounds pork (loin or boneless chops), cut into 1-inch chunks**
**1 red bell pepper, cut into chunks**
**1 yellow bell pepper, cut into chunks**
**1 green bell pepper, cut into chunks**
**1 Vidalia onion, cut into chunks**
**1 small pineapple, cut into chunks**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
paring or chef's knife
large mixing bowls
whisk
rubber spatula
metal (or bamboo) skewers
outdoor or indoor electric grill
pastry brush
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
marinating
grilling
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the marinade, combine all the ingredients in a large bowl and blend with a whisk. Add the pork, vegetables, and pineapple. Gently toss with a rubber spatula and mix well to coat. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and marinate for 2 to 4 hours in the refrigerator.
2 Place a piece of pork on a skewer, threading down to the bottom, leaving enough room to handle the skewer. Add a piece of onion, red pepper, yellow pepper, green pepper, another piece of onion, and a piece of pineapple. Repeat this pattern until you reach the tip of the skewer.
3 Once all the skewers have been assembled, preheat the grill. Save any remaining marinade to baste the kebabs as they cook. Place the kebabs on the grill and cook for 3 minutes per side for a total of about 12 minutes. Baste as necessary with the excess marinade while grilling.
4 Serve immediately either on the skewers, or removed from the skewers on a large platter.
_If you make the marinade in advance, store it in a tightly sealed container in the refrigerator for up to one week._
Ahi Tuna Steaks with Toasted Mustard Seeds and Yogurt Sauce
Ahi tuna is yellow-fin or "big eye" tuna, called by its Hawaiian name. When sliced into steaks and grilled, the tuna takes on a meat-like flavor and texture. Preference prevails, but the best way to enjoy the fish fully is to cook it rare so that it retains its supple and moist interior flesh. The yogurt sauce provides a pleasing contrast in temperature and texture. When the toasted and warm mustard seeds are added to the yogurt, they instantly infuse the sauce.
**_For the yogurt sauce:_**
**1 cup plain yogurt**
**2 tablespoons yellow mustard seeds**
**2 tablespoons black mustard seeds**
**1 tablespoon freshly grated ginger**
**juice of one lime**
**1 tablespoon chopped cilantro**
**_For the tuna:_**
**4, 6-ounce 1-inch thick tuna steaks**
**2 tablespoons canola oil**
**1 teaspoon ground coriander**
**1 teaspoon ground cumin**
**½ teaspoon kosher salt**
**½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
box grater or Microplane
large and small mixing bowls
sauté pan
rubber spatula
pastry brush
outdoor or indoor electric grill
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
mark your meat (quadrillage)
grilling
**MAKES 4 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the yogurt sauce, place the yogurt in a medium bowl. Then toast the yellow and black mustard seeds in a sauté pan until toasted and fragrant (they will begin to pop and jump). Pour the warm, toasted seeds into the yogurt. Then add the ginger, lime, and cilantro. Stir and set aside.
2 For the tuna, combine the oil, coriander, cumin, kosher salt, and freshly ground black pepper in a small bowl, then brush evenly over the four fish steaks on both sides. Grill the tuna steaks to taste (rare to medium). After 2 minutes, turn the steaks 90 degrees to "mark" them.
3 To serve, place each tuna steak on a plate and drizzle with yogurt sauce and chopped herbs.
Grilled Chicken Satay Skewers with Coconut Lemongrass Sauce
Satay, a dish found all over Southeast Asia, is made of sliced, skewered meat grilled over a fire. Peanut sauce is likely what makes satay so popular—the perfect blend of sweet and spicy to accompany grilled chicken, pork, beef, lamb, or even fish. This recipe uses coconut milk and lemongrass to punctuate the creamy texture and fragrant tone of the dipping sauce. Replacing the chicken with any meat you like makes this recipe even more versatile. Look for the nam pla (fish sauce) and curry paste in the Asian section of your local grocery store.
**_For the chicken:_**
**1 pound skinless, boneless chicken breasts**
**½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper**
**1 teaspoon ground coriander**
**1 teaspoon ground cumin**
**¾ teaspoon turmeric**
**2 garlic cloves, minced**
**¼ cup anola oil**
**juice of half a lemon**
**1 tablespoon soy sauce**
**2 teaspoons sugar**
**1 teaspoon nam pla (fish sauce)**
**_For the peanut sauce:_**
**1 cup unsalted peanuts**
**1 tablespoon canola oil**
**2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh lemongrass**
**2, 13.5-ounce cans unsweetened coconut milk (about 3½ cups)**
**2 tablespoons red (or green) curry paste**
**2 tablespoons sugar**
**juice of half a lemon**
**1 tablespoon nam pla (fish sauce)**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet and dry measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
large mixing bowl
rubber spatula
food processor
large saucepan
wooden spoon
bamboo skewers
pastry brush
outdoor or indoor electric grill
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
marinating
grilling
**MAKES 4–6 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the chicken, cut thin, ¼-inch slices that run the length of the chicken breasts. Add all the remaining ingredients in a large bowl and combine. Toss the chicken in the marinade. Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours or overnight.
2 Meanwhile, prepare the dipping sauce. In a food processor, grind the peanuts as fine as possible without making paste. Heat a saucepan over medium heat, and add the canola oil and chopped lemongrass. Sauté until softened, about 3 minutes. Add 2 cups of the coconut milk and the curry paste. Raise the heat to high, stir to dissolve the curry paste, and cook for about 10 minutes, until the oil from the coconut milk separates and rises to the surface.
3 Add the ground peanuts and the remaining coconut milk, and stir. Bring the sauce to a vigorous boil, then lower the heat to medium. Add the sugar, lemon juice, and nam pla (fish sauce). Cook for about 15 minutes, until the sauce has thickened slightly and the oil separates and rises to the top again. Remove the sauce from the heat and set aside.
4 Preheat the grill to medium-high. Remove the chicken from the refrigerator. Thread each slice of chicken on a bamboo skewer, down the middle of the meat. Lightly brush each piece of meat with canola oil and place on the grill. Cook for 2 minutes per side.
5 Remove about half the oil from the top of the dipping sauce, then stir in the remaining oil and mix well to incorporate. Serve the skewers with a bowl of dipping sauce.
_The sauce can be served hot or lukewarm. Leftover sauce should be stored in the refrigerator or freezer where it will solidify. It can be reheated in the microwave, and thinned with a bit of water or additional coconut milk if it's too thick._
Grilled Eggplant with Mint and Feta
Fresh mint sprigs and salty feta crumbled over thick slices of eggplant hot off the grill is a dish hard to resist. The cheese melts a little from the heat of the eggplant, which helps to marry the flavors. Serve this as a side dish with grilled lamb, steak, chicken, or fish. Any leftovers can be enjoyed cold the next day.
**2 large Italian eggplants, cut crosswise into 1-inch thick slices**
**1 cup olive oil for brushing**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**1 cup crumbled feta cheese**
**12 fresh mint leaves**
**extra olive oil for drizzling**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet and dry measuring cups
cutting board
chef's knife
pastry brush
outdoor or indoor electric grill
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
knife skills
grilling
**MAKES 8–10 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the grill to medium-high. Brush one side of the eggplant slices with olive oil and place the oiled side on the hot grill. Meanwhile, brush the top of each slice with olive oil and season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Cook for 5 minutes on the first side, then turn the eggplant over, cover the grill, and cook for another 5 minutes, or until the eggplant is cooked and tender. Depending on the size of your grill, you might need to cook in batches.
2 Remove the eggplant slices to a platter, neatly overlapping, and tent with aluminum foil.
3 Cut the mint leaves in chiffonade. Sprinkle the feta over the eggplant, and then drizzle lightly with olive oil. Sprinkle with mint and serve.
Grilled Corn on the Cob with Chili Lime Butter
Fresh summer corn . . . the flesh is so good and the taste is so sweet than many people run their teeth across these ears raw, relishing the juicy corn milk inside each bursting kernel. Grilled corn is equally delicious, especially when the kernels char and every bite screams "barbecue!" There are two ways to grill corn on the cob: in the husk, or out of the husk. Either way is far better than boiling beautiful corn to death in a pot inside when the best of the meal is grilled outdoors. Serve the compound butter made with chili and lime with either version.
**4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened**
**zest of 1 lime**
**½ jalapeno, seeded and finely minced**
**½ teaspoon kosher salt**
**6 ears of corn**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
cutting board
chef's knife
grater or Microplane
large and small mixing bowls
kitchen twine
grill basket (optional)
outdoor grill
tongs
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
grilling
**THE ETIQUETTE OF SHOPPING FOR CORN**
There are a few things to keep in mind when selecting and storing fresh sweet corn. Corn husks should be bright green, and the kernels should be colorful, plump, and moist. The size of the ears themselves varies and is not in itself an indicator of quality. Once the husk and silk are removed, corn should be prepared and eaten immediately. For this reason, it is best to buy corn in the husk, and only take just a peek, if at all. Do not fully peel back the husk whether or not you plan to take the ear home; it will not stay as fresh for you or the next buyer.
**MAKES 6 SERVINGS.**
1 To make the compound butter, combine the butter, lime zest, minced jalapeno, and kosher salt in a small bowl. Place in plastic wrap and roll into a log. Refrigerate for at least one hour. Slice into discs to serve.
2 **In the husk:** Pull the husks of the corn back, but do not remove them. Trim the excess silk from the end of the corn. Soak the corn in a bowl of cold water for 30 minutes to 1 hour. Preheat the grill to a medium temperature.
3 Remove the corn from the water and shake to remove any excess water. Place the husks over the kernels and tie each ear with twine. Place cobs on the heated grill (or in a grill basket first) and cook for approximately 15 to 30 minutes, turning frequently. Remove the husk and any remaining silk after grilling. Be careful, as the corn will be extremely hot when it comes off the grill.
1 **No husk:** Preheat the grill to a medium temperature. Remove the husk and corn silk from each ear. Place the corn on the grill, and cook for approximately 10 minutes, turning frequently. Corn is done when the kernels have browned.
CHAPTER
20
For the Holidays
Herbed Roast Turkey
Perfect Pan Gravy
Chestnut Cornbread Dressing
Maple Pecan Sweet Potatoes
Champagne Cranberry Sauce
Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta
Holiday Gingerbread
Herbed Roast Turkey
Bathed in butter on the outside and infused with fresh herbs on the inside, this turkey is golden brown, moist, and savory. When it comes to salt and pepper, the inside of the bird must be seasoned just as much as the outside. The flavors infuse from within during cooking. Rub the cavity with lots of kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper before filling it with herbs.
**12- to 14-pound whole turkey**
**kosher salt and freshly ground pepper**
**½ cup unsalted butter, melted**
**½ bunch each fresh sage, thyme, and savory**
**1 medium carrot, cut in chunks**
**1 medium celery stalk, cut in chunks**
**2 onions, cut in chunks**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
cutting board
chef's knife
kitchen twine
roasting pan with rack
pastry brush
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
roasting
**TO BRINE OR NOT TO BRINE**
Brining is a process in which food is placed in a strong solution of water and salt (a brine) in order to season, pickle, or preserve it. Other ingredients, such as sugar or molasses, can be added to this solution for flavor or color. Specifically, brining a turkey helps the bird to retain moisture and impart flavor throughout the meat. Brining can take anywhere from 4 hours to overnight, depending on your schedule and needs. The longer you plan on brining the turkey, however, the less salt you should use. When the bird is removed from the brine to be put in the oven, it first must be rinsed thoroughly inside and out, and then patted dry inside and out. These are two critical steps to ensure that the turkey is neither unpleasantly salty nor damp before being cooked.
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 450°F.
2 Wash the turkey well under cold running water. Pat it thoroughly dry. Remove any excess fat from cavity. Tuck the wings underneath body.
3 Season the outside and inside of the turkey heavily with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Stuff the turkey cavity with several sprigs each of sage, thyme, and savory. Tie the legs together with twine.
4 Place the chopped carrots, celery, and onions in the bottom of a roasting pan. Place the rack on top of the vegetables. Then put the turkey, breast side up, on the rack. Brush the butter over the top and sides of the turkey.
5 Put the turkey in the oven and immediately lower the heat to 325°F. Roast the turkey for one hour undisturbed. After an hour, remove the turkey from the oven (shut the oven door), and baste the turkey with the fat in the bottom of the pan. Continue roasting for approximately 2½ hours more (15 minutes per pound), until the internal temperature in the thickest part of the thigh measures 180°F or the breast measures 170°F.
_Allow the turkey to rest for at least 20 minutes before carving._
Perfect Pan Gravy
Once the turkey is done and spends at least 20 minutes resting, it's time to make the gravy. Perfect timing, just the way the culinary gods intended. While the turkey rests, you have plenty of time to prepare fresh pan gravy—and gather all the wonderful flavors from the drippings. Use chicken broth from the can if you have not made your own stock.
**¼ cup fat from the pan drippings**
**¼ cup all-purpose flour**
**1 quart chicken stock**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
wooden spoon
large saucepan
whisk
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
thickening sauces (with a roux)
**MAKES APPROXIMATELY 3 CUPS.**
1 Remove the turkey and the rack from the roasting pan. Carefully pour off all the liquid fat in the roasting pan. Measure ¼ cup of fat and set the rest aside.
2 Place the roasting pan over two burners on a medium flame. Add the chicken stock to the pan, and scrape up all the drippings (sucs) using a wooden spoon. Continue scraping until the pan is fully deglazed. Transfer the liquid back to a large measuring cup or other pouring vessel.
3 Using a whisk, combine the flour and ¼ cup pan drippings in a large saucepan over medium heat, whisking constantly for 2 minutes. While whisking and in a steady stream, pour in the chicken stock from deglazing the roasting pan. Continue whisking until the mixture comes to a boil and begins to thicken. Add more chicken stock or water, if the mixture becomes too thick too quickly. Lower the heat and cook for a few minutes more, then season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.
4 Once the turkey is carved, pour some of the juices into the gravy, season again, and serve.
Chestnut Cornbread Dressing
This recipe is made with white bread to balance the density of the corn bread. The celery is cooked only briefly before being added to the mix to provide a delightful crunch once baked. The chestnuts are a welcome and hearty accent, but any of the following items could be added in their place: 1 pound sausage; 1 cup chopped dried apples; 1 cup dried cranberries; 1 cup toasted pecans.
**8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter**
**1 large onion, diced**
**3 medium celery ribs with leaves, finely diced**
**10 slices white sandwich bread, cut into ½-inch cubes and dried overnight or in the oven**
**6 small or 3 jumbo corn muffins, crumbled**
**2 eggs, lightly beaten**
**1 teaspoon fresh thyme, chopped**
**6 large sage leaves, chopped**
**1 quart chicken stock**
**1, 15-ounce jar whole chestnuts**
**kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
fork
sauté pan
wooden spoon
large mixing bowl
baking pan or casserole
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
sautéing
baking
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 350°F.
2 In a large sauté pan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring often, until the onion is golden, about 10 minutes. Add the celery and cook for an additional 2 minutes.
3 Scrape the vegetables and butter into a large bowl. Allow the vegetables to cool, then add the beaten eggs, dried white bread, cornbread, and chestnuts. Stir in enough of the stock to moisten the stuffing, about 3½ cups or the full 4 cups. Season with thyme, sage, kosher salt, and freshly ground black pepper.
4 Place the mixture in a buttered baking dish, cover with aluminum foil, and bake for 30 minutes. Remove the foil and bake for an additional 15 to 20 minutes, or until the top browns.
Maple Pecan Sweet Potatoes
If marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes aren't really your thing, give this recipe a try. Maple syrup and pecans, both indigenous to North America, are a natural pair. The sweet and nutty accent transforms sweet potatoes into a splendid holiday side dish. Add your own personal touch with a pinch of ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, or orange zest.
**6 sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into large chunks**
**4 tablespoons butter, melted**
**¼ cup maple syrup**
**3 tablespoons dark brown sugar**
**½ cup chopped pecans**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
chef's knife
mixing bowls
wooden spoon or rubber spatula
baking pan
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
baking
**YOU SAY SWEET POTATO, AND I SAY YAM**
Only one of us is right (it's you!). Sweet potatoes are the sweet orange-fleshed roots we sometimes cover in marshmallows and bake into pies. Yams are not actually sweet, and they don't have orange flesh. Cultivated in Latin America and Africa, yams have brown skin and yellow flesh. There are other varieties, some with pink skin, some with purple flesh. Since some sweet potatoes in the U.S. have white flesh, producers used the African word for the tuber "nyami" to inspire "yam." It's kind of like Chilean sea bass . . . neither Chilean nor bass, it's actually Arctic tooth fish, so named for marketing purposes.
**MAKES 6–8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat oven to 400°F.
2 In a large mixing bowl combine the sweet potatoes, melted butter, maple syrup, and brown sugar.
3 Butter a baking dish and add the sweet potato mixture. Top with pecans and bake uncovered 30 to 40 minutes, until the sweet potatoes are tender and the top is lightly browned.
Champagne Cranberry Sauce
A festive time of year calls for a little bubbly, even in the holiday cranberry sauce. And with all the toasting and roasting around the family table, there is likely a cup of champagne to spare. Reduce the sauce as little or as much as you like, keeping in mind that it naturally thickens as it cools. Add chopped pecans or currants for a meatier sauce. Go ahead . . . splurge!
**1, 12-ounce package fresh cranberries**
**1 cup champagne or sparkling wine**
**1 cup granulated sugar**
**zest of one orange**
**freshly squeezed juice of one orange**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
grater or Microplane
large sauté pan
wooden spoon
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
reducing sauce
**MAKES 8–12 SERVINGS.**
1 Mix the sugar and champagne in a large and deep sauté pan over low heat until the sugar is dissolved. Bring the mixture to a boil on high heat, and add the cranberries.
2 Return to a boil and reduce the heat. Add the orange zest and juice. Simmer gently for 10 minutes. The cranberries will pop and break down. Stir occasionally, until the sauce has reduced and thickened.
3 Remove the sauce from the heat and cool completely before refrigerating. The sauce may be served warm or chilled (it will congeal when chilled).
_Water may be substituted for the champagne._
Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta
Brussels sprouts are bite-sized cabbages. When roasted, they caramelize and take on a wonderfully savory flavor. By slicing them in half, double the surface area becomes caramelized and the outer leaves crisp. Prepared this way, they can be as addictive as potato chips, but much better for you. Cooking them with a little pancetta, an Italian bacon, adds a smoky accent. Toss in some dried cranberries before serving this side dish for a sweet touch and some complementary color.
**2 pounds Brussels sprouts, halved**
**6 ounces pancetta, chopped**
**¼ cup olive oil**
**kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
wet measuring cup
cutting board
chef's knife
large mixing bowl
wooden spoon
rimmed sheet pan
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
roasting
**MAKES 8 SERVINGS.**
1 Preheat the oven to 425°F.
2 In a large mixing bowl, combine the Brussels sprouts, pancetta, and olive oil. Toss well to coat, then season with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper.
3 Spread the mixture in one even layer on a rimmed sheet pan. Roast in the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the Brussels sprouts are fork-tender.
Holiday Gingerbread
The following is a recipe for rolled cookie dough from which shapes can be cut. Molasses and dark brown sugar give the dough an intensely dark color and rich flavor. The spices are basic: ginger, cinnamon, and cloves. The result is a crispy "snap" that is sweet with a medium spice. Other spices certainly could be added within the framework of this recipe, such as cardamom, allspice, nutmeg, or mace. The gingerbread cookies stay crisp for weeks if stored properly in an airtight container. Once iced, however, these cookies soften and become chewy within a few days. Use the buttercream frosting from the Birthday Cake recipe.
**2¼ cups all purpose flour, divided**
**2 tablespoons ground ginger**
**1 teaspoon baking soda**
**1 teaspoon ground cinnamon**
**½ teaspoon ground cloves**
**1 cup brown sugar**
**¾ cup (1½ sticks) butter**
**¼ cup molasses**
**1 large egg**
**ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT**
dry and wet measuring cups
measuring spoons
cutting board
large mixing bowl
wooden spoon
whisk
saucepan
rubber spatula
hand or standing mixer (optional)
rolling pin
cookie cutters
silicone baking liners or parchment paper
sheet pans
cooling rack
**ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES**
mise en place
"spoon and sweep" flour
baking
**LEAVE SOMEONE HANGING**
Use this recipe to make gingerbread men ornaments by adding an additional cup of flour to the recipe. Second, decorate the dough with hard candies, dried fruits, and nuts. Finally, make holes at the top of each cookie before baking.
**MAKES 8 DOZEN COOKIES.**
1 Combine the first five ingredients, but just half the flour, in a mixing bowl. Then whisk in the brown sugar.
2 In a small saucepan, melt the butter and whisk it into the flour mixture with the molasses and egg. With a wooden spoon, stir in the remaining flour.
3 Form the dough into four small balls and wrap each one in plastic. Chill the dough until firm, for at least 1 hour or up to 2 days.
4 Line two baking sheets with silicone baking liners or parchment paper, and preheat the oven to 350°F.
5 Roll one ball of dough with a rolling pin on a floured surface. Use cookie cutters to create fun holiday shapes, and place the cookies two inches apart on the lined sheet.
6 Place the sheet on the middle oven rack and bake for 10 to 12 minutes. Cool on a cooling rack before decorating.
APPENDIX
A
Equipment Materials
APPENDIX
B
Measurement Conversions
Volume Measurements
1 gallon = 4 quarts = 8 pints = 16 cups = 128 fluid ounces
4 cups = 1 quart = 2 pints = 32 fluid ounces = 64 tablespoons = 1 liter
2 cups = 1 pint = 16 fluid ounces = 32 tablespoons = 500 milliliters
1 cup = ½ pint = 8 fluid ounces = 16 tablespoons = 250 milliliters
¾ cup = 6 fluid ounces = 12 tablespoons = 175 milliliters
2/3 cup = 5. ounces = 10 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons = 150 milliliters
½ cup = 4 fluid ounces = 8 tablespoons = 125 milliliters
1/3 cup = 2. ounces = 5 tablespoons + 1 teaspoon = 75 milliliters
¼ cup = 2 fluid ounces = 4 tablespoons = 60 milliliters
1/8 cup = 1 fluid ounce = 2 tablespoons = 30 milliliters
1 tablespoon = 3 teaspoons = 15 milliliters
1 teaspoon = 5 milliliters
½ teaspoon = 2 milliliters
¼ teaspoon = 1 milliliter
1/8 teaspoon = a pinch
Weight Measurements
16 ounces = 455 grams = 1 pound
8 ounces = 225 grams = ½ pound
4 ounces = 115 grams = ¼ pound
3 ounces = 85 grams
2 ounces = 55 grams
1 ounce = 30 grams
Linear Measurements
1 inch = 2.54 centimeters
1 centimeter = 0.394 inch
APPENDIX
C
Glossary
al forno:
an Italian phrase for baked foods, meaning "from the oven"
aromatics:
any herbs, spices, or vegetables used in a recipe expressly to flavor food
arugula:
also known as rocket, lettuce that is dark green with a bitter, peppery flavor
au gratin:
from the French _gratter_ meaning "to scrape," a dish made in a casserole with grated cheese or breadrcrumbs that is browned in the oven, baked, or roasted
beurre manié:
meaning "kneaded butter" in French, equal parts flour and softened butter used to thicken sauces
beurre noir:
meaning "black butter" in French, butter cooked over low heat until the milk solids turn dark brown (not black)
beurre noisette:
meaning "brown butter" in French, butter cooked over low heat until the milk solids turn a golden, hazelnut (noisette) color
Bibb:
a type of lettuce also known as Boston or Butter for its light green, tender, and mildly flavored leaves
Bing cherries:
a variety of cherry, large and ranging in color from dark red to almost black
blanchir:
meaning "to whiten" in French, a method of beating sugar and eggs (or egg yolks) until the mixture becomes fluffy and lighter in color
blind bake:
to bake an empty pie shell for the purpose of adding a filling that requires no cooking (as in chocolate cream)
boiling:
heating something (usually water) until it reaches 212°F (at sea level)
brioche:
a French yeast bread made with lots of eggs and butter, somewhat similar in color, taste, and texture to challah
buffalo mozzarella:
known as _mozzarella di bufala_ in Italian, this is the most revered of the fresh mozzarella cheeses, made from water buffalo and cow milks
buttercream:
a creamy frosting made with confectioners' sugar, softened butter, and cream or milk, used as both a filling and a topping for cakes
butterfly:
to split food down the center, usually meat, for the purpose of opening it up to flatten it
caramelize:
to roast, sauté, sear, or grill something so that its natural sugars release, browning the surface and often imparting a touch of sweet flavor
casserole:
both a vessel and a completed dish, baked in the oven
ceviche:
a Latin American dish of raw fish cooked in citrus juice
chanterelles:
trumpet-shaped wild mushrooms, also known as _girolles_ , that range in color from yellow to deep orange
cheesecloth:
a kind of porous cotton muslin used to strain sauces or makes sachets to hold herb bundles in stocks
china cap:
a conical metal sieve with perforated holes used to strain stocks and sauces
chinois:
a conical metal sieve with exceptionally fine mesh used to strain sauces and custards, producing a very fine, smooth texture
compound butter:
a flavored butter (butter mixed with other ingredients)
concentration:
a cooking method, such as grilling, broiling, sautéing, and roasting, used to lock in, or concentrate, juices by coagulating the surface protein
confectioners' sugar:
powdered or dusting sugar, also referred to as 10X sugar because it is ten times finer than granulated sugar (standard sugar crystals)
coulis:
a thick purée or sauce, typically made from vegetables or fruit
coupe:
a footed dish for serving dessert, such as ice cream or poached pears, that requires a bowl
cream:
to beat and combine ingredients, such as butter and sugar, until they form a smooth, uniform, "creamy" mixture
crimini:
miniature Portobello mushrooms
crimp:
to press or pinch pastry edges together for the purpose of both sealing and decorating the seam
crostini:
Italian for "little toasts," thin slices of toasted bread, often brushed with olive oil
curd:
a mixture made from juice, sugar, eggs, and butter that thickens when cooked
deglaze:
to remove the crusty bits (sucs) on the bottom of a pan by adding wine, stock, or water and scraping for the purpose of making a pan sauce to accompany the food originally cooked in that pan
dressing:
both a sauce for salads (as in vinaigrette), and a dish of what would otherwise be called "stuffing" baked in a casserole (not stuffed in meat or fish)
egg wash:
a combination of egg and either water or cream used to brush over pastries or breads before they bake, giving them added sheen and golden color
en papillote:
French for "in parchment," a sealed package made of parchment paper used to steam foods in the oven
extraction:
a method, such as poaching, to draw juices out of food during cooking
flapjacks:
pancakes
frenched:
a piece of meat with an exposed bone, trimmed of fat and flesh
frisée:
a chicory-like lettuce with frizzy leaves that ranges in color from yellow-white to light green
fumet:
French for "fish stock"
galangal:
a member of the ginger family found in Southeast Asia, with a hot, peppery flavor
gluten:
a starch protein found in rye, wheat, oats, and barley
Gorgonzola:
an Italian blue cheese with a pungent flavor made from cow's milk
green curry paste:
a Southeast Asian blend of fat and spices used to flavor sauces and soups
Gruyère:
a Swiss, aged cow's-milk cheese with a sweet and nutty taste, used in cheese fondue
haricots verts:
French string beans, marked by their particularly slender and elegant shape
hone:
to smooth a newly sharpened edge of a knife
hothouse cucumbers:
also known as English cucumbers, these are considerably longer than standard cucumbers, have thinner skins, and fewer seeds
hull:
to remove the outer skin or leafy top, as with strawberries
ice bath:
a bowl of ice water used to cool foods quickly either by plunging them directly in, or setting them in another vessel over the bath
Japanese eggplant:
smaller and more slender than the Italian variety, with white or bright purple skin
jicama:
a Mexican root vegetable with a brown skin and white flesh, somewhat similar in flavor and texture to a radish but much more mild
latkes:
potato pancakes made, in particular, to celebrate Chanukah, the Jewish Festival of Lights
legume:
a pod with multiple seeds, such as peas and beans
liaison:
an ingredient used in an emulsion to bind, or to thicken a sauce, by suspending itself in the liquid
macerate:
to soak food in a liquid to flavor and perhaps tenderize it
meringue:
egg whites stiffly beaten multiple times their volume, usually with sugar, to form white peaks
mesclun:
a salad mix of young, small greens, including arugula and frisée
mirepoix:
aromatic vegetables composed traditionally of 50 percent onions, 25 percent carrots, and 25 percent celery used to flavor roasts, stocks, and sauces
Mission fig:
a particular type of fig with small seeds introduced into Northern California by the Franciscan missionaries
mustard seed:
either white, brown, or black, used to make mustard as well as pickling spice
orzo:
a rice-shaped pasta
paillard:
the French word for thinly pounded cutlets of meat, typically chicken; the Italians call this _scaloppini_
pan sauce:
a sauce for meat or fish made in the same pan in which the main dish was cooked by deglazing the sucs
pancetta:
an Italian cured bacon that comes in a roll
panfried:
cooked in a sauté pan (frying pan or skillet) with a small amount of fat
panko:
Japanese breadcrumbs, coarse and crunchy
parboil:
to blanch, or to partially cook briefly in boiling water
parchment paper:
a nonstick, heat-, moisture-, and grease-resistant paper used in baking to line pans; also used to make cooking pouches as in _en papillote_
pare:
to trim, after something is peeled but before it is cut
patty melt:
a thin hamburger topped with cheese and caramelized onions, served between two slices of buttery, toasted rye bread
pavé:
meaning "square paving stone" in French, this refers to a square-shaped food
pearl onions:
baby onions about the size of a gumball
peel:
to remove the outer skin of a fruit or vegetable
pie weights:
little metal or clay balls used to weigh down an empty piecrust in blind baking
pignoli:
the Italian word for pine nut, a high-fat nut that comes from pine cones
porcini:
also called _cèpes_ , these wild mushrooms are usually sold dried in the United States
quadrillage:
criss-cross marks branded on grilled meat
quail:
a small game bird
quick bread:
as opposed to yeast bread, a cake-like batter (as in banana bread)
rotisserie:
a device that cooks meat slowly over a turning spit
roux:
a liaison of equal parts flour and fat (usually butter) cooked over heat to which hot liquid is added and then subsequently thickened
rump roast:
a triangular cut of beef, taken from the upper part of the hind leg
San Marzano tomatoes:
a variety of plum tomatoes, considered to be the best sauce tomatoes
satay:
a Southeast Asian dish of skewered marinated meats or fish, typically grilled and served with peanut sauce
savory:
the opposite of sweet, as in piquant
scallopini:
the Italian word for thinly pounded cutlets of meat, typically veal and chicken; the French call this _paillard_
sear:
to cook over or under direct heat (as in sautéing, grilling, or broiling) to lock in juices and provide a browned surface to the food
sheath:
a case to store knife blades safely
shitake:
an Asian mushroom, now cultivated, with a meaty flesh and tough stems
shock:
to chill abruptly by plunging in an ice bath or running under a heavy stream of very cold water
sift:
to pass ingredients through a mesh apparatus to remove unwanted matter, and to aerate and lighten
simmer:
to cook food gently in water, just below the boiling point, indicated by a constant presence of little bubbles
simple syrup:
liquefied sugar (dissolved in water) used to flavor drinks, glaze foods, and moisten cakes
skim:
to remove fat or impurities from the top layer of a soup, sauce, or stock
slurry:
a liaison made of starch (arrowroot, corn starch, potato starch, or rice flour) and liquid (water, wine, or stock) to thicken sauces
smokepoint:
also known as the flashpoint, the temperature at which fat begins to decompose and visible fumes (smoke) are given off
smoker:
a heated apparatus filled with burning wood that gives off smoke to flavor food
soufflé:
meaning "to blow up" in French, a puffed, airy, flavored egg yolk-based dish lightened with a meringue, prepared in a ramekin, usually sweet but sometimes savory
steel:
a honing tool used to smooth and polish a knife's edge
stone:
as in a whetstone, a rectangular block made of fine-grain carborundum, used to sharpen the edge of a blade
sucs:
the savory crusted bits and juice left in the pan from searing meat and fish; used to make pan sauce by deglazing with water, wine, or stock
superfine sugar:
also known as castor sugar, has finer granules than standard granulated sugar, but larger than confectioners' sugar
sweat:
to soften vegetables without browning, cooking them slowly over low heat, perhaps covered, so they release their own juices
temper:
(1) a process of heating and cooling chocolate, (2) a technique to prevent eggs from curdling when making a custard by adding a bit of hot liquid to the eggs before putting the eggs in the hot liquid
tikka:
a baked Punjabi (Pakistani) dish of skewered chunks of chicken that have been marinated in yogurt and spices, baked in the tandoor (oven)
tilapia:
also called St Peter's fish, this pink- and white-fleshed fish is mild and sweet
toque:
a chef 's tall white hat, either soft and poufy or stiff and pleated
truss:
to tie together, as in the legs of a bird or the length of a roast, for the purpose of maintaining uniform shape and sealing in juices during cooking
twine:
kitchen string made of cotton or nylon used to truss
utility knife:
a straight-edged knife larger than a paring knife, smaller than a chef 's knife
Vidalia onion:
the sweetest and juiciest onions, which come from Vidalia, Georgia, and peak in late spring
vinaigrette:
an emulsified salad dressing classically composed of one part vinegar to three parts oil with a liaison of Dijon mustard
viscous:
being resistant to flow (viscosity), as in a liquid that is thicker than water
zest:
to extract the surface skin of citrus fruit—also called zest—by finely grating
APPENDIX
D
Cooking with Eggs
EGGS ARE SO ESSENTIAL TO THE ART OF COOKING and baking that without them we might as well all throw in our whisks and give up. Eggs are often used to thicken, bind, and coat, but they are equally multipurposeful on their own. Think of all the different ways we eat just eggs, anywhere from breakfast to dessert, savory to sweet: omelets, quiches, frittatas, custards, meringues, sponge cakes, and soufflés, to name a few. Both versatile and nutritious, eggs are an excellent source of protein; iron; and vitamins A, D, and E. There are many kinds of eggs to cook with, such as quail and ostrich, but the following advice focuses on the ubiquitous chicken egg.
What's in an Egg?
An egg is made of the following components:
**1.** The shell
**2.** The yolk (the yellow part)
**3.** The chalaza (the rope-like white strand)
**4.** An air cell
**5.** Shell membranes
**6.** Albumen (the egg white)
The albumen, making up about 70 percent of the liquid weight of the egg, is opalescent in the raw state and turns white when cooked. When beaten to a foam (meringue), the volume is increased up to 8 times. The egg yolk, about 30 percent of the egg, contains all the egg's fat and about half the protein. It also contains a higher proportion of the egg's vitamins. The chalaza is what anchors the yolk in place in the thick white. Contrary to popular misconception, the chalaza is not an embryo or an imperfection.
Egg Chemistry
The chemistry of eggs is too complex to cover in detail in this format. However, there are some points worth discussing that are helpful for the home cook. Eggs serve many purposes in recipes, ranging from emulsification to aeration. When eggs whites are whisked, they trap many millions of air bubbles, holding air and therefore lightening mixtures to which they are added. When cooked, this microscopic lattice structure sets, which stabilizes and increases the volume of the food. Many recipes are based on this unique trait, such as meringues and soufflés.
Eggs are sticky and moist, which makes them excellent binders. Ground meat is often combined with eggs (e.g., meatballs and hamburgers). Croquettes, griddle cakes, and fish cakes all call for whole eggs to bind the remaining ingredients. Omitting an egg from a crab mixture, for example, would be problematic if you are making crab cakes. Without the egg, the lean crab mixture would not hold together when the cakes are formed. A hamburger, on the other hand, may have enough fat and stickiness, in which case an egg would be superfluous. The egg's sticky property also makes it the universal undercoating onto which an outer coating can adhere, such as bread crumbs.
Whole eggs are excellent thickening agents when beaten and added to soups and sauces. The combination of the egg's protein content and textural properties thickens liquids when heated. As eggs heat, they disperse and suspend themselves in the liquid. This is the foundation of a custard or crème anglaise. If the mixture is overheated, however, the eggs will curdle, which is a scrambling of sorts. A double boiler can be helpful in this respect.
The emulsifying power of eggs is best exemplified by the miracle of mayonnaise (perhaps the inspiration for one famous brand's name?). Without eggs, mayonnaise would be oil, seasoning, and some form of acid, such as vinegar or lemon juice. When oil is slowly added to the egg while being beaten, the egg grabs and suspends the oil, changing the color, texture, and taste of the product. The acid aids in maintaining the emulsification and balances the flavors.
Color Me Brown
So many people want to know whether the color of the egg's outer shell makes a difference in the taste, quality, nutrients, or ultimate cooking properties. The answer is no. The shell color is determined by the breed of hen. Breeds with white feathers and white earlobes lay white eggs; breeds with red feathers and red earlobes lay brown eggs. Brown eggs tend to be more expensive than white eggs because they are often laid by larger birds that require more food.
Size Matters
Several factors influence egg size, including environment, hen size, hen age, and hen weight. There are six sizes in total, from big to small: jumbo, extra large, large, medium, small, and pee wee. Most of us have access, at the very least, to large or extra large eggs.
The bigger the egg does not mean the better. But size does matter when it comes to cooking and baking. Most recipes—baking in particular— call for large eggs. The minimum weight for a large egg is 2 ounces, whereas the minimum weight for an extra large egg is 2.25 ounces. So, if you casually use extra large eggs, and the recipe calls for half a dozen large eggs, you are increasing your egg quantity by almost another whole egg. When a recipe does not specify the egg size, it is best to use large eggs.
The Freshness Factor
Eggs are an appealing food for so many reasons, one of which is staying power. They last a long time without losing much of anything in quality or flavor. The packing date on the egg carton is some indicator of freshness. It usually takes about four to five days for eggs to get from the chicken to the store. If refrigerated after being purchased from a refrigerated case, eggs can be stored for up to four to five weeks. Ideally, eggs should be stored in their carton in order to insulate the eggs, maintain moisture, and avoid odor absorption. Eggs age more in one day at room temperature than in one week in the refrigerator. Fresh eggs tend to stand tall and firm in the frying pan, while older eggs tend to spread out. The more prominent the chalaza, the fresher the egg.
The Scramble Preamble
Scrambling eggs is so simple—perhaps too simple, and therefore often overlooked as an invaluable skill to master. In fact, a traditional test of a cook is whether he can roast a chicken or scramble an egg.
To scramble two eggs, break two eggs in a bowl and season with salt and pepper. Add 1 tablespoon of heavy cream or milk to make the eggs more tender (adding this dairy dilutes the protein). Mix with a fork, but do not overbeat the eggs; the goal is to combine them thoroughly, not to incorporate air. Heat 1 teaspoon of butter in a nonstick pan over medium heat. Once the pan is hot and the butter begins to bubble, pour the eggs into the pan and lower the heat. Cook the eggs, stirring constantly, until the eggs are soft, thick, and creamy. Do not overcook the eggs so they are dry and tough. Scrambled eggs should be moist, even when well done.
Scrambled Eggs Are Omelets Too
Many people have trouble making omelets. "I put the mixed eggs in the pan. The bottom cooks, but I can't get the top to ever cook." Classic mistake. An omelet is made from scrambled eggs. Yes, you scrambled the eggs, then set the omelet.
The French prefer their omelets rolled, as opposed to flat, and generally should have a completely smooth, unbrowned surface while being slightly runny in the middle. In my opinion, this is the very best way to make an omelet. Unlike scrambled eggs, the egg mixture for an omelet generally has no added dairy. But you certainly may add cream or milk, if you like. Just remember to cook omelets to order; they cannot be held successfully.
To make a rolled omelet, break three eggs into a bowl, season with salt and pepper, and mix well with a fork. Heat a nonstick 8-inch skillet over medium heat and add 1 tablespoon of butter. When the butter foams, add the eggs and let the mixture set for about 30 seconds. Then stir continuously with a fork (ideally wooden, if you have one) until the eggs are at a runny scramble stage. Spread the eggs out evenly over the surface of the pan, stop stirring, and let them set over low heat. (The point at which you stop stirring is the key to having a smooth omelet without any brown coloring.)
Place ¼ cup of filling—cheese, tomatoes, mushrooms, ham, caramelized onions—in the middle of the omelet. Fold the edge of the omelet over into itself, tilt the pan from the handle, and lightly tap the handle so that the omelet moves up from the pan. Form the omelet with a fork. Roll the omelet onto a warm plate seam-side down.
Hard Boiling Made Easy
Every cloud may have a silver lining, but no hard-boiled egg yolk should have a green ring. This common problem is easy to avoid as long as you are attentive and precise about the boiling point and cooking time. Also, remember the importance of egg size. Use older eggs, as they are much easier to peel. For large eggs, follow one of two methods.
1 Cover the egg(s) with cold water in a small pot. Bring to a rapid boil, and immediately reduce to a simmer and cook uncovered for exactly 10 minutes.
2 Cover the egg(s) with cold water in a small pot. Bring to a boil, and then immediately cover the pot with a tight-fitting lid and remove entirely from the heat. Let the eggs sit for exactly 15 minutes, then remove from the water.
In both cases, rinse the eggs in cold water before peeling to stop the eggs from cooking further and to avoid burning your hands when peeling. You will have perfect hard-boiled eggs without any trace of a green ring. The yolks will be tender and bright yellow. If soft-boiled eggs are more your taste, simply reduce the cooking time in the first method from 10 minutes to 3 minutes (medium-boiled eggs would be 5 minutes).
A fun fact: if you prick the egg shell with a sewing needle prior to cooking, it will release the air from the air cell that normally traps the egg white (albumen), which forms that flat surface during cooking.
Coddling
What is a coddled egg? Basically boiled eggs are coddled eggs—soft, medium, or hard. But many of us consider a coddled egg one that is gently cooked (the word itself implies as much) so that it remains soft and runny. In this case, you gently lower the egg into boiling water for a mere two minutes. So what in the world do you do with the egg once it's coddled? Good question.
The most common application today of coddled eggs is for caesar salad dressing. A raw egg yolk is used in this classic recipe to emulsify and add a creamy texture and flavor. Since the consumption of raw eggs is considered both dangerous and unhealthy due to salmonella, the egg is coddled to kill off such hazardous bacteria. Other than that, coddled eggs are eaten on their own, very similar to a soft-boiled egg. The difference is that the egg is cooked outside the shell in an "egg coddler," a porcelain ramekin with a tight-fitting lid that is immersed into heated water and then removed when the eggs are done for serving.
Sunny Side Up, Over Easy, Over Hard . . .
Fried eggs come many ways, but the common characteristic should be tender and tasty. Ultimately, frying eggs is easy. But it is important to remember a few key steps to ensure desirable results. First, use a nonstick skillet, or a very well-seasoned cast-iron pan or griddle. Second, make sure that the pan and the fat are hot. If the pan is not hot enough, the egg will not seize immediately and this causes sticking and prolonged cooking, which can toughen the egg white. Last, but not least, always use fresher eggs when frying. Older eggs will spread out in the pan and not hold their shape, becoming thin and loose.
Fried eggs are cooked in stages: sunny side up, over easy (runny yolk), over medium (soft yolk), and over hard (firm yolk). Once the butter (or any other fat that appeals to you . . . bacon drippings are delicious) is melted over a medium heat and the pan is hot, crack the egg directly into the pan, holding it as close to the bottom of the pan as possible so that the egg does not spread out too much. Once the egg hits the hot pan, the white seizes and its shape sets. Season with salt and pepper, then lower the heat to medium-low so that the eggs are cooked more gently to ensure tenderness.
A sunny-side-up egg is cooked on one side until the whites are firm and the yolk is runny, about 4 to 6 minutes. The whites can be basted with the hot fat, or the egg can be steamed by adding a few drops of water to the pan and then covered with a lid (a technique often used at diners on the griddle); this will also contribute to cooking the yolk without touching the cooking surface.
If you want to turn the eggs, carefully flip them using a spatula once the whites have set. For over-easy eggs, cook for a mere 30 seconds or so, just long enough for a thin film to form over the yolk without coloration. For over-medium eggs, cook for about 1 minute, or until the yolk develops a thick skin. For over-hard eggs, cook for 1 to 2 minutes, or until the yolk is firm and golden brown.
The Poaching Coach
Poaching is probably one of the more difficult ways to prepare eggs, but also one of the more delicate and elegant. Unlike hard-boiled eggs, fresh eggs make the best poached eggs because the eggs whites hold their shape better (so does adding vinegar to the water, which is a standard technique in poaching eggs).
To poach eggs, combine 2 quarts water with ¼ cup distilled white vinegar in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Keep the eggs very cold, until you are ready to drop them into the water, since cold raw albumen will contract when it hits the hot water, allowing it to hold its shape better. Eggs should be poached in simmering water, but the first egg can go into boiling water because its cold temperature will help to cool the poaching liquid.
You can poach many eggs at once, but is easiest to poach one egg at a time. Crack an egg into a small ramekin. Using a spatula or wooden spoon, briskly swirl the inside of the pan to make a vortex in the center of the hot water. As the vortex is at full speed, drop the cracked egg into the water positioning the ramekin as close to the water as possible. Continue stirring the keep the vortex going until the egg's shape has formed. The vortex will force the egg white to encase the yolk, forming a spherical shape. Also, once the outer egg white has formed and hardened a bit, the egg will not stick to the bottom of the pan.
Cook the egg for about 3 minutes. Monitor the water temperature to ensure that the egg poaches at a bare simmer and adjust the heat accordingly. Boiling water will make tough and rubbery whites. Remove the egg with a slotted spoon and gently press the egg with your finger to test its doneness. Poached eggs should have set whites and runny yolks.
When the egg is cooked to your liking, gently plunge into a bowl of ice water, which rinses off the vinegar and stops the eggs from cooking further, much like shocking vegetables. Once the egg is cold, trim off any excess with a paring knife and place it in a bowl of fresh water in the refrigerator.
Repeat the process for each egg until you have all the eggs you need for service. When you are ready to serve the poached eggs (think Eggs Benedict for six at an elegant brunch!), simply lower them with a slotted spoon into salted simmering water for about 1 minute to make them hot and seasoned. Once they have been reheated, drain them on paper towels before serving.
More Tips for Cooking with Eggs
Here are a few more fun facts so that you get what you expect when cooking or baking with eggs:
• Hard-cook eggs that are at least one week old; you will find them easier to peel after cooking and cooling them than fresher eggs.
• Egg whites beat to a higher volume when left at room temperature for at least 15 minutes.
• Eggs are easier to separate when they are cold.
• To tell if an egg is raw or hard-cooked, spin it. If the egg spins easily, it is hard-cooked. If it wobbles, it is raw.
• If you accidentally drop an egg on the floor, sprinkle it heavily with salt for easy cleanup.
About the Author
LAUREN BRAUN COSTELLO developed her craft in the kitchens and classrooms of some of the world's most renowned chefs, and as the owner and Executive Chef of Gotham Caterers in New York City.
Today, Lauren is an author, food stylist, and culinary instructor who has gained both local and national media exposure. Her recipes and party-planning advice have appeared in the _Los Angeles Times_ , and she has made several television appearances over the years on WNBC's _Today_ in New York and _News 4 You_. Lauren's food styling has been featured in various national and local television broadcasts, including segments for ABC's _The View_ , _The Early Show_ on CBS, and Fox &Friends.
Laura is also the author of _Notes on Cooking: A Short Guide to an Essential Craft_ (June 2009, RCR Creative Press). Chef Daniel Boulud says that in _Notes on Cooking_ , Lauren and her coauthor "bring you indispensable advice, experience, and know-how of many great chefs." He hails the book as "both inspirational and practical, and a superb addition to the library of any passionate cook." _Today_ show health expert and nutritionist Joy Bauer says, "I've always been blown away by Lauren's culinary creations. In _The Competent Cook_ , she teaches basic cooking methods that will maximize nutrition and flavor."
Lauren was also the author of a weekly cooking column entitled "The Competent Cook," which appeared on CDKitchen.com. She has served as a recipe tester, most notably for the 75th anniversary edition of the _Joy of Cooking_ cookbook, working with a team of chefs to test and develop recipes. Prior to her culinary pursuits, she enjoyed a successful career on Wall Street in corporate communications, managing the employee newsletters and intranet sites of Prudential Securities, Goldman Sachs, and Société Générale.
Lauren holds a BA from Colgate University and earned a Grand Diploma in Culinary Arts with distinction from the French Culinary Institute (FCI). While studying at FCI, she was named a recipient of the Les Dames d'Escoffier scholarship.
She lives in New York City with her husband Sean, son Jonathan, and Portuguese Water Dog Bogart.
Praise for "Notes on Cooking"
"Concise, focused, and sensible . . . full of useful advice."
—Jacques Pépin, Chef, Cookbook Author, and PBS-TV Cooking Series Host
"Every cookbook should have this short book as a preface. The message and guidance of this book is invaluable to all who dare to enter the delicious world of food preparation."
—Lidia Matticchio Bastianich, Host, _Lidia's Italy_
"I wish _Notes on Cooking_ had been written about 35 years ago, when I started cooking professionally. It is an excellent source of level-headed, practical, and essential advice; indispensable and wonderfully succinct."
—Michael Romano, Chef, Union Square Hospitality Group
"An abundance of tips, ideas, and caveats. The list of food adjectives is one I'll refer to myself and the list of recommendations is indispensable. The food pairings are the most insightful I've ever seen. Work well done."
—James Peterson, Five-Time James Beard Award Winner
"I love the short statements that lead to long reflections. They bring me back to basics that pare away the 'nonsense' in the kitchen . . . Listen to the common sense of _Notes on Cooking_ and you will find yourself a happier cook."
—Dorothy Hamilton, Founder & CEO, The French Culinary Institute
"This practical guide is an easy, amusing read for home cooks and professionals."
— _New York Times_
"Beginning home cooks: This is your lucky day. Old kitchen dogs: We all can learn new tricks—or stand for some brushing up. This is one book we all can chew on for the rest of our cooking lives."
— _Washington Post_
"This little book is perfect for leafing through at random or zeroing in on any subject you might have questions about. In either case, it is very likely to accomplish two goals devoutly to be wished: to improve the food you cook, and to make cooking it more fun. Even if you think you know it all, _Notes on Cooking_ is likely to have some ideas that will make you a better cook."
— _Gourmet Magazine_
"My favorite new book on cooking has no recipes . . . concise . . . witty . . . brilliant."
— _Food & Wine Magazine _
"This is a unique book that will be appreciated by any foodie and would make a lovely host or hostess gift . . . a very useful, highly enjoyable collection of tips for any cook."
—About.com
"This small primer delivers both practical and philosophical advice beyond what one will find in a cookbook. Useful and valuable . . . a delightful culinary resource."
— _Library Journal_ , Starred Review
Anyone who's ever wielded a whisk or screwed up a sauté will find this book both tantalizing and indispensable."
— _Booklist_
"In all ways to-the-point, Costello and Reich . . . lay down the major rules of cooking and kitchen conduct in as few as a couple of lines . . . Strong declarations that, once learned by heart, make cooking easier and end with better food."
— _Publishers Weekly_
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\section{Introduction and Preliminaries}
\medskip
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two metric spaces. A mapping $f: X \rightarrow Y$ is called an isometry if $f$ satisfies
\begin{eqnarray*}
d_{Y}(f(x),f(y))=d_{X}(x,y)
\end{eqnarray*}
for all $x,y\in X$, where $d_{X}(,)$ and $d_{Y}(,)$ denote the metric in the space $X$ and $Y$, respectively. For some $r>0$, suppose that $f$ preserves distance $r$, i.e., for all $x,y\in X$ with $d_{X}(x,y)=r$, we have $d_{Y}(f(x),f(y))=r$. Then $r$ is called a \emph{conservative distance} for the mapping $f$.
In 1970, Aleksandrov \cite{A} posed the following problem:
\begin{problem}
Under what conditions is a mapping of a metric space $X$ into itself preserving distance one an isometry?
\end{problem}
It is called the Aleksandrov problem. It has been extensively investigated by many authors (see
\cite{CKK,CLP,G2,R1,R2,R3, R4, RS} and the references
therein).
This problem still remains open even in the case where $X = \mathbb{R}^n$ and $Y =\mathbb{R}^m$ with $2 < n < m$ (see \cite{R4}).
The study of $n$-normed spaces began early in the second half of the twentieth century (see \cite{G1,G,M1,M2}), and it is also an widely-studied and interesting area even today (see e.g. \cite{C,HPP,CKK,CLP}). Chu et al. \cite{CLP} first generalized the Aleksandrov problem to $n$-normed spaces. Their main result \cite[Theorem 2.10]{CLP} proves that the weak $n$-distance one preserving mapping is an $n$-isometries under additional conditions (e.g. $n$-1-Lipschitz, preserving 2-collinearity).
A natural question can be raised as a modified version of the Aleksandrov problem: What happens if two (or more) distances are preserved by a mapping between normed spaces? W. Benz \cite{B} (see also \cite{BB}) investigated the case when the mapping preserves distances $\rho$ and $n\rho$ for some $\rho>0$ and some integer $n>1$. If the target space is strictly convex, they showed in \cite{B} that this mapping is an affine isometry. If the mapping $f$ preserves two distances with a non-integer ratio, it is an open problem whether or not $f$ must be an isometry. For more information we refer to \cite{R1,R2,R3,R4}. Motivated by these results and also as an application of our main results we shall show that the result of W. Benz remains valid in $n$-normed spaces if the target space is $n$-strictly convex.
In this paper, we show that every mapping between two $n$-normed spaces preserving a fixed nonzero weak $n$-distance and 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment is affine, and thus is an $n$-isometry. By this we show that every surjective mapping preserving $n$-distance one is an affine $n$-isometry. Finally, if the target space is $n$-strictly convex, we show that every mapping preserves two $n$-distances with an integer ratio is an affine $n$-isometry.
Throughout this paper, all linear spaces will be assumed real. Let $n\geq 2$, $X$ and $Y$ be two linear $n$-normed spaces whose dimensions greater than $n-1$.
In the remainder of this introduction, we will present some definitions in $n$-normed spaces and cite an example of $n$-normed spaces for the easy understanding of this kind of spaces.
An $n$-norm on a real vector space $X$ (of dimension at least $n$) is a mapping $\| \cdot, \cdots ,\cdot \|: X^{n} \rightarrow \mathbb{R}$ which satisfies the following four conditions:\\
{\rm(a)} $\| x_1, \cdots, x_n\|= 0$ if and only if $x_1, \cdots, x_n$ are linearly dependent;\\
{\rm(b)} $\| x_1, \cdots, x_n\|$ is invariant under permutation;\\
{\rm(c)} $\|\alpha x_1, \cdots, x_n\| = |\alpha| \| x_1, \cdots, x_n\|$ for $\alpha \in \mathbb{R}$;\\
{\rm(d)} $\| x_0+x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\| \leq \| x_0,x_2, \cdots, x_n\| + \| x_1,x_2, \cdots, x_n\|$.\\
The pair $(X, \| \cdot, \cdots ,\cdot \|)$ is called an \emph{$n$-normed space}. Note that in this space, we have $\|x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|=\|x_1+y, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|$ for any linear combination $y$ of $x_2, \cdots, x_n\in X$.
\begin{eg}
If $X$ is a normed space with dual $X'$, then as formulated by \"{G}ahler \emph{(see \cite{G})}
we may define an $n$-norm on $X$ by
\begin{eqnarray*}
\| x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\| := \sup_{f_j\in X', \ \|f_j\|\leq 1}\begin{vmatrix}
f_1(x_1) & \cdots & f_1(x_n)\\
\vdots & \ddots & \vdots\\
f_n(x_1) & \cdots & f_n(x_n)\\
\end{vmatrix}=\sup_{f_j\in X', \ \|f_j\|\leq 1}\det[f_j(x_i)].
\end{eqnarray*}
Meanwhile, if $X$ is equipped with an inner product $\langle \cdot, \cdot \rangle$, we can define the standard
$n$-norm on $X$ by
\begin{eqnarray*}
\| x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|:= \sqrt{det[\langle x_i, x_j\rangle]},
\end{eqnarray*}
which can be interpreted as the volume of the $n$-dimensional parallelepiped spanned by $x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\in X$ \emph{(see \cite{GH}).}
\end{eg}
Recall some definitions in $n$-normed spaces.
\begin{defn}
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two $n$-normed spaces, and let $f: X\rightarrow Y$ be a mapping.
\rm{(a)} $f$ is said to be an \emph{$n$-isometry} if it satisfies
\begin{eqnarray*}
\| f(x_1)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \| = \| x_1-y_1, \cdots, x_n-y_n\|
\end{eqnarray*}
for all $x_1, \cdots, x_n, y_1, \cdots, y_n \in X$. In particular, if $ y_1=\cdots = y_n $, $f$ is said to be a \emph{weak $n$-isometry}.
\rm{(b)} $f$ is said to have the \emph{$n$-distance one preserving property} ($n$-DOPP), if
\begin{eqnarray*}\| x_1-y_1, \cdots, x_n-y_n\|=1 \Rightarrow \ \| f(x_1)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \| =1.\end{eqnarray*}
for all $x_1, \cdots, x_n, y_1, \cdots, y_n \in X$. In particular, if $ y_1=\cdots = y_n $, $f$ is said to have the \emph{weak n-distance one preserving property}($w$-$n$-DOPP).
\rm{(c)} $f$ is said to \emph{preserve $\rho$-$n$-distance} for some $\rho>0$, if $\| x_1-y_1, \cdots, x_n-y_n\|=\rho$ implies $\| f(x_1)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \| =\rho$ for all $x_1, \cdots, x_n, y_1, \cdots, y_n \in X$.
In particular, if $ y_1=\cdots = y_n $, $f$ is said to \emph{preserve $w$-$\rho$-$n$-distance}.
\rm{(d)} $f$ is called an \emph{$n$-Lipschitz mapping} if there is a $K \geq 0$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*}
\| f(x_1)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \| \leq K \| x_1-y_1, \cdots, x_n-y_n\|
\end{eqnarray*}
for all $x_1, \cdots, x_n, y_1, \cdots, y_n \in X$. In this case, the constant $K$ is called the $n$-Lipschitz constant.
In particular, if $ y_1=\cdots = y_n $, $f$ is said to be a \emph{weak $n$-Lipschitz mapping}.
\end{defn}
\section{Isometry in $n$-normed spaces}
In this section we consider the Aleksandrov problem in $n$-normed spaces. We first introduce a weak case of preserving 2-collinearity. Then, we prove that the Aleksandrov problem holds in $n$-normed spaces under weaker hypothesis.
Note that the points $x,y,z$ of $X$ are said to be \emph{2-collinear} if $y-z = t(x-z)$ for some real number $t$. The points $x_0,x_1,\cdots,x_n$ of $X$ are said to be \emph{$n$-collinear} if for some $i$, the points $x_j-x_i, 0\leq j\neq i\leq n$ are linearly dependent.
\begin{defn}
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two $n$-normed spaces, and let $f$ be a mapping from $X$ into $Y$.
\rm{(a)} $f$ is said to preserve \emph{2-collinearity} if $x,y,z\in X$ are collinear, then $ f(x),f(y),f(z)$ are collinear. In particular, if $z=(x + y)/2$, $f$ is said to preserve \emph{2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment}.
{\rm(b)} $f$ is said to preserve \emph{$n$-collinearity} if $x_0, x_1,\cdots,x_n$ of $X$ are $n$-collinear, then $f(x_0), f(x_1),\\ \cdots, f(x_n)$ are $n$-collinear. That means that $f$ preserves $w$-$0$-distance, i.e., if $\|x_1-x_0, \cdots, x_n-x_0\|=0$, then
\begin{eqnarray*}
\|f(x_1)-f(x_0), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(x_0)\|=0\end{eqnarray*} for all $x_0, x_1, \cdots , x_n \in X$.
\end{defn}
In the first step, we prove the following lemma indicating that a mapping $f$ from an $n$-normed space $X$ to an $n$-normed space $Y$, which preserves a nonzero weak $n$-distance and 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment, satisfies Jensen's equation:
\begin{eqnarray*}
f(\frac{x+y}{2})= \frac{f(x)+f(y)}{2}, \quad \forall x,y \in X.
\end{eqnarray*}
\begin{lem}\label{add}
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two $n$-normed spaces, and let $f : X \rightarrow Y$ preserve $w$-$\rho$-$n$-distance for some $\rho>0$. Then $f$ is injective. Moreover if $f$ preserves 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment, then $f(x)-f(0)$ is additive.
\end{lem}
\begin{prf} For $x\neq y\in X$, the assumption that $\dim X\geq n$ allows the existence of $x_2, x_3, \cdots, x_n \in X$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*} \|y-x, x_2-x, \cdots, x_n-x\|=\rho. \end{eqnarray*}
Since the mapping $f$ preserves $w$-$\rho$-$n$-distance, we have
\begin{eqnarray*}
\| f(y)-f(x), f(x_2)-f(x), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(x) \| = \rho.
\end{eqnarray*}
This implies $f(x) \neq f(y)$, and thus $f$ is injective. To see our second conclusion,
it suffices to prove that for all $x,y \in X$, we have
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq1}
f(\frac{x+y}{2})= \frac{f(x)+f(y)}{2}.
\end{eqnarray}
To prove (\ref{eq1}), set $z = (x + y)/2$ for distinct $x,y\in X$. Choose $y_2, y_3, \cdots, y_n \in X$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*} \|y-z, y_2-z, \cdots, y_n-z\|=\|x-z, y_2-z, \cdots, y_n-z\|=\rho. \end{eqnarray*}
Then clearly
\begin{eqnarray} \label{c1}
&&\|f(y)-f(z), f(y_2)-f(z),\cdots, f(y_n)-f(z)\|=\rho \\ \label{c2} &&\|f(x)-f(z), f(y_2)-f(z), \cdots, f(y_n)-f(z)\|=\rho.
\end{eqnarray}
Since $f$ preserves 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment, there exists a real number $t$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*}f(y)-f(z) = t (f(x) - f(z)).\end{eqnarray*}
By(\ref{c1}) and (\ref{c2}), we obtain that $t=-1$, and hence
\begin{eqnarray*}
f(\frac{x+y}{2})=f(z)= \frac{f(x)+f(y)}{2}.
\end{eqnarray*}
\end{prf}
One may wonder how to check that a mapping $f$ from an $n$-normed space into another preserves 2-collinearity. What interests us is that it only requires $f$ to preserve $w$-$n$-DOPP (not necessarily surjective) and be a weak $n$-Lipschitz mapping or preserve $n$-collinearity. This has been indicated in \cite[Lemma 3.2]{CKK} which states that every $n$-isometry $f$ preserves 2-collinearity in $n$-normed spaces. For the convenience of readers and since the condition is weaker, we here include a proof.
\begin{lem}\label{col}
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two $n$-normed spaces. Suppose that the mapping $f : X \rightarrow Y$ preserves $w$-$\rho$-$n$-distance for some $\rho>0$. Then the following properties are equivalent:\\
{\rm(a)} $f$ preserves $n$-collinearity;\\
{\rm(b)} $f$ preserves 2-collinearity;\\
{\rm(c)} $f$ preserves 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment.
\end{lem}
\begin{prf}
For the implication $(a)\Rightarrow (b)$ assume that, on the contrary, there are $x_0,x_1,x_2\in X$ which are collinear such that $f(x_1)-f(x_0), f(x_2)-f(x_0)$ are linearly independent. Note that $x_0\neq x_1$ and $f$ preserves $w$-$\rho$-$n$-distance. We can choose $y_2, \cdots, y_n \in X$ such that \begin{eqnarray*}&& \| f(x_1)-f(x_0), f(y_2)-f(x_0), \cdots, f(y_n)-f(x_0) \|\\
&&= \| x_1-x_0, y_2-x_0, \cdots, y_n-x_0\|=\rho.\end{eqnarray*}
Then the set $A:=\{f(x)-f(x_0): x\in X\}$ contains $n$ linearly independent vectors. Hence there exist $x_3, \cdots, x_n \in X$ such that
$$\|f(x_1)-f(x_0), f(x_2)-f(x_0), f(x_3)-f(x_0), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(x_0)\|\neq 0.$$ Assume that $f$ preserves $n$-collinearity. Then
$\|x_1-x_0, x_2-x_0, \cdots, x_n-x_0\|=0$ implies that
\begin{equation*}
\|f(x_1)-f(x_0), f(x_2)-f(x_0), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(x_0)\|=0.
\end{equation*}
which is a contradiction. Thus $f$ preserves 2-collinearity.
The implication $(b)\Rightarrow (c)$ is clear.
For the implication $(c)\Rightarrow (a)$ without loss of generality we can assume that $\rho=1$. Then $f$ satisfies $w$-$n$-DOPP. Let $g(x)=f(x)-f(0)$ for every $x\in X$. We first prove that $g$ preserves distance $m/k$ for all $m,k \in \mathbb{N}$. Let $x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n
$ be in $X$ and $m,k$ be in $\mathbb{N}$ such that $$\| x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|=m/k.$$
We see from Lemma \ref{add} that $g$ is $\mathbb{Q}$-linear, and since $g(0)=0$ and satisfies $w$-$n$-DOPP, we have
\begin{eqnarray*}
\|g(x_1), g(x_2), \cdots, g(x_n)\|= \frac{m}{k}\|g(\frac{k}{m}x_1), g(x_2), \cdots, g(x_n)\|=\frac{m}{k}.
\end{eqnarray*}
To see that $g$ preserves $n$-collinearity, we only need to check that for all $x_1, x_2, \cdots x_n\in X$ which are not all zero with $\|x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|= 0$,
\begin{eqnarray*}
\| g(x_1), g(x_2), \cdots, g(x_n)\|= 0.
\end{eqnarray*}
Since $\|x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|= 0$, we know that $x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\in X$ are linearly dependent. To simplify the notation, the maximal linearly independent members of $x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n$ are still denoted by $x_1,\cdots,x_k$ where $1\leq k<n$. Choose $y_{k+1},\cdots,y_n\in X$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*}\|x_1,\cdots,x_k, y_{k+1},\cdots,y_n\|=1.\end{eqnarray*}
Then for every positive integer $m$, \begin{eqnarray*}\|x_1,\cdots,x_k, x_{k+1}+\frac{1}{m}y_{k+1},\cdots, x_n+\frac{1}{m}y_n\|=\frac{1}{m^{n-k}}\end{eqnarray*} and by the above,
\begin{eqnarray*}
&&\| g(x_1),\cdots, g(x_k), g(x_{k+1})+\frac{1}{m}g(y_{k+1}),\cdots, g(x_n)+\frac{1}{m}g(y_{n})\|=\frac{1}{m^{n-k}}.
\end{eqnarray*}
Triangle inequality hence gives
\begin{eqnarray*}
&&\|g(x_1),\cdots, g(x_k),g(x_{k+1}),\cdots, g(x_n)\|\\
&&\leq\|g(x_1),\cdots, g(x_k), g(x_{k+1})+\frac{1}{m}g(y_{k+1}),\cdots,g(x_n)+\frac{1}{m}g(y_{n})\|+\frac{1}{m}A_m\\
&&=\frac{1}{m^{n-k}}+\frac{1}{m}A_m,
\end{eqnarray*}
where \begin{eqnarray*}
A_m&=&\sum_{i=1}^{n-k}\|g(x_1),\cdots, g(x_{k+i-1}), g(y_{k+i}),g(x_{k+i+1}),\cdots,g(x_{n})\|+\\
&&\frac{1}{m}\sum_{i=1}^{n-1-k}\|g(x_1),\cdots, g(x_{k+i-1}), g(y_{k+i}),g(y_{k+i+1}),g(x_{k+i+2}),\cdots,g(x_{n})\|+\\
&&\frac{1}{m^{n-k-1}}\|g(x_1),\cdots, g(x_{k}), g(y_{k+1}),g(y_{k+2}),\cdots,g(y_n)\|.
\end{eqnarray*}
Letting ${m\rightarrow+\infty}$ we get the desired equation
\begin{equation*}
\| g(x_1), g(x_2), \cdots, g(x_n)\|=0.
\end{equation*}
\end{prf}
Since it has been showed that if $f$ preserves a fixed nonzero weak $n$-distance and 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment then $f(x)-f(0)$ is additive, it is natural to think of such mappings not far from being affine. It is clearly easy to prove $f$ to be an $n$-isometry if it is affine. However it may not be an immediate result since continuity is not implied by preserving nonzero weak $n$-distance.
\begin{prop}\label{isometry}
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two $n$-normed spaces. If $f : X \rightarrow Y$ preserves $w$-$\rho$-$n$-distance for some $\rho>0$ and preserves 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment, then $f$ is an affine $n$-isometry.
\end{prop}
\begin{prf}We first prove that $f$ is affine. For this purpose, we only need to show that the mapping $g: X\rightarrow Y$ defined by $g(x)=f(x)-f(0)$ is linear. By Lemmas \ref{add} and \ref{col}, the mapping $g$ is injective, additive and preserves 2-collinearity.
Let $x\in X$ with $x\neq 0$ and $t\in \mathbb{R}$ with $t\neq 1$. Since $0, x, tx$ are collinear, there exists a unique real number $s$ such that $g(tx) = sg(x).$ We can define $\phi: \mathbb{R}\rightarrow \mathbb{R}$ by $\phi(t)=s$ i.e., $$g(tx) = \phi(t) g(x), \ \forall t\in \mathbb{R}.$$ Then clearly, the mapping $\phi$ is injective, additive with $\phi(0)=0$ and $\phi(1)=1$. Moreover $\phi$ does not depend on the choice of $x$ under the assumption of linear independence. Indeed, choose $y\in X$ such that $x$ and $y$ are linearly independent and let $\phi_1: \mathbb{R}\rightarrow \mathbb{R}$ be a mapping such that $$g(ty) = \phi_1(t) g(y), \ \forall t\in \mathbb{R}.$$ Since $0, x+y, t(x+y)$ are collinear, $$0, g(x)+g(y), \phi(t)g(x)+\phi_1(t)g(y)$$ are collinear. Note that if
$g(x)$ and $g(y)$ are linearly independent, then $\phi(t)=\phi_1(t)$, as desired. In fact, if $n>2$, there exist $x_3, \cdots, x_n \in X$ such that \begin{eqnarray*}
\| g(x), g(y), g(x_3), \cdots, g(x_n)\| = \|x,y, x_3, \cdots, x_n\|=\rho.\end{eqnarray*} Then $g(x)$ and $g(y)$ are linearly independent. If $n=2$, choose a real number $a$ such that $$\|g(x), g(ay)\|=\|x, ay\|=\rho.$$ Then $g(x)$ and $g(ay)$ are linearly independent, and thus so are $g(x)$ and $g(y)$.
We will prove that $\phi$ is an endomorphism. For any $t, s\in \mathbb{R}$, $0, x+sy, tx+tsy$ are collinear, and then $$0, g(x)+\phi(s)g(y), \phi(t)g(x)+\phi(ts)g(y)$$ are collinear. It follows that $\phi(st)=\phi(s)\phi(t)$ for any $t, s\in \mathbb{R}$. It is well-known that the every nonzero endomorphism of $\mathbb{R}$ is the identity. Then for any $x\in X$ and $t\in \mathbb{R}$, $g(t x) = tg(x)$. Thus $g$ is linear. It is easy to see that $g$ is an $n$-isometry, and hence so is $f$. The proof is complete.
\end{prf}
\begin{rem}\emph{Proposition \ref{isometry} has been shown in \cite[Lemma 3.4]{Ma2}. Unfortunately the proof given in \cite[Lemma 3.4]{Ma2} contains a mistake. The statement ``$\lim_{k\rightarrow \infty}\|g(rx)-g(r_kx),g(x_2^k),g(x_3^k),\cdots,g(x_n^k)\|=0$ (pp 978, line 11 of \cite{Ma2})'' could not be obtained from the discussing proof in \cite{Ma2}. For a counterexample, consider $g$ to be the identity, i.e., $g(x)=x$ for every $x\in X$. We may assume that $r$ is an irrational number since the rational case is settled. For each $k$, choose $x_2^k,\cdots,x_n^k$ such that $\|x,x_2^k,x_3^k,\cdots,x_n^k\|=(2+[|r-r_k|])/|r-r_k|$. Then clearly $\|x, x_2^k,x_3^k,\cdots,x_n^k\|>1$ and $|r-r_k|\cdot\|x,x_2^k,x_3^k,\cdots,x_n^k\|=2+[|r-r_k|]$ is a rational number as required in \cite{Ma2}. However, $\|g(rx)-g(r_kx),g(x_2^k),g(x_3^k),\cdots,g(x_n^k)\|=|r-r_k|\cdot\|x,x_2^k,x_3^k,\cdots,x_n^k\|>1$ for every $k$. Therefore the limit cannot be 0 as $k$ goes to infinity. The remaining results Lemma 3.5, Theorem 3.6, Corollary 3.7 and Corollary 3.8 in \cite{Ma2} following from the the main lemma 3.4 need a new proof. For this and our main result (Theorem 2.6), we hence include a different proof in this paper.}
\end{rem}
We are now ready to prove our main result that gives a positive answer to the Aleksandrov problem in $n$-normed spaces. For a real vector space $X$, we denote the line joining two different points $x,y \in X$ by $\overline{xy}$ and affine$(M)$ by the affine subspace generated by $M\subset X$, respectively.
\begin{thm}
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two $n$-normed spaces. If a surjective mapping $f : X \rightarrow Y$ has $n$-DOPP, then $f$ is an affine $n$-isometry.
\end{thm}
\begin{prf}In the following proof, without loss of generality we can assume that $f(0)=0$. We first prove that $f^{-1}$ preserves 2-collinearity. This is equivalent to showing that if $x, y , z \in X$ are not collinear then $f(x), f(y), f(z)$ are not collinear. Indeed, choose $x_3, \cdots, x_n \in X$ such that $r=\| x-z, y-z, x_3-z, \cdots, x_n-z\|\neq 0$. Set $$u:=z+\frac{(x-z)+(y-z)}{r}.$$ It is easy to check that \begin{eqnarray*}\|x-z, u-z, x_3-z, \cdots, x_n-z\|=\|y-z, u-z, x_3-z, \cdots, x_n-z\|=1.\end{eqnarray*} Since $f$ has $n$-DOPP, \begin{eqnarray}\label{d1}&&\|f(x)-f(z), f(u)-f(z), f(x_3)-f(z), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(z)\|=1\\&&\label{d2}\|f(y)-f(z), f(u)-f(z), f(x_3)-f(z), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(z)\|=1.\end{eqnarray} If there exists some $t\in \mathbb{R}$ such that $f(x)-f(z)=t(f(y)-f(z))$. By (\ref{d1}),(\ref{d2}) and since $f$ is injective,
we obtain that $t=-1$ and so $f(z)=(f(x)+f(y))/2$. Similarly, $f(x)=(f(z)+f(y))/2$. It follows that $f(x)=f(y)=f(z)$, which is impossible.
To see our conclusion, we shall show that $f$ preserves 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment. If this does not hold, then there exist $x\neq y \in X$ with $z=(x+y)/2$ such that $f(x), f(y), f(z)$ are not collinear. Now let $w\in X$ such that $$f(w)=\frac{f(x)+f(y)}{2}.$$ Since $f^{-1}$ preserves 2-collinearity, there exists a scalar $t$ such that $y-w=t(x-w)$. We can choose $x_2,\cdots,x_n\in X$ satisfying $\|y-w,x_2,\cdots,x_n\|=1$ and $\overline{0x_2}$ intersects $\overline{xy}$ only in one point denoted by $x_0$. We claim that the $f$-image $f(\overline{0x_2})$ belongs to a line $\overline{0f(x_2)}$ in $Y$. Otherwise, there are $u,v\subset\overline{0x_2}$ such that $f(u),f(v),f(x_0)$ are not collinear.
Set
$$ E:=\mbox{affine}(f(u),f(x_0),f(v)) \quad \mbox{and} \quad F:=\mbox{affine}(f(x),f(x_0),f(y),f(z)).$$
Since $f^{-1}$ preserves 2-collinearity, we have $f^{-1}(E)\subset\overline{0x_2}$ and $f^{-1}(F)\subset\overline{xy}$.
Observe that $f(x_0)\in E\cap F$. Then $E\cap F$ contains infinity points. However,
\begin{equation*}
f^{-1}(E\cap F)\subset f^{-1}(E)\cap f^{-1}(F) \subset\overline{0x_2}\cap\overline{xy}=\{x_0\}.
\end{equation*}
A contradiction since $f$ is injective. By the claim, there are scalars $s_1, s_2$ such that $f(tx_2)=s_1f(x_2)$ and $f(-tx_2)=s_2f(x_2)$.
Since $f$ has $n$-DOPP, we have
\begin{eqnarray*}
&&\|f(y)-f(w),f(x_2),\cdots,f(x_n)\|=\frac{1}{2}\|f(x)-f(y),f(x_2),\cdots,f(x_n)\|=1, \\
&&\|f(x)-f(w),f(tx_2),\cdots,f(x_n)\|=\frac{1}{2}\|f(x)-f(y),s_1f(x_2),\cdots,f(x_n)\|=1,\\
&&\|f(x)-f(w),f(-tx_2),\cdots,f(x_n)\|=\frac{1}{2}\|f(x)-f(y),s_2f(x_2),\cdots,f(x_n)\|=1.
\end{eqnarray*}
It follows that $|s_i|=1$. Since $f$ is injective, the only possibility is that $s_{1}=-1$ and $s_{2}=1$. Thus $t=-1$. Therefore $w=(x+y)/2$. A contradiction guarantees that $f$ preserves 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment. Proposition \ref{isometry} thus completes the proof.
\end{prf}
Next, we shall show that the result of W. Benz holds in $n$-strictly convex spaces.
\begin{defn} An $n$-normed space $X$ is said to be \emph{$n$-strictly convex space} if for any $x_0, x_1, \cdots, x_n\in X$, $x_2, \cdots, x_n \notin span\{x_0, x_1\}$ and $\|x_0+x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|=\|x_0, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|+\|x_1, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|>0$ imply $x_0=tx_1$ for some $t\geq0$.
\end{defn}
\begin{thm}\label{benz}
Let $X$ and $Y$ be two $n$-normed spaces, and let $Y$ be $n$-strictly convex. If $f : X \rightarrow Y$ preserves two $n$-distances $\rho$ and $N\rho$ for some $\rho>0$ and some integer $N>1$, then $f$ is an affine $n$-isometry.
\end{thm}
\begin{prf}
It follows from Proposition \ref{isometry} that we need only prove that $f$ preserves 2-collinearity for the midpoint of a segment.
(a) We first prove that $f$ preserves $2\rho$-$n$-distance. Assume that $N>2$ and $f$ preserves $n$-distances $\rho$ and $N\rho$.
Let $x_1, x_2 \cdots, x_n, y_1, y_2 \cdots, y_n $ be in $X$ such that $$\| x_1-y_1, x_2-y_2,\cdots, x_n-y_n\|=2\rho,$$ and set
\begin{eqnarray*}
\omega_i=y_1+ i(\frac{x_1-y_1}{2}), \quad \forall i\in \mathbb{N}\cup\{0\}.
\end{eqnarray*}
Then $\omega _{0}=y_1$, $\omega_2=x_1$ and
\begin{eqnarray*}
\omega _{i} - \omega _{i-1}= \frac{x_1-y_1}{2}, \quad \forall i\in \mathbb{N}.
\end{eqnarray*}
It follows that \begin{eqnarray*}
\| \omega _{i} - \omega _{i-1}, x_2-y_2,\cdots, x_n-y_n\|=\rho, \quad \forall i\in \mathbb{N}.
\end{eqnarray*} and $\|\omega _{N} - y_1, x_2-y_2,\cdots, x_n-y_n\|=N\rho$.
Since $f$ preserves $\rho$-$n$-distance, by the triangle inequality, we have
\begin{eqnarray*} &&\| f(x_1)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \| \\ &\leq& \| f(\omega_2)-f(\omega_1),\cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n)\|+\| f(\omega_1)-f(\omega_0), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \| \\ &=& 2\rho \end{eqnarray*} and similarly,
\begin{eqnarray*} \| f(\omega_N)-f(x_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n)\| \leq (N-2)\rho. \end{eqnarray*}
Therefore, \begin{eqnarray*} N\rho&=&\| f(\omega_N)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n)\| \\
&\leq& \| f(\omega_N)-f(x_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n)\|+\| f(x_1)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \|\\
&\leq& (N-2)\rho+ 2\rho=N\rho. \end{eqnarray*}
This implies that \begin{eqnarray*} \| f(x_1)-f(y_1), \cdots, f(x_n)-f(y_n) \|=2\rho. \end{eqnarray*}
(b) Let $z=(x+y)/2$ for distinct $x,y\in X$. Let $g(x)=f(x)-f(0)$. Then $g$ preserves two $n$-distances $\rho$ and $2\rho$.
Thus, there is no loss of generality in assuming that $f(0)=0$.
We shall prove that there exist $x_2, x_3, \cdots, x_n \in X$ such that $$\|y-z, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|=\rho$$ and \begin{eqnarray*}f(x_i) \not \in \mbox{span}\{f(y)-f(z), f(x)-f(z)\} \quad \mbox {for} \ i=2,3,\cdots, n.\end{eqnarray*} Choose $y_2, y_3, \cdots, y_n \in X$ such that $\|y-z, y_2, \cdots, y_n\|=\rho$. We define the set $C_2$ to consist of all elements $\nu$ in $X$ such that $\|y-z, \nu, y_3, \cdots, y_n\|=\rho$, that is \begin{eqnarray*}C_2:=\{\nu\in X: \|y-z, \nu, y_3, \cdots, y_n\|=\rho\}.\end{eqnarray*} We can choose $x_2\in C_2$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*}f(x_2) \not \in \mbox{span}\{f(y)-f(z), f(x)-f(z)\}.\end{eqnarray*} Otherwise, assume that for every $\nu\in C_2$ there exist $\alpha, \beta \in \mathbb{R}$ such that
\begin{eqnarray}\label{a1}f(\nu)=\alpha (f(y)-f(z))+ \beta (f(x)-f(z)).\end{eqnarray} Note that $ \|y-z, \nu, y_3 \cdots, y_n\|=\rho$.
It follows that \begin{eqnarray*} \|x-z, \nu, y_3, \cdots, y_n\|=\rho. \end{eqnarray*}
Then
\begin{eqnarray}\label{a2} &&\|f(y)-f(z), f(\nu), f(y_3), \cdots, f(y_n)\|=\rho, \\ \label{a3}&&\|f(x)-f(z), f(\nu), f(y_3), \cdots, f(y_n)\|=\rho, \end{eqnarray}
It follows from (\ref{a1}), (\ref{a2}) and (\ref{a3}) that
\begin{eqnarray*}
&&|\beta| \| f(y)-f(z), f(x)-f(z), \cdots, f(y_n)\|=\rho\\
&&|\alpha|\| f(x)-f(z), f(y)-f(z), \cdots, f(y_n)\|=\rho.
\end{eqnarray*}
This yields $|\alpha|=|\beta|.$ Moreover, $|\alpha|$ is a fixed positive real number. Therefore, there are at most four elements in $f(C_2)$. This is impossible, because the set $C_2$ contains ``enough'' elements. This follows from Lemma \ref{add} that $f$ is injective and for each $r\in \mathbb{R}$, the element $\nu_r:=y_2+r(y-z)$ belongs to $C_2$. So there exists $x_2\in C_2$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*}f(x_2) \not \in \mbox{span}\,\{f(y)-f(z), f(x)-f(z)\}.\end{eqnarray*} Next, set \begin{eqnarray*}C_3:=\{\nu\in X: \|y-z, x_2, \nu, y_4, \cdots, y_n\|=\rho\}.\end{eqnarray*} By the same method as above, we can choose $x_3\in C_3$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*}f(x_3) \not \in \mbox {span}\{f(y)-f(z), f(x)-f(z)\}.\end{eqnarray*} This process can be repeated until we obtain the promised $x_2, x_3, \cdots, x_n \in X$ such that $\|y-z, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|=\rho$ and \begin{eqnarray*}f(x_i) \not \in \mbox{span}\{f(y)-f(z), f(x)-f(z)\} \ \mbox{ for} \ \ i=2,3,\cdots, n.\end{eqnarray*}
(c) We are now ready to show the desired result that $f$ preserves 2-collinearity for the the midpoint of a segment.
Let $z=(x+y)/{2}$ for distinct $x,y\in X$. Let $x_2, x_3, \cdots, x_n $ be in $X$ such that
\begin{eqnarray*}\|y-z, x_2, \cdots, x_n\|=\rho\end{eqnarray*} and
\begin{eqnarray*}f(x_i) \not \in \mbox {span}\{f(y)-f(z), f(x)-f(z)\} \ \mbox{for} \ i=2,3,\cdots, n.\end{eqnarray*} Then we deduce from the fact that $f$ preserves $n$-distances $\rho$ and $2\rho$ that
\begin{eqnarray*}
&&\| f(y)-f(x), f(x_2), \cdots, f(x_n)\|\\&=&\|f(y)-f(z),f(x_2), \cdots, f(x_n)\|+\|f(x)-f(z), f(x_2), \cdots, f(x_n)\|.
\end{eqnarray*}
Since $Y$ is $n$-strictly convex, there exists a real number $t>0$ such that $$f(y)-f(z)=t(f(z)-f(x)).$$
This completes the proof.
\end{prf}
\begin{rem}
\emph{ \cite[Theorem 11]{Ma} tried to generalize Benz's Theorem on $n$-normed spaces. However, on the part (d) of the proof of \cite[Theorem 11]{Ma}
the statement that $f(p_2)-f(p_1)=t(f(p_1)-f(p_0))$ for some $t$ cannot follow just from
\begin{align*}
& \| f(p_2)-f(p_0), f(y_2)-f(x), \cdots,f(y_n)-f(x)\|\\
&=\| f(p_2)-f(p_1), f(y_2)-f(x), \cdots, f(y_n)-f(x)\|
\\&+\| f(p_1)-f(p_0), f(y_2)-f(x), \cdots, f(y_n)-f(x)\| = 2\rho.
\end{align*}
It remains to check that $f(y_i)-f(x)\not \in \mbox{span}\{f(p_2)-f(p_0), f(p_1)-f(p_0)\} \quad \mbox {for} \ i=2,3,\cdots, n$ (It is the demand from the definition of $n$ strictly convexity (\cite[definition 3]{Ma} or Definition 2.7 of our paper)). It is a hard and key step which cannot be missed. }
\end{rem}
\subsection*{Acknowledgements}
The authors wish to express their appreciation to Guanggui Ding for many very helpful comments regarding isometric theory in Banach spaces.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
| 8
|
//
// Copyright 2014 Gustavo J Knuppe (https://github.com/knuppe)
//
// Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License");
// you may not use this file except in compliance with the License.
// You may obtain a copy of the License at
//
// http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0
//
// Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software
// distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS,
// WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied.
// See the License for the specific language governing permissions and
// limitations under the License.
//
// - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
// - May you do good and not evil. -
// - May you find forgiveness for yourself and forgive others. -
// - May you share freely, never taking more than you give. -
// - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
//
using System;
using NUnit.Framework;
using SharpNL.Utility.Evaluation;
namespace SharpNL.Tests.Utility.Evaluation {
[TestFixture]
public class CrossValidationPartitionerTest {
[Test]
public void Test3FoldCv() {
var partitioner = new CrossValidationPartitioner<string>(new[] {
"01", "02", "03", "04", "05", "06", "07", "08", "09", "10"
}, 3);
// first partition
Assert.True(partitioner.HasNext);
var firstTraining = partitioner.Next();
Assert.AreEqual("02", firstTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("03", firstTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("05", firstTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("06", firstTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("08", firstTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("09", firstTraining.Read());
Assert.Null(firstTraining.Read());
var firstTest = firstTraining.GetTestSampleStream();
Assert.AreEqual("01", firstTest.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("04", firstTest.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("07", firstTest.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("10", firstTest.Read());
Assert.Null(firstTest.Read());
// second partition
Assert.True(partitioner.HasNext);
var secondTraining = partitioner.Next();
Assert.AreEqual("01", secondTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("03", secondTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("04", secondTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("06", secondTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("07", secondTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("09", secondTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("10", secondTraining.Read());
Assert.Null(secondTraining.Read());
var secondTest = secondTraining.GetTestSampleStream();
Assert.AreEqual("02", secondTest.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("05", secondTest.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("08", secondTest.Read());
Assert.Null(secondTest.Read());
// third partition
Assert.True(partitioner.HasNext);
var thirdTraining = partitioner.Next();
Assert.AreEqual("01", thirdTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("02", thirdTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("04", thirdTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("05", thirdTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("07", thirdTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("08", thirdTraining.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("10", thirdTraining.Read());
Assert.Null(thirdTraining.Read());
var thirdTest = thirdTraining.GetTestSampleStream();
Assert.AreEqual("03", thirdTest.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("06", thirdTest.Read());
Assert.AreEqual("09", thirdTest.Read());
Assert.Null(thirdTest.Read());
Assert.False(partitioner.HasNext);
}
[Test]
public void TestEmptyDataSet() {
var partitioner = new CrossValidationPartitioner<string>(new string[] {}, 2);
Assert.True(partitioner.HasNext);
Assert.Null(partitioner.Next().Read());
Assert.True(partitioner.HasNext);
Assert.Null(partitioner.Next().Read());
Assert.False(partitioner.HasNext);
try {
partitioner.Next();
Assert.Fail("Ups, hasn't thrown one!");
} catch (Exception) {
// expected
}
}
[Test]
public void TestFailSafety() {
var partitioner = new CrossValidationPartitioner<String>(new[] {
"01", "02", "03", "04"
}, 4);
// Test that iterator from previous partition fails
// if it is accessed
var firstTraining = partitioner.Next();
Assert.AreEqual("02", firstTraining.Read());
var secondTraining = partitioner.Next();
try {
firstTraining.Read();
Assert.Fail();
} catch (Exception) {}
try {
firstTraining.GetTestSampleStream();
Assert.Fail();
} catch (Exception) {}
// Test that training iterator fails if there is a test iterator
secondTraining.GetTestSampleStream();
try {
secondTraining.Read();
Assert.Fail();
} catch (Exception) {}
// Test that test iterator from previous partition fails
// if there is a new partition
var thirdTraining = partitioner.Next();
var thirdTest = thirdTraining.GetTestSampleStream();
Assert.True(partitioner.HasNext);
partitioner.Next();
try {
thirdTest.Read();
Assert.Fail();
} catch (Exception) {}
}
[Test]
public void ToStringTest() {
var value = new CrossValidationPartitioner<string>(new string[] {}, 10).ToString();
Assert.AreEqual("At partition 1 of 10.", value);
}
}
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 4,808
|
est le deuxième album studio de Selah Sue sorti en 2015.
Liste des titres
Album musical sorti en 2015
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 7,013
|
\section{Introduction}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
In a previous paper\cite{Baxter1989}, we obtained the partition function
$\tilde{Z}_Q$ (here referred to as $\tilde{Z}_{p}$) of the superintegrable
chiral Potts model with open
boundary conditions. It is a simple product of elements of two-by-two
matrices, reflecting the fact that there is a reduced representation
in which the transfer matrices have a direct product
structure, similar to that of the Ising model.\cite{ Tarasov1991}
Very recently, we have considered the problem of calculating the
spontaneous magnetization $\cal M$ of the square lattice Ising
model.\cite{Baxter2008} We
used the method of Yang\cite{Yang1952} and defined $\cal M$
in terms of the partition function $\widetilde{W}$ on a cylindrical
lattice of $L$ columns with fixed-spin boundary conditions
on the upper and lower rows, with a single-spin operator $S_1$ acting
on a spin located within the lattice. For convenience, we took the
limit when the transfer matrix could be replaced by the exponential of
an associated hamiltonian.
The Clifford algebra technique of Kaufman\cite{Kaufman1949} can
still be applied to
this system, so that $\widetilde{W}$ can be calculated as the
square root of an $L$-dimensional determinant. This can be further
reduced to a determinant (without the square root) of dimension
approximately $L/2$.
Here we write down corresponding definitions of $\widetilde{W}$ for the
$N$-state superintegrable chiral Potts model, which reduces to the
Ising model when $N=2$.
We conjecture in (\ref{cnjW}) - (\ref{conj2a}) that $\widetilde{W}$ is
also given by a determinant of dimension smaller than $L$, being
a fairly immediate generalization
of that for the Ising case. If true, this is an exact formula for finite
lattices, containing three additional arbitrary parameters
$\alpha, \beta , x$ in addition to $N, L$ and the labels $p, q$ of the
appropriate sub-spaces. It is therefore easy to test numerically, and
we have tested it to 60 or more digits of accuracy
for various small values of $N, L$ (up to $N+L = 10$).
If this conjecture is indeed true, then the
spontaneous magnetization of the superintegrable chiral Potts model
is given by the expression (\ref{resultM}) below.
This necessitates taking the limit $L \rightarrow \infty$ . As yet we
have not done this,
but we have observed numerically that (\ref{resultM}) does indeed
appear to converge to the known result (\ref{Albconj}). The author
has previously derived (\ref{resultM}) by analytic
methods\cite{Baxter2005a,Baxter2005b} that apply in the large-lattice
limit, but it would still be interesting to have an
algebraic derivation that could give greater insight into the properties
of the model on a finite lattice.
\section{Partition function}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
\subsection*{Definition}
The model is defined on the square lattice, rotated through
$45^{\circ}$, with $M+1$ horizontal rows, each containing $L$ spins,
as in Fig. 1.
\setlength{\unitlength}{1pt}
\begin{figure}[hbt]
\begin{picture}(400,160) (-23,17)
\put (43,43) {\line(1,1) {74}}
\put (123,63) {\line(1,1) {54}}
\put (183,63) {\line(1,1) {54}}
\put (243,63) {\line(1,1) {43}}
\put (63,3) {\line(1,1) {54}}
\put (123,3) {\line(1,1) {54}}
\put (183,3) {\line(1,1) {54}}
\put (243,3) {\line(1,1) {43}}
\put (43,104) {\line(1,1) {14}}
\put (63,117) {\line(1,-1) {54}}
\put (123,117) {\line(1,-1) {54}}
\put (183,117) {\line(1,-1) {54}}
\put (243,117) {\line(1,-1) {43}}
\put (43,77) {\line(1,-1) {69}}
\put (123,57) {\line(1,-1) {54}}
\put (183,57) {\line(1,-1) {54}}
\put (243,57) {\line(1,-1) {43}}
\put (43,16) {\line(1,-1) {14}}
\multiput(60,0)(60,0){4}{\circle{7}}
\multiput(60,60)(60,0){4}{\circle*{7}}
\multiput(60,120)(60,0){4}{\circle{7}}
\multiput(90,30)(60,0){4}{\circle*{7}}
\multiput(90,90)(60,0){4}{\circle*{7}}
\put (51,-13) {$a$}
\put (111,-13) {$a$}
\put (170,-13) {$a$}
\put (230,-13) {$a$}
\put (86,14) {$1$}
\put (146,14) {$2$}
\put (266,14) {$L$}
\put (61,128) {$0$}
\put (121,128) {$0$}
\put (181,128) {$0$}
\put (241,128) {$0$}
\put (175,45) {$i$}
\put (205,75) {$j$}
\put (181,73) {${\cal{W}}$}
\put (314,-4) {$1$}
\put (314,26) {$2$}
\put (314,116) {$M+1$}
\put (107,74) {${\overline{\cal W}}$}
\end{picture}
\vspace{1.5cm}
\caption{\footnotesize The square lattice $\cal L$ turned
through $45^{\circ}$.}
\label{sqlatt45}
\end{figure}
We impose cylindrical boundary
conditions, so that the last column $L$ is followed by the first column
1. At each site $i$ there is a spin $\sigma_i$, taking the values
$0, 1, \dots, N-1$. The spins in the bottom row are fixed to have
value $a$, those in the top row to have value 0. Adjacent spins
$\sigma_i, \sigma_j$ on southwest to northeast edges (with $i$ below
$j$) interact with Boltzmann weight ${{\cal{W}}}(\sigma_i - \sigma_j)$;
those on southeast to northwest edges with weight
$\overline{\cal W}(\sigma_i - \sigma_j)$.
These ${\cal{W}}, \overline{\cal W}$ are the Boltzmann weight functions:
\begin{eqnarray} {{\cal{W}}} (n) = & {{\cal{W}}} (n+N) = & \mu^n \prod_{j=1}^{n}
(1-\omega^j y) /(1- \omega^j x )
\;\; , \; \; \nonumber \\
{\overline{\cal W}}(n) = & \overline{\cal W}(n+N) = & \mu^{-n} \prod_{j=1}^{n}
(\omega-\omega^j x) /(1- \omega^j y ) \;\; , \; \; \end{eqnarray}
where $\omega = {\rm e}^{2 \pi \i /n}$, $x$ and $y$ are complex
parameters, and
\begin{equation} \mu^N = (x^N-1)/(y^N-1) \;\; . \end{equation}
An important associated parameter is
\begin{equation} k' \; = \; (x^N-1)(y^N-1)/(y^N-x^N) \;\; . \end{equation}
The partition function, which depends on $a$, is
\begin{equation} Z_a \; = \; \sum_{\sigma} \prod_{\langle i,j \rangle}
{\cal{W}}(\sigma_i - \sigma_j ) \prod_{\langle i,j \rangle}
\overline{\cal W}(\sigma_i - \sigma_j ) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
the products being over all edges of the two types. The sum is
over all values of all the free spins.
The partition function can be written as
\begin{equation} Z_a \; = \; u_a^{\dagger} \, { T} ^M \, u_0 \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where ${ T}$ is the row-to-row transfer matrix, with elements
\begin{equation}
T_{\sigma, \sigma'} \; = \; \prod_{i=1}^L {\cal{W}}(\sigma_i - \sigma'_{i+1} )
\overline{\cal W}(\sigma_i - \sigma'_{i} ) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
$\sigma$ being the set of all spins $\sigma_1, \ldots , \sigma_L$
in one row, and $\sigma'$ being the set in the row above. Thus
$ T$ is an $N^L$ by $N^L$ matrix. The vector $u_a$ is of
dimension $N^L$, with entries
\begin{eqnarray} \label{defua}
( u_a)_{\sigma} & = & 1\;\; {\rm if } \;\; \sigma_1 =
\cdots = \sigma_L = a \;\; , \; \; \nonumber \\
& = & 0 \; \; {\rm otherwise} \;\; . \end{eqnarray}
The superintegrable chiral Potts model is a special case of the more
general solvable chiral Potts model, which satisfies the star-triangle
relation.\cite{BPY1988} This ensures that two transfer matrices $T, T'$,
with different values of $x, y$, but the same value of $k'$,
commute.
\subsection*{The spin-increment matrix $R$}
Let $R$ be the $N^L$ by $N^L$ matrix with entries
\begin{equation} R_{\sigma, \sigma'} \; = \; \prod_{j=1}^L
\delta (\sigma_j , \sigma'_j + 1) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where $\delta(a,b) = 1 \; {\rm if} \;a = b \;
({\rm modulo} \; N)$, else $\delta(a,b) = 0$.
Then pre-multiplying by $R$ has the effect of increasing all
spins by 1 (modulo $N$), hence $R u_a = u_{a\scriptscriptstyle{+1}}$
and $R$ commutes with $ T$:
\begin{equation} \label{comm} R \, { T} = { T } R \;\; . \end{equation}
For this reason it is natural to use the Fourier transform of $u_a$:
\begin{equation} \label{vu}
v_{p} \; = \; N^{-1/2} \; \sum_{a=0}^{N-1}
\omega^{- a p} \, u_a \;\; . \end{equation}
taking $p = 0, \ldots, N-1$. This $p$ replaces the $Q$ of
\cite{Baxter1988,Baxter1989}. Then
\begin{equation} \label{Rmult}
R\, v_{p} = \omega^{p} v_{p} \;\; . \end{equation}
If we also define
\begin{equation} \label{ZtZ}
\tilde{Z}_{p} \; = \; \sum_{a=0}^{N-1} \, \omega^{{p} a} \, Z_a \;\; , \; \;
\end{equation}
then
\begin{eqnarray} \tilde{Z}_{p} & = & N^{1/2} \, v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^M u_0 \nonumber \\
& = & \sum_{q =0}^{N-1} v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^M v_{q } \;\; . \end{eqnarray}
{From} (\ref{comm}) , we can replace $T^M$ in the summand by
$R^{-1}T^M R$, and from (\ref{Rmult}) this is equivalent to multiplying
by $\omega^{q - {p} }$. This in turn means the summand must vanish
unless $ q = p$, so
\begin{equation} \tilde{Z}_{p} = v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^M v_{{p} } \;\; . \end{equation}
\subsection*{The sub-space $V_p$}
Following the observations of Albertini {\it et al}\cite{Albertini1989},
we showed in refs.\cite{Baxter1988,Baxter1989} that if one operates
on $v_{p} $ by any product of matrices $T$, with different values of
$x,y$ but the same value of $k'$, then all the vectors generated
lie in a vector space $V_{p} $, where ${p} =0, \ldots , N-1$.
For any vector $v$ in $V_{p} $,
\begin{equation} \label{RVq}
R \, v \; = \; \omega^{p} v \;\; . \end{equation}
We also showed that the transfer matrices satisfied a functional
relation that determined their eigenvalues, and derived the
result (\ref{Zq}) for the partition function $\tilde{Z}_{p}$.
If
\begin{equation} \label{defm} m = m_{p} = {\rm integer \; part \; of\; }
\left[\frac{(N-1) L - {p} }{N} \right] \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
then there are just $2^m$ distinct eigenvalues. What we have not
shown, but believe to be true, is that each such eigenvalue occurs
just once, so that $V_{p} $ is of dimension $2^m$. Certainly, by
continuity from the case $k' = 0$, the largest
eigenvalue (which is the one we most often consider) occurs just once.
For the case when $p = 0$ and $L$ divides by $N$, Au-Yang and Perk
have recently obtained the eigenvectors explicitly.\cite{AuYangPerk2008}
Two vectors $v, w$ in different spaces $V_p$, $V_{{p} }$ (with
$q \neq {p} $) are necessarily orthogonal, i.e. $v^{\dagger}{\cdot} \, w = 0$.
Define
\begin{equation} \label{defP}
P(z^N) \; = \; z^{-{p} } \, \sum_{n=0}^{N-1}
\omega^{(L+{p} )n} {(z^N-1)/(z-\omega^n)}^L \;\; . \end{equation}
Then $P(w) = P_{p} (w) $ is a polynomial in $w$ of degree $m$. Let
its zeros be
$w_1, \ldots ,w_m$ and define
$\theta_1, \ldots ,\theta_m$ $ = \theta ({p} ,1), \ldots ,\theta ({p} ,m)$ by
\begin{equation} \label{deftheta}
\cos \theta_j \; = \; \cos [ \theta ({p} ,j) ] \; = \; (1+w_j)/(1-w_j) \;\; , \;\; 0
< \theta_i < \pi \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
for $j = 1,\ldots, m $. Set
\begin{equation} G \; = \; (x^N y^N-1)/(y^N-x^N) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{equation} g \; = \; N(1-x^{-1})/(1-x^{-N}) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
define the two-by-two matrices
\renewcommand{\arraystretch}{1.2}
\setlength{\arraycolsep}{4pt}
\begin{equation} S = \left( \begin{array}
{cc} 1 & 0 \\
0 & -1 \end{array} \right) \;\; , \;\;
C = \left( \begin{array}
{cc} 0 & 1 \\ 1 & 0 \end{array} \right) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{equation} F(x,y,\theta) \; = \; \frac{1-x^{-N}}{2 k'} \left[ G \, I_2 +
(1-k' \cos \theta )S -k' \sin \theta \, C \right] \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
$I_2$ being the identity matrix, and set
\renewcommand{\arraystretch}{1.2}
\setlength{\arraycolsep}{4pt}
\begin{equation} \label{defD}
D(\cos \theta ) \; = \; (
\begin{array} {c c} 1 & 0 \end{array} ) \, {\displaystyle{\cdot}}
\, F(x,y,\theta)^{\raisebox{0.8ex}{\it \scriptsize M}}
{\displaystyle{\cdot}} \left( \begin{array} {c} 1 \\ 0 \end{array}
\right) \end{equation}
\renewcommand{\arraystretch}{1.2}
then in \cite{Baxter1989} we find that
\begin{equation} \label{Zq}
\tilde{Z}_{p} \; = \; g^{L M} x^{- M {p} } \, D(\cos \theta_1) \,
D(\cos \theta_2) \cdots D(\cos \theta_m) \;\; . \end{equation}
\section{The hamiltonian limit}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
Take \begin{equation} \mu = {\rm e}^{- 2 \epsilon } \end{equation}
and consider the limit when $\epsilon \rightarrow 0 $. Then to
first order in $\epsilon$
\begin{equation} x = y = 1+ 2 k' \epsilon \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{equation} {{\cal{W}}}(n) = 1 - 2 n \epsilon \;\; , \;\;
\overline{\cal W} (n) = 2 k' \epsilon /(1-\omega^{-n}) \end{equation}
for $ 0 < n < N$, while ${{\cal{W}}}(0) = \overline{\cal W} (0) = 1$. Noting that
\begin{equation} N-1-2j = 2 \sum_{n=1}^{N-1} \frac{\omega^{n j}}{1-\omega^{-n} }
\end{equation}
for $ 0 \leq j < N $, it follows that
\begin{equation} \label{Tlim}
T \; = \; [1 - (N-1) L \epsilon] \, I -\epsilon \, {\cal H} \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where $I$ is the identity matrix and
\begin{equation} {\cal H} = -2 \sum_{j=1}^L \sum_{n=1}^{N-1} ( {{\cal Z}}_j^n {{\cal Z}}_{j+1}^{-n} +
k' X_j^n)/(1-\omega^{-n}) \;\; . \end{equation}
This is the hamiltonian associated with the transfer matrix $T$.
Since all transfer matrices with the same value of $k'$ commute,
they also commute with $\cal H$.
Here ${{\cal Z}}_j, X_j$ are the $N^L$ by $N^L$ matrices of \cite{Albertini1989},
with elements
\begin{equation} \left( {{\cal Z}}_j \right)_{\sigma, \sigma'} = \omega^{\sigma_j} \,
\prod_{m=1}^L \delta(\sigma_m,\sigma'_m) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{equation} \left( X_j \right)_{\sigma, \sigma'} = \delta(\sigma_j,\sigma'_j+1)
{\prod_{n=1}^L}^{\! \raisebox{-10pt}{*}} \delta(\sigma_n,\sigma'_n)
\;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
the $*$ on the last product indicating that that it excludes
the case $n=j$.
The hamiltonian $\cal H$ is known to have very special properties. In
particular Au-Yang and Perk showed that it satisfies the ``Onsager
algebra''.\cite{AuYangPerk1989}
Still working to first order in $\epsilon$, we obtain
\begin{displaymath} g = 1+(N-1) k' \epsilon \;\; , \; \; \end{displaymath}
\begin{displaymath} \frac{(1-x^{-N}) G}{2 k'} \; = \; 1 - N (1+k')\epsilon \;\; , \; \; \end{displaymath}
\begin{displaymath} F(x,y,\theta) =
[1- N (1+k') \epsilon] I_2 + N \epsilon
\left[ (1-k' \cos \theta) S - k' \sin\ \theta \, C \right] \;\; .
\end{displaymath}
\noindent Now we take
\begin{equation} \epsilon = \alpha/M \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
and let $M \rightarrow \infty$, keeping $\alpha$ fixed. Then
\begin{equation} F(x,y, \theta)^M \rightarrow
\exp \{ N \alpha [-(1+k' ) I_2 + (1-k' \cos \theta )S -k' \sin \theta
\, C ] \} \end{equation}
and from (\ref{Tlim}),
\begin{equation} T^M \rightarrow {\rm e}^{-(N-1)L \alpha } \, \exp ( - \alpha \cal H )
\;\; . \end{equation}
{From} (\ref{defD}) and (\ref{Zq}), it follows that
\begin{equation} \label{resvq}
v_{p} ^{\dagger} \exp(-\alpha {\cal H} ) \, v_{p} \; = \; e^{-\mu \alpha }
\, \overline{D} (\cos \theta_1) \cdots \overline{D} (\cos \theta_m)
\;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where
\begin{equation} \label{defmuq}
\mu = \mu_{p} = 2 k' {p} +(1+k')(mN-NL+L) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{equation} \label{defoD}
\overline{D}(\cos \theta ) \; = \; (
\begin{array} {c c} 1 & 0 \end{array} ) \, {\displaystyle{\cdot}}
\, \exp[- \alpha \tilde{F}(\theta) ]
{\displaystyle{\cdot}} \left( \begin{array} {c} 1 \\ 0 \end{array}
\right) \end{equation}
and $\tilde{F}(\theta )$ is the two-by-two matrix
\begin{equation}
\tilde{F}(\theta) \; = \; -N(1-k' \cos \theta ) S + N k' \sin \theta \, C \;\; .
\end{equation}
\subsection*{The two-by-two exponential}
We can calculate the exponential in (\ref{defoD}) of the two-by-two
matrix $- \alpha \tilde{F}(\theta) $ in the obvious way, by diagonalizing
it, exponentiating, and then returning to the original basis. If we
define
\begin{equation} \label{deflambda}
\lambda \; = \; \lambda(\theta) \; = \; (1 - 2 k'
\cos \theta + k'^2 )^{1/2} \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{displaymath} u_{p} (\alpha, \theta ) \; = \; \cosh (N \alpha \lambda) \, +
\, \frac{1-k' \cos \theta }{\lambda}
\sinh ( N \alpha \lambda) \end{displaymath}
\begin{equation} \label{defvqA}
v_{p} (\alpha, \theta ) \; = \; -\frac{k' \sin \theta}{\lambda} \;
\sinh ( N \alpha \lambda ) \end{equation}
\begin{displaymath} w_{p} (\alpha, \theta ) \; = \; \cosh (N \alpha \lambda) \, -
\, \frac{1-k' \cos \theta }{\lambda}
\sinh ( N \alpha \lambda) \;\; , \; \; \end{displaymath}
then
\begin{equation} \exp[-\alpha \tilde{F}(\theta) ] \; = \;
\left( \begin{array}
{cc} u_{p} (\alpha, \theta) & v_{p} (\alpha, \theta) \\
v_{p} (\alpha, \theta) & w_{p} (\alpha, \theta) \end{array} \right)
\;\; . \end{equation}
Hence
\begin{equation} \overline{D} (\cos \theta) \; = \; u_{p} (\alpha, \theta ) \end{equation}
and (\ref{resvq}) becomes
\begin{equation} \label{vvq}
v_{p} ^{\dagger} \exp(-\alpha {\cal H} ) \, v_{p} \; = \; e^{-\mu_{p} \alpha}
\, u_{p} (\alpha,\theta_1 ) \cdots u_{p} (\alpha,\theta_m ) \;\; . \end{equation}
\section{Reduced representation of $\cal H$}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
We consider some basis of the $2^m$-dimensional vector space
$V_{p} $ and label the vectors by $s = \{s_1, \ldots ,s_m \}$,
where each $s_i$ takes the
values $1$ or $-1$. We can think of the $s_i$ as ``Ising spins''.
Thus there are $2^m$ vectors $v_{s} = v_{s}^{p} = $
$v(s_1,\ldots , v_m) $,
each of dimension $N^L$.
In \cite{Baxter1989} we showed that we can choose the vectors $v_s$
so that $v_{p} $ above is
\begin{equation} v_{p} = v(1,1,\ldots , 1) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
and
\begin{eqnarray} {\cal H} \, v(s_1,\ldots ,s_m) & = & \left[ \mu - N
\sum_{j=1}^m (1-k' \cos \theta_j) \, s_j \right]
v(s_1,\ldots ,s_m) + \nonumber \\
&& N k' \sum_{j=1}^m \sin \theta_j \,
v(s_1,\ldots ,-s_j, \ldots, s_m) \;\; . \end{eqnarray}
\noindent Defining $2^m$ by $2^m$ matrices $S_j, C_j$ by
\begin{equation}
(S_j)_{s,s'} \; = \; s_j \prod_{n=1}^m \delta(s_n,s'_n) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{equation}
(C_j)_{s,s'} \; = \; \delta(s_j,-s'_j)
{\prod_{n=1}^m}^{\! \raisebox{-10pt}{*}} \delta(s_n,s'_n) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where again the $*$ means that the term $n=j$ is excluded from the
product, we see that with respect to this basis the hamiltonian
${\cal H}$ is now
\begin{equation} \label{resH}
{ H} \; = \; \mu_{p} - N \sum_{j=1}^m [(1-k' \cos \theta_j ) S_j -
k' \sin \theta_j \, C_j ] \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
which is equation (2.20) of \cite{Baxter1989}.
This is consistent with our result (\ref{resvq}) above.
{From} (\ref{defmuq}),(\ref{resH}), $H$ is linear in $k'$.
Set
\begin{equation} \label{math1}
H = H_0 +k' H_1 \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
$H_0, H_1$ being independent of $k'$, and
define
\begin{equation} \label{Ks}
{\kappa} (s) \; = \; \sum_{j=1}^m (1-s_j)/2 \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
then $\kappa (s)$ takes the integer values
$0, 1, \ldots ,m$. If we order the rows and columns of $H$
with increasing values of $\kappa (s) $, then $H_0$ is diagonal
and $H_1$ is block tri-diagonal, with non-zero entries only when
$|\kappa (s) - \ \kappa (s') | \leq 1$.
{From} (\ref{resH}), ${ H}$ is a direct sum of $m$
two-by-two matrices. Similarly, if we define the two-by-two matrix
\begin{equation} U_j \; = \;
\left( \begin{array}
{cc} u_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j) & v_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j) \\
v_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j) & w_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j) \end{array} \right)
\;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
then $\exp(-\alpha { H})$
is the direct product
\begin{equation}
\exp(-\alpha { H}) \; = \; e^{- r \alpha } \,
U_1 \otimes U_2 \otimes \cdots \otimes U_m \;\; . \end{equation}
Let $|0 \rangle$ be the $2^m$-dimensional vector whose
elements $s$ are zero except for the element
$s_1 = 1, s_2 = 1, \ldots , s_m=1$, which is unity, i.e.
\begin{equation} | 0 \rangle =
\left( \begin{array} {c} 1 \\ 0\end{array} \right) \otimes
\left( \begin{array} {c} 1 \\ 0\end{array} \right) \otimes
\cdots \otimes
\left( \begin{array} {c} 1 \\ 0\end{array} \right)
\;\; . \end{equation}
This is the representative of the $N^L$-dimensional vector
$v_{p} $. If $\langle 0 |$ is the transpose of $| 0 \rangle$,
then
\begin{equation} \label{vvqa}
v_{p} ^{\dagger} {\rm e}^{-\alpha {\cal H} } \, v_{p} \; = \;
\langle 0 | {\rm e}^{ - \alpha H} | 0 \rangle
\end{equation}
and equation (\ref{vvq}) follows immediately.
The derivation of \cite{Baxter1988,Baxter1989} does not exclude the
possibility that the basis vectors $v_s$ depend on the parameter
$k'$. However, all studies for small $N, L$ agree with
the hypothesis that they are (or at least can be chosen to be)
{\em independent}
of $k'$. This is consistent with the fact that both $\cal H$
and $H$ are linear in $k'$.
\section{The spontaneous magnetization.}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
Consider the lattice of Figure \ref{sqlatt45} and take
$a = 0$, so all upper and lower boundary spins are fixed to
be zero. Let $\zeta$ be the spin on a site deep inside the
lattice. Then in the usual way we can define
the order parameters of the chiral Potts model as
\begin{equation} \label{defMr}
{\cal M}_r \; = \; \langle \omega^{ r \, \zeta} \rangle \end{equation}
for $r = 1, \ldots, N-1$. Here $\langle f(\zeta) \rangle$
denotes the usual statistical mechanical average
\begin{equation} \langle f(\zeta) \rangle \; = \; Z_0^{-1} \,
\sum_{\sigma} f(\zeta) \prod_{\langle i,j \rangle}
{{\cal{W}}}(\sigma_i - \sigma_j ) \prod_{\langle i,j \rangle}
\overline{\cal W}(\sigma_i - \sigma_j ) \end{equation}
for any function $f$. We take the limit when the lattice is
infinitely large, so
$L, M \rightarrow \infty$, and $\zeta$ is infinitely far
from the boundaries.
The ${{\cal{W}}}, \overline{\cal W}$ products are unchanged by incrementing all spins
by one, so if we imposed toroidal boundary conditions, then it
would be true that
\begin{equation} \langle f(\zeta+1) \rangle = \langle f(\zeta) \rangle \end{equation}
and this would imply that
${\cal M}_r = \omega^r {\cal M}_r$. Hence for $r \neq 0$ (mod $N$)
we would necessarily have ${\cal M}_r = 0$.
At high temperatures ($k' \geq 1$), this is true also for our
fixed-spin boundary conditions when we take the large-lattice
limit. However, at lower temperaturers ($0 < k' < 1$)
the system has ferromagnetic long-range order and ``remembers''
the boundary conditions even in the limit of $\zeta$ deep
inside a large lattice, and
\begin{equation} 0 < {\cal M}_r < 1 \;\; . \end{equation}
In fact we know ${\cal M}_r$. In 1989 Albertini
{\it et al }\cite{Albertini1989} conjectured that
\begin{equation} \label{Albconj}
{\cal M}_r \; = \; {(1-k'^2)}^{r (N-r)/2 N^2 } \end{equation}
and the author was able to derive this formula in
2005\cite{Baxter2005a,Baxter2005b}.
The method used was analytic, depending on the star-triangle
relation, functional relations and analyticity properties.
When $N=2$ the chiral Potts model (both superintegrable and general)
reduces to the Ising model, whose partition function was obtained
by Onsager in 1944.\cite{Onsager1944} Onsager announced at a
conference in Florence in 1949 that he and Kaufman had solved
the spontaneous magnetization and obtained
${\cal M}_1 = {(1-k'^2)}^{1/8}$,\cite{Onsager1949} but the first
published derivation of that result was given by
Yang in 1952.\cite{Yang1952}
Onsager and Yang's methods were much more algebraic, determining
the eigenvalues of the transfer matrix $T$, and certain elements
of the eigenvectors. It would be
interesting to obtain a derivation of ${\cal M}_r$ that parallels
Yang's. The object of this paper is to suggest how one may make
progress in that direction.
We introduce the $N^L$ by $N^L$ diagonal matrix
${\cal S}_r$ with elements
\begin{equation}
({\cal S}_r)_{\sigma,\sigma'} \; = \; \omega^{ r \, \sigma_1}
\prod_{j=1}^L \delta (\sigma_j, \sigma'_j) \;\; . \end{equation}
Note that, for all integers ${p} $ and $ r$,
\begin{equation} \label{vS}
{\cal S}_r v_{{p} +r} = v_{p} \;\; , \;\; {v_{p} }^{\dagger} {\cal S}_r =
v_{{p} +r}^{\dagger} \;\; . \end{equation}
Because of the cylindrical boundary conditions, we can take
the spin $\zeta$ to be in any column, so we choose it to be in
column 1. Then (\ref{defMr}) can be written
\begin{equation} \label{MrWZ}
{\cal M}_r \; = \; W/ Z_0 \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where
\begin{equation} W \; = \; u_0^{\dagger} \, T^j {\cal S}_r
T^{M-j} u_0 \;\; , \;\; Z_0 = u_0^{\dagger} \, T^M u_0 \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
$j$ being the number of rows below $\zeta$.
{From} (\ref{vu}) and (\ref{ZtZ}),
\begin{equation} \label{Weq}
W = N^{-1} \sum_{p ,q =0}^{N-1} v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^j {\cal S}_r
T^{M-j} v_{q} \;\; , \;\; Z_0 = N^{-1} \sum_{{p} =0}^{N-1}
v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^M v_{p} \;\; . \end{equation}
Since $R$ commutes with $T$ and
\begin{equation} \label{RS}
R {\cal S}_r = \omega^{-r} {\cal S}_r R \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
it follows from (\ref{RVq}) that the first summand in (\ref{Weq})
vanishes unless $q = p +r$, so
\begin{equation} \label{Weq2}
W = N^{-1} \sum_{p =0}^{N-1} v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^j {\cal S}_r
T^{M-j} v_{{p} +r} \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
interpreting ${p} +r$ as ${p} +r$ to modulo $N$.
For $0 < k' < 1$ and $L$ is large, the $N$ largest
eigenvalues of $T$ are asymptotically degenerate, their
ratios being of the form $ 1 + O({\rm e}^{-L \nu})$, $\nu$ being a measure
of the interfacial tension. However, there is one and only one
of these eigenvalues in each of the vector spaces $V_{p} $, for
${p} = 0,\ldots, N-1$.
Since $T$ and $\cal H$ commute and $\cal H$ is hermitian, the
eigenvectors $\psi_{p} $ corresponding to these eigenvalues are
unitary, so
\begin{equation} \psi_{p}^{\dagger} \psi_{{q} } \; = \; \delta_{p,q} \;\; . \end{equation}
\subsection*{Asymptotic degeneracy}
In each sub-space $V_{p} $ there is single largest eigenvalue
$\Lambda_{p} $ of the transfer matrix $T$ and these eigenvalues are
{\em asymptotically degenerate}, in the sense that for large $L$
there is a common value $\Lambda$ such that
\begin{equation} \label{asymp}
\Lambda^{-1} \Lambda_{p} \; = \; 1 + O({\rm e}^{-L s_{p} }) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
i.e. the ratios of the $\Lambda_{p} $ approach unity exponentially rapidly.
This can be seen by considering the series expansion of the
eigenvector $\psi_q$ in powers of $k'$. Since $T$, ${\cal H}$ commute,
we can look at the eigenvectors of $\cal H$, corresponding
to the most negative (ground state) eigenvalue.
When $k'=0$, ${\cal H} = {\cal H}_0$, where
\begin{equation} {\cal H}_0 = -2 \sum_{j=1}^L \sum_{n=1}^{N-1} {{\cal Z}}_j^n
{{\cal Z}}_{j+1}^{-n}/(1-\omega^{-n})
\;\; . \end{equation}
This is diagonal, with minimum eigenvalue $-2L$, when
all the $L$ spins are equal. Thus from (\ref{defua}),
$u_0, \ldots, u_{N-1}$ are ground state eigenvectors.
We can start from one of these eigenvectors and use
standard linear perturbation theory to develop a
series expansion for the eigenvector of ${\cal H}$, starting from
the initial eigenvector $u_a$. This
entails changing successively more of the spins from value $a$ to
some other value. It will work until all of the spins are changed,
when for the first time we come to another of the eigenvectors
of ${\cal H}_0$. At that stage, and only at that stage,
one would have to resolve the
degeneracy of the initial eigenvalues.
This means that naive perturbation theory works to order ${k'}^L$.
The calculation only depends on $a$ in so far as it
involves the differences (mod $N$) of the $L$ spins from $a$.
Thus to this order the eigenvalue is independent of the
initial choice of $a$. This is true also of the eigenvalues of $T$,
so $\Lambda_{p} = \Lambda$, $\Lambda$ being the common
eigenvalue, in agreement with (\ref{asymp}).
Also, if $\psi'_a$ is this near-eigenvector,
then
\begin{equation} { \psi'_a}^{\dagger} u_b = \xi \delta_{a,b} \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where $\xi $ is independent of $a$ and $b$, and to this order
the actual eigenvectors are
\begin{equation} \psi_{p} = N^{-1/2} \, \sum_{a=0}^{N-1}
\omega^{-a {p} } \psi'_a \;\; . \end{equation}
it follows that, for all ${p} $,
\begin{equation} \psi_{p} ^{\dagger} v_{p} = \xi \;\; . \end{equation}
In the limit of $j, M-j, L$ large we can replace $T^j$ in (\ref{Weq}),
(\ref{Weq2}) by $\psi_{{p} } \Lambda^j \psi_{p} ^{\dagger}$ (with the
appropriate value of ${p} $), and $T^{M-j}$ by
$\psi_{{p} } \Lambda^{M-j} \psi_{p} ^{\dagger}$, giving
\begin{equation} \label{asymp2}
v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^j {\cal S}_r T^{M-j} v_{{p} +r}
= {\rm e}^{M \Lambda} \xi^* \xi \,
\psi_{p} ^{\dagger} {\cal S}_r \psi_{{p} +r} \;\; , \;\;
v_{p} ^{\dagger} T^M v_{p} = {\rm e}^{M \Lambda} \xi^*\xi \end{equation}
$\xi^*$ being the complex conjugate of $\xi$ and
\begin{equation} \label{indepq}
\psi_{p} ^{\dagger} {\cal S}_r \psi_{{p} +r} = \; \; {\rm independent \; of}
\; \; {p} \;\; . \end{equation}
Thus $W, Z_0$ are the two expressions in (\ref{asymp2}),
respectively, and
\begin{equation} \label{calcM}
{\cal M}_r \; = \; \psi_{p} ^{\dagger} {\cal S}_r \psi_{{p} +r}
\;\; . \end{equation}
\subsection*{Expressions in terms of $\cal H$}
Rather than continue to work with the transfer matrix $T$, we find it
convenient to instead use the negative exponential of
the hamiltonian
and to replace $T^j, T^{M-j}$ in
(\ref{Weq2}) by ${\rm e}^{-\alpha {\cal H}}$, ${\rm e}^{-\beta {\cal H}}$,
and $T^M$ in (\ref{Weq}) by ${\rm e}^{-\alpha {\cal H}}$ (with a different
$\alpha$), making them
\begin{equation} W \; = \; N^{-1} \sum_{{p} =0}^{N-1} \tilde{W}_{p, q} \;\; , \;\; Z_0 \; = \; N^{-1}
\sum_{q=0}^{N-1} \tilde{Z}_q \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where now, setting $q = {p} +r$,
\begin{equation} \label{Weq4}
{\widetilde{W}}_{{p} , q } \; = \; {\widetilde{W}}_{{p} , q}(\alpha, \beta , x) \; = \;
v_{p} ^{\dagger} {\rm e}^{-\alpha {\cal H}} {\rm e}^{-\rho {\cal J}}
{\cal S}_r
{\rm e}^{-\beta {\cal H}} v_{q } \end{equation}
\begin{equation} \label{deftZ}
\tilde{Z}_{p} \; = \; \tilde{Z}_{p} (\alpha) \; = \;
v_{p} ^{\dagger} {\rm e}^{-\alpha {\cal H}} v_{p} \end{equation}
and
\begin{equation} \label{defx}
x = {\rm e}^{- 2 N \rho} \;\; . \end{equation}
We have introduced the matrix factor $ {\rm e}^{-\rho {\cal J}}$
immediately pre-multiplying ${\cal S}_r$ in (\ref{Weq4}).
Here
\begin{equation} {\cal J} \; = \; {\cal H}_0 +L(N-1) I \end{equation}
is a diagonal matrix whose entries are
$0, 2 N, 4 N, \ldots ,$ $2 N [(N-1)L/N]$. Hence
$\widetilde{W}_{{p} , q }(\alpha, \beta,x)$ is a polynomial
in $x$ of degree $[(N-1)L/N]$. This naturally manifests itself in the
following working and provides a useful check against errors.
We can think of these $\tilde{Z}_{p} $, $\tilde{W}_{{p} , q }$ as
hamiltonian partition functions. They are rather simpler than the original
partition functions to work with.
When $\rho \rightarrow + \, \infty$, then $x \rightarrow 0$
and $ {\rm e}^{-\rho {\cal J}} \rightarrow v_{p} {v_{{p} }}^{\dagger}$,
so, using (\ref{vS}),
\setlength{\jot}{0.2cm}
\begin{eqnarray} \label{Winf}
{\widetilde{W}}_{{p} , q } (\alpha, \beta, 0) & = &
v_{p} ^{\dagger} {\rm e}^{-\alpha {\cal H}} v_{p} \, {v_{q }}^{\dagger}
{\rm e}^{-\beta {\cal H}} v_{q} \nonumber \\
& = & \tilde{Z}_{p} (\alpha) \, \tilde{Z}_{q }(\beta)
\;\; , \; \; \end{eqnarray}
\begin{equation} \label{W0}
{\widetilde{W}}_{{p} , q }(\alpha, 0, x) \; = \; \tilde{Z}_{p} (\alpha) \
\;\; , \;\; {\widetilde{W}}_{{p} , q }(0,\beta, x ) \; = \; \tilde{Z}_{q }(\beta)
\;\; . \end{equation}
These relations also provide useful checks on our subsequent
calculations.
Because ${\cal H}, T$ commute, they have the same ground-state
eigenvectors $\psi_{p} $. In the limit when $\rho=0, $ and $\alpha,
\beta, L \rightarrow \infty$, we obtain
\begin{displaymath}
\widetilde{W}_{{p} , q }(\alpha, \beta, 1) = {\rm e}^{-(\alpha + \beta ) \Lambda}
\xi^* \xi \, \psi_{p} ^{\dagger} {\cal S}_r \psi_{q} \;\; , \; \; \end{displaymath}
\begin{equation} \tilde{Z}_{p} (\alpha ) = {\rm e}^{-\alpha \Lambda }
\xi^* \xi \;\; . \end{equation}
So from (\ref{indepq}), (\ref{calcM}),
\begin{equation} \label{exprM}
{\cal M}_r \; = \; \lim_{\alpha,
\beta, L \rightarrow \infty}
\frac{ \widetilde{W}_{ {p} ,q }(\alpha, \beta, 1)
}{(\tilde{Z}_{p} ( 2\alpha ) \tilde{Z}_{q}( 2 \beta ) )^{1/2}}
\end{equation}
for any
${p} , q $ such that $0 \leq p, q <N$ and $q = {p} +r$, mod $N$.
{From} (\ref{vvq}) and (\ref{deftZ}),
\begin{equation} \label{tilZ}
\tilde{Z}_{p} (\alpha ) \; = \; e^{-\mu_{p} \alpha}
\, u_{p} (\alpha,\theta_1 ) \cdots u_{p} (\alpha,\theta_m ) \;\; . \end{equation}
It remains to calculate $\widetilde{W}_{{p} , q }(\alpha, \beta, x) $.
We have not done this, but the rest of this paper
is concerned with presenting a conjecture for it
as a determinant of dimension not greater than
$(N-1)L/N$. This expression agrees with the known
$N=2$ result for the Ising model, and indeed is a fairly
immediate generalization of that result.
It has the properties (\ref{Winf}),
(\ref{W0}), and has been extensively tested numerically for small
values of $N, L$.
\subsection*{Expressions in terms of $H$}
First we remark that if $v \in V_{{p} +r}$ and $v' = {\cal S}_r v$, then from
(\ref{RVq}), $R v' = \omega^{{p} } \, v' $, so $v'$ is a
candidate for the sub-space $V_{{p} }$. However, in general it
does not lie within this sub-space. Even so, we can define a matrix
${\cal S}_{\rm red}^r$ of dimension $m_{p} $ by $m_{{p} +r}$ by
\begin{equation} \label{defSred}
\left( {\cal S}_{\rm red}^r\right) _{s,s'} \; = \; \left( v_s^{p}
\right)^{\dagger} S_r v_{s'}^{{p} +r} \;\; . \end{equation}
These elements depend on $N, L, {p} , r$. They are of course
independent of $\alpha$ and $\beta$. From our remarks at the
end of section 4 that we expect the $v_s$ to be independent of
$k'$, the same must be true of the elements of
${\cal S}_{\rm red}^r$.
We can then write (\ref{Weq4}) as
\setlength{\jot}{3mm}
\begin{eqnarray} \label{Weq5}
{\tilde{W}}_{{p} , q } & =
& \langle 0 | {\rm e}^{-\alpha H} {\rm e}^{-\rho J}
{\cal S}_{\rm red}^r {\rm e}^{-\beta H'}
| 0 \rangle
\;\; , \; \; \\
\tilde{Z}_{p} & = & \langle 0 |
{\rm e}^{-\alpha H } | 0 \rangle
\;\; , \; \; \nonumber \end{eqnarray} where
$H'$ is the $H$ of (\ref{resH}),(\ref{math1}) but with
$p$ replaced by $p+r$, and
\begin{equation} J = H_0
+ L(N-1) I = N \sum_{j=1}^m (I-S_j) \end{equation}
is the diagonal matrix with elements $2 N \kappa (s)$ in position
$(s, s)$.
Let
\begin{equation} \tilde{u}_{p} (\, 1,\alpha,\theta ) = u_{p} (\alpha,\theta )\;\; , \;\;
\tilde{u}_{p} (-1,\alpha,\theta ) = v_{p} (\alpha,\theta )\;\; . \end{equation}
and set
\begin{equation} q = {p} +r \;\; , \;\; m' = m_{q} \;\; , \;\; \mu' = \mu_{q} \;\; , \;\;
\theta'_j = \theta(q, j) \;\; . \end{equation}
Then we can write these equations more explicitly as
\setlength{\jot}{1mm}
\begin{eqnarray} \label{Weq6}
\widetilde{W}_{{p} , q }(\alpha, \beta, x) & = & e^{-\alpha \mu -\beta \mu'}
\, \sum_{s,s'} \tilde{u}_{p} (s_1,\alpha,\theta_1 ) \cdots
{\tilde{u}}_{p} (s_m,\alpha,\theta_m ) \;
{\mbox{\large $ \times$ } } \nonumber \\
&& x^ {{\kappa} (s) } \left( {\cal S}_{\rm red}^r\right) _{s,s'}
\tilde{u}_{q}(s'_1,\beta,\theta'_1 ) \cdots
{\tilde{u}}_{q}(s'_m,\beta,\theta'_{m'} ) \;\; , \; \; \end{eqnarray}
\noindent and
\begin{equation} \label{resZt}
\tilde{Z}_{p}(\alpha) = e^{-\alpha \mu }
\, u_{p} (\alpha,\theta_1 ) \cdots u_{p} (\alpha ,\theta_m ) \;\; . \end{equation}
The non-zero
elements $(s,s')$ of the $2^m$ by $2^{m'}$
matrix $ {\cal S}_{\rm red}^r$
satisfy $ {\kappa} (s) = {\kappa} (s')$.
If we also order the rows and columns of
$ {\cal S}_{\rm red}^r$ in increasing value of $\kappa (s)$, then
this matrix is block-diagonal.
We do not have a direct derivation of $ {\cal S}_{\rm red}^r$, though of
course it can be calculated numerically for small values of $N, L$ from
(\ref{defSred}). In principle it can be calculated from our conjecture
(\ref{conj}) below. If $\bf s$ is the $m$ by $m'$
diagonal blocks of $ {\cal S}_{\rm red}^r$ in the block
$\kappa (s) = \kappa (s') = 1$, $\bf h$ is the corresponding
$m$ by $m$ block of $H_1$, and ${\bf h}'$ the $m'$ by $m'$
block of $H'_1$,
then this conjecture
implies that the double commutator
$\bf h{\cdot}h{\cdot}s-2 \, h{\cdot}s{\cdot}h'+
s{\cdot}h'{\cdot}h'$ is of rank one. This was a key
initial encouraging observation in our search for the expression (\ref{conj}).
\section{The orthogonal matrix $B$ }
\setcounter{equation}{0}
Before stating our conjecture, we define an $m$ by $m'$
real orthogonal matrix $B = B_{p q }$ whose elements involve
the $\theta_1, \ldots,
\theta_m$ defined by (\ref{defP}), (\ref{deftheta}), as well
as the $\theta'_1, \ldots,\theta'_{m'}$ defined similarly, but
with ${p} $ replaced by $q$ and $m$ by $m'$. We must have
${p} \neq q$.
We define $B = B_{p ,q }$ to be the matrix with elements
\begin{equation} \label{defB}
B_{i,j} \; = \; f({p} , q ,i) f(q ,{p} ,j)/(\cos \theta_i - \cos \theta'_j)
\;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where we choose the functions $f({p} , q ,i), f(q ,{p} ,j)$ to ensure
that
\begin{equation} B^T B = I \; \; {\rm if \; \;} m \geq m' \;\; , \;\;
B B^T = I \; \; {\rm if \; \;} m \leq m' \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
$I$ again being the identity matrix, of dimension $\min (m,m')$.
\subsection*{The case $p < q$}
{From} (\ref{defm}) , if ${p} < q $, then $ m \geq m'$ and we want
$B^T B = I$. {From} (\ref{defB}),
\begin{displaymath} (B^T B)_{i,j} \; = \; \sum_{n=1}^{m}
\frac{f(q ,p ,i) f({p} , q ,n)^2 f(q ,{p} ,j)}{((\cos \theta_n -
\cos \theta'_i) (\cos \theta_n - \cos \theta'_j))} \end{displaymath}
\begin{equation} \label{BBT}
\; = \; \frac{f(q ,{p} ,i) f(q ,{p} ,j)}{\cos \theta'_j - \cos \theta'_i}\;
\sum_{n=1}^m \left\{ \frac{ f({p} , q ,n)^2}{\cos \theta'_i - \cos \theta_n} -
\frac{ f({p} , q ,n)^2}{\cos \theta'_j - \cos \theta_n} \right\} \end{equation}
for $i \neq j$.
We want the RHS of (\ref{BBT}) to vanish for $i \neq j$.
Consider the functions
\begin{equation} \tilde{P}_{p} (c) = \prod_{i=1}^m (c-\cos \theta_i)
= N^{-L} (c+1)^m \, P {\textstyle \left( \frac{c-1}{c+1} \right) } \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
\begin{equation} \label{defFc}
{\cal F}(c) \; = \;
\sum_{n=1}^m \frac{ f({p} , q ,n)^2}{c- \cos \theta_n } \;\; . \end{equation}
The first is a known function, given by (\ref{defP}) and
(\ref{deftheta}), the second is of the form
${\cal R}_{p} (c)/\tilde{P}_ {p} (c)$, ${\cal R}_{p} (c)$ being a polynomial
of degree $m-1$. We want there to exist constants
$\gamma, \gamma'$ (dependent on ${p} , q $) such that
\begin{equation} \label{formFc}
{\cal F}(c) \; = \; \gamma' + \gamma \tilde{P}_{q}(c)/\tilde{P}_{{p} }(c)
\;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
since then ${\cal F} (\cos \theta'_i ) = {\cal F}(\cos \theta'_j ) = \gamma'$
and the RHS of (\ref{BBT}) vanishes.
This implies that
\begin{equation} \label{req}
{\cal R}_{p} (c) = \gamma' \tilde{P}_{p} (c) +\gamma
\tilde{P}_{q}(c) \;\; . \end{equation}
{From} (\ref{defm}), $m$ and $m' = m_{q}$ differ by at most
one, so $m'+1 \geq m \geq m'$.
Whether $m= m'$ or $m= m'+1$, we can always choose
$\gamma'$ to ensure that the RHS of (\ref{req}) is a polynomial
of degree $m-1$. Then the equation defines ${\cal R}_{p} (c)$
(to within the factor $\gamma$) and the
parameters $f({p} , q ,n)$.
{From} (\ref{defFc}), $f({p} , q ,n)^2$ is the residue of ${\cal F}(c)$ at
the pole $c = \cos \theta_n$, so from (\ref{formFc})
\begin{equation} \label{calcfqn}
f({p} , q ,n)^2 \; = \; \gamma \, \tilde{P}_{q}(\cos \theta_n)/
\Delta_{p} (\cos \theta_n) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where
\begin{equation} \Delta_{ {p} } (c) \; = \; \frac{d}{dc} \tilde{P}_{{p} }(c)\;\; . \end{equation}
For given ${p} , q $, this determines $f({p} , q ,i)$ to within a
factor independent of $i$ (but possibly dependent on ${p} $ and $q$).
To determine this factor we need to consider the case
when $i=j$ in the first of the equations (\ref{BBT}), which gives
\begin{equation} f({p} , q ,i)^2 \, G(\cos \theta'_i) = 1 \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where
\begin{equation} G(c) = \sum_{n=1}^m f({p} , q ,n)^2/(c - \cos \theta_n)^2
\;\; . \end{equation}
{From} the equations above,
\begin{equation} G(c) = - \frac{d}{dc} F(c)
= - \gamma \frac{d}{dc} \, \frac { \tilde{P}_{q} (c)}
{ \tilde{P}_{{p} } (c)}
\;\; . \end{equation}
Since $ \tilde{P}_{q} (\cos \theta'_i) = 0$, this gives
\begin{equation} \label{calcfqpi}
f(q ,{p} ,i)^2 = \frac{1}{G(\cos \theta'_i)} = - \frac{\tilde{P}_{p}
(\cos \theta'_i) }{\gamma \,\Delta_{q}(\cos \theta'_i )}
\;\; . \end{equation}
The parameter $\gamma$ is at our disposal. We observe numerically
that for small values of $n$ and $L$ we
can ensure that $f({p} , q ,n)^2$, $f(q ,{p} ,i)^2$ are real and positive by
choosing
\begin{equation} \label{setgamma}
\gamma = 1 \;\; . \end{equation}
We can then take $f({p} , q ,n)$, $f(q ,{p} ,i)$ to be positive, for all $n, i$.
The matrix $B$ is then defined by (\ref{defB}), (\ref{calcfqn}),
(\ref{calcfqpi}), (\ref{setgamma}). It is real and has the
orthogonality property $B^T B = I$.
If $m= m'$ this implies $B B^T = I$.
\subsection*{The case $p > q$}
We can combine (\ref{calcfqn}), (\ref{calcfqpi}) into a single
formula by defining
\begin{equation}
\epsilon({p} , q ) = 1 \; \; {\rm if} \; {p} < q \;\; , \;\;
\epsilon({p} , q ) = \; -1 \; \; {\rm if} \; {p} > q \;\; . \end{equation}
Then both equations are contained in
\begin{equation} \label{Bsumm}
f({p} , q ,i) \; = \; \left[ \epsilon({p} , q ) \, \tilde{P}_{q}(\cos \theta_i)/
\Delta_{p} (\cos \theta_i) \right]^{1/2} \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
for ${p} \neq q$.
We can now extend the formula (\ref{defB}) to all ${p} \neq q$. It is
readily observed that
\begin{equation} B_{q ,{p} } = - B_{{p} , q }^T \;\; . \end{equation}
We have just established that $B^T B = I$ if ${p} < q$. It follows that
$B B^T = I$ if $ {p} > q$ (which implies $m \leq m'$). This is the desired
orthogonality property.
We remark that we have only conjectured (based on numerical
calculations) that the RHS of
(\ref{Bsumm}) is real and can be chosen positive. If this
were to fail the above formulae would still apply, but $B_{{p} q }$
would be a complex orthogonal matrix.
\subsection*{The matrix $E$}
We shall also need the $m$ by $m$ diagonal matrix $E_{p q}$,
with entries
\begin{equation}
[E_{p ,q}]_{i,j} \; = \; e({p} ,q,i) \; \delta_{i,j} \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where
the function $e({p} , q ,i)$ is defined as follows, for
$ 0 \leq {p} , q < N$:
\begin{eqnarray} \label{defgfns}
e(p, q, i) = & \sin \theta_i \; & {\rm if} \; \; {p} < q \; {\rm and } \;
m > m' \nonumber \\
= & \tan ( \theta_i /2 ) \; & {\rm if} \; \; {p} < q \; {\rm and } \;
m = m' \nonumber \\
= & 1/\sin \theta_i \; & {\rm if} \; \; {p} > q \; {\rm and } \;
m < m' \\
= & \cot ( \theta_i /2 ) \; & {\rm if} \; \; {p} > q \; {\rm and } \;
m = m' \;\; . \nonumber \end{eqnarray}
Since $ m-1 \leq m' \leq m $ if ${p} < q $, and
$ m + 1 \geq m' \geq m $ if ${p} > q $, these equations cover all cases;
$\theta_i = \theta({p} ,i)$ is again as defined in (\ref{deftheta}). The
function $e(q ,{p} ,i)$ is defined similarly, but with ${p} , q $ interchanged
and $\theta_i$ replaced by $\theta'_i= \theta(q ,i)$.
\section{The conjecture for $W$}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
We return to considering the $\widetilde{W}_{{p} ,q }$ of equations
(\ref{Weq4}), (\ref{Weq5}) and (\ref{Weq6}).
Based on the calculation for the Ising model,\cite[eq.7.9]{Baxter2008}
we conjecture that
\begin{equation} \label{cnjW}
\widetilde{W}_{{p} ,q } (\alpha, \beta, x) \; = \; \tilde{Z}_{p} (\alpha) \,
\tilde{Z}_{q}(\beta) \, {\cal D}_{{p} ,q } (\alpha,\beta)
\;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where ${\cal D}_{{p}, q } (\alpha,\beta)$ is the $m$ by $m$ determinant
\begin{equation} \label{conj}
{\cal D}_{{p} , q } (\alpha,\beta) \; = \; \det [ I _m - x
X_{p} (\alpha) E _{{p} ,q } \, B _{{p} ,q } X_{q}(\beta) E_{q ,{p} }
\, B_{q ,{p} } ] \end{equation}
or equivalently the $m'$ by $m'$ determinant
\begin{equation} \label{conj2a}
{\cal D}_{{p} ,q } (\alpha,\beta) \; = \; \det [ I _{m'} - x
X_{q} (\beta) E_{{q} ,p } \, B _{{q} ,p } X_{p}(\alpha) E_{p ,{q} }
\, B_{p ,{q} } ] \;\; . \end{equation}
Again $I_m$ is the identity matrix, of dimension $m$ and
$X_{p} (\alpha)$ is the diagonal $m$ by $m$ matrix whose
entry in position $(i,j)$ is
\begin{equation}
[X_{p} (\alpha)]_{i,j} \; = \; \frac{v_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j)}
{u_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j)} \, \delta_{i,j} \end{equation}
Note from (\ref{defB}) that each function
$f({p} , q ,i), f(q ,{p} ,j)$ occurs twice (i.e. as its square) in
(\ref{conj}) and (\ref{conj2a}), so the choice of the square roots
in (\ref{Bsumm}) is in fact irrelevant.
{From} (\ref{defvqA}) and (\ref{Weq4}), $v_{p} (\alpha, \theta) = 0 $ and
$\tilde{Z}_{p} (\alpha) = 1$ if $\alpha = 0$, so (\ref{cnjW}) does indeed
have the properties (\ref{Winf}), (\ref{W0}). It is a
fairly immediate generalization
of eqn. (7.7) of \cite{Baxter2008} and has been tested to high numerical
accuracy (60 digits or more) for arbitrary $k', \alpha, \beta$ and all
$N, L, p, q$ such that $2 \leq N $, $ 3 \leq L $, $ N+L \leq 10$. We
{\em conjecture} that it is true for all $N, L, p, q, x, \alpha, \beta$.
\subsection*{Consequences}
Define \begin{equation} a_{p ,j} \; = \; \{ 1- k' {\rm e}^{\i \theta_j} \}^{1/2} \;\; , \;\;
b_{p ,j} \; = \; \{ 1- k' {\rm e}^{-\i \theta_j} \}^{1/2} \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
where $\theta_1, \ldots, \theta_m$ are given by (\ref{deftheta}). They
depend on $p$. Again the function $m_{p}$ is defined by
(\ref{defm}) for $0 \leq p < N$, and $m = m_{p}$, $m' = m_{q}$.
Then from (\ref{deflambda}),
\begin{displaymath}
\lambda_j = \lambda(\theta_j ) =
(1-2k' \cos \theta_j +k'^2)^{1/2} = a_{p ,j} b_{p ,j} \;\; , \; \; \end{displaymath}
so from (\ref{tilZ}) and (\ref{defvqA}),
\begin{equation} \lim_{\alpha \rightarrow \infty} \; \frac{\tilde{Z}_{p} ( \alpha)^2}{
\tilde{Z}_{p} ( 2\alpha) }
= \prod_{j=1}^m \frac{(a_{p ,j}+b_{p ,j})^2}{4 \, a_{p ,j} b_{p ,j}}
\;\; . \end{equation}
Also define quantities $x_{p,j}$,
not to be confused with the $x$ of (\ref{defx}), by
\begin{equation} x_{p, j} = \lim_{\alpha \rightarrow \infty}
\frac{v_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j)}{u_{p} (\alpha, \theta_j)} =
\frac{- \, k' \sin \theta_j }{\lambda_j +1 - k' \cos \theta_j } \;\; . \end{equation}
Then \begin{equation}
x_{p, j} = \i \; \frac{ b_{p,j} - a_{p, j} }{ b_{p,j} + a_{p, j}} \end{equation}
and
\begin{equation}
\lim_{\alpha \rightarrow \infty} \; \frac{
\tilde{Z}_{p} ( 2\alpha) }{\tilde{Z}_{p} ( \alpha)^2} =
\prod_{j=1}^m \left( 1+x_{p,j}^2 \right)\;\; . \end{equation}
Let
\begin{equation} X_{p} = \lim_{\alpha \rightarrow \infty} \; X_{p}(\alpha) \;\; , \; \; \end{equation}
so it is the diagonal matrix with diagonal elements $x_{p,j}$. Taking the
limits $\alpha, \beta \rightarrow + \infty$ and setting $x=1$, it follows
from (\ref{exprM}), (\ref{cnjW}) that if $q = p+r$ to modulo $N$, then
\renewcommand{\arraystretch}{0.2}
\begin{equation} \label{resultM}
{\cal M}_r \; = \; \lim_{L \rightarrow \infty} \; \begin{array} {c} \det ( I _{m} -
X_{p} E _{{p} ,q } \, B _{{p} ,q } X_{q} E_{q ,{p} }
\, B_{q ,{p} } ) \\[5pt]
\cline{1-1} \\
\{ \det (I_m + X_{p}^{2} )\, \det (I_{m'}+ X_{q}^2 ) \}^{1/2}
\end{array}
\end{equation}
where $0 \leq p, q <N$ and $ 0 < r < N$.
\renewcommand{\arraystretch}{1.0}
We have not been able to evaluate the RHS of (\ref{resultM}) analytically.
Even for the $N \! = \! 2 \, $ Ising case discussed in \cite{Baxter2008}, we
do not directly evaluate (\ref{resultM}), but rather the expression in terms
of square roots of $L$ by $L$ determinants that leads in that case to
(\ref{resultM}).\footnote{We do this by writing ${\cal M}_r^2$ as the
determinant of a Toeplitz matrix and using Szeg{\H o}'s theorem.}
We have conducted numerical experiments for various values
of $N, p, q$ and $k'$,
and observed that as $L \rightarrow \infty$ the expression on the
RHS of (\ref{resultM})
does indeed approach the known result (\ref{Albconj}), the error for finite
$L$ being of the order of $k'^L$ or smaller.
\section{Summary}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
We have defined the hamiltonian partition functions
$\widetilde{W}_{p,q} (\alpha, \beta,x)$, $\tilde{Z}_{p}(\alpha)$ by
(\ref{Weq4}), (\ref{deftZ}) and shown that the spontaneous magnetization
${\cal M}_r$ of the superintegrable chiral Potts model is given by
(\ref{exprM}).
For the general solvable chiral Potts model, ${\cal M}_r$ is independent of
the rapidities\cite[p.7]{Baxter2005b}. The superintegrable model is obtained
from the general by a special choice of the rapidities
($k'$ being the same), \cite[p.5]{Baxter1989}
so ${\cal M}_r$ is the same for both.\footnote{Note that the $p, q$ of
this paper are {\em not} rapidities.}
By taking the hamiltonian limit of the results of \cite{Baxter1989},
we show that $\tilde{Z}_{p}(\alpha)$ is given by (\ref{resZt}). We then
conjecture that $\widetilde{W}_{p,q} (\alpha, \beta,x)$ is given in terms
an $m$ by $m$ determinant by (\ref{cnjW}). This is a natural
generalization of the known result for the special case $N = 2$,
i.e. the Ising model.\cite{Baxter2008}
If this is true (and all the numerical evidence suggests that it is) this is
a huge simplification, reducing the problem from exponential complexity
to comparitively small polynomial complexity. Even so, we have not
been able to make the final step and to obtain ${\cal M}_r$ from
(\ref{resultM}). We already know\cite{Baxter2005a,Baxter2005b}
that ${\cal M}_r$ is given by (\ref{Albconj}), but it would be
interesting to obtain it by this more algebraic route. The matrices
$B_{pq}$ and (for $m \geq m' $) $ {\cal D}_{p,q}(\alpha, \beta) B_{p,q}$ are
Pick matrices.\cite{Agler2002}
So there remain two things to do: to prove the conjecture
(\ref{cnjW}) and to evaluate the limit (\ref{resultM}). The first is an
algebraic problem, the second an analytic one. The fact that
(\ref{cnjW}) contains the additional parameters $\alpha, \beta, x$
should be helpful in establishing it.
\section{Acknowledgement}
The author is grateful to Helen Au-Yang for helpful comments and for
pointing out a number of typographical errors in this and the preceding
paper \cite{Baxter2008}.
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\section{Introduction} \label{sec:intro}
The variability of the Sun's magnetic activity is the main forcing that drives change in the near-Earth space environment, the heliosphere, and the interplanetary medium. This variability is
characterized by a large number of phenomena that act over a wide range of temporal scales, from minutes to centuries. A particularly important class of short-lived phenomena, up to a few days, includes events
such as solar flares and coronal mass ejections that are responsible for the space weather. These events have a significant impact on the functionality of satellites, communication networks, electric power grid and technological infrastructures
\citep[e.g.][]{schwenn2006,Plainaki2020}. Instead, solar activity over longer time-scales modifies the so-called space climate \citep{versteegh2005} that contributes to determine the conditions of the Earth's upper and lower atmosphere and
the Earth's climate \citep[e.g.][]{Bordi2015,matthes2017,Bigazzi2020,Lockwood2020} and the cosmic ray fluxes in the interplanetary space and at Earth \citep[e.g.][]{usoskin2002,Berrilli2014,Fiandrini2021}. Similarly, stellar irradiance and its variations affect exoplanets' atmospheres and their habitability \citep[e.g.][]{meadows2018,Galuzzo2021}.
The most evident modulation of the large-scale solar magnetic field is its 11-year cycle, during which the Sun increases and weakens its magnetic activity, associated with a reversal of the dominant polarities in the
polar regions.
This cycle is accompanied by variations in phase of the appearance
of magnetic structures on the solar surface, such as sunspots and plages. The dark sunspots produce a luminosity defect, while the bright plages overcompensate with an excess \citep[e.g.][]{Foukal1988}. The final result is that the total solar irradiance varies by about $ 0.1 \% $, in phase with the magnetic activity
\citep[e.g.][]{wilson1978, hudson1988,kopp2016}. The strength of the different cycles is not constant, and can vary quite significantly as indicated by the presence of grand minima periods \citep[e.g.][]{Vecchio2017} such as the Maunder minimum during the years of 1645 to 1715 \citep[e.g.][]{hathaway2015}.\\
The capability to predict the behavior of the solar activity has become of paramount relevance,
given its enormous impact on human activities on Earth and in space.
Providing a detailed description of the literature regarding the prediction of the next 25\textsuperscript{th} solar cycle (hereafter SC25) is beyond the scope of this paper. We therefore refer to the review of solar cycle prediction methods, with particular focus on forecasts for SC25, given in \cite{petrovay2020}. The various forecasts differ in the adopted methodology (e.g., surface flux transport models, identification of particular "termination" events, Shannon entropy estimates, machine learning regression methods, etc.) and in the physical observable on which the prediction is based. In particular, the methods typically fall into three categories: precursor, model-based and extrapolation methods. For the prediction of SC25 different studies have been published that use the sunspot number \citep[e.g.][]{McIntosh2020,singh21}, the geomagnetic activity indices \citep[e.g.][]{singh21}, the flare number \citep[e.g.][]{janssens21} and the solar magnetic flux or dipole momentum \citep[e.g.][]{Cameron2016,bhowmik18,upton2018,labonville2019}.\\
The aim of this work is to estimate the coverage of sunspot and plage areas during the next SC25. We use an appropriate functional form for solar cycles derived from the correlation between cycles for the period 1874-2019. This approach has two important aspects: First, it is based on the observed characteristics of the cycles and does not use sophisticated physical models which unfortunately suffer from the difficulties connected to the complex physical processes involved and to the inherent dynamical complexity of the solar cycle \citep[e.g.][]{Bushby2004,Consolini2009,Charbonneau2020};
Second, the coverage in the area of sunspots and plages
can be used as proxies to predict other activity indices important for space-climate, including spectral and total solar irradiance variability
\citep[e.g.][]{Foukal1988,berrilli2020,Petrie2021}.
\section{Active Regions Parametrization} \label{sec:1}
We characterize the shape of each solar cycle
through a unique functional form. Among those proposed in literature \citep[e.g.][]{Baranov2008,hathaway94}, we choose the following
parametric fit suggested in \cite{Volobuev}:
\begin{equation}
\label{cycle_form}
x_{k}(t) = \left(\frac{t - T0_{k}}{Ts_{k}}\right)^{2} e^{-\left(\frac{t - T0_{k}}{Td_{k}}\right)^{2}} \quad \quad \textrm{for} \quad T0_{k} < t < T0_{k} + \tau_{k}
\end{equation}
where $T0_{k}$ is the initial time of cycle $k$ \citep[published in][]{hathaway94, hathaway2015} while $Ts_{k}$ and $Td_{k}$ are two free parameters. As discussed in \cite{Volobuev}, there is a strong linear correlation between these two parameters, which reduces the fit to a single parameter ($Ts_{k}$). This is not surprising, because the $Ts_{k}$ parameter is related to the time of the rising phase, while the $Td_{k}$ value determines the cycle amplitude. The relation between these two quantities is known and reported in literature: cycles with large amplitude ($Ts_{k}$ smaller) present a shorter time of rising to maximum (shorter $Td_{k}$). This is known as Waldmeier effect \citep[e.g.][]{hathaway94,hazra2015}.\\
\begin{figure}[htbp]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth,trim=4cm 0cm 4cm
0cm,clip]{fig1_left.eps}
\includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth,trim=4cm 0cm 4cm 0cm,clip]{fig1_right.eps}
\caption{
Solar cycle-to-cycle relationship between the parameters $Td_k$ and
$Ts_k$ for plage (left) and sunspot
(right) areas. Two additional solar cycle numbers, 12 and 13, have been included in the
analysis of sunspot areas. The open circles with 1-$\sigma$ error bars show the data
averaged over individual cycles. The regression lines (continuous lines) are given by Eq. 2.
}
\label{TsvsTd_plot}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[h]
\centering
\includegraphics[height=12 cm ,width=18 cm]{fig2.eps}
\caption{\textit{Upper panel:}
reconstructed plage area (red solid line) with confidence range (light red pattern) and observed plage composite (green solid line) by \cite{chatzistergos19}.
\textit{Lower panel:} reconstructed Sunspot area (red solid line) with confidence range (light red pattern) and observed sunspot area composite (green solid line) from \cite{mandal2020}. It should be noted that our method has been developed in order to provide an estimate of the coverage of plage and sunspot on an annual scale and therefore cannot reproduce shorter time scale variability (e.g. months). This explains the difference between the observed plage and sunspot coverages (green solid lines) and the reconstructed ones (red solid line). The ability to capture long-term behavior by the functional form is also evident.
}
\label{AR_parametric}
\end{figure}
We adopt Eq.~\ref{cycle_form} to fit, cycle by cycle, the plage and sunspots coverage data. For this purpose
we used two data sets (composites) available from the Max Plank Institute (MPI) website (http://www2.mps.mpg.de/projects/sun-climate/data.html). The first composite consists of plage area derived from Ca II K spectroheliogram observations covering the period 1892 to 2019 \citep{chatzistergos19}. The second composite includes measurements of daily total sunspot area for the period 1874-2019, calculated after cross-calibration of measurements by different observers \citep{mandal2020}.
The relation between the $Ts_{k}$ and $Td_{k}$ for plage and sunspot areas is shown in Fig.~\ref{TsvsTd_plot}. A linear fit to these data produces:
\begin{eqnarray}
\label{TsvsTd}
\nonumber Td_{k}^{plage} = (0.09 \pm 0.01) Ts_{k}^{plage} + (3.27 \pm 0.10)~~~ yr \\
Td_{k}^{spot} = (0.022 \pm 0.001)Ts_{k}^{spot} + (2.98 \pm 0.04) ~~~ yr .
\end{eqnarray}
The Pearson correlation coefficients are r=0.81 and r=0.72 for plage and spot fit, respectively. A t-test was performed to determine the statistical significance of the computed correlation coefficients. We found there is a non-zero correlation between $Ts_{k}$ and $Td_{k}$, at a confidence level greater than 99\% for the plages and greater than 95\% for the sunspots.\\
By inserting these relationships in Eq.~\ref{cycle_form}, we obtain a one-parameter functional form for the shape of the cycles. We repeat the fits, cycle by cycle, and we obtain two dataset of $Ts_{k}$ values.\\
The active region coverages ($A(t)_{plage}$ and $A(t)_{spot}$) for the entire analyzed period are thus reproduced as:
\begin{equation}
\label{cycle_rec}
A(t) = \sum_{k} x_{k}(t)
\end{equation}
where the cycle number k goes from the 14-th (begin data = 1902 January) to the 23-th (begin data = 1996 August) for plage data and from the 12-th (begin data = 1878 December) for sunspot data.
The parametric reconstructions for plage and sunspot area are shown in Fig.~\ref{AR_parametric}. A confidence region is estimated by taking into account the errors on the fit parameters.\\
\section{Relation between even and odd cycles} \label{sec:2}
Through the fits of the observed active region coverages, we have obtained the single parameter characterizing the last eleven cycles for the plages and the last thirteen cycles for the sunspots.\\
We couple these values in pairs, i.e. as even-odd cycles, taking into account that the complete magnetic cycle of the Sun is composed of two consecutive cycles. By plotting the even-odd parameters, one versus the other, we obtain the correlations shown in Fig. \ref{Ts_even_odd}, whose fits are as follows
\begin{eqnarray}
\label{even_odd}
\nonumber Ts_{o}^{plage} = (0.74 \pm 0.08) Ts_{e}^{plage} + (1.5 \pm 1.1)~~~ yr \\
Ts_{o}^{spot} = (0.69 \pm 0.05) Ts_{e}^{spot} + (11 \pm 3) ~~~ yr .
\end{eqnarray}
where the subscript "e" means "even" and "o" means "odd".
The Pearson correlation coefficient is 0.86 for both fits, at a confidence level greater than 90\% and 95\% for the plages and sunspots respectively.
We highlight the fact that by coupling the parameter
\begin{figure}[htbp]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth,trim=4cm 0cm 4cm
0cm,clip]{plage_cycles.eps}
\includegraphics[width=0.47\linewidth,trim=4cm 0cm 4cm 0cm,clip]{spot_cycles.eps}
\caption{
Even-odd cycle relationship between the parameters $Ts_k$ for plage (left) and sunspot (right) areas. The open circles with 1-$\sigma$ error bars in both directions show the cycle-averaged pair of data.
The regression lines (continuous lines), given by Eq. \ref{even_odd}, were computed using the procedure described in \citet{PresTeukVettFlan92}.
}
\label{Ts_even_odd}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[h]
\centering
\includegraphics[height=10 cm ,width=15 cm]{predict.eps}
\caption{
Top: Observed monthly plage coverage (green curve) during cycles 23 and 24, and prediction
for cycle 25 (red curve).
The shadow red area defines the lower and upper limits for the prediction.
Bottom: Same, but for sunspot coverage.}
\label{predict}
\end{figure}
in an odd-even manner (e.g. Cycle 15 with Cycle 16) the correlation is completely lost. This is in agreement with the well known empirically derived Gnevyshev-Ohl rule \citep{gnevyshev}, which states that the strength of an even cycle is lower than the strength of the subsequent odd cycle.\\
By inserting the $Ts_{24}$ values derived from sunspot and plage observations and $T0_{25}$ corresponding to December 2019 in Eq.~\ref{even_odd}, we are able to estimate the $Ts_{25}$ values and therefore the shape of the variation of sunspot and plage areas over SC25 using Eq.~\ref{cycle_form}.
Results are illustrated in Fig.~\ref{predict}. The confidence levels shown in the figure are the envelopes of the curves computed by varying the $T_{s_{25}}$ and $T_{d_{25}}$ values within their 1 $\sigma$ confidence level in Eq.~\ref{cycle_form}. The plot shows that the maximum of plage area will occur in April 2024, with an uncertainty of three months, and that the maximum sunspot area coverage will occur in January 2024, with an uncertainty of two months. The plots also show that, within the confidence level, the amplitudes of the area coverage of sunspot and plage are similar or slightly higher to those observed during cycle 24.
\section{Conclusions} \label{sec:3}
We have presented a prediction of the area coverage of sunspot and plages during solar cycle 25. Our method is based on the empirical correlation between the shapes (amplitude and duration) of even and odd cycles derived from the analysis of more than 100 years of observations. Similar relations between properties of subsequent cycles, in particular the even-odd cycles relation, have been empirically derived by using solar sunspot number and other activity proxies in numerous studies \citep[e.g.][]{mursula2001,gupta2007,tlatov2013, takalo2020, takalo2021}.
Although some authors suggested that the even-odd relation might be the signature of a relic magnetic field \citep[][and references therein]{mursula2001}, the physical mechanisms responsible for the even-odd relation are not clear \citep{hathaway2015} and it is worth noticing that the relation has been questioned by some authors \citep{zolotova2015}.
The plage area maximum is predicted for April 2024, with an uncertainty of about three months, instead the sunspot area maximum is predicted for January 2024, with an uncertainty of about two months. By combining these two results and by assuming a perfect phase between the two quantities, we can hypothesize the maximum intensity level of the SC25 will be in February-March 2024.
By assuming that the sunspot and plage coverage are indicative of the cycle intensity, our prediction is a level of solar activity for the SC25 similar or slightly higher to that of SC24. This is in agreement with most of the forecasts presented in the literature or using the first available values of the smoothed Solar Sunspot Number \citep[e.g.][]{bhowmik18,petrovay2020,Carrasco_2021} and with the conclusions of the international NOAA/NASA co-chaired SC25 Prediction Panel.
We want to stress here that our approach is, to our knowledge, the only one that provides a forecast for the coverage of plage and sunspot areas. These quantities are proxies of the solar magnetic activity, can be used to derive other activity indices important for space-climate (e.g. \ion{Mg}{2}, F10.7, flare indices, etc.) and are fundamental ingredients to estimate both total and spectral irradiance variability.\\
\begin{acknowledgments}
The authors are grateful to Dr. Lisa Upton for providing insightful comments on an early version of the manuscript. The National Solar Observatory is operated by the Association of Universities for Research in Astronomy, Inc. (AURA), under cooperative agreement with the National Science Foundation. M. Cantoresi is supported by the Joint Research PhD Program in "Astronomy, Astrophysics and Space Science" between the universities of Roma Tor Vergata an Roma Sapienza, and INAF.
\end{acknowledgments}
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HBO has just released the awaited trailer for season 2 of its Emmy-award winning TV drama, Big Little Lies. The mini-series is an adaptation of the best-selling book by Liane Moriarty, who originally sets the story in Australia.
The teaser shows a first glimpse at the "Monterey Five" as they are now being called, dealing with the aftermath of last season's cliffhanger ending, that saw the mysterious murder of Perry Wright in the small town of Monterey. Now in the second season the mother of the murdered man, Mary Louise Wright comes back to town to investigate.
Nicole Kidman, Reese Witherspoon, Zoë Kravitz, Shailene Woodley and Laura Dern all reassume their roles, navigating their characters' intertwined lives in their hometown of Monterey, California as they try to cover up the death of Alexander Skarsgard's character, Perry. But the big news of this season is the incredible cast addition by Oscar winner Meryl Streep. She'll play Mary Louise Wright, the mother of Perry Wright.
"My son is dead. I want to know what happened that night," she says in the clip, talking to Witherspoon."I'm very tempted to ask you, but I don't think I would get the truth, would I?" It's the first in-character preview we've seen since the cast began sharing some behind-the-scenes photos last year during filming.
If you haven't seen the incredible series yet, sorry for the spoilers, but stop reading and run to watch it. In case you're a big fan, Big Little Lies will air in the US on June 9 and June 10 in the UK on HBO. Check out the season 2 trailer below.
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'use strict';
module.exports = function (str, opts) {
if (typeof str !== 'string') {
throw new TypeError('Expected a string');
}
return str.trim().replace(/\s{2,}/g, ' ');
};
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More Than a One-Hit Wonder
Brian Orelli, The Motley Fool, AOL.com
May 29th 2012 9:21PM
With all the focus on the stellar launch of Regeneron's (NAS: REGN) macular degeneration drug, Eylea, it's easy to forget that the biotech has a major partnership with Sanofi (NYS: SNY) do develop a plethora of drugs.
One of those drugs, REGN727, which Sanofi calls SAR236553, is ready to hit phase 3 trials on the back of solid phase 2 data.
The drug targets a protein called PCSK9, which promotes the degradation of the LDL receptors that remove the bad cholesterol from the blood. Inhibiting PCSK9 increases the receptors, which decreases the cholesterol levels as evidenced by the 28.9% to 67.9% reduction in LDL cholesterol compared with a 10.7% reduction in patients receiving placebo.
Those are some fairly impressive numbers considering the patients have familial hypercholesterolemia, a genetic mutation that causes extremely high cholesterol levels that couldn't be controlled by statins with or without Merck's (NYS: MRK) Zetia. Looking at the data a different way, at the top dose, 93.8% of patients were able to lower the LDL cholesterol below 100 mg/dL, a reasonable level considering the patient population, while only 13.3% of patients taking placebo reached that goal.
REGN727 looks good, but it will have competition. Amgen (NAS: AMGN) is developing a similar antibody targeting PCSK9 and Alnylam Pharmaceuticals is targeting the PCSK9 by reducing the protein levels through RNAi.
Regeneron and Sanofi are ahead of the other drugs attacking PSCK9, but they'll have to deal with Isis Pharmaceuticals (NAS: ISIS) , which is also going after familial hypercholesterolemia patients. Sanofi, through its acquisition of Genzyme, is also part of the program. Their cholesterol reducer Kynamro, which has a different mechanism of action, was recently submitted to the Food and Drug Administration to treat the most severe familial hypercholesterolemia patients with two mutations. But the companies are also testing patients that have just one mutation like the patients Regeneron and Sanofi tested REGN727 on.
Those results should come out before phase 3 data on REGN727 is available, giving the drug an efficacy/safety target to reach if Regeneron is going to have another hit on its hands.
The cholesterol drug market is huge, but Fool analysts have found a larger one. Find out what it is and how to profit from it in our free report, "The Next Trillion-Dollar Revolution." Get your free copy.
At the time this article was published Fool contributorBrian Orelliholds no position in any company mentioned. Check out hisholdings and a short bio. The Motley Fool has adisclosure policy. We Fools may not all hold the same opinions, but we all believe thatconsidering a diverse range of insightsmakes us better investors. Try any of our Foolish newsletter servicesfree for 30 days.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 4,012
|
This 601 Blue Label Maduro is a box pressed stick that is dark chocolate in color with a sandy feel. There is one decent sized vein in this cigar and the seams nonexistent.
First Third – This starts with chocolate, wood and a spicy pepper on the finish. As this settles, that almond note on the cold draw comes forth and leather mixes in with the pepper on the finish. The burn remains sharp and the ash holds.
Second Third – An oaky wood note mixed with spice and pepper enter the equation. A smooth transition overall. The burn remains sharp and ash fell at the 2-inch mark.
Final Third – The chocolate notes come back followed by the spicy wood and a nice cedar finish with a little citrus twist to refresh the palate.
A nice combination of flavors in the profile of this 601 Blue Label Maduro. I really enjoyed the spicy wood notes with the almond. Those two flavors together are probably one of my favorite combos. I would definitely smoke this again given the chance.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 4,528
|
Cnicin ist ein ungesättigtes Sesquiterpen-Dihydroxylacton, das mit einer substituierten Acrylsäure verestert ist.
Vorkommen
Cnicin gehört zur Gruppe der Germacranolide und wird in höherer Konzentration im Benediktenkraut (Cnicus benedictus) oder in der Rispen-Flockenblume (Centaurea stoebe) gebildet.
Die höchsten und niedrigsten Konzentrationen finden sich jeweils in den Blättern (0,86–3,86 % Cnicin) beziehungsweise im Stamm.
Wirkung
Die Wirkung des Cnicin wird im Rahmen der Phytotherapie genutzt. Als wirksamer Bestandteil im Benediktenkraut regt es die Magensaftproduktion an und wirkt gegen Verdauungsbeschwerden. Benediktenkraut kommt in Form von Teeaufgüssen oder alkoholischen Auszügen zur Anwendung.
Toxikologie
Eine hohe Dosis Cnicin hat akute toxische Effekte bei Versuchen mit Ratten und Mäusen. Des Weiteren kann eine Überdosierung von Cnicin zu starken Reizungen im Rachen-, Schlund- und Speiseröhrenbereich führen. Auch Störungen im Magen-Darm-Trakt bis hin zu Übelkeit, Krämpfen, Erbrechen und Durchfall, einhergehend mit Fieber, sind möglich.
Einzelnachweise
Terpenoid
Polyen
Polyol
Alkensäureester
Beta-Hydroxycarbonsäureester
Butyrolacton
Cycloalken
Makrocyclische Verbindung
Hydroxymethylverbindung
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 4,467
|
package cel
import (
"k8s.io/apimachinery/pkg/api/meta"
"k8s.io/apimachinery/pkg/apis/meta/v1/unstructured"
"k8s.io/apimachinery/pkg/runtime"
"k8s.io/apimachinery/pkg/runtime/schema"
"k8s.io/apiserver/pkg/admission"
"k8s.io/apiserver/pkg/cel"
"github.com/google/cel-go/common/types/ref"
)
type FailurePolicy string
const (
Fail FailurePolicy = "Fail"
Ignore FailurePolicy = "Ignore"
)
// EvaluatorFunc represents the AND of one or more compiled CEL expression's
// evaluators `params` may be nil if definition does not specify a paramsource
type EvaluatorFunc func(a admission.Attributes, params *unstructured.Unstructured) []PolicyDecision
// ObjectConverter is Dependency Injected into the PolicyDefinition's `Compile`
// function to assist with converting types and values to/from CEL-typed values.
type ObjectConverter interface {
// DeclForResource looks up the openapi or JSONSchemaProps, structural schema, etc.
// and compiles it into something that can be used to turn objects into CEL
// values
DeclForResource(gvr schema.GroupVersionResource) (*cel.DeclType, error)
// ValueForObject takes a Kubernetes Object and uses the CEL DeclType
// to transform it into a CEL value.
// Object may be a typed native object or an unstructured object
ValueForObject(value runtime.Object, decl *cel.DeclType) (ref.Val, error)
}
// PolicyDefinition is an interface for internal policy binding type.
// Implemented by mock/testing types, and to be implemented by the public API
// types once they have completed API review.
//
// The interface closely mirrors the format and functionality of the
// PolicyDefinition proposed in the KEP.
type PolicyDefinition interface {
runtime.Object
// Matches says whether this policy definition matches the provided admission
// resource request
Matches(a admission.Attributes) bool
Compile(
// Definition is provided with a converter which may be used by the
// return evaluator function to convert objects into CEL-typed objects
objectConverter ObjectConverter,
// Injected RESTMapper to assist with compilation
mapper meta.RESTMapper,
) (EvaluatorFunc, error)
// GetParamSource returns the GVK for the CRD used as the source of
// parameters used in the evaluation of instances of this policy
// May return nil if there is no paramsource for this definition.
GetParamSource() *schema.GroupVersionKind
// GetFailurePolicy returns how an object should be treated during an
// admission when there is a configuration error preventing CEL evaluation
GetFailurePolicy() FailurePolicy
}
// PolicyBinding is an interface for internal policy binding type. Implemented
// by mock/testing types, and to be implemented by the public API types once
// they have completed API review.
//
// The interface closely mirrors the format and functionality of the
// PolicyBinding proposed in the KEP.
type PolicyBinding interface {
runtime.Object
// Matches says whether this policy binding matches the provided admission
// resource request
Matches(a admission.Attributes) bool
// GetTargetDefinition returns the Namespace/Name of Policy Definition used
// by this binding.
GetTargetDefinition() (namespace, name string)
// GetTargetParams returns the Namespace/Name of instance of TargetDefinition's
// ParamSource to be provided to the CEL expressions of the definition during
// evaluation.
// If TargetDefinition has nil ParamSource, this is ignored.
GetTargetParams() (namespace, name string)
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 4,459
|
import { JsonContent } from '../content/jsonContent';
import { HttpResponseMessage } from '../httpResponseMessage';
import type { IHttpActionResult } from '../interfaces';
export class JsonResult<
T extends Record<string, unknown>
> implements IHttpActionResult {
constructor(
public readonly json: T | T[],
public readonly statusCode: number
) { }
public async executeAsync(): Promise<HttpResponseMessage> {
const response = new HttpResponseMessage(this.statusCode);
response.content = new JsonContent<T>(this.json);
return Promise.resolve(response);
}
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 7,957
|
Dwarf seeds health fruit seed exotic home garden organic bonsai, all about the exotic garden designing with tropical plants in, exotic fountain with green garden plants also love pattern stone. A lot of plants in the exotic garden stock image image of curve. Tropical garden with tall heliconia plants exotic tropical.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 7,976
|
Somebody Kill Me – The Wedding Singer (4/6) Movie CLIP (1998) HD
February 18, 2020 By David
The Wedding Singer movie clips:
BUY THE MOVIE:
Don't miss the HOTTEST NEW TRAILERS:
CLIP DESCRIPTION:
Robbie (Adam Sandler) sings Julia (Drew Barrymore) a song about his failed relationship.
FILM DESCRIPTION:
Mousse up your hair and pull your Missing Persons records out of mothballs for this romantic comedy set in that era of questionable fashion decisions, the '80s. In 1985, Robbie Hart (Adam Sandler) is a vocalist whose rock band stubbornly refuses to get off the ground. In the meantime, he makes a living playing wedding receptions, where his easy charm and ability to schmooze brings him a steady income. Robbie meets Julia Sullivan (Drew Barrymore) when she's working as a waitress at one of his wedding gigs; he immediately takes a shine to her, but since he's engaged, he keeps his distance. Robbie learns that Julia is also engaged; unfortunately, her fiancée Glen Gulia (Matthew Glave) is an obnoxious, self-obsessed yuppie who is chronically unfaithful to her. When Robbie gets stood up at the altar by his fiancée, it's a crushing blow to his ego, and he moves from working weddings to bar mitzvahs to avoid the humiliating issue of matrimony, and he considers giving up on music altogether. In time, Robbie realizes that he needs to step in and stop Julia from marrying Glen before the woman he's come to love ruins her life. Adam Sandler's former Saturday Night Live co-stars Kevin Nealon and Jon Lovitz make cameo appearances, as do Steve Buscemi and Billy Idol — as himself.
TM & © Warner Bros. (1998)
Cast: Jon Lovitz, Adam Sandler, Drew Barrymore
Director: Frank Coraci
Producers: Richard Brener, Jack Giarraputo, Brad Grey, Michelle Holdsworth, Ira Shuman, Robert Simonds, Rita Smith, Sandy Wernick, Brian Witten
Screenwriter: Tim Herlihy
The MOVIECLIPS channel is the largest collection of licensed movie clips on the web. Here you will find unforgettable moments, scenes and lines from all your favorite films. Made by movie fans, for movie fans.
SUBSCRIBE TO OUR MOVIE CHANNELS:
MOVIECLIPS:
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Classic Trailers:
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Fandango FrontRunners:
HIT US UP:
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 6,111
|
Produced by Delphine Lettau, Clive Pickton, Matthew Wheaton
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
SELECT WORKS OF LUDWIG TIECK.
Tales from the "Phantasus," Etc.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY ROBSON, LEVEY, AND FRANKLYN,
Great New Street, Fetter Lane.
[Illustration: Ludwig Tieck.]
Tales From the "Phantasus," etc.
of Ludwig Tieck.
London James Burns
mdcccxlv.
CONTENTS.
I. PREFACE.
II. THE RECONCILIATION.
III. THE FRIENDS.
IV. THE ELVES.
V. THE WHITE EGBERT.
VI. THE FAITHFUL ECKART.
VII. THE TANNENHAeUSER.
VIII. THE RUNENBERG.
IX. THE MYSTERIOUS CUP.
X. THE LOVE-CHARM.
XI. THE BROTHERS.
PREFACE.
Goethe says of himself, that the first sight of a work of genuine art
was always displeasing to him. There was no correspondence between his
own mind and the object he was contemplating. It would not fit--became
galling. He was made conscious of a deficiency in himself; and the
result was, a feeling of annoyance and irritation at the cause of it.
Yet if he could overcome this aversion, and set himself to work to
understand it, in faith that ultimately he would find himself repaid,
he never failed to make the most delightful discoveries; new powers
developed themselves in himself, and beauty after beauty came out in
the object.
It is to this cause that we attribute the comparatively small success
which the works of Ludwig Tieck have hitherto met with in
England--just because they are genuine; and we venture to affirm, with
some confidence, that if people will take the same pains, they will
find their efforts attended with a similar result to that above
mentioned. There is nothing strange in all this: there is a deep
gloomy earnestness about Tieck, an unprepossessing sternness, which
makes people feel uncomfortable, without exactly knowing why. They
cannot make out his way of thought. They feel it is deep and strong;
but as they do not start with any confidence in him as a teacher, it
serves only to make them painfully conscious of their own dimensions,
and afraid of what the strong man may do with them. For all they know,
he may be a tyrant, using his powers only for destruction; breaking in
and wasting all their beautiful gardens, and leaving them nothing but
ashes, and torn-off leaves, and withering flowers.
More or less, there is always something awful in a purely ethical
writer. Tieck's works do not profess to be religious writings. He is
concerned wholly with the nature of man as he finds him, and with the
working of the moral laws, the natural tendencies of virtue and vice
in the system of the universe; and in this way he contrasts strikingly
with writers like Fouque, whose works have so much of a distinct
religious character. The wild preternatural spirit which breathes
through all his tales forms but a subservient part. It does but
represent the elements in which our moral nature hangs; and is, in
fact, nothing more than the very element in which we all live, only
held in a certain light that we may see it. Why he does not introduce
the real influences of the other world as revelation makes them known
to us, is a question which we need not ask ourselves; it is enough
that it was not his purpose.
But perhaps we shall find the clue to the general tone of his mind in
the state of things in Germany, and the general condition of European
feeling at the time in which he was brought up.
His mind broke into consciousness at the stormy close of the
eighteenth century, when Europe was rocking to her foundation, and all
faith in God was dead. The seven thousand who would not bow the knees
to the Deity of man were hanging off in fear and trembling, and
watching for the doom of the world. In France, old Voltaire worshipped
as a god. In Germany, the students at the universities caricaturing
the sacrifice of the mass at the doors of the beerhouses, and one
riding through the streets of Goettingen upon an ass, to try, as he
said, what must have been the feelings of the Saviour (Goethe,
_Wahrheit und Dichtung_). It was a time of which Jean Paul said, "Now
strikes the twelfth hour of the night; and the foul birds of night are
screaming, and spectres dance; the dead walk abroad, the living
dream."
Tieck was born in the Roman Catholic Church; but he was brought up
without any religious teaching; and the Church herself in those dark
hours possessed but few or none of those outward marks of holiness
which could make him feel safe in trusting himself implicitly to her
guidance: the poison of infidelity was in her very heart; disgraced by
the grossest idolatry, her enemies battering furiously at her from
without, and she apparently helpless to resist them. It is not so now:
she too has felt the warm breath of spring that has since swept over
the face of the earth, and is waking her up to new life and energy;
yet, if even now such scenes as those of last summer at Treves can
shock the senses of the cultivated world, what must it have been then?
She was like a cracked bell that would not ring when it was struck.
In a country, then, where there was no religion to which he could
trust,--no philosophy but an infidel one; in despair of external
guidance, Tieck was forced to the bold step of trying for himself what
all these systems were made of; of going down himself, and searching
the foundations on which they rested; what this nature of his really
was. He dared stand boldly up before the world, and look it in the
face, and ask it what it was. And the still more awful questions he
asked of his own heart: What am I? How came I here? What is my
business here? It is a fiery trial; and woe to him who fails! Better
he had never been born! It is a sphinx he has to answer: if he find
not the solution of the riddle, the monster will devour him. And few
hearts but will quail, and few cheeks but will blanch, and few heads
but will reel, with those bottomless abysses of scepticism yawning
round. But it is like the Catholic legend of the purgatory of St.
Patrick. Few of those who ventured in ever returned to tell the tale;
but those who did were safe for ever. A man knows too well the value
of the true, when he has been at such cost in the pursuit of it, to
risk the losing of it again. "Abdallah" and "William Lovell," the two
first books of any importance which Tieck published, shew him in the
centre of the fearful struggle, wrestling with those two first
unanswerable questions. And so at last he was content to leave them.
To the last question he wrung out an answer from the depths of his own
being; he comes now to offer it to us--a true teacher, if a stern one:
and we shall do well to listen to his words; for the solemn
earnestness which breathes through every line he has written shews how
deeply he has read the mystery of life. The tales in the present
volume were written in the first period after he emerged into a calmer
and clearer light; and to these for the rest of this Preface we shall
confine ourselves. We have said enough to account for their peculiar
character externally; and the consideration of his later writings had
better be left to another opportunity: to speak of them now would be
but criticism without an object; before long some of them will be
produced before the public, and what is to be said will be said then.
Great things have happened in Germany since that time: a literature
has sprung up almost without parallel for depth, and richness, and
originality; and schools of poetry and philosophy various as those of
Athens. Tieck has led one school, Goethe another; and if officious
followers attempted to push them into rivalry, each knew his own place
too well for such unnatural feud to endure.
The first startling feature, then, in all the characters in these
tales is their terrible reality. In all the circumstances of the wild
and wonderful, the supernatural working visibly, and interfering in
the direction and control for good and evil of the affairs of the
world; instead of finding the persons of the same fantastic character,
such as we might naturally expect, as harmonising better with the
elements in which they work; instead of saints with power of working
miracles, or the ideal heroes of the age of chivalry,--we have the
very men and women which we ourselves are, and such as we see every
day around us. Excepting, perhaps, Goethe, no one knew his own age
better than Tieck: he is a modern poet in every sense of the word; and
that is why we claim so high a place for him.
The true poet of any time is he who can make that time
transparent--who can let his readers in behind the curtain of their
own souls and that of the society in which they live, and shew them
what they are all doing, hoping, fearing--clear up their cloudy
perceptions, and say for them what they would say for themselves if
they could. This is exactly what Tieck does. His Emilius's, Egberts,
Ludwigs,--what are they all, but the very men of whom every day he
walked into the street he saw thousands? No matter what the conditions
be under which he pictures them working, his men are real men, not
fantastic; and that is all we have any right to require.
Yet I may say something about these marvellous conditions in which
they appear; for perhaps even they are not so unreal as they seem.
It is only because we are used to them that this world and the beings
that inhabit it do not seem wonderful. There is nothing in the
phenomena which surround us abstractedly more reasonable than any
other set might be which worked by fixed rules. As a matter of fact we
experience one class, but that is all. It is not that one is wonderful
and the other simple, as people seem to assume. This world we live in
is, indeed, teeming with wonders. The poet has but to hold a
magnifying-glass before it, and forthwith a thousand new forms of
beauty start out before our eyes; and what before seemed most
beautiful has become a monster. There are, indeed, poets who can
produce the highest effect without any such magnifying; and the world
as mirrored in their minds appears transfigured, its form and
proportions continuing all the same. Yet the number of such spirits
as have appeared on this planet of ours we may count upon our fingers,
and of those who are fit to read and understand them the ratio is the
same. Even Shakspere does not at times disdain the aid of the
supernatural; and the idea of nature, as Tieck offers it, even its
wildest and most fantastic form, is far deeper and nearer the truth
than is the dull, common-place, lifeless thing which most men seem to
regard it as. The question, however, is one which he will best qualify
people to answer for themselves.
Most of the tales in the present volume belong to the "Phantasus." A
party of persons meet together for conversation on various subjects of
art and literature, and these stories, with sundry other dramas, are
read aloud by different members of the society. They are introduced
with the following prefatory dialogue:--
"It is not at every moment, nor every time we choose to turn to her,"
said Antony, "that Nature will unfold her secrets to us; or rather, it
is not always that we are in the mood to feel her sacredness. There
must first be a harmony in ourselves, if we are to find what surrounds
us harmonious; otherwise we do but cheat ourselves with empty phrases,
without ever rising to a true enjoyment of beauty. It may be, perhaps,
that there are times when unexpectedly some blessed influence descends
out of Heaven upon our hearts, and unlocks the door of inspiration;
but towards this we can add nothing. We have no right, no means of
looking for it; it is a revelation within us we know not how. So much
is certain, that it is not above twice, or at most three times, in a
man's life that he has the fortune, in any true sense, to see a
sunrise. When we do see it, it does not pass away like a summer cloud
before our minds; rather it forms one of the great epochs in our
lives. From such ecstatic feelings as we receive then it is long and
long ere we recover; by the side of these exalted moments years
dwindle into nothingness. But it is only in the calmness of solitude
that these high gifts can descend upon us. A party collecting itself
to see it as a sight on the top of a mountain, is only standing as it
were before an exhibition at a theatre, and can bring from it nothing
but the same kind of empty pleasure and foolish criticisms."
"Still stranger is it," said Ernest, "that the great majority of men
are so dead to that awe and wonder, that fearful amazement with which
Nature often fills some minds. If they can feel it, it is only as an
obscure bewildered sensation of they know not what."
"It is not only on the dreary peaks of the St. Gothard that we can
feel the terribleness of Nature. There are times when the most
beautiful scene is full of spectres that fly shrieking and screaming
across our hearts. Such strange shadowy forms, such wild forebodings,
go often hunting up and down our fancy, that we are fain to fly from
them in terror, and rid ourselves of our phantom rider, by plunging
into the dissipations of the world. While under such influences wild
poems and stories often rise up in us to people the dreary chaos of
desolation, and adorn it with creations of art; and these forms and
figures will be unconscious betrayers of the tone and temper of the
mind in which they spring. In these kind of stories the beautiful
mingles itself with the terrible, the sublime with the childish,
goading our fancy into a kind of poetic madness, and then turning it
to roam at will through the entire fabric of our souls."
"Are the stories you are going to read to us of this kind?" asked
Clara.
"Perhaps," replied Ernest.
"And not allegorical?"
"As you please to call them. There is not, and there cannot be any
creation of art which has not some kind of allegory at the bottom of
it, however little it may let itself be seen. The two forms of good
and evil appear in every poem; they meet us at every turn, in every
thing man produces, as the one eternal riddle in an endless
multiplicity of forms, which he is for ever struggling to resolve. As
there are particular aspects in which the most every-day life appears
like a myth, so it is possible to feel oneself in as close connexion
with, as much at home in the middle of the wildest wonders as the
ordinary incidents of life. One may go so far as to say, that the
commonest, simplest, pleasantest things, as well as the most
marvellous, can only be said to be true, can only exert an influence
on our minds, in so far as they contain some allegory as their
groundwork, as the link which connects them with the system of the
universe. This is why Dante's allegories come so home to us, because
they pierce through and through to the very heart and centre of
reality. Novalis says, there is no real history, except what might be
fable. Of course, there are many weak and sickly poems of this kind,
which merely drag wearily on to the moral, without taking the
imagination along with them; and these of all the different sorts of
instruction or entertainment are the most tiresome. But it is time to
proceed to our tales."
* * * * *
And here we would gladly leave this matter, and let the tales tell
their own story. What their idea is as a whole, they speak plainly
enough; and it would be to destroy their effect, as well as to
misunderstand the whole theory of this kind of fiction, to translate
them into a series of moral reflections, and append a didactic
sentiment to them as to one of AEsop's fables. And yet English readers
will not be content with a suggestion of allegory; they will be asking
for meanings, and requiring to have the whole matter laid out before
them in fair, plain characters of black and white; so that
notwithstanding my full consciousness of the general undesirableness
and the unphilosophical nature of such a proceeding, I will offer a
few general remarks, in the way of elucidation, for three or four of
these stories, which shall put people on the scent to find the real
meaning, not only of these stories in particular, but in general of
any such as may be brought before them. Consoling myself, therefore,
with the reflection that a preface is always read, as it is written,
the last thing in a book, and that in that case my explanation can
hurt no one, and may be of some profit to those who have failed to see
any thing for themselves, I proceed.
"Egbert," "Eckhart," and the "Runenberg," naturally form into a group
together. They are different exhibitions of very similar ideas, and it
will be enough to explain one. I should advise people, however, to
read the three together straightforward, and then try to analyse for
themselves the impression left upon their minds. Perhaps it may be
something of this sort: that a single sin unrepented of and unatoned
for becomes a destiny; a seed from which, however diminutive and
trifling it may look, a whole life of crime and wickedness shoots up
as a matter of course, perhaps inevitably. Cause and effect, effect
and cause, going on producing and reproducing each other, each
successive step leading further and deeper into the mire, return
becoming more and more difficult, and at last impossible.
Look at Christian in the "Runenberg." He is born to a calm and serene
life of tranquillity and peace; affectionate parents--a simple routine
of the gentlest and most beautiful of all nature's choicest
occupations--far away from all temptation--secure from every danger--a
home that ought to have given him all, and more than all, of enjoyment
and content,--whose life could promise more happily than his? Yet he
has no love, no heart, no feeling for it. His sense of duty is not
strong enough to set him to work; he finds it dull and uninteresting;
he craves for excitement, for something new. The _plain_ life is not
grand enough to suit his exalted aspirations: he must go to the
mountains, to the ups and downs, and rough and rugged ways of the
world, where he may climb, and hunt, and seek a broader range for
activity and enjoyment; he does not think of asking leave--he goes; he
never regrets leaving home; and at first finds all bright, and gay,
and delightful sunshine. The happy, happy hunting-time; and who so
happy in it as Christian? But it soon palls--it does not satisfy. The
cup is poisoned, there is a gall and wormwood in the taste the sweet
leaves behind; and again he thinks of home. He sings his old song; but
the words come wearily and listlessly--he has no heart for hunting any
more. He wishes to be at home again; but he makes no effort. The
mysterious mandrake in sympathy with his old life wakes up and speaks
to him. It is the warning-voice of conscience; but he dreams on. The
tempter comes, and he is lost irretrievably. The moment of return is
offered--now or never! and he refuses. He does not stay among the
mountains; he flies away to the plains beyond; he flings off, as he
fondly believes, the dark mysterious incidents of that night, as a
wild and impious dream; he thinks he is what he was; away he goes
again to the plains to his old employment, and he is happy,
industrious, contented in it. Every thing again looks smooth, and
bright, and beautiful; but he has not _gone back_, and now he may not.
What should have been for his peace, now is but a further snare to
make him fancy all is right with him. He does indeed set out to seek
his father, but wearily and unwillingly. His way would have led him
back over the mountains; but there he is not permitted to go. The
object of his journey comes to meet him; they go back together; he
becomes more and more prosperous, and sinks deeper and deeper into his
fatal delusion. Yet the fatal tablet is in his heart, the bond by
which he is bound to evil; even on his wedding-night he cannot forget
the giver. At length the long-smothered poison burst out with all its
fury, and flowers touch his heart no more. He curses them and nature;
the warning mandrake, instead of the voice of conscience, is but a
revelation of the power of evil. It has but taught him to despair, and
seek his friends elsewhere; and he is lost for ever.
Of the more awful person in this fearful story I will not speak; but
for the outline of the fate of Christian, who can look round him into
the most ordinary life, and not see innumerable instances of it? The
burden of the other two stories is very similar: the way to understand
them is to try and analyse the feelings left on our mind by the whole,
and not distract ourselves by assuming a fancied meaning, and
speculating with the particulars to make each fragment fit our theory.
Do not let us perplex ourselves to find out what the little dog is,
what is the meaning of the bird, and the old woman. They may have many
meanings; but we shall never find them by beginning at that end. It is
only by the light of the whole that the parts become intelligible.
"The Love-charm" is a work of a different nature; it is one of the
most remarkable of all Tieck's writings, and, as far as we know,
stands alone among the productions of modern art. With the help of a
popular German superstition, he has woven a tragedy out of the
ordinary events of every-day life, the spirit of which approaches as
near as modern thought can be made to approach to the fatalism of the
Greek drama. A destiny of some kind, either moral or external, is
essential to tragedy. What we mean by "the terrible" as applied to
human action, is, that the free will of man is laid under the
influence of some external power, which he has little or no ability to
resist, which hurries him on through a series of action and incident,
from which, if in full possession of his self-control, he would shrink
in horror. Thus, in common life the crimes men commit under the
influence of any of the loftier passions, such as love or revenge, or
when goaded on by famine or despair, or which men do in ignorance,
when the ignorance may partially, but not entirely, be their own
fault, are terrible, and therefore tragic. The individual seems to be
sacrificed, not to deserve all that has fallen on him; his fate
becomes one of the startling mysteries of life. The meaner or more
selfish the passion under which the crime is committed, or the cooler
and more deliberate the action, the more what he does loses the
character of tragic, and becomes merely disgusting. Pity goes with
terror, and in such cases there can be no pity. The destiny in
Shakspere's tragedies is a moral one; not an external power
constraining, but an internal power impelling; working not against,
but in and through the will. Such was the influence of his father's
spirit on Hamlet, Hecate and the Witches on Macbeth, Iago's intellect
on Othello, and so on with the rest. The Greek destiny, though in our
way of thinking less human, is more terrible even than that of
Shakspere. The sins of the fathers visited on the children, curses
continuing to work generation after generation, and the helpless
struggle of the victim only precipitating him into a darker
doom--there is a stern grandeur about this form of thought; it is a
feature of a broader philosophy than ours to bear to see the
individual sacrificed, and believe that in some mysterious way the
well-being of the whole is furthered by it, "with calm self-surrender
to hear the murderer's hand upon a brother's throat, yet stand with
upturned unquailing eyes before the everlasting Providence." It is a
scheme of thought so unlike ours that we can hardly realise it, it is
so like a monster to us. Yet this Love-charm is an attempt to do it;
and although the spell is but over a single person, and forms no
portion of a broad scheme of Providence; although for the stately
forms of kings and heroes stalking across the stage, we have but the
ball-going ladies and gentlemen of the eighteenth century, and but an
old witch for the Delphic oracle, or the gods appearing in visible
form; few people can rise from reading it without having been made to
feel that this life, after all, is a stranger thing than they have
been in the habit of imagining.
Emilius's character is eminently tragic. He has every feature which
can interest us, without that moral or religious force in him which
would make us feel shocked at his fate. The Greeks felt that good and
holy men were no fitter subjects of tragedy than very wicked ones.
There is something revolting ([Greek: miarhon]) in the idea that a
good man can be allowed even in ignorance to fall into crime. Whatever
be the mysterious ways of Providence; whatever fearful power there may
be abroad, working on and influencing the destinies of mankind; what
indeed is the meaning of the prince of the power of the air, or
whether there be really such an element as chance; this, at least, we
must believe, that the good man is in the hands of the Highest, and
that the laws of nature would sooner be reversed than he be let fall
from His hands. But Emilius is a dreamer, whose power exhausts itself
in speculation, and never acts at all except on impulse: without
firmness, without will to give oneness of design and consistency to
his actions, this character--which is _no law_ to itself, which will
not command itself, no matter how pure may be in general its purposes,
or how lofty its aspirations--is exactly the one most open to be laid
under the spell of some other force. Every man's life, taken from
beginning to end, looked back upon presents an exhibition of some one
law or principle; whatever it be, in the end it is found to be
tolerably uniform and consistent: its principle may be an internal one
of will and conscience; if it is not this, if it grows not out of
self-command, it is pretty sure to be some more fatally perilous one.
Emilius is admirably worked throughout. Contrast his feelings towards
man and nature, and life and love, as they appear in the first short
poem, and what they have become a few hours later, merely from the
excitement and irritation produced by the ball. The scene of the
village-marriage, the young man's warmth and nobleness, and exquisite
susceptibility, are introduced to heighten our pity for his fate;
while the way in which he is led to it, in a dreamy mood, listlessly
yielding to the caprice of a wayward companion, and not from any real
wish to find out want and relieve suffering, reduces the value of the
action to a mere gratification of a passion, and thus, while it
deepens our sympathy, adds nothing to our respect. The concluding
scene is so magnificent, that we cannot run the risk of injuring its
effect by offering any criticism on it; and with these few words we
leave the "Love-charm."
In "Eckhart" and the "Runenberg" we have seen some of the moral trials
which meet men on first starting into life. In the "Friends" we have
the lighter kind of speculative. A very little philosophy serves to
teach us how very unreal every thing is that passes before our eyes;
how it all takes a colouring from our spirits; how the very same thing
appears almost contradictory to different people, or to the same
person in different moods; that we do not so much see things
themselves, as our own image thrown into them. Accordingly, men begin
to crave for a truer insight; they try to clear their intellect of the
gauzy film of feeling, and see things as they are. Ludwig, a young
indolent dreamer, full of all this kind of sentimental longing to be
rid of sentimentality, is on his way to visit a sick friend. He sits
down in the heat of the day under a tree to indulge in the pleasure of
a little disconsolate reflection on his friend's melancholy letter,
and insensibly falls off into a sleep, and dreams. At once he finds
all the difficulties of the world solved for him, all his highest
aspirations satisfied. The chasm that divides the worlds of sense and
spirit is bridged over; his mind meets its true objects. The earth he
despised he is now relieved from; the deceptions of nature all vanish;
he sees things as they are; he is in the real world of truth and
beauty; nothing is subjective any longer; he breathes a real genuine
objectivity; all mortal weaknesses, and with them love, may not enter
here; the phantoms of his childhood flit before him again, but no
longer as they were; they are transfigured into the cold sublimity of
Grecian goddesses. Alas! he is far from satisfied; after the first few
days of rapture, he would gladly be on earth again. He wished to be as
the gods; his wish is granted, and among the gods he cannot live. This
cold world may be a very grand place, but it is not for such as him.
Like Lessing's Phoenix, at first sight the dwellers here seem
beautiful beyond all conception; the second glance shews that if a man
will be like them he must be content to be the only one of his race,
with none to love him and none that he can love. "He is like the
spirits he can comprehend, not like them." The truth he sought, he
finds he has left behind; the old earth is his true home; and men, be
they what they will, are his brothers. His friend comes to meet him;
but he does not know him again, because here for the first time he
sees him as he is, while before he had only seen in him the image of
himself. If this be truth, he is sick of it; he sighs for the
deception again, if deception it was that had been so delightful; he
wakes to find his vision but a dream, in the sweet reality of his
friend's embrace.
The "Elves," the last story which we shall notice, is of a far more
solemn character; with all its beauty, it has a sad dirge-like tone.
Written fourteen years later than the others, it is now the true
poet's lament over the hard insensibility of the world to its true
good. The world of spirit lies stretched out under the eyes of the
children of earth; the invisible visible; but from earth and to
earthly perceptions, dull, gloomy, unattractive. To the busy practical
man of business, to the prudential economist, the man of
understanding, the workers in it seem but idle, worthless vagabonds;
these lazy good-for-nothings, that scarcely till the ground, are never
seen at church, and shew no symptom of respectability; why do they
cumber the earth? the talk is of cage and pillory for them; no child
of theirs may approach the unhallowed precincts. Accident leads a
young girl beyond the boundary, and then how changed is every thing!
The dull scene has become more brilliant than the gardens of Aladdin;
scales fall from her eyes; now it is the old world that is dark and
gloomy. Down among the mysteries of the fountains of Nature, she sees
her now no longer yielding reluctantly an unwilling pittance to the
sweat of the labour of man, but _uncursed_. At the word of the
dwellers in that enchanted land, her choicest fruits and flowers she
pours out in lavish abundance. The spirits of the elements work
visibly there, and the mortal sees them, and knows now who are the
true benefactors of mankind. Time and space exist not for these pure
beings. Seven years are gone in one night, and the narrow fir-clump
contains the garden of Eden.
The mortal goes back to earth: what she has seen she may not tell.
These esoteric secrets of the poet are not for the crawling animal who
cannot hold himself upright, nor turn his eyes to heaven, and who only
knows the sun by the sight of his own shadow: but one of them she
weds; and the child of these two--oh, what may we not hope from that
child! Alas, in vain! In vain, from the secret labours of these
beautiful beings, the brooks run fresh and full, and the fields
overflow with plenty. Men will not see; in the midst of their
abundance they curse the author of it. In an evil hour of weakness the
initiated betrays the secret, and then all is gone. The gloom of the
fir-clump vanishes; it becomes like any other. The gipsy rabble are
gone; what all men hated, they are relieved of; but with this comes
the loss, too, of all they prized--their corn, their wine, and
fruitful trees. Famine comes, and drought and pestilence; the elfin
child dies, and all is ruin and disaster. They see not their tokens.
There is not one prophet more. What a deep philosophy runs through all
this!
Have we heard our prophets? At the end of the last century one said:--
"Yes, another era is already dawning upon earth, when it shall be
light, when man shall wake from high and lofty dreams; and these
dreams he shall find realised, and that he has lost nothing but sleep.
"The rocks and stones which two veiled figures, Sin and Destiny, like
Deucalion and Pyrrha, fling behind them at their true prophet, shall
rise and be new men.
"And at the sunset gate of this age stands written, 'Here lies the way
to wisdom and to virtue;' as at the west gate of the Chersonese the
proud writing, 'Here lies the way to Byzantium.'
"O eternal Providence, thou wilt that it shall be light!"
Whether this prophecy be fulfilled or fulfilling, and whether Germany
has yet done any thing to the accomplishment of it, is for time to
shew. So much is clear, that not here in England only, but all Europe
over, there is a move forward--a cry of hunger and thirst for
something deeper and truer; and to this move no living man has more
contributed than Ludwig Tieck. He is the last, the only survivor of
the noble band of German poets; and Europe has not a man of whom she
is more justly proud.
The morning of his life broke in storm and tempest. Like some infant
river just starting from its snowy cradle in its native mountains,
foaming and dashing down its narrow bed, bounding from rock to rock,
and powdering the air with vapour, which catches the sun's rays as it
rises, and shivers them into a thousand brilliant hues,--his strong
mind broke fiercely and impetuously from the clouds of error, and
unbelief, and freezing scepticism, in which it was nurtured; at first,
with loud questionings of fate, troubled and dark, yet, with all its
fallings, flinging round itself in the wildest profusion rays and
flashes of exquisite beauty. It rolls on down from its mountains; it
has swept now over every rock and shoal, and flows on calm, serene,
and deep, and clear through smiling fields, and woods, and villages,
and happy men and women, bearing on its broad bosom all who trust
themselves on it for profit or enjoyment, from the tiny pleasure-boat
of the young lover to the tall ship sweeping proudly forward, laden
with the choicest fruits and produce of every clime. As the heavens
draw up the water from the ocean, and, lading their clouds with it,
bear it off into the centre of huge continents, and with it start new
fountains into life, which again, winding as veins through all lands,
and scattering blessings as they go, flow back at last into their
parent sea,--so in all ages pure wisdom, entering into lofty spirits,
sends them down through their generation, scoring out deep channels on
it as they pass: the stream of life and light makes its way again to
the source from which it came; but with this mortal life it ceases not
to flow: its recipients become the veins of the world, and while the
world lasts they endure--as the channels of truth where men drink and
live. And one of them is TIECK.
J. A. F.
THE RECONCILIATION.
Twilight was already gathering, when a young knight, mounted on his
charger, trotted through a lonely vale: the clouds grew gradually
darker, and the glow of evening paler: a little brook murmured softly
along, concealed by the mountain bushes that overhung it.
The knight sighed, and surrendered himself to thought; the bridle hung
loose on the horse's neck; the steed itself no longer felt the rider's
spur, and now paced slowly along the narrow path that wound round the
precipitous rock.
The noise of the little brook waxed louder; the clang of the hoof rung
through the solitude; the shades of evening grew deeper, and the ruins
of an old castle lay wondrously poised on the precipice of the
opposite mountain. The knight became more and more absorbed in
thought; he gazed fixedly and vacantly on the darkness, scarcely
noticing the objects that environed him.
Now the moon rose behind him: her splendour tipped tree and shrub with
gold: the valley narrowed apace, and the shadow of the knight reached
to the opposite hill: the streamlet went foaming, all silver, over the
broken rocks, and a nightingale began her ravishing song, till it soon
sounded clearer from the forest. The knight now saw a crooked-grown
willow before him, that fell over the brook, while the water flowed
through its weeping branches. On a nearer approach, its dark outline
assumed a more decided form, and he now distinctly descried the figure
of a monk, bending low over the stream. He let the faint ripple flow
through the hollow of his hand, while a low and plaintive voice
exclaimed, "She comes not, she comes not! ah, in an eternity she'll
not float by!"
The steed shied: a sudden dread took possession of the rider: he
struck both spurs into his charger's flanks, and loudly neighing, it
galloped away with him.
The narrow path now grew wider, and led into a thick wood of oak,
through whose densely woven branches the moon could but sparely shoot
her beams. The knight soon stood before a cave, from which a small
fire shone invitation towards him: he alighted, tied his horse to a
tree, and entered the hollow.
Before a wooden crucifix kneeled an aged hermit in deep devotion; he
was not aware of the knight's entrance, but still continued in fervent
prayer. A long white beard flowed down over his breast: years had
ploughed deep furrows in his brow: his eyes were dim: he had the
seeming of a saint. The knight took his stand at some distance from
him, folded his hands across his breast, and repeated some Ave-Marias.
Then the old man arose, dried a tear in his eye, and observed the
stranger in his dwelling.
"Welcome to thee!" cried he, and offered the stranger a hand trembling
with age.
The knight pressed it warmly; he felt his soul yearn towards him, and
his reverence was transmuted into love.
"You did right to turn in here," continued the hermit, "for you will
not find a village or a hostelry for many a league. But why so silent?
Draw near to the fire and rest, and I will serve up such a little meal
as this cave of mine can best supply."
The knight took the helmet from his head: his brown locks fell adown
his neck: the old man gazed on him with a searching glance.
"Why does your eye wander so shily and unfixedly about?" he resumed,
in a friendly tone.
The knight seemed to be collecting his thoughts. "A strange feeling of
awe," replied he, "has seized on me since riding through that valley.
Explain to me, if you can, the singular phenomenon which I there
beheld: or perhaps it is not a spirit, but an inhabitant of these
parts: and yet that is impossible; I saw him wave to and fro like the
misty vapour in the gleam of the rising moon; and a cold thrill of
fear drove me this way. Explain to me the riddle and the words which I
heard through the whispering of the bushes."
"You saw the apparition?" said the hermit inquiringly, in a tone which
betrayed a warm interest in the event; "well, be seated at the fire,
and I will tell you the unhappy tale."
Both took their places. The old man appeared lost in thought. The
knight was all attention; and after a short silence the hermit began:
"It is now thirty years since I roamed the land in quest of adventures
and strife, just as you do now; since my locks flowed, just as yours
do, over my shoulders, and my glance with equal boldness confronted
danger. Grief has made me a decrepit old man before my time; not a
trace can you now discover of the lusty warrior, who at that time won
the respect of knighthood and the hearts of lovely girls. All is as a
dream to me now, and my joys and sorrows are shrouded in the twilight
distance. Farewell, ye happy days! scarce a faint glimmer from you now
can reach my cold worn heart.
"I had a brother, who was only two years older than myself. We were
like each other in form and feeling, except that he was more impetuous
and stormy, and more especially inclined to be passionate. We loved
each other fondly; we shared no pleasure apart; in every conflict he
fought at my side; we seemed to live but for one another.
"He became acquainted with a lady, whose love soon formed him to an
accomplished man. Her tenderness tempered his boisterous spirit; she
taught him that gentleness which is essential to every man who will
appear amiable in the eye of his friend. Clara became his wife; and
after the lapse of a year, the mother of a boy. Nothing now seemed
wanting to his happiness.
"About this time the signal of the cross was again raised against the
infidels. Fired with holy zeal he girt on the sword, took the sign of
the Redeemer on his cloak, and marched forth with the enthusiast
throng to peril and to fame. My entreaties and his wife's tears were
too weak to detain him; the fervour of his enthusiasm tore him from
our arms. Ah, heavens! I still hoped at that time that we should have
the delight of seeing him once more: I foreboded dangers for him, but
not those sad events which have beguiled my life of every joy.
"We now looked in vain for news: our anxious impatience suggested to
us a thousand mishaps, and fed us again with increased hope. Week
after week, and month after month passed away without our expectation
being in the smallest degree satisfied. To be sure, we heard that on
their march to the Holy Land discomforts of a thousand kinds had
befallen the crusaders; that they had been attacked by savage hordes,
and given up to misery and want; that the greater part of them had
been scattered in the woods, there to become a prey to hunger or the
wild beasts. But we had no special news of my brother, and we were
obliged to accustom ourselves to the thought that he too belonged to
the greater number of those unfortunates. His desolate widow wept for
him daily, and gave little ear to the weak grounds of consolation that
issued from the dejected heart of a suffering brother.
"Five long sorrowful years were thus passed in lamentation and tears,
when I beheld at a tournament the daughter of William of Orlaburg. Oh,
sir knight, let me dwell for a moment on this brilliant epoch of my
life, and refresh my soul on the beautiful past. Ah, a rapturous
spring rose upon me, but winter returned all the colder to my heart:
not a flower remains to me of all those sunny days; a spiteful
hurricane has snapt them all away. Ida of Orlaburg was the most
charming creature of her sex: graceful and full of majesty, her lofty
figure claimed respect of every one, and her charitable temper won
every heart. She united the loveliness of woman with the nobility of
manly strength.
"At a tournament given by her father, she saw Clara; her soul was
interested by the deep sorrow which spoke in the features of the
desolate wife. In misfortune, friendships are the most quickly and the
most lastingly formed. They saw each other very often; they loved each
other like two sisters, that had grown up together and shared each
other's every thought; and on the death of Ida's father, Clara had her
friend a constant guest at her castle. Ida it was who at last dried
the tears from eyes that were dim with weeping; who taught her to
smile again at the rising of the sun, and who, as I saw her so often,
at last robbed me of my heart and of my peace.
"I experienced all the torments and all the ecstacies of love; my
nights were sleepless, my days without repose; the world lay extended
more beautifully before me; a charm and a loveliness sprang up every
where beneath my footsteps; an impetuous longing hurried me to her;
and yet in her presence my heart beat still more madly.
"Am I not a child to speak to you so diffusely of my folly? In a few
months I disclosed to her my love; with an angel voice she assured me
of her attachment; we were betrothed, and--oh, who could participate
in my sense of happiness!--in two months we were to be married. How
did I reckon up every day and every hour! The tide of time flowed past
me in vexatious dilatoriness; I wanted to see it roll along in a
foaming torrent at my feet.
"At last a messenger reached us with news of my brother. It was a
knight from Spain who had seen him in Africa. Corsairs had taken the
vessel in which he sailed, and sold him as a slave in Tunis. A very
high price was set on his liberty.
"We were more pleased than saddened by this news, because we had
already taken his death for certain. Clara now dried her tears, and
surrendered herself to her joy. She got together the required sum as
quickly as possible, and made preparations to travel to her husband.
"The stranger knight was in fact returning to Spain, and Clara
proposed setting out in his company; while Ida, who found it
impossible to part from her friend, resolved to accompany her in
knightly costume.
"My most urgent expostulations were in vain, and I was at last obliged
to yield to their united entreaties. My brother's infant son was
consigned to the protection of a convent. They took their departure,
and, full of foreboding, my weeping eye followed them.
"How I burned with desire to accompany them! but I was entangled in a
feud, in which I had promised a friend my succour, and my pledged word
bound me to Germany. Ah! in an ill-fated hour they departed; I never
beheld them more.
"From that moment begins the dark period of my life. I was successful
in the feud. Oh, that I had fallen beneath the sword of an enemy, to
have escaped long years of torture, and the frightful hours in which
I first--oh, forgive me these tears! they still often flow at the
remembrance of Ida and my brother: age cannot so blunt our sympathies
that pain may not sometimes return with new force to our bosoms.
"On their journey Ida was seized with the unhappy fancy of not
discovering herself to my brother till they all should have reached
their native country again, in order that she might then surprise him
the more joyfully as my bride. They arrived in Spain, and sent the
required sum to Tunis. The prisoner was liberated; on the wings of
affection he hastened over the sea, and forgot on Clara's bosom, in
one moment of rapture, the sufferings which he had endured for years.
"Ida was soon presented to him as a friend; he received her kindly,
and enjoyed for some days in the society of his spouse that happiness
which he had so long been deprived of. But his eyes were soon rivetted
on Ida: he observed the tender connexion subsisting between her and
his wife, and suspicion kindled in his soul. 'She is untrue to me,'
cried he when alone; 'she divides her heart between me and this
hateful stranger!'
"He now watched them both more closely than before, and soon thought
his suspicions justified; he thought he could discover a tenderness
which neither of them even took pains to conceal. By degrees he became
colder towards his wife, hiding the wound she had inflicted; whilst
she on her part, unconstrainedly and without the shadow of fear,
shared her affections with her consort and her friend.
"Jealousy raged in my brother's bosom; he began to hate Clara and her
companion; he imputed a significancy to every look and every gesture;
the rancour within him robbed him of his sleep, or suspicion appalled
him in hideous dreams.
"'For this, then, I came across the sea,' said he to himself; 'these
are the joys of meeting; these, then, are the delights of my love. I
am come to be the prey of racking torture. I find my home again at
the side of a faithless wife, and she herself meets me only that she
may the earlier proclaim to me her effrontery and her broken vows.'
"He made an old squire the confidant of his chagrin: both now watched
the two friends with an indefatigable vigilance; they beheld a
thousand proofs of the supposed infidelity, without in the least
conjecturing the true posture of affairs; my brother's fury rose more
and more, and a dark resolve at last began to ripen in his breast.
"It happened that he was with them and a faithful servant in a small
boat. The moon was up, and the shallop drifted slowly down the gentle
stream; he sat in cold unconsciousness by Clara, who had laid her hand
in his. He caught her eye with a searching glance; her husband seemed
strange to her, and abashed she sunk her head. Ida had seized her
other hand.
"'Traitress!' cried he of a sudden; 'impostor! who sport with the
peace of a man, with truth, and truth's best vows!' Ah! at that moment
his good genius forsook him!--gnashing his teeth, he plunged his
dagger into Clara's bosom: Ida sank lifeless at the side of her
friend; he grasped the bloody poniard, raised the reeking blade, and
smote my Ida to the heart.
"The dying Clara discovered to him his error. Her blood floated down
the stream. The film gathered in her eye. For a long time he stood
like one entranced; then sprang into the river, swam unconsciously to
land, and, deaf and dumb, without sensation or words of woe, he set
out on his return to Germany.
"Thus, then, an ill-starred jest was the wreck of my every hope and
joy. In the mean time, I stood at a window of the castle, anxiously
awaiting the return of those I loved. Often was I aroused from my
musing mood by the hoof-tramp of horses: my eye wandered vacantly over
field and hill, while a joyful thrill passed through me at the sight
of a female figure.
"At length came a knight dashing up on a black charger: it was my
brother. But ah, my joy was vain; his countenance was haggard, his
eyes rolled wildly, his heart beat impetuously.
"'Where are Ida and Clara?' cried I.
"A tear was the answer; he hung speechless on my neck.
"'In the grave,' said he at length, violently sobbing.
"O heavens! those were fearful hours that I then went through! My fist
trembled, my heart throbbed convulsively; a low voice whispered murder
and vengeance in my ears: but I saw my brother's wretchedness--I
forgave him; and well it is for me that I did so.
"Oh, that he could have forgiven himself! But his misery and his crime
were present day and night to his soul. Clara came back to him in his
dreams, and shewed him the dagger reeking with her heart's warm blood.
From that hour he never smiled again.
"'I am condemned to the most ghastly misery,' cried he, as he grasped
me by the hand; 'nor on the other side of the grave shall I be at
rest; my spirit will wander still in quest of Clara, and still never
find her: a fearful future drags its slow length in review before me.
Ah, my brother! even in death there is no more hope for me.'
"My heart was broken; but my life seemed now granted that I might
console him. We left the castle, and laid aside our knightly garb; we
shrouded ourselves in holy weeds, and thus we went wayfaring through
the dark woods and over the desert plains, till this cavern at last
received us.
"Often would my brother stand for long, long days by that rivulet,
gazing vacantly on the waters; even in the night he was sometimes
there; and then he would sit on a sundered fragment of the rock, while
his tears trickled down into the stream. My efforts to console him
were all in vain.
"At last he revealed to me that Clara had appeared to him in a dream;
but she never could be reconciled, she said, till her blood should
float down that little brook; and for this reason he sat on the bank,
counting and watching the waves, in the eager hope of again finding
the drops that had gushed from her heart in that fatal hour.
"I wept at the sight of my brother's madness; I tried to rid him of
the thought, but it was impossible. 'Ah!' cried he, 'and in distant
Spain her blood was shed; it flowed down the stream into the sea: how
long will it be before it returns hitherward to the springs?'
"Now he scarcely ever left the brook--his sorrow and his delusion
increased with every day: at last he died of a broken heart. I buried
him by my cave.
"Since then I have often seen his ghost sitting beside the stream: it
was always watching the passing ripple, and softly sighing, 'She comes
not--she comes not.' A thrill of horror runs through me every time,
and I pray till midnight for the peace of his soul."
* * * * *
The hermit ended; he cast down his eyes and silently counted his
beads. The knight had listened to the tale with anxious interest, and
after a few moments he inquired--
"And where was your brother's son left?"
"We sought him in the convent," replied the old man, "but he had
clandestinely made his escape from the monks."
"Your name?"
"Why do you so fix your gaze upon me?--Ulfo of Waldburg."
"O my uncle!" cried the knight, and threw himself on the bosom of the
astonished hermit. "Doubt not," cried he; "ah! that unhappy shade by
the rivulet is the spirit of my father."
"Your father! his name was"--
"Charles of Waldburg. I ran away from the monks because their lonely
cloisters appeared a prison to me. I took service with a knight; and
now for some years I have been seeking you and my father."
"O my son!" cried the old man, and locked him more fervently in his
arms; "yes, you are he: I know you by that sparkling eye; those are
your father's features and his chestnut locks."
"O my unhappy father!" sighed the youth; "would that I could procure
his wandering spirit peace! would that my prayers could conciliate
Heaven and my mother's shade!"
He stood in a musing mood, with his hands folded: "Uncle," cried he,
"what, if I have read aright the import of the dream? what, if my
mother's spirit had wished to direct the wretched man to me? Oh, come
now!"
They left the cave. Clouds shrouded the moon; a hallowed stillness
spread its mantle over the world; they went into the lonely forest as
into a temple. Charles kneeled down on his father's grave.
"Spirit of my father," said he in fervent prayer, "oh, hear thy son!
hearken to thy son, O my mother! and, gracious Heaven, let me not
implore thee in vain! Give rest to the unhappy one, and let the dread
pilgrim find a lodging in the grave. Oh, let me hear from thee, spirit
of my father, whether I conceived aright the sense of the prophecy!
Oh, grant me some sign that thou art reconciled with my mother's
ghost!"
Like the soft echo of a flute came a breathing through the tree-tops:
two bright apparitions floated downwards in closely-wound embrace.
They came nearer. "We are reconciled," whispered a more than earthly
voice. Two hands were stretched forth over the kneeling one; and like
a light zephyr the words passed over him, "Be true to knighthood!"
A cloud glided away from before the moon; and the phantoms dissolved
in her silver radiance. In glad amazement the two mortals gazed long
and lingeringly after them.
THE FRIENDS.
It was a beautiful spring morning, when Lewis Wandel went out to visit
a sick friend, in a village some miles distant from his dwelling. This
friend had written to him to say that he was lying dangerously ill,
and would gladly see him and speak to him once more.
The cheerful sunshine now sparkled in the bright green bushes; the
birds twittered and leapt to and fro on the branches; the larks sang
merrily above the thin fleeting clouds; sweet scents rose from the
fresh meadows, and the fruit-trees of the garden were white and gay in
blossom.
Lewis's eye roamed intoxicate around him; his soul seemed to expand;
but he thought of his invalid friend, and he bent forward in silent
dejection. Nature had decked herself all in vain, so serenely and so
brightly; his fancy could only picture to him the sick bed and his
suffering brother.
"How song is sounding from every bough!" cried he; "the notes of the
birds mingle in sweet unison with the whisper of the leaves; and yet
in the distance, through all the charm of the concert, come the sighs
of the sick one."
Whilst he thus communed, a troop of gaily-clad peasant girls issued
from the village; they all gave him a friendly salutation, and told
him that they were on their merry way to a wedding; that work was over
for that day, and had to give place to festivity. He listened to their
tale, and still their merriment rang in the distance on his ear; still
he caught the sound of their songs, and became more and more
sorrowful. In the wood he took his seat on a dismantled tree, drew the
oft-read letter from his pocket, and ran through it once more:--
"My very dear friend,--I cannot tell why you have so utterly forgotten
me, that I receive no news from you. I am not surprised that men
forsake me; but it heartily pains me to think that you too care
nothing about me. I am dangerously ill; a fever saps my strength: if
you delay visiting me any longer, I cannot promise you that you will
see me again. All nature revives, and feels fresh and strong; I alone
sink lower in languor; the returning warmth cannot animate me; I see
not the green fields, nothing but the tree that rustles before my
window, and sings death-songs to my thoughts; my bosom is pent, my
breathing is hard; and often I think the walls of my room will press
closer together and crush me. The rest of you in the world are holding
the most beautiful festival of life, whilst I must languish in the
dwelling of sickness. Gladly would I dispense with spring, if I could
but see your dear face once more: but you that are in health never
earnestly think what it really is to be ill, and how dear to us then,
in our helplessness, the visit of a friend is: you do not know how to
prize those precious minutes of consolation, because the whole world
receives you in the warmth and the fervour of its friendship. Ah! if
you did but know, as I do, how terrible is death, and how still more
terrible it is to be ill,--O Lewis, how would you hasten then to
behold once more this frail form, that you have hitherto called your
friend, and that by and by will be so ruthlessly dismembered! If I
were well, I would haste to meet you, or fancy that you may perhaps be
ill at this moment. If I never see you again--farewell."
What a painful impression did the suffering depicted in this letter
make upon Lewis's heart, amid the liveliness of Nature, as she lay in
brilliancy before him! He melted into tears, and rested his head on
his hand.--"Carol now, ye foresters," thought he; "for ye know no
lamentation; ye lead a buoyant poetic existence, and for this are
those swift pinions granted you; oh, how happy are ye, that ye need
not mourn: warm summer calls you, and ye wish for nothing more; ye
dance forth to meet it, and when winter is advancing, ye are gone! O
light-winged merry forest-life, how do I envy thee! Why are so many
heavy cares burdened upon poor man's heart? Why may he not love
without purchasing his love by wailing--his happiness by misery? Life
purls on like a fleeting rivulet beneath his feet, and quenches not
his thirst, his fervid longing."
He became more and more absorbed in thought, and at last he rose and
pursued his way through the thick forest. "If I could but help him,"
cried he; "if Nature could but supply me with a means of saving him;
but as it is, I feel nothing but my own impotency, and the pain of
losing my friend. In my childhood I used to believe in enchantment and
its supernatural aids; would I now could hope in them as happily as
then!"
He quickened his steps; and involuntarily all the remembrances of the
earliest years of his childhood crowded back upon him: he followed
those forms of loveliness, and was soon entangled in such a labyrinth
as not to notice the objects that surrounded him. He had forgotten
that it was spring--that his friend was ill: he hearkened to the
wondrous melodies, which came borne, as if from distant shores, upon
his ear: all that was most strange united itself to what was most
ordinary: his whole soul was transmuted. From the far vista of memory,
from the abyss of the past, all those forms were summoned forth that
ever had enraptured or tormented him; all those dubious phantoms were
aroused, that flutter formlessly about us, and gather in dizzy hum
around our heads. Puppets, the toys of childhood, and spectres, danced
along before him, and so mantled over the green turf, that he could
not see a single flower at his feet. First love encircled him with its
twilight morning gleam, and let down its sparkling rainbow over the
mead: his earliest sorrows glided past him in review, and threatened
to greet him in the same guise at the end of his pilgrimage. Lewis
sought to arrest all these changeful feelings, and to retain a
consciousness of self amid the magic of enjoyment,--but in vain. Like
enigmatic books, with figures grotesquely gay, that open for a moment
and in a moment are closed, so unstably and fleetingly all floated
before his soul.
The wood opened, and in the open country on one side lay some old
ruins, encompassed with watch-towers and ramparts. Lewis was
astonished at having advanced so quickly amid his dreams. He emerged
from his melancholy, as he did from the shades of the wood; for often
the pictures within us are but the reflection of outward objects. Now
rose on him, like the morning sun, the memory of his first poetical
enjoyments, of his earliest appreciations of that luscious harmony
which many a human ear never inhales.
"How incomprehensibly," said he, "did those things commingle then,
which seemed to me eternally parted by such vast chasms; my most
undefined presentiments assumed a form and outline, and gleamed on me
in the shape of a thousand subordinate phantoms, which till then I had
never descried! So names were found me for things that I had long
wished to speak of: I became recipient of earth's fairest treasures,
which my yearning heart had so long sought for in vain: and how much
have I to thank thee for since then, divine power of fancy and of
poetry! How hast thou smoothed for me the path of life, that erst
appeared so rough and perplexed! Ever hast thou revealed to me new
sources of enjoyment and happiness, so that no arid desert presents
itself to me now: every stream of sweet voluptuous inspiration hath
wound its way through my earth-born heart: I have become intoxicate
with bliss, and have communed with beings of heaven."
The sun sank below the horizon, and Lewis was astonished that it was
already evening. He was insensible of fatigue, and was still far from
the point which he had wished to reach before night: he stood still,
without being able to understand how the crimson of evening could be
so early mantling the clouds; how the shadows of every thing were so
long, while the nightingale warbled her song of wail in the thicket.
He looked around him: the old ruins lay far in the background, clad in
blushing splendour; and he doubted whether he had not strayed from the
direct and well-known road.
Now he remembered a phantasy of his early childhood, that till that
moment had never recurred to him: it was a female form of awe, that
glided before him over the lonely fields: she never looked round, yet
he was compelled, against his will, to follow her, and to be drawn on
into unknown scenes, without in the least being able to extricate
himself from her power. A slight thrill of fear came over him, and yet
he found it impossible to obtain a more distinct recollection of that
figure, or to usher back his mind into the frame, in which this image
had first appeared to him. He sought to individualise all these
singular sensations, when, looking round by chance, he really found
himself on a spot which, often as he had been that way, he had never
seen before.
"Am I spell-bound?" cried he; "or have my dreams and fancies crazed
me? Is it the wonderful effect of solitude that makes me
irrecognisable to myself; or do spirits and genii hover round me and
hold my senses in thrall? Sooth, if I cannot enfranchise myself from
myself, I will await that woman-phantom that floated before me in
every lonely place in my childhood."
He endeavoured to rid himself of every kind of phantasy, in order to
get into the right road again; but his recollections became more and
more perplexed; the flowers at his feet grew larger, the red glow of
evening more brilliant, and wondrously shaped clouds hung drooping on
the earth, like the curtains of some mystic scene that was soon to
unfold itself. A ringing murmur arose from the high grass, and the
blades bowed to one another, as if in friendly converse; while a light
warm spring rain dropped pattering amongst them, as if to wake every
slumbering harmony in wood, and bush, and flower. Now all was rife
with song and sound; a thousand sweet voices held promiscuous parley;
song entwined itself in song, and tone in tone; while in the waning
crimson of eve lay countless blue butterflies rocking, with its
radiance sparkling from their wavy wings. Lewis fancied himself in a
dream, when the heavy dark-red clouds suddenly rose again, and a vast
prospect opened on him in unfathomable distance. In the sunshine lay a
gorgeous plain, sparkling with verdant forests and dewy underwood. In
its centre glittered a palace of a myriad hues, as if composed all of
undulating rainbows and gold and jewels: a passing stream reflected
its various brilliancy, and a soft crimson aether environed this hall
of enchantment: strange birds, he had never seen before, flew about,
sportively flapping each other with their red and green wings: larger
nightingales warbled their clear notes to the echoing landscape:
lambent flames shot through the green grass, flickering here and
there, and then darting in coils round the mansion. Lewis drew nearer,
and heard ravishing voices sing the following words:--
Traveller from earth below,
Wend thee not farther,
In our hall's magic glow
Bide with us rather.
Hast thou with longing scann'd
Joy's distant morrow,
Cast away sorrow,
And enter the wish'd-for land.
Without further scruple, Lewis stepped to the shining threshold, and
lingering but a moment ere he set his foot on the polished stone, he
entered. The gates closed after him.
"Hitherward! hitherward!" cried invisible lips, as from the inmost
recesses of the palace; and with loudly throbbing heart he followed
the voices. All his cares, all his olden remembrances were cast away:
his inmost bosom rang with the songs that outwardly encompassed him:
his every regret was stilled: his every conscious and unconscious wish
was satisfied. The summoning voices grew so loud, that the whole
building re-echoed them, and still he could not find their origin,
though he long seemed to have been standing in the central hall of the
palace.
At length a ruddy-cheeked boy stepped up to him, and saluted the
stranger guest: he led him through magnificent chambers, full of
splendour and melody, and at last entered the garden, where Lewis, as
he said, was expected. Entranced he followed his guide, and the most
delicious fragrance from a thousand flowers floated forth to meet him.
Broad shady walks received them. Lewis's dizzy gaze could scarcely
gain the tops of the high immemorial trees: bright- birds sat
perched upon the branches: children were playing on guitars in the
shade, and they and the birds sang to the music. Fountains shot up,
with the clear red of morning sparkling upon them: the flowers were as
high as shrubs, and parted spontaneously as the wanderer pressed
through them. He had never before felt the hallowed sensations that
then enkindled in him; never had such pure heavenly enjoyment been
revealed to him: he was over-happy.
But bells of silver sound rang through the trees, and their tops were
bowed: the birds and children with the guitars were hushed: the
rose-buds unfolded: and the boy now conducted the stranger into the
midst of a brilliant assembly.
Lovely dames of lofty form were seated on beautiful hanks of turf, in
earnest conference. They were above the usual height of the human
race, and their more than earthly beauty had at the same time
something of awe in it, from which the heart shrunk back in alarm.
Lewis dared not interrupt their conversation: it seemed as if he were
among the god-like forms of Homer's song, where every thought must be
excluded that formed the converse of mortals. Odd little spirits stood
round, as ready ministers, waiting attentively for the wink of the
moment that should summon them from their posture of quietude: they
fixed their glances on the stranger, and then looked jeeringly and
significantly at each other. At last the beautiful women ceased
speaking, and beckoned Lewis to approach; he was still standing with
an embarrassed air, and drew near to them with trembling.
"Be not alarmed," said the fairest of them all; "you are welcome to us
here, and we have long been expecting you: long have you wished to be
in our abode,--are you satisfied now?"
"Oh, how unspeakably happy I am!" exclaimed Lewis; "all my dearest
dreams have met with their fulfillment, all my most daring wishes are
gratified now: yes, I am, I live among them. How it has happened so, I
cannot comprehend: sufficient for me, that it is so. Why should I
raise a new wail over this enigma, ere my olden lamentations are
scarcely at an end?"
"Is this life," asked the lady, "very different from your former one?"
"My former life," said Lewis, "I can scarcely remember. But has, then,
this golden state of existence fallen to my lot? this beautiful state,
after which my every sense and prescience so ardently aspired; to
which every wish wandered, that I could conceive in fancy, or realise
in my inmost thought; though its image, veiled in mist, seemed ever
strange in me--and is it, then, mine at last? have I, then, achieved
this new existence, and does it hold me in its embrace? Oh, pardon me,
I know not what I say in my delirium of ecstacy, and might well weigh
my words more carefully in such an assemblage."
The lady signed; and in a moment every minister was in motion: there
was a stirring among the trees, every where a running to and fro, and
speedily a banquet was placed before Lewis of fair fruits and fragrant
wines. He sat down again, and music rose anew on the air. Rows of
beautiful boys and girls sped round him, intertwined in the dance,
while uncouth little cobolds lent life to the scene, and excited loud
laughter by their ludicrous gambols. Lewis noted every sound and every
gesture: he seemed newly-born since his initiation into this joyous
existence. "Why," thought he, "are those hopes and reveries of ours so
often laughed at, that pass into fulfilment sooner than ever had been
expected? Where, then, is that border-mark between truth and error
which mortals are ever ready with such temerity to set up? Oh, I ought
in my former life to have wandered oftener from the way, and then
perhaps I should have ripened all the earlier for this happy
transmutation."
The dance died away; the sun sank to rest; the august dames arose;
Lewis too left his seat, and accompanied them on their walk through
the quiet garden. The nightingales were complaining in a softened
tone, and a wondrous moon rose above the horizon. The blossoms opened
to its silver radiance, and every leaf kindled in its gleam; the wide
avenues became of a glow, casting shadows of a singular green; red
clouds slumbered on the green grass of the fields; the fountains
turned to gold, and played high in the clear air of heaven.
"Now you will wish to sleep," said the loveliest of the ladies, and
shewed the enraptured wanderer a shadowy bower, strewed with soft turf
and yielding cushions. Then they left him, and he was alone.
He sat down and watched the magic twilight glimmering through the
thickly-woven foliage. "How strange is this!" said he to himself:
"perhaps I am now only asleep, and I may dream that I am sleeping a
second time, and may have a dream in my dream; and so it may go on for
ever, and no human power ever be able to awake me. No! unbeliever that
I am! it is beautiful reality that animates me now, and my former
state perhaps was but the dream of gloom." He lay down, and light
breezes played round him. Perfume was wafted on the air, and little
birds sang lulling songs. In his dreams he fancied the garden all
around him changed: the tall trees withered away; the golden moon
fallen from the sky, leaving a dismal gap behind her; instead of the
watery jet from the fountains, little genii gushed out, caracoling
over each in the air, and assuming the strangest attitudes. Notes of
woe supplanted the sweetness of song, and every trace of that happy
abode had vanished. Lewis awoke amid impressions of fear, and chid
himself for still feeding his fancy in the perverse manner of the
habitants of earth, who mingle all received images in rude disorder,
and present them again in this garb in a dream. A lovely morning broke
over the scene, and the ladies saluted him again. He spoke to them
more intrepidly, and was to-day more inclined to cheerfulness, as the
surrounding world had less power to astonish him. He contemplated the
garden and the palace, and fed upon the magnificence and the wonders
that he met there. Thus he lived many days happily, in the belief
that his felicity was incapable of increase.
But sometimes the crowing of a cock seemed to sound in the vicinity;
and then the whole edifice would tremble, and his companions turn
pale: this generally happened of an evening, and soon afterwards they
retired to rest. Then often there would come a thought of earth into
Lewis's soul; then he would often lean out of the windows of the
glittering palace to arrest and fix these fleeting remembrances, and
to get a glimpse of the high road again, which, as he thought, must
pass that way. In this sort of mood, he was one afternoon alone,
musing within himself why it was just as impossible for him then to
recall a distinct remembrance of the world, as formerly it had been to
feel a presage of this poetic place of sojourn,--when all at once a
post-horn seemed to sound in the distance, and the rattle of
carriage-wheels to make themselves heard. "How strangely," said he to
himself, "does a faint gleam, a slight reminiscence of earth, break
upon my delight--rendering me melancholy and dejected! Then, do I lack
anything here? Is my happiness still incomplete?"
The beautiful women returned. "What do you wish for?" said they, in a
tone of concern; "you seem sad."
"You will laugh," replied Lewis; "yet grant me one favour more. In
that other life I had a friend, whom I now but faintly remember: he is
ill, I think; restore him by your skill."
"Your wish is already gratified," said they.
"But," said Lewis, "vouchsafe me two questions."
"Speak!"
"Does no gleam of love fall on this wondrous world? Does no friendship
perambulate these bowers? I thought the morning blush of spring-love
would be eternal here, which in that other life is too prone to be
extinguished, and which men afterwards speak of as of a fable. To
confess to you the truth, I feel an unspeakable yearning after those
sensations."
"Then you long for earth again?"
"Oh, never!" cried Lewis; "for in that cold earth I used to sigh for
friendship and for love, and they came not near me. The longing for
those feelings had to supply the place of those feelings themselves;
and for that reason I turned my aspirations hitherward, and hoped here
to find every thing in the most beautiful harmony."
"Fool!" said the venerable woman: "so on earth you sighed for earth,
and knew not what you did in wishing to be here; you have overshot
your desires, and substituted phantasies for the sensations of
mortals."
"Then who are ye?" cried Lewis, astounded.
"We are the old fairies," said she, "of whom you surely must have
heard long ago. If you ardently long for earth, you will return
thither again. Our kingdom flourishes when mortals are shrouded in
night; but their day is _our_ night. Our sway is of ancient date, and
will long endure. It abides invisibly among men--to your eye alone has
it been revealed."
She turned away, and Lewis remembered that it was the same form which
had resistlessly dragged him after it in his youth, and of which he
felt a secret dread. He followed now also, crying, "No, I will not go
back to earth! I will stay here!" "So, then," said he to himself, "I
devined this lofty being even in my childhood! And so the solution of
many a riddle, which we are too idle to investigate, may be within
ourselves."
He went on much further than usual, till the fairy garden was soon
left far behind him. He stood on a romantic mountain-range, where the
ivy clambered in wild tresses up the rocks; cliff was piled on cliff,
and awe and grandeur seemed to hold universal sway. Then there came a
wandering stranger to him, who accosted him kindly, and addressed him
thus:--"Glad I am, after all, to see you again."
"I know you not," said Lewis.
"That may well be," replied the other; "but once you thought you knew
me well. I am your late sick friend."
"Impossible! you are quite a stranger to me!"
"Only," said the stranger, "because to-day you see me for the first
time in my true form: till now you only found in me a reflection of
yourself. You are right too in remaining here; for there is no love,
no friendship--not here, I mean, where all illusion vanishes."
Lewis sat down and wept.
"What ails you?" said the stranger.
"That it is you--you who were the friend of my youth: is not that
mournful enough? Oh, come back with me to our dear, dear earth, where
we shall know each other once more under illusive forms--where there
exists the superstition of friendship! What am I doing here?"
"What will that avail?" answered the stranger. "You will want to be
back again; earth is not bright enough for you: the flowers are too
small for you, the song too suppressed. Colour there, cannot emerge so
brilliantly from the shade; flowers there are of small comfort, and so
prone to fade; the little birds think of their death, and sing in
modest constraint: but here every thing is on a scale of grandeur."
"Oh, I will be contented!" cried Lewis, as the tears gushed profusely
from his eyes. "Do but come back with me, and be my friend once more;
let us leave this desert, this glittering misery!"
Thus saying, he opened his eyes, for some one was shaking him roughly.
Over him leant the friendly but pale face of his once sick friend.
"But are you dead?" cried Lewis.
"Recovered am I, wicked sleeper," he replied. "Is it thus you visit
your sick friend? Come along with me; my carriage is waiting there,
and a thunder-storm is rising."
Lewis rose: in his sleep he had glided off the trunk of the tree; his
friend's letter lay open beside him. "So am I really on the earth
again?" he exclaimed with joy; "really? and is this no new dream?"
"You will not escape from earth," answered his friend with a smile;
and both were locked in heart-felt embraces.
"How happy I am," said Lewis, "that I have you once more, that I feel
as I used to do, and that you are well again!"
"Suddenly," replied his friend, "I felt ill; and as suddenly I was
well again. So I wished to go to you, and do away with the alarm that
my letter must have caused you; and here, half-way, I find you
asleep."
"I do not deserve your love at all," said Lewis.
"Why?"
"Because I just now doubted of your friendship."
"But only in sleep."
"It would be strange enough though," said Lewis, "if there really were
such things as fairies."
"There are such, of a certainty," replied the other; "but it is all a
fable, that their whole pleasure is to make men happy. They plant
those wishes in our bosoms which we ourselves do not know of; those
over-wrought pretensions--that super-human covetousness of super-human
gifts; so that in our desponding delirium we afterwards despise the
beautiful earth with all its glorious stores."
Lewis answered with a pressure of the hand.
THE ELVES.
"Where is Maria, our child?" asked the father.
"She is playing on the green," replied the mother, "with our
neighbour's son."
"Do not let them run away," said the father anxiously; "they are so
thoughtless."
The mother attended to the wants of the little ones, and gave them
their supper.
"The weather is hot, mother," said the boy; and the little maiden
longed exceedingly to have some red cherries.
"Be careful, child," said the mother; "do not run too far from the
house, or into the wood; your father and I are going into the field."
"Oh, do not be anxious on that account," was the prompt reply of
young Andrew, "for we are all afraid of the wood; we will remain here
sitting at home, where we are near to the men."
The mother went in, and soon returned with the father. They closed
their cottage, and turned towards the fields to look after the
peasants, and to see the hay-harvest in the meadows.
Their dwelling was situated on a little green eminence, fenced round
by an ornamental hedge, which enclosed a fruit and flower garden; the
town lay a little lower down; and still further there rose in the
distance the towers of the baronial castle. Martin rented a large farm
of the lord, the proprietor, and lived in a happy state of contentment
with his wife and only child, as he was enabled, year by year, to lay
by something in reserve for the future, with the prospect of becoming
one day himself a man of property; for through his toil and industry
the land was fruitful, and the Count did not oppress him with undue
exactions.
As he was walking towards the fields with his wife, he gazed joyously
around, and said, "How is it, Bridget, that the country about here is
so different from that in which we formerly lived? Here it is so green
and verdant; the whole town is beautified with thickly planted
fruit-trees; the soil teems with rich vegetation and shrubs; all the
houses are gay and cleanly--the inhabitants prosperous; indeed, it
would appear to me that the woods here are more majestic, and the sky
more blue; and as far as the eye can scan, we have pleasure in
beholding the bountiful earth."
"But," said Brigitta, "to pass over to the other side of the river is
to migrate into quite another region, every thing there wears so
gloomy and withered an aspect; but as for our own hamlet, every
traveller confesses it to be the prettiest in the whole district."
"Come, then, to the fir-plantation," answered her husband; "look back
and see how dark and dreary that spot seems in the distance, in the
midst of such a gay and animated landscape; the dusky huts behind the
dark firs; those detached buildings fallen into ruinous heaps; and
even the very stream flowing onwards so sadly and sluggishly."
"That is true," said she, as they both stood still to gaze upon the
scene. "As often as one approaches the spot, one becomes sad and
sorrowful, one knows not why."
"Who can the people really be? and why should they keep themselves at
such a distance from all the neighbourhood, avoiding any intercourse
with us, as though they were inwardly conscious of deeds of darkness?"
"They are poor folk," said the young farmer; "seemingly of a
gipsy-tribe, who rob and pilfer at a distance off, and make this spot
perhaps their head-quarters: I wonder only that the baron allows them
to remain."
"Possibly," said the woman kindly and compassionately, "they are poor
people, ashamed of their poverty; for, to speak the truth, we cannot
lay any crime, or even any trivial injury, to their charge; still it
is remarkable that they never go to church; and how they contrive to
subsist is strange enough, for their little garden, in itself a
perfect wilderness, cannot support them, and they have no
pasture-land."
"God only knows," continued Martin, as they proceeded on their
way--"God only knows what they do; this at least is certain, that they
hold no intercourse; no stranger ever comes from, or goes to them; for
the spot where they dwell is bewitched and under ban, so that the
boldest young townsmen would hardly venture into it."
This conversation continued through their walk to the fields.
That dark district of which they spoke lay beyond the town in a hollow
that was surrounded on all sides by firs; there appeared to be a hut,
and several domestic buildings fast falling to decay. Smoke was seldom
seen to curl from it, still less frequently were any human beings
visible; at times some persons, led on by curiosity to venture
somewhat nearer, had seen on the rising ground in front of the hut
frightful old women, clad in uncouth rags, dandling equally frightful
and dirty children on their laps; black dogs prowled about continually
before the stream; and in the evening a monster of a man, whom no one
knew, passed over the bridge, and disappeared into the hut; then
several figures, like dim shadows, flitted along in the darkness, and
danced round about a fire which was heaped up on the earth: this
gloomy sport, the dark firs, and the ruinous huts, formed a most
singular contrast to the gay green landscape, the clear white houses
of the town, and the splendid new castle.
The two children had eaten up all their fruit, and then began to run
races; and the little buoyant Maria outran, on each occasion, the
tardy Andrew.
"That's no proof of your skill," he cried; "come, let us try a longer
distance, and then we'll see who shall be the conqueror."
"As you please," said the little Maria; "only we must not run towards
the stream."
"No," said Andrew; "but at the summit of that hill stands a large
pear-tree, about a quarter of a mile off. I will run to the left past
the fir-plantation, and you can go to the right through the fields;
and we shall not know, till we meet, which of us is the fastest
runner."
"Good," said Maria, immediately starting off; "we shall not hinder
each other by going the same way, and our father says it is just the
same distance to the top of the hill, whether we go on this side, or
by the gipsy-huts."
Andrew had already started off, and Maria, who ran towards the right,
saw him no more.
"How very stupid he is!" said she to herself; "for if I could only
summon up courage enough to run over the bridge by the hut, and then
again out across the yard, I should certainly get there much sooner
than he will." She was already standing facing the stream and the
fir-hill. "Shall I?--No, it's too terrible." A little white dog stood
on the other side, keeping up a loud and continued bark at her. In her
fright the little animal appeared a perfect monster, and she sprang
back trembling. "Oh dear," said she, "Andrew has by this time got such
a long distance before me, while I'm stopping here to consider." The
little dog still barked on; and as she looked at it more attentively,
it no longer struck her as being so terrible, but, on the contrary,
she was quite charmed with it. It had a red collar, to which was
affixed a tiny glittering bell; and as often as it raised its head and
shook it, while barking, the tinkling noise it produced was to her
ears most musical. "Oh, I'll venture," cried little Maria; "I'll run
as fast as I can, and I shall soon be on the other side; they surely
can't eat me entirely." With this the young courageous child sprang on
the bridge, and quickly passed the little dog, who immediately ceased
his barking to fawn upon her. And now she was standing on the dread
spot; and the black firs, that were thickly grouped together, shut out
from her view the home of her fathers, and the rest of the pretty
landscape. But how amazed was she at the spectacle before her!
Around her was a most brilliant expanse of flower-garden, in which
roses, lilies, and tulips, intertwining with one another, shone in all
those gorgeous colours in which Nature loves to garb her bright
creations; blue and golden butterflies fluttered about from blossom to
blossom, glittering as the sunbeams danced upon their fairy livery;
birds, whose plumage borrowed the tints of the rainbow, and whose tiny
throats quivered again as each note swelled forth more delicious than
the last, hung on cages and on glittering perches; children in short
white garments, with golden hair hanging in luxuriant curls, and clear
blue eyes, sported about, some leading little pet-lambs, others
feeding the birds; some culled the fragrant flowers, and wove garlands
for one another; others were tasting the delicious fruits--pears,
large clusters of grapes, and red apricots: no hut was visible, but a
large handsome mansion, with gates of brass and wood of exquisite
workmanship, towered on high in the middle of this paradise. Maria was
rivetted to the spot; indeed, the beauty of the garden and the
magnificence of the mansion had taken so firm a hold on her fancy,
that some moments elapsed ere she recovered her surprise even
partially. But, as it had ever been the study of her parents to enable
her to appear composed, whatever novelty might offer itself to her,
she approached fearlessly the nearest child, and with extended hand
wished it good day.
"So you have come to see us then at last," said the little girl; "I
have often seen you dancing and sporting without there, but you were
afraid of our little dog."
"Then you are not gipsies and strollers, as Andrew says you are. Ah,
truly, he's very stupid, and talks a great deal too much."
"Only stop with us here," said her new friend; "you shall be so
happy."
"But we are running for a wager, and--"
"Oh, you'll get back to him very soon; take some of our fruit." Maria
tasted it, and it proved so delicious to her palate, that she declared
she had never before eaten any like it; and from this moment Andrew,
the race, and the prohibition of her parents, were altogether
forgotten. Then a more elderly female, whose dress was still more
beautiful than any thing Maria had hitherto seen, stepped forward, and
made inquiry about the stranger-child.
"Most beautiful lady," said Maria, "I ran in here by accident, and now
they wish to keep me here."
"You know, Zerina," said the beautiful lady, "that there is a short
time only allowed her; besides, you should first of all have asked my
permission."
"I thought," said the child, "as she had been allowed to cross the
bridge, that I might keep her; we have often seen her running about in
the fields, and you have yourself been pleased with her gay and
spirited air; and she will be obliged to leave us soon enough."
"No, I will stay here," said Maria, "it is so charming here; and I
find the best things to play with here are strawberries and pears; it
is not half so fine outside."
The golden-dressed lady now retired, smiling; and many of the children
playfully sported about Maria--laughing, and inviting her to join
their dance. Some brought her a pet-lamb or wonderful toys, others
brought novel instruments and played and sang to her; but she
preferred the little playfellow, her first friend, for she was the
most gentle and good-natured of all. The little Maria constantly cried
out, "I will always stop here, and you shall be my sisters;" at which
all the children smiled and embraced her.
"Now then," said Zerina, "we shall have a fine game;" and running
hastily into the palace, she returned with a little golden basket, in
which were very fine glittering seeds. She took some in her delicate
little fingers, and strewed the grains upon the green turf; and
immediately they saw the grass heave and float about, as it were in
waves; and after a few moments, beautiful rose-trees sprang from the
ground, grew rapidly up, and suddenly burst themselves into their full
beauty, exhaling the sweetest odours that floated round them in the
air. Maria herself took some of the seed, and scattered it; and
immediately there sprang up at her feet white lilies and cloves of
every hue. At a motion of Zerina's, these flowers all disappeared, and
others still more beautiful sprang up in their place.
"Now," said Zerina to the astonished child, "prepare yourself for
something still greater." She then placed two pine-cones in the
ground, and stamped on them violently with her feet: instantly two
green shrubs stood before them. "Grasp me firmly," said she; and Maria
threw her arms around her delicate waist, and felt herself rising up
into the air; for the trees grew beneath them with surprising
quickness. The tall pines swayed to and fro at the will of the
breeze, and the two children, locked in each other's arms, kissed each
other, while floating backwards in the red clouds of evening. The
other little ones clambered up and down the stems of the trees with
elastic step, and if by chance one impeded the progress of another,
the whole number raised a loud shout of laughter. Maria at length grew
terrified; and at some mystic words uttered by the little one, the
trees sank again gently into the earth, setting them down in the spot
from which they had raised them up. They then went through the brazen
gate of the palace; here many women, some younger, some older, all of
that degree of beauty that no pencil could portray, were seated round
a circular hall, feasting on the most delicious fruits, and listening
to a concert of most delightful and invisible harmony.
Round the ceiling of the hall, which was studded with gold and gems,
representing the starry sphere, were palm-trees, plants, and shrubs,
between which children clambered and sported in most graceful groups.
The figures varied and glowed in more burning colours, according to
the tones of the music. At one time, green and blue, sparkling like
clear rays of light, prevailed. Then the colours paled away, and
purple and gold burst forth: then the naked children, amid the
fanciful clusters that the different flowers wove, seemed to be full
of life, and to inhale and exhale breath with their ruby-red lips, so
that their beautiful white teeth were visible, and the bright glances
of their clear blue eyes were seen from beneath their dark fringe.
From the hall, some steps of marble and jasper led into a large
subterraneous chamber. The floor of this room was covered with vast
heaps of gold and silver; diamonds, pearls, and gems of all colours
dazzled the eyes; large deep vessels stood around the walls, all
filled with precious stones, and gold wrought into curious devices,
and mystic characters, with such ingenuity as no artisan, however
skilful, could form. Many little dwarfs were occupied in sorting the
precious heaps, and in filling vessels with the riches; others, with
crooked legs and long red noses, dragged in heavy sacks, as millers
carry their corn, and bending forward, poured out the grains on the
earth: then they jumped to the right and left, and seized the
treasures as they rolled away; and it often happened, that through
their zeal and eagerness to recover them, they rolled one against the
other and fell heavily on the ground. They made frightful faces
whenever Maria laughed at their grotesque manner and hideous
deformity. Behind sat a little old man, wrinkled by age, whom Maria
saluted very respectfully, but he merely bent his head in answer to
her deferential salutation: he had a sceptre in his right hand, and a
crown encircled his brow; all the other dwarfs seemed to look up to
him as their chief and superior; his fiat was instantly obeyed, though
his commands were given by signs and motions.
"What is the matter now?" said he in a surly tone, as the children
approached nearer to him. The timid Maria kept silence, but her little
playfellow answered, that they had only come to see the chamber.
"What," said the old man peevishly, "will there always be these
childish freaks? is there never to be an end to this idling?" He then
turned his attention again to his work, and ordered the pieces of gold
to be weighed and collected together. Some of the dwarfs he despatched
in different directions; many, too, he scolded right heartily.
At length Maria's curiosity got the better of her fear, and in an
eager manner she said to her little friend, "Who is that old man?"
"Our metal-prince," said the little one, as they left the chamber.
They soon found themselves in the open air, by the side of a large
lake; still no sun had appeared hitherto, nor could they see any sky
above them. Here a little boat received them, and Zerina took the helm
and steered their course very skilfully. They floated rapidly down the
lake, and when they had arrived at about the middle, Maria saw that a
thousand canals, streams, and rivulets, branched off in every
direction from this miniature sea.
"These waters," said the bright-beaming child, "flow exactly under
your garden, irrigating the soil around; and hence it is that your
flowers bloom more beautifully and more fragrantly than others, and
that your fruits are so superior in flavour; from this stream we
launch into the great canal." On a sudden there rose to the surface
from every branch of these blue waters a countless number of beautiful
children, swimming and plunging up and down among the mimic waves;
many wore graceful coronets of flags and water-lilies, glittering as
though with gems from the drops of spray; others waved branches of red
and white coral; others again carried curious horns, tastefully
decorated with blue ribbons; then several beautiful women rose to the
surface, swimming about among the group of younger naiads, and at
times the children might be seen hanging on the necks of the women,
covering them with kisses. They all saluted the stranger party; and
through the midst of this grouped assemblage the little barque floated
on from the main stream into a smaller rivulet, which became gradually
narrower and narrower, and at the same time the depth of water
diminished till the little boat grounded on the shore. Here the group
of naiads, who had accompanied their tiny vessel, took leave of them;
and Zerina knocked against the rock, which immediately opened like a
magnificent doorway to admit them, and a female figure, of a glowing
red colour, assisted them to disembark.
"Is all going on merrily?" inquired Zerina.
"Ay, merrily indeed," replied the other; "you are ever on the wing; no
cloud of sorrow ever darkens your brow, but the sunshine of happiness
always lights up those features of yours, curling that lip with a
smile of joy."
They mounted a winding staircase, and Maria suddenly found herself in
a most glittering hall, so that on entering, her eyes were dazzled
with the brilliant lights that burst in their full splendour upon
her. Deep-red tapestry covered the walls with a brilliant glow; and as
soon as her eye was familiar with the unusual halo that invested the
whole chamber, she perceived figures moving gracefully up and down in
the tapestry, of such exquisite beauty and delicate symmetry of form,
that her imagination could not paint any thing more lovely. Their
bodies appeared to be formed of crystal of a reddish tint, and so
transparent, that one might see the life-blood circulating in their
veins. They smiled at the stranger-child, and bowed courteously: but
when the little Maria wished to approach nearer, Zerina held her back
forcibly, exclaiming, "You will burn yourself, little Maria; what you
are gazing upon is all fire."
Maria perceived the heat, and said to Zerina, "Why don't these
charming creatures come out and play with us?"
"It is impossible," answered Zerina; "as you live in air, so they live
in fire; if you were to be taken out of your peculiar element, you
would languish and droop; in the same manner, if you were to transport
them into your element, they would perish."
"Only look," said Maria, "how happy and joyous they seem; listen how
they shout and sing."
"Below," said her little friend, "the fire-streams spread in every
direction throughout the whole earth, imparting heat to the
vegetation, and ripening the seed, till it shoots upward into a
fruitful plant: hence you have your flowers and fruits. These
fire-streams go side by side with the water-streams; and to their
mutual agency you owe all the herbage of your pasture-land, all the
beauties of your flower-garden, all the luscious produce of your
orchards: they are your great benefactors: without them your present
fruitful land would be a desolate wilderness; your flower-gardens
overrun with noxious weeds, and your orchard-trees blighted and dying
away. In consequence of such benefits resulting from them, they are
ever active, ever happy. But this heat is too great for a child of
air; come, let us return to the garden."
There had been a great change in the atmosphere; the moonshine lay on
all the flowers, the birds were hushed, and the children were
slumbering on the greensward.
"Happy, holy calmness," thought Maria; "Peace has certainly chosen her
retreat in these lovely regions; Contentment is linked with her; and
wherever they roam hand in hand, all is joy, all is tranquillity."
But did Maria slumber? No; she and her little friend felt no
weariness; they roamed through the live-long summer night amid the
groves and sylvan avenues, prattling in youthful eloquence on the
wondrous spectacles that were before them. At day-break they refreshed
themselves with fruits and milk; and Maria said to her little
companion, "Let us go out to the fir-trees yonder; it will be a change
for us."
"With all my heart," said Zerina; "then you can see our sentries at
the same time, and they will be sure to please you. They take their
stand upon the rampart between the trees."
They walked on through the flower-garden, through beautiful thickets
peopled with nightingales; then they mounted the vine-hills, and
following the course of a clear crystal stream in its winding channel,
they arrived at the firs, and the high ground that formed the boundary
of the district.
"How is it," said Maria, "that we have had such a long walk to reach
the firs here within, when the circuit on the outside is so small?"
"I cannot say how it is," said the other; "but so it is."
They ascended the hill to the dark firs, and the cold breeze blew upon
them from without. A dark cloud, extending far across the horizon,
seemed to hang over the whole district; and above them stood wondrous
forms with whitened faces, not unlike the hideous heads of the white
owl, and clad in folding mantles of coarse and shaggy wool, fanning
themselves from time to time with bats' wings.
"How I long to laugh!" said Maria; "but yet I'm afraid."
"Those," said Zerina, "are our careful watchmen; they stand here in
order to strike awe and consternation into any that may venture to
approach, and to deter any curious folks from getting an insight into
our regions. You see they are wrapped up closely, and protected from
the weather; that is because it is raining and freezing without; but
neither snow, nor wind, nor hail, can penetrate here within: here is
eternal spring--here the bright garb of summer never fades. Our
sentinels are very devoted to us; so that, although they are seldom
relieved, yet they willingly keep watch at their posts."
"But who are you?" at length asked Maria; "have you any names by which
we may call you?"
"We are called Elves," said her little friend; "they speak well of us
too in the world, as I understand."
On retracing their way into the flower-garden they heard a great shout
in the meadows, which grew louder as they approached nearer to the
spot.
"A large beautiful bird has arrived," shouted the children, as they
followed the flight of the majestic creature, as it sailed through the
air: all pushed on hastily in its track, and Maria and her young
friend could see young and old all pressing forward to the spot with
hasty steps: songs of rejoicing were heard on every side, and a sweet
strain of triumphal music from within came floating through the air to
them. They entered the hall, and saw the whole circuit filled with the
elfin-tribe, all gazing up at a vast bird of beautiful plumage, which
was describing slowly many revolutions around the dome of the
building. The music burst forth more gaily than ever, and the colours
and lights in the ceiling revolved more rapidly, and shot forth again
in brighter colours and more fantastic groups. At length the music
died away softly, and the majestic bird fluttered down upon a
splendid throne, suspended mid-way from the ceiling, beneath the
window which lighted the apartment from above. His plumage was a
mixture of purple and green, through which the most brilliant golden
streaks were to be seen; on his head was a clear, shining coronet of
feathers, glittering as though it were studded with precious stones;
his beak was of a deep red tint, and his legs of bright blue. When he
rose again into the air, all the colours blended together so uniquely
that the eye was perfectly enraptured with the gorgeous galaxy of
magnificence which it presented. But soon he opened his brilliant
beak, and warbled sweet melody more delicious than that of the
nightingale: his song swelled forth and grew more powerful, gushing
out like lovely rays of light, till the whole assembly shed tears of
delight.
When he had ceased his song, all present bowed low before him; again
he flew around the cupola in circles, and sailing swiftly through the
entrance, soared again up to the blue sky, where he was soon lost to
the eye, appearing for a time a mere bright speck upon the horizon.
"Why are you all so glad?" asked Maria, bending down to the beautiful
child, who appeared to her smaller than the day before.
"The king is coming," answered the child; "many of us have never yet
seen him; and wherever he goes, thither happiness and prosperity
follow him. We have been eagerly longing for his presence for some
time past, and looking forward to his coming as anxiously as you
children of air look forward to spring and spring-flowers after a
tedious winter. And now he has announced to us his approach through
that beautiful and intelligent messenger, the Phoenix. He dwells
afar off in Arabia, and there only appears one of the species at the
same time in the world: when he grows old, he builds himself a nest of
balm and incense, and, setting it on fire, burns to death, singing at
the same time as beautifully as you have heard him to-day; then from
the odoriferous ashes he rises again into a new existence, and soars
aloft with fresh vigour and beauty. But now, dear little Maria, you
must go; the period of your stay with us has expired: when the king
comes, no stranger must dwell with us, nor even see him once."
"But he will soon leave you again," said Maria fondly, "and then I
will return to you, and never quit you."
"It cannot be," answered her friend; "the king will stay here twenty
years, or even longer; but he will make every thing change for you for
the better: there will be no storms to harm your crops, no hail to
destroy the early blossoms of your fruit-trees, no floods to overflow
your pasture-land."
Here the golden-dressed lady stepped up to Maria.
"You must indeed go," she said; "though we must all be sorry that the
time for your visit has elapsed. Take this ring, and wear it always in
remembrance of your elfin friends; but remember, when you quit this
spot, never to mention to any living soul the place where you have
been staying--never to reveal aught of the wonders you have been
permitted to see here. Should you ever be tempted to disclose this
great secret, beware of the evil results that must ensue--they will
fall heavily upon you, as well as upon us: we shall be obliged to quit
the spot for ever, and your fruitful fields will be transformed to a
desolate wilderness. Come, kiss your little playfellow once more, and
then farewell. Remember my last caution."
Maria bade them a sad farewell, and retraced her steps to her own
home. As she was crossing the bridge, the little white dog barked at
her again, as he had done when she first approached, and shook his
little bell. She crossed over, and began for the first time to think
of her parents, and the happy home she had deserted through her
disobedience. She pictured to herself the anguish of a loving mother,
the silent though deep sorrow of her father, the alarm of the whole
hamlet, as soon as the news of her disappearance was noised abroad.
She then thought of Andrew's glee when he reached the winning-post,
and how his eager eye was turned in the direction that she had agreed
to come by, expecting to see her downcast look. She then called to
mind the caution she had received not to make the communication known,
for fear of the evil results: "however," said she, "if I were to tell
them, and insist upon the truth of my statement, I should find no one
to credit my story." As she was indulging in her reveries, two men
passed her and saluted her.
"What a pretty girl!" said they, "where can such a beautiful creature
have come from?"
She quickened her pace; but on looking round her she was struck with
amazement: the flowers that she had left yesterday so lovely and
fragrant were dead, and their sweet odour was gone; the trees,
yesterday so verdant, were now leafless and withered; new buildings
had sprung up around her--indeed it would seem that some mystic agency
had been at work on the spot--that the spirit of enchantment had
passed over the district, and wrought a change indeed.
"Then it must all be a dream," said Maria, rubbing her eyes as though
wakening up from a deep slumber; "it must all be a dream; and the
strange and wonderful sights I have seen must be the effects of
fancy.--No, it certainly is reality, and I am standing near the bridge
where our house stood yesterday."
She proceeded on to her home, perfectly bewildered by the change that
a day had wrought; and, with a feeling of embarrassment that can be
more naturally conceived than portrayed, she opened the door, and saw
her father sitting behind a table, at which were seated a lady and a
youth, both of whom Maria fancied she had never seen before.
"Father, dear father," cried Maria, gazing round her with a look of
deep amazement, "say, where is my mother?"
The lady immediately rose from her seat, and, rushing towards her,
looked at her with an earnestness of feeling that itself would have
told the grand secret, that it was no other than her mother, and
exclaimed, "Yes, you are,--no;" and then she seemed for a minute to
distrust her powers of recollection,--"yes, you are our dear, lost
Maria;" and the mother and daughter were instantly clasped in each
other's arms.
Still Maria scarcely seemed to credit her senses.--"How," said she to
herself, "can one single day have produced this change?--not only are
the buildings altered, and the general appearance of the country, but
my mother also wears a more aged appearance: can this be the effect of
one little day?"
"Who, then, is that young man?" she inquired of her mother, who was by
this time fully satisfied of her daughter's identity.
"That," replied Martin, "is your old playfellow Andrew; you surely
have not entirely forgotten him; though certainly a lapse of seven
years must have made some little change in all of us. Seven years have
now passed away since you disappeared so suddenly; and so many
continued years of sorrow and anxiety rarely, I trust, fall to the lot
of any mortals. Where have you been this long time? Why did we not
hear of you?--for, although we all rejoice exceedingly to receive you
again, still you must satisfy us with the cause of your disappearance,
and with an account of what has befallen you in your separation from
us."
"Seven years!" exclaimed Maria; "seven years do you say have passed?"
"Yes," said Andrew, "it is so indeed. I arrived first at the
pear-tree, and that was seven years ago; and as you have only this
moment returned, I think I can claim the prize as victor."
"You remember," said her father, "our leaving you with Andrew, while
we went into the harvest-field: on our return you were missing. Andrew
told us the story of the race, and that he saw no more of you after
the start. We searched diligently for you, and everybody through the
hamlet offered their assistance to endeavour to discover you. But our
attempts were fruitless, and we returned to our home broken-hearted,
having lost all we prized on earth, our only child. But tell us, how
did you contrive to lose yourself?--we thought you were so well
acquainted with the whole district as to render it a matter of
impossibility. Where have you been? how have you been living?"
These questions embarrassed the poor Maria in no slight degree: for
how could she tell of the wondrous elves--of her dear little
playfellow Zerina--of the gold and precious stones, the lovely fruits,
the variegated flower-beds, the streams of gentle water, the children
sporting in the rivulets? How could she describe the crystal
fire-beings--the beautifully-feathered phoenix, the palace of the
elf-king, with its brazen-wrought gates, and its highly decorated
ceilings? How could she trace to their imaginations the hideous form
of the metal-prince, and the strange figures of the sentinels on the
rampart? But even if she had been able to depict all the spectacles
she had witnessed in their proper colours, would such a strange story
have appeared credible, or even plausible? But she had not forgotten
the last parting admonition of the golden lady--no, it was still
ringing in her ears--"tell not aught of the things you have seen or
heard; evil results will happen to you and us:" and then the smiling
features of her little elfin friend were visible to her mind's
eye,--and could she harm so dear a head? No, it was not in her
disposition to injure any one, even should it not be likely to draw
down danger upon herself.
"Where have you been?" again asked Martin.
"As soon as I started off in the race," said Maria, "I was snatched
up, and carried off to a distance. I did not know the country," she
continued, "and could not get any communication to you: I seized the
first opportunity to make my escape, and have once more reached you."
However strange and incredible this may have appeared, as it certainly
did, to her parents, still they were so happy to receive their lost
child, and to heap blessings on her head for cherishing such feelings
of love and affection towards them during her long absence, that they
forgot the mystery that seemed to invest her statement, in the joy
they experienced in having her again beneath the roof of her fathers.
He who can appreciate the joy with which a parent clasps to her bosom
a long-lost child, can readily pardon the seeming indifference as to
the cause of her separation. Andrew remained the whole evening, and
shared their frugal supper. But how great was the change to poor
Maria! Where were the chambers glittering with gold and gems? where
the costly tapestries? where the sweet odours floating about in the
air? where the strains of divine harmony that were wafted to her ears
but yesterday by every breeze? They were no longer--they lived but in
her memory. And she gazed with a dissatisfied air at the meanness of
her father's dwelling; and thought how gloomy it was after the
brightness of the palace; and, indulging her fancy, she dreamt of
Zerina and the little elves, and gladly availed herself of an
opportunity to seek her chamber for the night, where she might dwell
upon the strange events of one day apparently--of seven years in
reality.
Andrew returned on the following morning, seemingly anxious to spend
as much time as possible in the society of his first playfellow,
Maria. The news of her return spread rapidly through the hamlet, and
many were the hearty congratulations poured forth, mingled with
blessings, on her youthful head. It at length reached the ears of the
noble proprietor of the castle, who sent for her, and listened to her
statement with no little surprise and wonder: they were struck with
her vivacity of spirit, tempered with unassuming modesty, and with her
plain unvarnished tale;--so well hitherto had she concealed in her own
bosom any feeling that might have thrown a shade of suspicion on her
story, and brought to light the awful secret of which she was
possessed. It was now the month of February; but the whole country
wore that rich appearance which a more matured season of the year
induces: the trees were clad in their brilliant green livery; the
nightingale's notes were already to be heard in the woods; and never
had such an early or so lovely a spring gladdened the earth before in
the recollection of the most aged villager. The hills seemed to
increase in size; the vines planted on them shot forth more numerous
tendrils, and the thick clusters, that promised an abundant vintage,
were already peeping forth among the leaves; the fruit-trees were
covered with blossoms, and there had been no hail to crush the produce
in the bud, no blight to destroy the hopes of the farmer at a more
advanced season. The following year wore the same happy appearance;
the harvest was still more abundant than before, and at the conclusion
of their toil Maria assented to the wishes of her parents and crowned
their joy by becoming Andrew's bride. Still she would often dwell upon
the happy days that were passed behind the fir-trees, till she grew
silent and serious, but more beautiful each succeeding day. It pained
her too, as often as Andrew talked of the gipsies and vagabonds, and
prayed that the Baron might some day purge his estate of such
worthless characters, as he styled them. On such occasions the
temptation of defending her benefactors was great indeed; but whenever
Andrew mentioned the subject she was more silent than before, in
consequence of her knowledge of the result of such a communication.
Thus matters went on steadily for a year, at the end of which time
they were blessed with a daughter, whom Maria named Elfrida--the name
doubtless having reference to those kind beings whose home she had
once shared, and who were at that time the secret agents in working
the grand changes that had taken place.
Elfrida was a very intelligent child from her birth, and ran about
alone and prattled ere a twelvemonth had passed over her head. As she
grew older, her singular beauty was the remark of every one, and her
quick perception astonished them: she did not associate with other
children, but seemed to shun their sports, and avoid their company,
retiring frequently into an arbour or some secret spot, and passing
the hours in reading or working, and indulging her love of solitude.
Old Martin rejoiced to see the bloom of health on the cheek of his
grandchild, and to trace the rapid development of her intellect; but
Brigitta was constantly saying, "That child will not see many
years--she is too good, too beautiful for earth; she will smile on us
here for a time, but she will soon be carried off to a happier home
than we can give her." The child was never in need of any
assistance--she rose with the lark, and was off immediately to her
chosen retreat: but on one occasion, when they were going to the
castle, Maria insisted on dressing her child, who resisted her with
prayers and tears, begging and entreating that her mother would leave
her. Maria persevered, and on stripping her discovered a singular
piece of gold, corresponding exactly to the treasures which she had
seen in the elves' chambers, fastened to her bosom by a silken thread.
The child, terrified at the discovery, declared that she knew not how
she had come by it, but at the same time prayed that her mother would
not remove it, but allow her still to keep the treasure. At the
child's earnest entreaty Maria replaced it by its thread, and took her
to the castle; but it made a deep impression on her heart, and she was
from that moment full of thought.
By the side of old Martin's house were some detached buildings,
erected as storehouses for fruits and corn; behind them was a
grass-plat, where stood an old arbour, which no one was in the habit
of visiting, in consequence of its distance from the new
dwelling-house. This was the favourite retreat of Elfrida, and no one
disturbed her, even though she were to spend the greater part of the
day there in solitude. One afternoon Maria went to the arbour to find
an article she had mislaid, and observed a bright stream of light
issuing through a chink in the wall: she hastily removed a few loose
stones, and, peeping in, saw Elfrida seated on a little rustic bench,
and by her side Zerina, sporting with her. The elf embraced the child,
and said, "Ah, my dear little thing, I played with your mother once as
I do with you, when she visited us: you are growing so fast, and
becoming so rational--'tis a sad pity."
"How I wish," said Elfrida, "how I wish I could remain a child all my
life, to please you!"
"Ah," said Zerina, "it is with you as with the blossoms of the trees:
how beautiful the bloom is! but ere you have had time to admire the
bud, the warm sun shoots down on it, the blossom bursts and comes to
its full maturity."
"How I wish I could see you in your home, if it were only once!" said
the child.
"That is impossible," said Zerina; "since our king has come, no child
of earth can visit us: but I can come often to you--no one knows it,
either here or there; I fly to and fro like a bird; so that we can be
happy with one another as long as we live."
"What can I do to please you, dear Zerina?" said the child.
"Let us make a crown again," answered Zerina, taking a golden box from
her bosom. She shook two grains upon the earth, and there arose a
greenish bush with two red roses, which bent towards each other, and
seemed to kiss. They plucked the two roses, and the bush sank again
into the earth.
"I wish my rose would not die so soon," said the child.
"Give it to me," said the elf; and breathing on it she kissed it three
times, and gave it back to the child, and said, "now it will live till
the winter."
"How sweet!" said Elfrida; "I'll set it up in my room like a picture,
and kiss it morning and evening."
"Now, dear Elfrida, I must leave you," said Zerina; "the sun is going
down, and my time has passed;" and she disappeared from the arbour,
and soon regained her fairy home.
From this moment Maria looked with a certain degree of awe and
reverence upon her child, and let her roam at her will even more than
she had done before--soothing and quieting her husband whenever he
wished to go in search of the little fugitive. Maria frequently crept
to the hole, and always discovered the elf there playing or chattering
with the child.
"Should you like to be able to fly?" asked the elf one day of her
little friend.
"Willingly," replied Elfrida.
Zerina embraced her, and they floated up together from the earth to
the top of the arbour. The mother, in her anxiety for her darling
child, leant forward from her hiding-place to look for them, when
Zerina perceived her, and, holding up her finger in a threatening
manner, she smiled sweetly on her, and brought down the child to earth
again, and disappeared.
Maria was in the habit of shaking her head kindly at her husband in
their disputes concerning the occupants of the district behind the
fir-plantations: on one occasion she said, "You are unjust in your
ideas of them;" but when pressed by her husband for an explanation,
she was silent. Scarce a day passed without a serious conversation
between them on the same subject; and on another occasion Andrew was
more than usually enraged against them, and said, "The Baron ought to
expel them; they are injurious to the hamlet."
"Silence!" cried Maria, "they are benefactors, and no vagabonds!" and,
binding him by a promise never to divulge aught of what she was about
to mention, she related to him the story of her youth, with all the
particulars of the elfin regions. As he continued incredulous, she led
him to the arbour, where he saw the elf caressing his child. On his
approach Zerina grew pale, and trembled exceedingly, and lifted her
finger in a threatening manner at Maria, no longer smiling as before.
"It is not your fault," said she to the child, "but I must leave you
for ever;" and embracing Elfrida, she flew in the form of a raven,
with most discordant shrieks, towards the fir-plantation.
The little child silently kissed her rose, and wept incessantly;
Andrew spoke little. At length night came on: the trees moaned as the
blast swept by, the owls whooped mournfully, the thunder boomed along
the sky, and the earth rocked violently. Maria and Andrew lay
trembling with fear, and endeavouring to shut out all the fury of the
storm, and the roar of the thunder from their thoughts. How eagerly
did they long for the morning! At length day dawned, and the sun shone
forth again. Andrew dressed himself hastily, and, opening his door,
looked forth on the scene around him. What a change was there!--the
prospect could not even be recognised; the verdant freshness of the
wood was gone, the hill had sunk into the ground, the stream wound
slowly on, with scarce a sufficient depth of water to cover its
channel; the sky wore a grey gloomy hue, and the fir-trees, that had
ever been so unusually dark, wore the same appearance as the rest of
the vegetation. Maria looked at her ring, the gift of the elf, and saw
that the stone was of a strange palish colour, having lost all its
fire and brilliancy.
The villagers, in different groups, were discussing the events of the
singular night; some had passed over the heath by the gipsy-huts early
in the morning, and found no trace of living creature. The huts were
certainly still standing, but they were tenantless; and the whole spot
was so entirely changed that there was no feature in it to distinguish
it from the hamlet in which they themselves dwelt. In the course of
the day Elfrida sought a conference with her mother, and said, "I was
so restless last night, dear mother, I could not close my eyes; and,
being terrified by the storm, I prayed fervently for safety during the
many dark hours that still remained before morning dawned; and in the
midst of my prayers the door opened suddenly, and my little playfellow
entered to take leave of me. She was equipped as though for a long
journey, and had a pilgrim's staff. She was angry, dear mother, very
angry with you; for she has undergone severe and painful punishments
on your account, and that too when she was so fond of you: and even
amid all this trouble, resulting from your want of prudence, she says
she is sorry to leave the district on your account." Maria begged her
to conceal the whole matter from her father, and to mention it to none
of the villagers.
Meantime the ferry-man, who plied on the stream near which their
gardens were situated, came, with terror depicted on his face, to tell
the strange things he had seen and heard. "At twilight," said he, "a
man of gigantic stature called to hire the ferry till sunrise this
morning, on one condition, that I would promise to keep myself within
doors, and not venture to peep forth to see what was being done. I was
afraid that some trick was to be played off; and although I retired to
rest, I could not sleep for thinking on the strange bargain. I crept
silently to the window, and looked forth; the dark dusky clouds chased
one another restlessly through the expanse of sky; the distant woods
moaned heavily, strange noises floated in the air, and the cottage
shook from its very foundations. Suddenly I saw a white stream of
light, brightening ever and anon, like many thousand twinkling stars;
it floated on from the direction of the firs, waving to and fro over
the fields, and spreading towards the stream. I heard a tramping of
footsteps, and a buzzing, rustling noise, which grew by degrees more
and more distinct: then I saw many thousand glittering figures--men,
women, and children--pass on to the ferry-boat and embark, and the
gigantic man ferried them across; many beautiful creatures swam over
by the boat, and lively clouds of white and blue floated over their
heads; melancholy music was wafted by the breeze around me, and the
sounds of lamentation, as though of colonies parting for a distant
country from their father-land: the stroke of the oar fell heavily on
my ear, and then all again was silence for a while. Then the boat
returned, and was laden anew: many hideous dwarfs rolled along heavy
vessels; but whether they were demons of earth or not, I cannot say.
Then there came a brilliant and stately procession, in the midst of
which appeared an aged man, on a small white horse, the head of which
was adorned by precious stones of every colour. The old man's head was
surrounded by a coronet, which shone so vividly, that, as he passed,
methought the sun was rising, and that the beams of early day were
piercing through the mists of midnight. This procession lasted during
the whole night, till at length, worn out with fatigue, I fell into a
deep slumber. In the morning all seemed quiet; but when I rose to look
after my ferry-boat, I observed that the stream was almost dry, and
the water so low, that I must altogether remove my ferry."
This was the strange recital on the part of the ferry-man, who had
been an eye-witness of the wondrous spectacle. In the same year a
dreadful famine prevailed through the whole district; the corn was
blighted; the fruit-trees withered away; the foliage of the woods
became of a sickly yellow colour; the springs dried up; and soon that
pretty hamlet, which had been for years the delight of the traveller,
was nothing more than a barren desert, naked and sterile; a vast
expanse of sand, with here and there a tuft of grass, and even that
discoloured and dying. The vines, that were formerly the pride of the
district, afforded no more rich clusters; and the whole spot wore so
melancholy and gloomy an aspect, that in the following year the Count
and his family removed from the once magnificent castle, which soon
afterwards fell to ruins.
Elfrida gazed fondly at the rose day and night, and kissed it,
dreaming of her dear little playfellow; and as the flower drooped and
faded, so did her little head droop; and ere the balmy breezes of
spring returned with their freshness, she was gone. Maria would often
stand before the door of the cottage, weeping for her lost child, and
dreaming of that happiness once her own, never again to return. On her
fell all the misery that was predicted by the golden lady, if she
should ever divulge aught of the elves or their fairy regions: she
bowed her head to the stroke, and like her child faded slowly away,
and followed her to the grave. The broken-hearted parents could no
longer dwell in the spot, embittered as it was by the recollection of
former days of happiness, and the prospect of heaviness and gloom for
the future; and since the link that bound them to all that was dear
had been rudely snapt asunder, old Martin, Brigitta, and Andrew,
quitted the spot, and retired to a district where the old man had
passed his first happy days.
THE WHITE EGBERT.
High up in the Hartz Mountains there lived in a castle a knight who
was known by the name of the White Egbert. He was about forty years
old, rather below the middle height; and he obtained his name from the
quantity of short, smooth, white hair which covered his pale haggard
cheeks. He lived a peaceable retired life, never involved in feuds
with his neighbours; indeed, he was seldom seen beyond the walls of
his small castle. His wife loved quiet as much as he; they were
passionately attached to each other; and their only cause of sorrow
was that Heaven had not blessed their union with children.
It was seldom that a guest was seen at the castle; and if ever
such an event did happen, it never was allowed to interfere with
their ordinary way of going on. No advance was made upon the
frugality--almost meanness--with which the establishment was
conducted; the only difference being that at such times Egbert assumed
an air of lightness and gaiety, whereas when alone he was observed to
be reserved and melancholy.
His most frequent visitor was Philip Walters; a man to whom Egbert had
attached himself, because he observed in him, on the whole, a general
resemblance to himself in his ways of thinking. This person was a
native of France, and spent the greater part of his time there; but he
was often for more than six months together in the mountains in the
neighbourhood of Egbert's castle, looking for grasses and minerals, of
which he was a collector. He had a small property of his own, and was
independent of every one. Egbert often accompanied him on these
expeditions, and every year a closer attachment formed itself between
them.
There are hours in every man's life in which, if he has a secret from
his friend, he becomes suddenly in labour with it, and what before he
may have taken the greatest pains to conceal, he now feels an
irresistible impulse to throw out of himself--to lay bare the whole
burden of his heart, that it may form a new link to bind his friend to
him. Friendship ebbs and flows, and is subject to singular influences.
There are moments of violent repulsion; there are others when every
barrier is dissolved, and spirits flow together and mingle into one.
On a dark cloudy evening, one day late in autumn, Egbert was sitting
with his friend and his wife Bertha round the fire in the castle-hall.
The flame flung a bright ruddy glow along the walls, and played and
flickered in the deep oak roof. The night looked in gloomily through
the windows, and the trees outside shook with the wet and the cold.
Walters complained of the distance he had to go to his house, and
Egbert pressed him to stay and spend half the night talking over the
fire, and then accept a room in the castle till next morning. Walters
agreed to do so; wine and supper were brought in; fresh logs of wood
were thrown upon the fire; and the friends' conversation became more
and more easy and confidential.
When the things were taken away, and the servants had retired, Egbert
took Walters' hand, and said, "My dear friend, you must let my wife
Bertha tell you the history of her younger days; it is a very strange
one, and well worth your hearing."
"With the greatest pleasure," said Walters; and they again drew their
chairs round the fire-place.
It was toward midnight; dark masses of cloud were sweeping across the
sky, and the moon looking fitfully out between. "Do not think I am
forcing myself on you," Bertha said. "My husband tells me you are so
noble-hearted a person, it is a shame to conceal any thing from you.
Singular as it may sound, the story I am about to tell you is true.
"I was born in a village in the plains. My father was a poor herdsman.
Our housekeeping was none of the best, and my parents often did not
know where they were to get a mouthful of bread. What was to me most
distressing of all was, that they often quarrelled because they were
poor, and each brought the bitterest complaints against the other for
being the cause of it. Of me, they and every one else said I was a
stupid, silly little creature; that I could not do the commonest thing
properly; and, indeed, I was a good-for-nothing helpless child.
Whatever I took up, I was sure to let fall and break. I could neither
sew, nor spin, nor knit, nor could I learn. I could not help in
managing the house; all I knew was that we were poor and miserable. I
used often to sit in a corner and think how I would help my parents if
I was all of a sudden to get rich; how I would shower gold and silver
on them, and what fun it would be to see how surprised they would
look; and I used to fancy all sorts of spirits sweeping round me, and
shewing me treasures buried under ground; or giving me little pebbles,
which suddenly turned to precious stones. In short, the strangest
notions got hold of me; and when I had to get up and help at any thing
in the house, I was all the stupider about it, because my brain was
running upon these sort of ideas.
"My father was often very angry with me for being such an idle,
useless burden upon him. He sometimes spoke to me very harshly, and it
was seldom that I ever got a kind word from him. So it went on till I
was about eight years old; and now matters got serious--I must learn
to do something. My father thought it was wilfulness and obstinacy in
me, and all I wanted was to spend my time in amusement. Enough: one
day, after a number of threats which all proved fruitless, he gave me
a dreadful beating, and declared I should have the same every day till
I had learned to turn myself to some purpose or other.
"All that night I lay on my bed crying; I felt so wretched and
miserable that I wished to die. I was afraid of the daylight, because
I did not know what to begin about. I wished and wished for every
possible accomplishment, and I could not conceive why I was stupider
than other children that I knew. I was almost in despair. When morning
began to break, I got up; and hardly knowing what I did, I opened the
door of our little cottage. I ran out into the open fields, and
presently into a wood close by, which was so thick that daylight could
hardly find its way into it. I ran on and on without ever looking
behind me. I did not feel the least tired; all I was afraid of was
that my father would catch me, and beat me again worse than before for
running away.
"When I had got to the other side of the wood, the sun was by this
time high in the air, and I saw a dark heavy mass beyond me, covered
with a thick mist. Presently I had to scramble up some hills, and then
to follow a winding rocky path; and now I felt sure I must have found
my way into the neighbouring mountains, and I began to be afraid;
living as I did down in the plains, I had never seen them before; and
the name of mountains, when I heard people speaking of them, had a
somewhat fearful and ominous sound about it. Still, I could not find
courage to return; worse fears drove me forward; I often started and
looked round as the wind moaned among the fir-trees, or a distant
woodman's axe echoed among the hills; and at last when some of the
coalmen and miners met me, and I heard them speaking a language I did
not understand, I was almost frightened out of my senses. Soon,
however, I got used to them, and begged my way on through a number of
villages. People gave me enough to eat and drink, and I had always an
answer ready for any questions that might be asked me. I had gone on
this way for four days, when I fell into a narrow footpath; I followed
it, and it led further and further away from the main road, through a
wholly different sort of country, where the aspect of the mountains
was entirely altered, and became wilder and stranger,--among rocks and
cliff's tumbled rudely one upon another, and looking as if the first
gust of wind would bring them all crashing down. I did not know
whether I should go on or not. It was the middle of summer, so that
hitherto I had spent the night either in the woods or in some one or
other of the shepherds' huts; but here I saw no signs whatever of any
thing like a human habitation, nor in so wild a spot could I hope to
find any. The cliffs grew steeper and more precipitous; often I had to
pass along the edge of abysses that made me giddy even to look at; at
last the very path came to an abrupt conclusion. Now I gave myself up
for lost; I cried and screamed, and all the answer was the echoing of
my voice along the rocky valley; darkness came on, and I looked for a
bank of moss to lie down upon. I could not sleep, for all night long I
heard strange wild noises round me, which sometimes sounded like the
howling of wild beasts; at others, like the screaming of the
mountain-birds, or the moaning of the wind among the rocks and cliffs.
I prayed to God to protect me; and towards morning I fell asleep.
"Day had broken when I awoke. There was a steep hill immediately
before me, which I climbed up, in the hope of finding some way out of
the wilderness; when I had got at the top, however, all around me, as
far as my eye could reach, every thing was buried in fog; in the dull
grey light I could find nothing but rock, rock, rock, not a tree, not
a blade of grass, not a shrub to be seen, only here and there a branch
of heather projecting, with a sad lonely look, from a cleft or chasm
in the mountain's side. I cannot tell you how I craved for the sight
of a human being, if it was only to be afraid of him. I was hungry and
exhausted, and I flung myself down, and determined to lie there and
die. In a little while, however, the desire of life got the better of
this feeling; I raised myself up and walked on, crying and sobbing all
that day through. At last I hardly knew what or where I was; I was so
tired that I had almost lost all consciousness; I scarcely wished to
live, and yet I was afraid to die.
"Towards evening I approached a part where the country resumed a
softer and milder look; and my heart began to beat again, and the
desire of life tingled in all my veins. I fancied I caught the sound
of a mill-wheel in the distance; I redoubled my speed; and oh! how
light and happy I felt when at last I found myself at the end of the
rocks and mountains, and saw once more the woods, and meadows, and
soft swelling pleasant hills, spread smiling out before me! It seemed
as if I had broke at once from hell into Paradise, and I cared no more
for being alone and helpless. Instead of the mill I hoped to find, I
came upon a waterfall, which a good deal diminished my exultation. I
was stooping down, however, to drink some water out of my hands, when
on a sudden I fancied I heard some one cough at a short distance from
me. Never had I a more agreeable surprise than at that moment. I went
towards the place the sound seemed to come from, and on turning the
corner of a wood, I saw an old woman sitting down, apparently resting
herself. She was dressed all in black, a black cap covering her head
and half her face; in her hand she had a crooked stick.
"I went up to her, and asked her to help me. She bade me sit down at
her side, and gave me some bread and a little wine. While I was eating
she chanted a sort of hymn in a harsh, rough voice; and as soon as I
had done, she rose and told me to follow her. Strange and odd as the
old woman's voice and appearance was, I was delighted at this
invitation; she limped away before me, helping herself along with her
stick; and I followed, at first hardly able to keep from laughing at
the strange faces she made at every step. We soon left the mountains
behind us; we walked on over soft grassy meadows, and then along a
forest glade; as we came out again into the open country the sun was
just setting, and the splendour of that evening, and the feeling it
produced in me, I never shall forget. The sky was steeped in gold and
crimson; the trees stood with their tops flushed in the evening glow;
a gleam of enchanting beauty lay upon the fields; every leaf was
hushed and still; and the pure heaven looked down as if the
sky-curtain was withdrawn, and Paradise lay open to our eyes; the
brook bubbled along the valley; and from time to time, as a soft air
swept over the forest, the rustling leaves appeared to gasp for joy.
Visions of the world, and all its strange and wondrous incidents, rose
up before my chilled soul. I forgot myself and my conductress, and
eyes and heart were lost in ecstacy in gazing on those golden clouds.
"We went up a gentle hill which was planted with chestnut-trees; from
the top of which we saw down into a green valley, in the middle of
which, surrounded by a clump of chestnuts, lay a little cottage.
Presently a burst of merry barking greeted us, and a bright beautiful
little dog came bounding and jumping up against the old woman, and
frisking round us with every sign of the greatest satisfaction. Then
he turned to me, and, after looking me all over, seemed tolerably
satisfied, and ran back again to his mistress. As we descended the
hill, I heard a strange kind of song, which seemed to come from the
cottage, and to be sung by a bird:
'In my forest-bower
I sing all day,
Hour after hour,
To eternity.
Oh, happy am I
In my forest-bower!'
These few words were repeated over and over again: the nearest
description I can give of the sound is, that it was like the effect of
a bugle and a cornet answering each other at a great distance over
water.
"My curiosity was at the greatest possible stretch of excitement; and
without waiting for the old woman's permission, I ran into the
cottage. The twilight was beginning to fall; and, by the sinking
light, I found a neat, well-arranged little room, a few cups and
glasses on a sideboard, and some singular-looking boxes on a table. In
a very beautiful cage in the window hung a bird; and it was indeed
from it that the song came which I had heard. The old woman was
coughing and panting, hardly able to recover her breath. She took
scarcely any notice of me--did not even seem to know I was
present--but patted her little dog, and then turned and talked to the
bird, which only answered with singing the same song. All this time I
stood watching her movements; and it almost frightened me to see how
eternally her face kept working and twitching; her head, too, shook as
if age had loosened its hold on her shoulders; and altogether she
looked so odd and strange, that, do what I would, I could not make out
what her features were like.
"When she had got her breath again, she lit a candle, threw a cloth
over a little table, and put out some supper. At last she turned round
to me, and told me to take one of the twisted-cane chairs, and sit
down. I did so, and seated myself exactly opposite to her, with the
light between us. Then she folded her lanky withered fingers together,
and said a long prayer, making all the time such strange contortions
with her face, that again it was all I could do to help bursting out
laughing. But I was afraid of making her angry, and checked myself.
After supper, she said another long grace, and then shewed me a bed in
a little narrow chamber adjoining, she herself sleeping in the room in
which we supped. I was tired and half stupified, and so soon fell
asleep. I awoke several times, however, in the night, and heard the
old woman coughing and talking to her dog, and the bird now and
then--which seemed to be in a dream--bringing out single words and
lines of its song. The chestnuts rustled outside the window; far away
a nightingale was singing; and all these sounds together made so odd a
mixture, that I could hardly persuade myself I was awake, and that I
had not fallen into another still stranger dream.
"In the morning the old woman woke me up, and presently set me to
work. I had to spin, and I soon learnt how to do it; and besides this,
I had to take care of the dog and the bird. I very quickly got into
the way of managing the household matters, and of knowing the uses of
the different articles. One can get used to any condition, and I was
no exception: I soon ceased to think there was any thing odd about the
old woman, that the cottage was remarkably situated, and that one
never saw any other human being there, or that the bird was so very
extraordinary a creature. I was delighted with its beauty; all its
feathers glittered with every conceivable colour, the brightest
sky-blue alternating with deep scarlet over its head and body; and
when it sang, it swelled itself out so proudly, that the colours
shewed more brilliantly than ever.
"The old woman often went out in the morning, and did not return till
evening, when I used to go out with the little dog to meet her; and
she would call me her child, her little daughter. In one's childhood
one soon takes to people, and I became exceedingly attached to her. In
the evenings she would teach me to read, and I was quick and ready in
learning; and this afterwards, when I was much alone, became a source
of infinite amusement to me; for she had a number of old manuscript
books in the cottage, full of fairy-tales, and all sorts of queer old
stories.
"There is something very odd about my recollections of the way I went
on then. Not a human creature ever came near us; our home
family-circle certainly was not an extensive one; and the dog and the
bird make the same impression on me now that the recollection of long
and well-known old friends produces; yet, often and often as I must
have repeated it, do what I will, I cannot call back again the
singular name of the little dog.
"So things went on for some four years or more; and I must have been
about twelve years old, when the old woman took me at last deeper into
her confidence, and revealed to me a secret. Every day the bird laid
an egg; and in each egg was a pearl, or some other precious stone. I
had often observed before that she had some mysterious doings with the
cage; but I had never troubled myself much about it. Now, however, she
gave me a charge while she was absent to take these eggs, and put them
by carefully in the odd-looking boxes. Leaving me sufficient food in
her absence, she would now be away sometimes weeks and months at a
time; and my wheel went round, and the little dog barked, and the bird
sang, and all was so still in the country round, that while I was
there I do not remember a single storm. No foot of man ever strayed
there; no wild beast ever came near our dwelling; I worked on there
day after day, and I was happy. Oh, fortunate indeed would men be, if
they could but go on through life in such peace and quiet to their
graves!
"From the little that I read, I made myself a set of notions of what
the world was, and what men were; and very queer ones they were; for
they were all taken from myself and the society in which I lived. If
we talked of gay, bright, happy people, I could only fancy them like
the little dog; beautiful stately ladies must look like the bird, and
ancient dames like my old woman. My stories contained something about
love, and I made myself the heroine of many wonderful adventures: I
pictured for myself the most beautiful knight the world had ever seen;
I adorned him with every grace and every perfection; and though, after
all my trouble, I could not tell exactly what he was like, I could
feel the most passionate despair if he did not return my affection;
and I had all sorts of eloquent speeches to make--which I would often
repeat aloud--to win his love. You smile! Ah, well, we are none of us
young now!
"I was much the happiest when I was by myself; for then I was absolute
mistress in the cottage. The dog was very fond of me, and did all that
I wished; the bird replied with his song to all my questions; my wheel
went round merrily; and I never for a moment felt a wish for any
change. When the old woman came back from her long expeditions, she
would praise me for being so good and attentive. Her household, she
said, was much better attended to since I had been there; she was
pleased with my growth, and the general healthiness of my appearance;
in short, she spoke to me and treated me exactly as if I had been her
daughter. 'You are going on well indeed, my child,' she said one day,
with a roughish coarse voice: 'if you continue in this way, you will
never come to any mischief. But, you may depend upon it, it never
fails, if once one gets out of the right road, but sooner or later we
shall be punished for it.' I took little notice of this at the time
she said it; for in all I did and said I was a lively, thoughtless
child; but by and by, in the night, her words recurred to me, and I
could not conceive what she meant. I thought them all over and over
again. I had often read about riches and wealth, and so on; and at
last it occurred to me that those pearls and precious stones must be
of great value. This soon became more plain to me; but what could she
have meant by the right road? I could not make any thing of it, do
what I would.
"I was now fourteen years old; and it is unfortunate for people that
generally they only get their understanding to lose their innocence by
the light of it. I now came clearly enough to comprehend that it would
be easy for me, while the old woman was away, to take the bird and the
jewels, and go with them into the world that I had read about; and
then very likely I might find my beautiful knight, who still continued
in my thoughts.
"At first this idea was no more than any other, just flashing across
my mind and then gone again; but when I sat by myself at my wheel, in
spite of myself it kept coming back to me, till at last it completely
took possession of my mind; and I already saw myself dressed with the
greatest magnificence, with knights and princes standing round me; and
so I would let myself dream on, and then when I started up and found
myself in a little narrow room, I felt vexed and disappointed. For the
rest, so that I did what I was told, the old woman did not trouble
herself about what was passing in my mind.
"One day she went away again, telling me that this time she would be
absent longer than usual; I was to see that every thing was kept
right, and do what I could to prevent the time hanging heavy on my
hands. I took leave of her with some distress, as I felt a misgiving
that I should never see her again; I stood watching her a long time as
she hobbled away, almost without knowing myself why I was so unhappy.
It seemed as if my purpose was already before my mind, and yet I was
not actually conscious of it.
"Never did I take so much care of the dog and the bird as now; they
seemed closer to my heart than they had been before. The old woman had
been gone some days, when one morning I got up with the fixed purpose
to leave the cottage with the bird, and go and look for what was
called the world. Still I felt unhappy and miserable. I wished to stay
where I was, and yet this thought had got too strong a hold on me;
there was a singular struggle going on in my soul, as if two opposite
spirits were fighting in me. One moment came the sweetness of that
sequestered spot before me, looking so beautiful; and then the next,
the ravishing idea of a new world, and all the wonderful things in it.
I hardly knew what to make of myself. The little dog kept jumping up
upon me incessantly. The sunshine lay spread out brilliantly over the
green fields, and the chestnut-leaves glistened as it fell on them.
Suddenly I felt a strong impulse seize me; I caught the little dog and
tied it up in the cottage, and then took the cage and the bird under
my arm. The dog whined and struggled at this unusual treatment; he
looked up at me with imploring eyes, but I could not venture to take
him with me. One of the boxes of precious stones I took and made fast
to my girdle, the rest I left in their places. The bird stretched and
strained with his head in an odd wild way as I went out with him
through the door; the dog sprung at his chain to follow me; but he was
bound fast, and he was obliged to stay. I avoided the road that led to
the mountains, and went down the valley the opposite way. The little
dog kept whining and barking incessantly, and I felt for him in my
heart; the bird made one or two attempts to sing, but it seemed he did
not like being carried, and would not go on.
"For a long time I heard the barking of the dog, getting weaker and
fainter, however, as I got further away; at last it ceased altogether.
I cried, and had almost turned about and gone back again, but the
craving for something new urged me forward. I was soon over the hill,
and I walked on through wood and meadow till towards evening, when I
found myself near a village. I felt rather frightened at first in
going into an inn among strange people; but they shewed me into a
chamber with a bed, and I slept there very comfortably, only that I
dreamed of the old woman, who seemed to threaten me.
"My journey had very little variety; but the further I went, the more
I was haunted by the recollection of the old woman and the little dog.
The poor little thing, I thought, would be sure to die of hunger,
without me to help it; and at every turn in the forest I expected to
see the figure of the old woman coming to meet me. Sighing and
weeping, I travelled on: whenever I stopped to rest myself, and set
the cage down upon the ground, the bird would sing his strange song,
and then bitter feelings of regret would come upon me for the dear old
cottage. So forgetful is our nature, I thought my first journey had
not been half so miserable as that, and I craved to be again once more
as I was then.
"I had parted with some of the jewels, and at last, after a long round
of walking, one day I came to a village. I felt a strange emotion on
entering it; I was overcome by something, and could not tell why. Very
soon, however, I recollected myself, and found I was in the village
where I was born. How surprised I was! a thousand reminiscences came
pouring back upon me, and the tears ran down my cheeks. It was very
much altered. New houses had sprung up; others, which were new when I
went away, were crumbling to the ground; I found traces of burning
also; and every thing looked much smaller and more confined than I had
fancied. I was infinitely delighted, however, at the thought of seeing
my father and mother again after so long an absence. I found the
little cottage; the well-known doorway; the handle of the door was
exactly as it used to be; it seemed like yesterday that I had had it
in my hand. My heart beat and throbbed; I opened the door hastily; but
all the faces in the room were strange to me; they stared at me as I
entered. I asked for old Martin the shepherd; but they told me he and
his wife had been dead for three years past. I drew back as quickly as
I could, and went crying out of the village.
"I had been thinking how delightful it would be to surprise them with
all my riches; the strangest accident had realised the dreams of my
childhood--I could make them happy--and now all was vain. They could
not share with me; and what all my life long had been the dearest
object of my hope was lost to me for ever.
"I went to a pleasant-looking town, where I rented a small house with
a garden, and took a servant to live with me. I did not find the world
quite the wonderful place I expected; but I soon learnt to think less
and less of the old woman and the cottage I had lived in with her; and
so altogether I lived on pleasantly enough.
"For a long time the bird had left off singing, so that I was not a
little frightened when one night he began again with a different song.
'My forest-bower,
Thou'rt far from me;
Oh, hour by hour
I grieve for thee:
Ah, when shall I see
My forest-bower?'
I could not sleep all night. The whole thing came back again into my
thoughts, and I felt more clearly than ever that I had done what I
ought not. When I got up, the bird's head was turned towards me; he
kept watching me with a strange expression, and seemed to be
reproaching me. Now he never stopped singing; and his song came louder
and deeper I thought than it had ever been before. The more I looked
at him, the more uncomfortable he made me. At last I opened the cage,
thrust in my hand and caught him by the neck. I pressed my fingers
violently together; he looked imploringly in my face; I let him go;
but he was already dead: I buried him in the garden.
"After this I was haunted by a fear of my servant; my conscience told
me what I had done, and I was afraid that some day or other she would
be robbing, or perhaps murdering me. Shortly, however, I became
acquainted with a young knight, who pleased me exceedingly. I gave him
my hand; and here, Herr Walters, is my story ended."
"Ah, you should have seen her then," Egbert broke in hastily; "her
youthful freshness and beauty; and what an indescribable charm she had
received from her retired education! She came before me as a kind of
miraculous being, and I set no bounds to my affection for her. I was
poor myself; indeed I had nothing; but through her love I was placed
in the position in which you find me. We withdrew hither, and neither
of us has ever, for a single moment, regretted our union."
"But see, with our talking and chatting," interrupted Bertha, "it is
already past midnight; we had better go to bed."
She rose to retire to her chamber; as they parted Walters kissed her
hand, and wished her good night. "Thanks, noble lady," he said, "for
your story. I think I can see you with your strange bird, and feeding
the little Strohmian."
Walters, too, retired to sleep; but Egbert continued restlessly pacing
up and down the hall. "What fools we men are!" he said to himself.
"Was it not I that prevailed on my wife to tell her story? and now I
am sorry it should have been told! Will he not make use of it for some
evil purpose? Will he not blab, and let our secret out to others? Is
he not very likely (it is just what a man would naturally do) to feel
some accursed hankering after one's jewels, and lay some plan or other
to get hold of them?"
It struck him Walters had not taken leave of him with, as much
heartiness as he naturally would have done after being admitted into
such a piece of confidence. When once a man has admitted a feeling of
suspicion into his breast, every trifle becomes a confirmation of it.
Then for a moment he would feel ashamed of so ungenerous a distrust
of his noble-hearted friend; and yet he could not fling it off; all
night long these feelings kept swaying to and fro through his breast.
He slept but little.
The next morning Bertha was unwell, and could not appear at breakfast.
Walters did not seem much to distress himself about it, and of the
knight also he took leave with apparent unconcern. Egbert could not
well make it out; he went to his wife's room, she was in a violent
fever; she said she supposed telling her story the preceding night
must have over-excited her.
After that evening Walters came seldom to his friend's castle; and
when he did he never stayed, but went away again almost immediately
with a few unmeaning words. Egbert was excessively distressed at this
behaviour: he never said any thing about it, either to his wife or to
Walters; but they must both have seen that there was something which
made him uneasy. Bertha's illness too was another subject of distress
to him. The physician became alarmed; the colour faded from her
cheeks, and her eyes grew of an unnatural brightness. One morning she
called her husband to her bedside, and sent the servants out of the
room.
"My dear husband," she began, seriously, "I have something to tell
you, which, however unmeaning and trifling it may seem to you, has
been the cause of all my illness, and has almost driven me out of my
senses. You know that whenever I have spoken of the events of my
childhood, in spite of all the trouble I have taken, I have never been
able to think of the name of the little dog that was so long with me.
The other evening as Walters took leave of me, he said, suddenly, 'I
fancy I see you feeding the little Strohmian.' Can it be accident that
he hit upon the name? or does he know the dog, and said what he did on
purpose? In what mysterious way is this man bound up with my destiny?
At times I try to persuade myself that it is all fancy; but no, it is
certainly true, too true. I cannot tell you how it has terrified me
to be so helped out with my recollection by a perfect stranger: what
do you say, Egbert?"
Egbert regarded his suffering wife with the deepest emotion. For some
time he could not speak, but stood lost in his own reflections. At
last he muttered a few words of consolation, and left her. He retired
to a remote apartment, and paced up and down in indescribable
uneasiness. Walters had for many years been his only companion; and
now was this man the only one in the world whose existence was a pain
and grief to him. Could this one being be removed out of his path,
all, he thought, would then be well with him. To dissipate his
unpleasant reflections, he took his cross-bow and went out into the
mountains to hunt.
It was a rough stormy winter's day; the snow lay deep upon the
hill-side, and the heavy branches of the pine-trees bent under their
burden. He scrambled rapidly on; the sweat stood upon his brow; but he
could not light on any game, and that increased his ill-humour.
Suddenly he saw a figure moving at some distance from him: it was
Walters, who was gathering moss from the trunks of the trees. Hardly
knowing what he did, he levelled his cross-bow at him; Walters looked
round, and raised his hand with a menacing gesture; but the bolt was
sped to its mark, and he fell to the earth.
Egbert now felt relieved from a heavy burden. Yet a feeling of terror
drove him hastily back to his castle. He had a long way to go; for he
had wandered far away into the forests. When he reached it, Bertha was
already dead: on her deathbed she had spoken incessantly of Walters
and the old woman.
Egbert now lived for a long time entirely alone. He had always been
dark and gloomy enough; for his wife's strange history troubled him,
and he was continually afraid some terrible misfortune would befall
them. His own conscience made him uneasy also. His friend's murder
was for ever before his eyes, and his life was an eternal
self-upbraiding.
As some relief to his feelings, he went from time to time to the next
great town, where he could find society and forget himself in feasting
and dissipation. He longed to find a friend to fill up the dreary
chasm in his soul; and then again when he thought of Walters, he
shrunk in terror from it, as he felt convinced that any friend must
only be a source of new misery to him. So many years he had lived with
Bertha in their sweet seclusion, Walters' friendship had so long been
his greatest delight; and now both were suddenly snatched away from
him. There were many moments when it all seemed to him like a strange,
wild romance, and that he only dreamt that he was alive.
A young knight, Hugo, attached himself to the silent, gloomy Egbert,
and seemed to be inspired with a real deep affection for him. Egbert
was very much surprised, and came forward to meet this new offer of
friendship the more readily because it was so entirely unexpected. The
two were now continually together. The stranger shewed Egbert every
possible attention. Neither ever rode out without the other; in short,
wherever they were, they appeared inseparable.
Yet it was only for a very brief interval that Egbert allowed himself
to feel happy; for he was too sure that Hugo only loved him because he
did not know his history. His friend was in an error respecting him;
and he felt the same impulse as he had done before to unbosom himself
to him, that he might be assured whether he was indeed his friend or
not. Then, again, caution kept him back, and the fear of becoming an
object of abhorrence to Hugo; there were times when he was so terribly
oppressed with a sense of his unworthiness that he could not believe
any one who was not an utter stranger to him could entertain the
slightest regard for him. For all that, however, he could not contain
himself; and one day as they were walking by themselves, he told his
whole history, and then asked whether he could still love a murderer.
Hugo was touched, and tried to comfort him; and Egbert returned with a
lighter heart to the town.
Yet it seemed to be his curse that a feeling of suspicion must arise
even in the hour of confidence; for hardly were they returned to their
room, and the glare of the candle was thrown upon his friend's face,
than he found something there which displeased him. He fancied he
could trace a malicious laugh. It struck him too that Hugo did not
seem so ready to talk to him as usual, and that his attention was
almost entirely given to the other persons present. There was an old
knight in the party who had never been a friend of Egbert, and used to
ask unpleasant questions about his wife, and where he got his money
from.... To this person Hugo attached himself, and the two held a long
mysterious conversation together, while their looks were from time to
time directed towards himself. Here he saw all his suspicions at once
confirmed. He believed he was betrayed, and his fierce and gloomy
temper now got complete mastery over him. As he stood with his eyes
fixed on them as they talked, suddenly he saw Walters' face, his air,
his gesture--the whole figure so familiar to him. He looked again; and
now he was convinced that it was no one but Walters that was speaking
with the old knight.... In unutterable terror, almost beside himself,
he rushed out of the room, and that night left the city, and returned
as fast as possible to his castle.
He wandered restlessly from chamber to chamber; not a thought could he
find to soothe him; sleep fled from his eyes, and from one terrible
imagination he could only fall into another yet more terrible. He
thought he must be mad, and that what he had seen was but a crazed
dream; but Walters' features had been too vivid, and all was again a
riddle. He resolved to leave the castle, and set out upon his travels,
to bring his mind again into order: every thought of friendship, every
wish for society, he had now given up for ever.
He set out without having made up his mind which way he would go;
indeed he thought little of the country through which he passed. One
day he had been riding for some time at a rapid pace among the
mountains, when he found himself suddenly involved in a labyrinth of
rocks, from which he could not discover any way of escape. At last he
fell in with an old countryman, who shewed him a path leading past a
waterfall. He offered the old man some money as a reward, but he
declined to accept it.
"What is the matter with me?" said Egbert to himself; "I could have
fancied this was Walters again." He looked round, and Walters it
certainly was. Egbert spurred his horse on at its utmost speed; he
flew away over rocks and through woods and meadows, until at length it
sunk exhausted under him to the earth. He did not pause to think of
this, but continued to hurry on on foot.
In a kind of half-dream, he climbed a little hill; he fancied he heard
the lively barking of a dog somewhere near him. Tall chestnuts rustled
in the wind, and he caught the strange wild strains of a song:
"In my forest-home
Again sing I,
Where pain hath no life;
No envy and strife.
Oh, am I not happy
In my forest home?"
Egbert was completely stupified, his senses reeled; all seemed a dark
painful riddle to him. He could not tell whether he was dreaming now,
or whether he had not dreamt of a Bertha as his wife. The common and
the wonderful were so strangely mingled together; the world round him
was enchanted.... His thoughts and recollections swam confusedly
before his mind.
A crooked hump-backed old woman came panting up the hill with a
crutch.
"Are you come to bring me my bird? my pearls? my dog?" she screamed
to him; "see how wickedness is its own punisher! I was your friend
Walters--I was Hugo."
"God in heaven," muttered Egbert to himself, "to what dreadful place
have I wandered? Where am I?"
"And Bertha was your sister."
Egbert fell to the ground.
"What made her run away from me in that way? the time of trial was
almost over, and thus all had ended well. She was the daughter of a
knight; he sent her to the herdsman to be brought up. She was your
father's daughter."
"Oh, why, why have I ever had this dreadful foreboding?" cried Egbert.
"Because when you were young you once heard your father speak of it.
He could not let her stay with him, for he was afraid of his wife; she
was the child of an earlier marriage."
Egbert's heartstrings burst; he lay gasping out his life upon the
ground; faintly and more faintly he heard the old woman speak, the dog
bark, and the bird chant on his unwearying song.
THE FAITHFUL ECKART.
That noble duke, the great
Of Burgundy's proud land,
Felt all his foemen's hate,
And, vanquish'd, bit the sand.
He spoke: "I'm struck! I bleed!
Where is my valour fled?
Friends fail me at my need,
My knights are flown or dead;
I cannot hold the field--
I faint! My strength, my pride,
Has left me here to yield--
True Eckart's from my side.
It was not thus of old,
When war raged fierce and strong--
The last to have it told,
He loved his home too long.
Now, see they trooping come--
Not long my sword is mine:
Flight's made for the base groom--
I'll die as died my line."
With that he raised his sword,
And would have smote his breast;
When, truer than his word,
Good Eckart forward prest.
Back spurn'd the vaunting foe,
And dashed into the throng;
Nor was his bold son slow
To bring his knights along.
The bold duke saw the sign,
And cried, "Now, God be praised!
Now tremble, foemen mine,
My drooping hopes be raised!"
Again he charged and cheer'd,
True Eckart wins the fight;
"But where's his boy?" he heard;
"No more he sees the light."
When now the foe was fled,
Out spoke the duke aloud;
"Well hath it with me sped,
Yet Eckart's head is bow'd.
Though many thou hast slain,
For country and for life;
Thy son lies on the plain,
No more to join the strife."
Then Eckart's tears flow'd fast,
Low stoop'd the warrior down;
Embraced and kiss'd his last,
And sadly made his moan.
"Sweet Heins, how died'st so young,
Ere yet thou wert a man?
What boots it that I'm strong,
And thou so still and wan?
Yet thou hast saved thy prince
From his dread foeman's scorn!
Thou art his--accept him, since
He never will return!"
Bold Burgundy then mourn'd
To see a father's grief;
His heart within him burn'd,
But could not bring relief.
He mingles tears with tears;
He clasps him to his breast;
The hero he reveres,
And speaks his deep distress:--
"Most faithful hast thou been,
When fail'd me all beside;
Henceforth we will be seen
Like brothers, side by side.
Throughout all Burgundy,
Be lord of me and mine;
And could more honour be,
I'd freely make it thine."
He journey'd through the land,
Each liege-man hail'd him home;
To each he gave command,
True Eckart to welcome.
* * * * *
It was the voice of an old mountaineer that sung this song, resounding
far among the rocks, where the faithful Eckart was sitting upon a
declivity, weeping aloud. His youngest boy stood near his father, and
said, "Why do you cry so bitterly, my dear father? Why are you so much
better and stronger than other men, if you are afraid--can you be
afraid of them?"
Meanwhile the duke, at the head of a hunting-party, was leisurely
proceeding homewards; Burgundy himself was mounted upon a stately,
richly caparisoned steed. His princely gold and silver trappings
sparkled in the evening sun; insomuch that the young Conrad could not
sufficiently admire the fine procession as it passed. Faithful Eckart
raised his eyes, and looked darkly and sorrowfully towards the place;
while his tender Conrad began to sing, as he lost sight of the
princely cavalcade in the distance:--
"If you'd wield
Sword and shield,
And have good steed
With spear at need
And harquebuss,--what must you do?
You must feel
Your nerves like steel,
Strong in heart and spirit;--
Manhood good
In your blood
To bear you stoutly through with merit."
The old warrior pressed his son to his heart, and looked earnestly at
his large clear blue eyes. He then said, "Did you hear the song of
the good mountaineer, my boy?"
"Did I?" repeated the boy: "surely he sang loud enough. And are you,
then, still that faithful Eckart whom I was glad to hear so praised?"
"That same duke is now my enemy: he holds my second son in
durance,--yea, hath already laid him low, if I must believe all that
the people of the country say."
"Then take your great sword, father, and bear it no longer," exclaimed
his brave boy: "they will tremble when they see you; the good people
will uphold you all the country round, for they say you are their
greatest hero."
"No, I must not do that, my boy; for then I should prove my enemies'
worst words true. I must not be unfaithful to my native prince. I will
not break my fealty and the peace of the country, to keep which I have
sworn."
"But what does he want to do with us?" inquired Conrad, impatiently.
Eckart had risen, but he again seated himself, and said, "Dear boy,
the whole of that history would sound too harsh and strange in thy
young ears. Enough to know that great people always bear their worst
enemy in their own heart, and live in fear night and day. The duke now
thinks he has trusted me too much, and been all along only cherishing
a viper in his bosom. Yet in the country they call me the prince's
sword--the strong sword that restored him life and land;--all the
people call me Faithful Eckart, and the wretched and oppressed cry
unto me for help in the hearing of the court. This the duke cannot
bear. His envy hath turned to rage, and they who might help, set him
against me, and have turned his heart from love to hatred."
The aged hero then related how the duke had spoken evil words, and
banished him from before his face for ever; and how they now became
quite strange, like enemies, because envious men had said that he was
going to deprive the duke of his dominions. More sadly did he proceed
to tell, as he passed his hand across his eyes, how the duke had
seized upon himself and his son, and accused them of wanting to take
his land and life; "Yea, 'tis said he hath even doomed my son to die."
Young Conrad spoke not to his father, seeing he wept. At length he
said, "Father, let me go to the court, and I will talk to the duke,
that he may be brought to understand you, and treat you better. Should
he have hurt a hair of my brother's head, he is so bad a man that you
shall punish him; yet it can scarce be that he hath so soon forgotten
all your services."
"Alas! don't you remember the old proverb, poor boy?--
'When the mighty want your hand,
They'll promise you both gifts and land;
When the evil day hath pass'd,
Their friendship flieth too as fast.'
Yes, and all my long and painful life has gone for nothing. Wherefore
did he raise me high above my peers, only to plunge me into the lowest
ignominy? The love of princes is like a fatal poison, which they ought
to reserve only for their enemies, and which finally often proves the
ruin of its heedless possessor: so it hath ever been."
"I will hasten to him," said Conrad; "I will plainly remind him of all
you have done and suffered for him; and then he will treat you as well
as he did before."
"You forget," replied Eckart, "that they have pronounced us traitors:
we had better seek refuge together quickly in some foreign land, where
we shall, perhaps, be more fortunate than here."
"What, father, in your old age!--and will you turn your back upon our
sweet home? Let us rather try any way but this," said Conrad. "I will
see the Duke of Burgundy; I will appease and make him friendly to us;
for what harm can he do _me_, though he does hate and fear you?"
"I do not like to let you go," replied Eckart; "for my mind misgives
me sadly; yet I should like to be reconciled to him, for he was once
my kind friend, and for the sake of your poor brother, who is
lingering in prison, or perhaps dead."
The sun was now casting its last wild beams upon the green earth; and
Eckart sat down, absorbed in deep thought, leaning against the root of
a tree. He looked at Conrad earnestly a long while, and at length
said, "If you will go, my son, then go now, before the night gathers
in: the lights are already up, you see, in the windows of the duke's
castle. I can hear the trumpets sounding at a distance for the
festival;--perhaps his son's bride is arrived, and he may feel more
friendly disposed towards us."
His son was instantly on his way; yet he parted with him unwillingly,
for he no longer put any faith in his own good fortune or the duke's
gratitude. Young Conrad was bold and hopeful; doubting nothing but
that he should touch the duke's heart, who had heretofore caressed him
on his knees.
"Art thou sure thou wilt come back to me, my sweetest child?" cried
the old man; "for were I to lose thee, I have seen thee for the last
time--the last of thy race." His young son then kissed and comforted
him, promising that he would be with him very soon; and they
separated.
Conrad knocked at the castle-gate, and was admitted. The aged Eckart
remained seated where he was, exposed to the night-winds, all alone.
"And I have lost him too; I am sure I have lost him." He cried
bitterly in his solitude, "These eyes will never rest upon his dear
face again." While thus lamenting, he saw an old wayfaring man leaning
upon his crutch, and trying, at great hazard, to make his way down the
mountain. A precipice yawned beneath him; and Eckart, aware of his
danger, went and took him by the hand. "Whither are you going?" he
inquired, as he assisted him down to the place where he had himself
sat.
The old man sat down, and wept till the tears ran over his furrowed
cheeks. Eckart sought to comfort him with gentle advice; but the other
seemed too much afflicted to pay attention to him.
"What terrible calamity can it be that thus overpowers you?" inquired
Eckart. "Only try to speak."
"Alas, my children!" exclaimed the aged man.
Then Eckart again thought of Conrad, of Heins, and Dietrich, and
became himself inconsolable.
"I say nothing," he added, "if your children are all dead; for then
your grief is, indeed, great."
"Oh, worse than dead!" exclaimed the other. "No, they are not dead,"
he repeated in a still more bitter voice; "but they are lost to me for
ever! Yea, would to Heaven that they were only dead!"
The good old hero almost shrieked at hearing these words, and besought
the unhappy father to explain so horrible a mystery: to which the
latter replied, "We live in a wonderful world; and these are strange
times. Surely the last dreaded day cannot be far from hand; for
alarming signs and omens are daily abroad, threatening the world more
and more. All evil things seem to have broken loose beyond their
ancient boundaries, and rage and destroy on every side. The fear of
God restrains us not--there is no foundation for any thing good; evil
spirits walk in the broad day, and boldly scare the good away from us,
or celebrate their nightly orgies in their unholy retreats. O my dear
sir, we are grown grey in the world, but not old enough for such
prodigious things. Doubtless you have seen the great comet--Heaven's
portentous lightning in the sky, which glares so prophetically down
upon us. Every one forebodes disasters; but none think of reforming
their lives in order to escape the threatened evil. As if this, too,
were not enough, the ancient earth discovers her trouble, and casts up
her mysterious secrets from the deep, while that portentous light
serves to reveal them from above. And, hark! have you never heard of
the strange mountain which the people round call Venus-berg?"
"No, never," said Eckart, "though I have travelled far and wide here
around the hills."
"At that I wonder much," replied the old man; "for the dreadful thing
is now become as well known as it is true: for that, good sir, is the
very mountain whither the devils fled for refuge in the centre of the
earth, when the holy Christian faith began to wax strong, and pressed
hard upon the heathen idols. There, they now say, that fatal goddess
Venus holds her unblest orgies; whither the infernal powers of worldly
lust and ambition, and all forbidden wishes, come trooping in myriads
for their prey; so that the whole mountain hath become forsaken and
accursed from time immemorial."
"On what side lies the mountain?" inquired Eckart.
"There is the mystery; it is a secret," whispered the old man, "which
those who know dare not tell, and none know but those who are in the
power of our great adversary; and indeed none but wicked persons will
ever venture the discovery. Once only a wandering musician by miracle
appeared again; but he came commissioned by the powers of darkness to
traverse the world; and he plays strange notes upon a pipe--sounds
which are heard to echo first in the distance, then more loud and
sweet. Those who approach too close within his sphere are seized with
a strange unaccountable delirium; and away they run in search of the
mountain, heedless of every obstacle, and never weary--never satisfied
until they gain the fatal summit, which opens for them, and whence
there is no return. Their supernatural strength forsakes them only in
the infernal abode; when they continue wandering round its unhallowed
precincts like unblest pilgrims, without the least hope of salvation.
I lost all hope of comfort in my two sons long ago: they grew wilful
and abandoned; they despised their parents, and our holy faith itself.
Then they began to hear the strange music; and they are now fled far
into the hills--the inhabited world is too narrow for them; and they
will never stop until they reach the boundless regions below." And the
old man wrung his hands.
"And what do you think of doing in this matter?"
"What should I do?--with this crutch, my only support, I have set out
in pursuit of them, being determined either to find them or to die."
At these words he rose with a resolute effort, and hastened forward as
fast as his feeble steps could bear him, as if fearful of losing a
moment; while Eckart gazed after him with a look of pity, lamenting
his useless anxiety and sorrows yet to come.
"To all his other evils," cried Eckart, "even madness itself does not
seem to have brought any relief."
Night came, and passed away;--the morning broke, yet no signs of young
Conrad. The old warrior wandered among the hills, and cast his eyes
wistfully towards the castle; still no one appeared. Then he heard a
tumult, as if proceeding from the place; and, unable to restrain his
anxiety, he at last mounted his steed that was grazing near, and rode
hastily towards the castle. He no longer disguised himself, but
spurred boldly among the troops and pages surrounding the
castle-gates, not one of whom ventured to stop or lay a hand upon him.
All opened to him a path.
"Where is my son Conrad?" inquired the old hero, as he advanced.
"Inquire nothing," said one of the pages, casting down his eyes: "it
would only grieve you;--better turn back."
"And Dietrich," added the old man,--"where is he?"
"Mention his name no more," said an aged knight, "the duke's rage was
kindled, and he thought to punish you through him."
Hot scorn flushed the face of the old hero when he heard these words;
grief and fury took possession of him, and he rode through the
castle-gates with speed. All opened a way for him with fear and
reverence; and he soon threw himself from his horse at the
palace-doors. With trembling step he mounted into the marble halls.
"Am I here," he cried, "in the dwelling of the man who was once my
friend?" He tried to collect his thoughts; but dreadful visions seemed
to rise before him: and he staggered wildly into the duke's presence.
Not aware of his arrival, Burgundy uttered a cry of alarm, as he found
himself confronted with the old man. "Art thou the Duke of Burgundy?"
asked the old hero.
The duke replied, "I am."
"And hast thou caused my son Dietrich to die?"
The duke answered, "Yes."
"And my youngest boy! my Conrad!--was not he too good and beautiful
for thy sword?--hast thou killed him too?"
"I have," said the duke again.
And Eckart replied, as he shed tears, "Oh, say not that! say not that,
Burgundy!--for I cannot bear those words: recall them. Say, at least,
that it repents you of all you have done; and I will yet try to take
comfort, though you have now done your worst to break my heart."
The duke answered, "Away! thou faithless traitor! hence from my sight!
thou art the bitterest enemy I have on the face of the earth."
Eckart stood firm, and said, "Heretofore thou didst call me thy best
friend; but good thoughts are now become strange to thee. Never did I
aught against thy honour: nay, I have revered and loved thee as my
true prince, so help me God! or here, with this hand upon my good
sword, I could take speedy and bitter vengeance for all my wrongs. But
no; I will for ever banish myself from your presence, and end my few
and evil days in solitude and woe."
Having uttered these sad words, Eckart turned away; while Burgundy,
agitated with hateful passions, called aloud for his pages and his
lancers, who surrounded the old hero, and followed him with the points
of their spears out of the duke's palace; none venturing, though at
their lord's command, to put him to death.
Away he spurred at speed,
Eckart that noblest knight;
And spoke, "No more I heed
The world, nor wrong, nor right.
My sons are gone, and I
Am left to mourn alone;
My prince would have me die;
And friends I have not one."
Then made he to the woods,
And with full heart did strive
To bear his dismal moods--
To bear his woes and live.
"I fly man's hated face!
Ye mountains, lakes, and trees,
Be now my resting-place,
And join your tears to these.
No child beguiles my grief;
Their lives were sworn away;
Their days were all too brief--
My last one they did slay!"
Thus wild did Eckart weep,
Till mind and sense were gone;
Then madly down the steep
He spurr'd his true steed on.
He bounded, leaped, and fell,
Yet Eckart took no heed;
But said it was right well,
Though sadly he did bleed.
He next ungirt his horse,
And lay down on the ground;
And wish'd it had happ'd worse--
That he his grave had found.
None of the duke's peasantry could say whither the faithful Eckart had
fled; for he had taken to the wild mountain-woods, and been seen by no
human being. The duke dreaded his great courage and prudence, and he
repented that he had not secured him, blaming his pages that they had
suffered him to escape. Yet, to make his mind more easy, he proceeded
at the head of a large train, as if going to the chase; being
determined to ride through all the surrounding hills and woods until
he should find the spot where Eckart had concealed himself, and there
put him to death.
His followers spread themselves abroad on all sides, and vied with
each other in the hope of pleasing the prince, and reaping the reward
of their evil deed; but the day passed, and the sun went down, without
their discovering any traces of him they sought.
A storm was now gathering, and the great clouds came darkling over the
woods and hills; the thunder began to peal along the sky; the
lightning flashed athwart the heavens, smiting the largest oaks; while
torrents of rain fell upon their heads. The duke and his followers ran
for shelter among the rocks and caves; but the duke's steed burst his
reins, and ran headlong down the heights; while his master's voice was
lost in the uproar of the storm, and separated from all his followers,
he called out in vain for assistance.
Wild as the animals of the forest, poor Eckart had wandered,
unconscious now of his sorrows or whither he went. Roots and berries,
with the water of the mountain-spring, formed his sole refreshment: he
would no longer have known any of his former acquaintance; the day of
his despair seemed at length to have gone by. Yet no! As the storm
increased, he suddenly seemed to recover some portion of his
intellect, and to become aware of objects around him. Then he uttered
a loud cry of horror, tore his hair, and beat his aged breast, as he
bethought himself of his children. "Dear as the life-blood of my
heart," he cried, "whither, my sweet boys, are ye all gone? Oh, foul
befell my coward spirit that hath not yet avenged ye! Why smote I not
your fell destroyer, who hath pierced my heart through and through,
worse than with a thousand daggers? Mad wretch that I am! I deserve it
all--all; for well may your tyrant murderer despise me, when I oppose
not the assassin of my own children. Ah, would that he might once come
within the reach of my arm!--for now I long, when it is all too late,
to taste the sweetness of revenge."
Thus he spent the night, wandering, and weeping as he went. At last he
thought he heard a distant voice of some one crying for help. He
turned his steps towards the direction in which it came; and finally
he approached a man, whom the darkness hid from his sight, though he
heard his voice close to him. This voice beseeched him piteously to
guide a stranger into the right path. Eckart shrieked as it again fell
upon his ear--he knew it; and he seized his sword. He prepared to cut
down the assassin of his children--he felt new strength--and drew
nigh, in the hope of full vengeance; when suddenly his oath of fealty,
and all his former promises, when he was the duke's friend, came
across his mind. Instead of piercing him to the heart, he took the
duke's hand, and promised to lead him into the right path. They passed
along conversing together, although the duke trembled with fear and
cold. Soon they met some one. It was Wolfram, the duke's page, who
had been long in search of his master. It was still dark night--not a
star cast its feeble rays through the thick black clouds. The duke
felt very weak, and sighed to reach some habitation, to refresh
himself and repose; besides, he was in dread of encountering the
enraged Eckart, whose strange feigned voice he did not yet know. He
feared he should hardly survive till morning, and trembled at every
fresh blast of wind that shook the trees, or the thunder as it rolled
more awfully above their heads. "My good Wolfram," cried the duke,
"mount this lofty fir, and cast a keen glance around thee to discover
some light--whether from house or hut it boots not, so that we can but
live to reach it."
The page obeyed at his life's risk, as the storm bent the strongest
branches of the huge tree as if it had been a tender reed. Its topmost
boughs sometimes nearly touched the ground; while the boy appeared
little more than an acorn growing on a branch of the tree. At length
he cried out, "In the plain below us there I perceive a glimmering--I
can see the way we ought to go." At the same time he carefully
descended, and took the lead. In a short while the friendly light
greeted the eyes of all three--the very sight of which greatly
restored the fallen spirits of the duke.
Absorbed within himself, Eckart uttered not a word. He walked along,
striving with the bitter feelings that rose in his breast, leading the
duke by the hand.
At length the page knocked at the cottage-door; and an infirm old
woman appeared. When they had entered, Eckart loosed the duke's hand,
whom he had led along; and the latter fell trembling upon his knees,
to return Heaven thanks for his deliverance from the perils of that
terrific night.
Eckart retired into a dark corner; where he found, stretched in sleep,
the same old man who shortly before had been bewailing his unhappy
fate in regard to his sons, whom he was then in search of.
The duke having finished his prayers, thus spoke:--"This has indeed
appeared a miraculous night to me. I feel the goodness and almighty
power of God more than ever I had before reason to do. Yet my heart
hath failed within me, and I feel that I must shortly die; only
wishing for time, before I depart, to entreat forgiveness for my
manifold sins and offences against the Most High; but I will take care
to reward you both, my faithful companions, before I go, and that as
handsomely as I can. To thee, my trusty page, I bequeath the two
castles which lie close to the next mountain here, on condition that,
in remembrance of this terrific night, thou dost in future call them
the Tannenhaeuser, or Fir-houses.--And who art thou, good man, that
hast laid thy weary limbs in the corner? Come forth, that I may reward
thee quickly, according to thy great services and many kind offices
shewn me during this terrific night."
Then up rose Eckart, like a thing
That starts from out the dim moonlight;
His furrowed cheek betrays the sting
Of many a woful day and night.
The soul of Burgundy sighed sore
To witness thus that aged face;
The blood forsook his veins--he tore
His hair, and swooned for dire disgrace.
They raise him from the low cold ground,
His limbs and temples warmly chafe:
"Then, O my God, at last he's found,"
He cried; "true Eckart's here--he's safe.
O whither shall I fly thy look?
Was't thou didst bring me from the wood?
And was it I thy dear babes struck--
Thou that to me hast been so good?"
And Burgundy, as thus he said,
He felt his heart was breaking fast;
On Eckart's breast he laid his head,
And thought he there would breathe his last.
His senses fled! Then Eckart spoke:
"I reck not, master, of their fate--
That so the world may see, though broke,
True Eckart's heart's yet true and great."
Thus passed the night. In the morning the followers of the duke
arrived, and found him very sick. They placed him upon their mules,
and carried him back to his castle. Eckart stirred not from his side;
and often the duke took his hand, and, pressing it to his bosom,
looked up at him imploringly; when Eckart would embrace him, and speak
soft words of comfort till he was again still. The duke next called
together his council, and declared that such was his confidence in his
faithful Eckart, the bravest and noblest of all his land, that he
would leave him governor of his sons. Having said which, he died.
Eckart then took the reins of government into his own hands,
fulfilling the trust reposed in him in such a humane and prudent way
as to excite the admiration of all the country. Shortly afterwards,
the report spread more and more on all sides, of the arrival of the
strange musician from Venus-berg, who seduced his victims with the
strange sweetness of his tones; so that they disappeared without
leaving a trace behind. Many gave credit to the report--others not;
while Eckart again bethought him of the unhappy old man whom he had
seen so forlorn and crazed upon the mountain.
"I have now adopted you as my children," he said to the young princes,
as he one day sat with them on the bill before the castle; "your
happiness is now become my inheritance; I shall continue to survive,
after my departure, in your welfare and your good conduct."
They all stretched themselves on the hill-side, whence they could look
far into the distant and lovely prospect beyond; and Eckart would then
strive to subdue the regrets he felt for his own children, though they
would appear as if passing over the mountain before him, while in the
distance he thought he heard the faint echo of delicious music
gradually growing louder.
Hark! comes it not like dreams
Before the morning beams?
From some far greenwood bowers,
Such as the night-bird pours,
So sweet, and such its dying fall?--
Those tones the magic song recall;
And Eckart sees each princely cheek
Flushed with the joys its victims seek;
Wild wishes seized each youthful breast
For some far unknown bourne of rest.
"Away to the mountains!" they cried; "the deep woods
Where the trees, winds, and waters make music for gods:
Sweet, strange, secret voices are singing there now,
And invite us to seek their blest Eden below."
In strange attire then came in view
The unblest sorcerer, and anew
Inspired the maddening youths, till bright
And brighter shone the sunny light.
Trees, streams, and flowers danced in the rays;
Through earth, air, heavens, were heard the lays;
The grass, fields, forests, trembling join'd
That magic tumult wild and blind.
Swift as a shadow fade the ties
That bind the soul to earth, and rise
Soft longings for unearthly scenes;
And strange confusion intervenes
Between the seen and unseen world,
Till reason from her seat is hurl'd,
And madly bursts the soul away
To mingle in the infernal fray.
The trusty Eckart felt it,
But wist not of the cause;
His heart the music melted,
He wondered what it was.
The world seems new and fairer,
All blooming like the rose;
Can Eckart be a sharer
In raptures such as those?
"Ha! are those tones restoring
My wife and noble sons?--
All that I was deploring--
My lost beloved ones?"
Yet soon his sense collected,
Brought doubts within his breast:
These magic arts detected,
A horror him possessed.
His children fade in air--
Mocks of infernal might;
His young friends vanished were--
He could not check their flight.
Yes, these his princely trust,
Late yielded to his power,
He now desert them must,
Or share their evil hour.
Faith, duty to his prince,
Is still his watchword here;
He still thinks of him, since
His last sad look and tear.
So boldly doth he now
Advance his foot and stand,
Arm'd proof to overthrow
The evil powers at hand.
The wild musician comes;
Eckart his sword has ta'en;
But ah! those magic tunes
His mortal strength enchain!
From out the mountain's side
Come thousand dwarfish shapes,
That threaten and deride,
And leap and grin like apes.
The princes fair are gone,
And mingled with the swarm;
True Eckart is alone,
And faint his valiant arm.
The rout of revellers grows,
Gathering from east to west,
And gives him no repose--
Around--before--abreast.
True Eckart's 'mid the din,
His might is lost and gone;
The hellish powers must win--
He of their slaves be one.
For now they reach the hill
Whence those wild notes are heard;
The dwarfish fiends stand still,
The hills their sides uprear'd,
And made a mighty void,
Whence fiercer sprites glower'd grim.
"What now will us betide?"
He cried:--none answered him.
Again he grasped his sword;
He said he must prove true:
Eckart has spoke the word,
And rushed amid the crew.
He saved the princes dear;
They fled and reach'd the plain;
But see, the fiend is near--
His imps their malice strain.
Though Eckart's strength is gone,
He sees the children safe;
And cried, "I fight alone--
Now let their malice chafe!"
He fought--he fell--he died
Upon that well-fought field;
His old heroic pride
Both scorn'd to fly or yield.
"True to the sire and son,
The bulwark of their throne,
Proud feats hath Eckart done;
There's not a knight, not one,
Of all my court and land,"
Cried the young duke full loud,
"Would make so bold a stand.
Our honour to uphold.
For life, and land, and all,
To Eckart true we owe;
He snatch'd our souls from thrall,
For all it work'd him woe."
And soon the story ran
Through Burgundy's broad land,
That who so venture can
To take his dangerous stand
Upon that mountain-side,
Where in that contest hard
True Eckart fought and died,
Shall see his shade keep guard,
To warn the wanderers back
Who seek th' infernal pit,
And spurn them from the track
That leads them down to it.
THE TANNENHAeUSER.
About four centuries had elapsed since the death of the Faithful
Eckart, when there lived a Lord of the Woods who stood in high
reputation as a counsellor at the imperial court. The same lord had a
son, one of the _handsomest_ knights in all the land, highly esteemed
and beloved by his friends and countrymen. Suddenly, however, he
disappeared under very peculiar circumstances, which occurred previous
to his departure; and no one could gather any tidings of him
whatsoever. But from the time of the Faithful Eckart, a tradition
respecting the Venus-berg had become very prevalent among the people,
and it was asserted by many that he must have wandered thither, and
there been devoted to eternal destruction.
Among the whole of his friends and relatives who lamented the young
knight's loss, none grieved so much as Frederick of Wolfsburg. They
had been early companions, and their attachment had grown with their
years, insomuch that their subsequent attachment appeared rather the
result of necessity than of choice. Meanwhile the Lord of the Woods
died, having heard no account of his son; and in the course of a few
years his friend Frederick married. He had already a playful young
circle around him. Years passed away, and still no tidings arrived as
to the fate of his friend, whom he was at length reluctantly compelled
to number with the dead.
One evening, as he was standing under the tower of his castle, he
observed a pilgrim approaching at some distance, in the direction of
the castle-gates. The stranger was very singularly dressed; his whole
appearance, and particularly his gait, striking the young knight as
something odd and unaccountable. As the pilgrim drew nigh, he went to
meet him; and, on examining his features, thought he could recognise
them. He looked again, and the whole truth burst upon him: it was
indeed no other than his long-lost friend--the young Lord of the
Fir-woods himself. Yet he shuddered, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise, when he contemplated the ravages which time had made in the
noblest face and form--the theme of his former admirers,--of which
only the ruins were to be traced;--no, he no longer appeared the same
being.
The two friends embraced, while they still gazed at each other as upon
perfect strangers but newly introduced. Many were the confused
questions and answers which passed between them; and Frederick often
trembled at the strange wild glances of his friend: the fire seemed to
sparkle in his eyes. He agreed, however, to sojourn with him; but when
he had remained a few days, he informed Frederick that he was about to
go upon a pilgrimage to Rome.
Their acquaintance in a short time grew more familiar, and resumed its
former happy and confidential tone. They recalled the mutual
adventures and plans of their early years, though the Lord of the
Woods seemed to avoid touching upon any incident which had occurred
since his late disappearance from home. This only raised Frederick's
curiosity the more; he entreated to be informed, and with yet more
earnestness as he found their former regard and confidence increase.
Still the stranger long sought, by the most friendly appeals and
warnings, to be excused; till at last, upon fresh solicitation, he
said, "Now, then, be it so! your wish shall be fully gratified;
only never in future reproach me, should my history excite
feelings--lasting feelings--of sorrow and dismay."
Frederick took him in the most friendly manner by the arm, and led him
into the open air. They turned into a pleasant grove, and seated
themselves on a mossy bank; the stranger then giving his hand to his
friend, turned away his head among the soft leaves and grass, and,
amidst many bitter sighs and sobs, gave way to the sad emotions which
the recollection seemed to inspire. His friend, pressing his hand,
tried every means to console him; upon which the stranger, again
raising his head, began his story in a calmer voice, to the following
purport:--
"There goes an ancient tradition, that several hundred years ago there
lived a knight known by the name of the Faithful Eckart. It is farther
believed that there appeared a mysterious musician at that time from
one of the wonderful mountains, whose unearthly music awakened such
strange delight and wild wishes in the hearts of his audience, that
they would irresistibly follow him, and lose themselves in the
labyrinths of the same mountain. At that period, hell is supposed to
have kept its portals open there, in order to entrap, by such sweet
irresistible airs, unhappy mortals into its abyss. Often have I heard
the same account when I was a boy, and sometimes it used to make me
shudder. In a short time it seemed as if all nature, every tone and
every flower, reminded me, in spite of myself, of that same old
fearful saying. Oh, it is impossible for me to convey to you what kind
of mournful thought, what strange ineffable longing, one time suddenly
seized me, bound me, and led me, as it were, in chains; and
particularly when I gazed upon the floating clouds, and the streaks of
light ethereal blue seen between them; and what strange recollections
the woods and meadows conjured up in my soul. Often did I feel all the
love and tenderness of nature in my inmost spirit; often stretched
forth my arms, and longed for wings to fly into the embrace of
something yet more beautiful; to pour myself, like the spirit of
nature, over vale and mountain; to become all present with the grass,
the flowers, the trees; and to breathe in the fulness of the mighty
sea. When some lovely prospects had delighted me during the day, I was
sure to be haunted with dark and threatening images that same night,
all of which, seemed busy in closing against me the gates of life. One
dream, in particular, made an indelible impression upon my mind,
although I was unable to recall its individual features clearly to my
memory.
"I thought I could see an immense concourse of people in the
streets,--I heard unintelligible words and languages, and I turned
away, and went in the dark night to the house of my parents, where I
found only my father, who was unwell. The next morning I threw my arms
round both my parents' necks--embracing them tenderly, as if I felt
that some evil power were about to separate us for ever. 'Oh, were I
to lose you,' I said to my dear father, 'how very lonely and unhappy
should I feel in this world without you!' They kissed and consoled me
tenderly, but they could not succeed in dispelling that dark
foreboding image from my imagination.
"As I grew older, I did not mingle with other children of my own age
in their sports. I wandered lonely through the fields; and on one
occasion it happened that I missed my way, and got into a gloomy wood,
where I wandered about, calling for help. After searching my way back
for some time in vain, I all at once found myself standing before a
lattice, which opened into a garden. Here I remarked pleasant shady
walks, fruit-trees, and flowers, among which were numbers of roses,
which shone lovely in the sunbeams. An uncontrollable wish to approach
them more nearly seized me; and I eagerly forced my way through the
lattice-work, and found myself in that beautiful garden. I bent down
and embraced the plants and flowers, kissed the roses over and over,
and shed tears. While lost in this strange feeling, half sorrow, half
delight, two young maidens came towards me along the walk, one older,
and the other about my own years. I was roused from my trance, only
to yield myself up to fresh amazement. My eye reeled upon the younger,
and at that moment I felt as if I had been suddenly restored to
happiness after all my sufferings. They invited me into the house; the
parents of the young people inquired my name, and were kind enough to
send my father word that I was safe with them; and in the evening he
himself came to bring me home.
"From this day forth the uncertain and idle tenour of my life acquired
some fixed aim;--my ideas recurred incessantly to the lovely maidens
and the garden; thither daily flew my hopes and all my wishes. I
abandoned my playmates, and all my usual pastimes, and could not
resist again visiting the garden, the castle, and its lovely young
inmate. Soon I appeared to become domesticated, and my absence no
longer created surprise; while my favourite Emma became hourly more
dear to me. My affection continued to increase in warmth and
tenderness, though I was myself unconscious of it. I was now happy! I
had not a wish to gratify, beyond that of returning, and looking
forward again to the hour of meeting.
"About this time a young knight was introduced to the family; he was
acquainted likewise with my parents, and he appeared to attach himself
in the same manner as I had done to the fair young Emma. From the
moment I observed this, I began to hate him as my deadliest enemy. But
my feelings were indescribably more bitter when I fancied I saw that
Emma preferred his society to mine. I felt as if, from that instant,
the music which had hitherto accompanied me, suddenly died away in my
breast. My thoughts dwelt incessantly upon hatred and death; strange
feelings burned within my breast, in particular whenever I heard Emma
sing the well-known song to the lute. I did not even attempt to
disguise my enmity; and when my parents reproached me for my conduct,
I turned away from them with an obstinate and wilful air. I wandered
for hours together in the woods and among the rocks, indulging evil
thoughts, chiefly directed against myself;--I had already determined
upon my rival's death.
"In the course of a few months the young knight declared his wishes to
Emma's parents, and they were received with pleasure. All that was
most sweet and wonderful in nature, all that had ever influenced and
delighted me, seemed to have united in my idea of Emma. I knew, I
acknowledged, and I wished for no other happiness--nothing
more--nothing but her. I had even wilfully predetermined that the loss
of her and my own destruction should take place on one and the same
day; neither should survive the other a moment.
"My parents were much grieved at witnessing my wildness and rudeness
of manner; my mother became ill, but it touched me not; I inquired
little after her, and saw her only very seldom. The nuptial-day of my
rival |was drawing nigh, and my agony proportionably increased: it
hurried me through the woods and across the mountains, as if pursued
by a grizzly phantom by day and by night. I called down the most
frightful maledictions both upon Emma and myself. I had not a single
friend to advise with--no one wished to receive me--for all seemed to
have given me over for lost. Yes! for the detested fearful eve of the
bridal-day was at hand: I had taken refuge among the rocks and cliffs;
I was listening to the roaring cataract; I looked into the foaming
waters, and started back in horror at myself. On the approach of
morning, I saw my abhorred rival descending the hill at a little
distance; I drew nigh--provoked him with bitter and jeering words; and
when he drew his sword, I flew upon him like lightning, beat down his
guard with my hanger, and--he bit the dust.
"I hastened from the spot--I never once looked back at him; but his
guide bore the body away. The same night I haunted the neighbourhood
of the castle where dwelt my Emma now. A few days afterwards, in
passing the convent near at hand, I heard the bells tolling, nuns
singing funeral-hymns, and saw death-lights burning in the sanctuary.
I inquired into the cause, and was informed that the young lady Emma
had died of the shock on hearing that her lover had been killed.
"I was in doubt what to think, and where to remain; I doubted whether
I existed; whether all were true. I determined to see my parents; and
the night after reached the place where they lived. I found every
thing in commotion; the street was filled with horses and carriages;
pages and soldiers were all mingled together, and spoke in strange
broken words;--it was just as if the emperor were on the eve of
undertaking a campaign against his enemies. A single light was dimly
burning in my father's house; I felt a strange sensation, like
strangulation, within my breast. When I knocked, my father himself
came to the door, with slow soft steps; and just then I recollected a
strange dream I had in my childhood, and felt, with horrible truth,
that it was the same scene which I was then going through. Quite
dismayed, I inquired, 'Why are you up so late to-night, father?' He
led me in; saying, as he entered,--'I may well be up and watching,
when your mother has only this moment expired.'
"These words shot like lightning through my soul. My father sat
himself thoughtfully down; I seated myself at his side; the corpse lay
upon a bed, and was appallingly covered over with white fillets and
napkins. My heart struggled, but could not burst. 'I myself keep
watch,' said the old man, 'for my poor wife always sits near me.' My
senses here failed me. I raised my eyes towards one corner, and there
I saw something rising up like a mist; it turned and motioned, and
soon took the well-known lineaments of my mother, who seemed to regard
me with a fixed and serious air. I attempted to escape, but I could
not; for the figure motioned to him, and my father held me fast in his
arms, while he softly whispered me, 'She died of grief, my son, for
you.' I embraced him with the most terrific, soul-cutting emotion. I
clung to him for protection like a feeble child,--burning tears ran
down my breast; but I uttered no sound. My father kissed me, and I
shuddered as I felt his lips, for they were deadly cold--cold as if I
had been kissed by the dead. 'How is it with you, dear father?' I
murmured in trembling agony; but he seemed to sink and gather into
himself, as it were, and replied not a word. I felt him in my arms,
growing colder and colder. I felt at his heart, but it was quite
still; yet, in the bitterness of my woe, I held the body fast clasped
in my embrace.
"By a sudden glimmer, like the first break of morning, which shot
through the gloomy chamber, I there saw my father's spirit close to
that of my mother; and both gazed upon me with a compassionate
expression, as I stood with the dear deceased in my arms. From that
moment I saw and heard no more, I lay deprived of consciousness; and I
was found by the servants delirious, and yet powerless as a babe, on
the ensuing morning.
"The memory of that hour is still as fearfully impressed upon my mind,
and I am at a loss to conjecture how I was so unfortunate as to
survive it. For it was now, indeed, that this once fair earth, with
life, and all that life had to afford, became worse than dead and
perished for me;--became a lone waste and wilderness, with all its
soft airs, sweet flowers, pure streams, and blue starry skies. I stood
like one, the last of a sudden overwhelming wreck, saved only to
regret that he had not perished with all that was dearest to him on
earth. How I lived on from day to day, I know not; till at last,
unable longer to contend with the fiends of remorse that grappled me,
I flew to society for relief. I joined a number of dissipated
characters, who sought, like me, to lose the sense of their follies
and enormities in the most dissolute pleasures. Yes, I sought to
propitiate the evil spirit within me by obedience to its worst
dictates. My former wildness and impatience revived, and I no longer
placed any restraint over my wishes.
"I fell into the hands of an abandoned wretch of the name of Rudolf,
who only laughed at my lamentations and remorse. More than a year thus
elapsed; my anxiety and horror, in spite of all efforts to control
them, daily gaining ground upon me, until I was seized with utter
despair. Like all who experience that stage of such a malady, I took
to wandering without any object. I arrived at distant and unknown
places--spots unvisited by other feet; and often I could have thrown
myself from some airy height into the green sunny meads and vales
below, or rushed into the cool streams to quench my soul's fiery and
insatiable thirst; yet though I had no fear, something unaccountable
always restrained me. I made many attempts towards the close of the
day; for I longed to be annihilated: but when the morning returned,
with its golden beams, its fresh dews, and odorous flowers, I felt I
could destroy nothing; and hope and love of life revived within my
breast. A conviction then seized me, that all hell was conspired
together to work my utter perdition; that both my pleasures and my
pains arose from the same fiendish source; and that a malicious spirit
was gradually directing all the powers and influences of my mind to
that sole end. I yielded myself up to him, in order to dissipate these
alternating raptures and agonies. On one dark and stormy night I went
into the mountains; I mounted one of their highest and giddiest peaks,
where foot of man never before trod; and there, with my whole strength
of heart and soul, I invoked the foe of God and man to appear. I
called him in language that I felt he must obey. My words were
powerful--the fiend stood at my side, and I felt no alarm. While
conversing with him, I could feel my faith in each haunted and
wonder-working mountain growing stronger within me; and the base one
taught me a song sufficiently potent of itself to shew me the right
path into its labyrinths. It was thus I approached the strange
mountain: the night was dark and tempestuous; the moon glimmered
through a mass of dusky livid clouds; yet boldly and loudly did I
sing that song. A giant form arose, and motioned me back with its
staff. I drew nigher. 'I am the faithful Eckart,' exclaimed the
supernatural form; 'and, praise to the goodness of the blessed God, I
am permitted to hold watch here, to deter the unhappy from rushing
into the base fiend's power.' I pushed on. In passing, I found my way
led through subterraneous passages in the mountain. The path was so
narrow as to compel me to force my way: I heard the gushing of the
hidden waters, and the noise of the spirits engaged in forging steel,
gold, and silver in their caverns, for the temptation and perdition of
man. I heard, too, the deep clanging tones and notes in their simple
and secret powers, which supply all our earthly music; and the lower I
descended, the more there seemed to fall as it were a veil from before
my eyes.
"Soon I heard other music, of quite an opposite character to the last;
and my spirit within me struggled, as if eager to fly nearer and catch
the notes. I came into more open space; and on all sides strange,
clear, glowing colours burst upon my eye. This I felt was what I had
all along sighed for;--deep in my heart I welcomed the presence of
something I had long looked for--the deep-seated master-passion, of
which I then felt the ravishing powers playing in their full strength
within my breast. A swarm of the mad heathen deities, with the goddess
Venus at their head, ran forward to greet me;--all demons, that
assumed those ancients' names, and were banished thither by the
Almighty, their career being fully run upon earth; though they still
continue to work in secret.
"All the delights so familiar to the world I there found and enjoyed
in their fullest and keenest zest. My appetite was as insatiable as
the delight was lasting. The long-famed beauties of the ancient world
were all there--all that my most ardent wishes required was mine; and
each day that world grew brighter, and appeared arrayed in more
charming colours. The most costly wines slaked our thirst; the most
lovely and delicious forms played and wantoned in the air; a throng of
loves hovered invitingly around me, shedding perfumes over my head;
and tones of music burst forth from nature's inmost heart, and with
their undulating freshness restored the ardour of our desires, while
soft mists and dews stole over flowery fields, giving new essence to
their ravishing odours.
"How many years thus passed, I am quite unable to state, for here was
no time and no divisions; the luscious charm of virgin beauty burned
in the flowers, and in the forms of girls bloomed the fragrant charm
of the flowers; their colours seemed to enjoy a peculiar language;
tones uttered new words; the world of sense was enclosed, as it were,
within the glowing bloom of those luxurious flowers--the resident
spirits within were ever engaged in celebrating their triumphant
delights.
"How this was accomplished, I can neither explain nor comprehend; but
soon, amid all this pomp of sin and unlawful pleasure, I began to sigh
for repose, for the old innocent earth I had left, with all its
virtuous, social endearments; and my desire grew as violent as it had
formerly been to leave it for what I had there obtained. I wished to
lead the same life as other mortals, with its mixed pains and
pleasures. I was satiated with splendour and excess, and turned with
thoughts of pleasure towards my native land. Some unaccountable mercy
of the Almighty granted me the privilege of returning. I found myself
once more in this present world, and still within reach of repentance
and salvation; and I now think only of receiving absolution for my
sins at the footstool of the Almighty Father, for which purpose I am
on the way to Rome; that so I may again be numbered in the rank of
other living men."
Here the sad pilgrim became silent; and Frederick fixed his eye upon
him, with a searching glance, for some time. At last he took his poor
friend's hand, and said: "Although I have not yet recovered from my
astonishment, and cannot, in any way, comprehend your narrative; yet
I conceive it impossible that all with which you have been thus
fearfully haunted can be other than a strong delusion of the mind. For
Emma herself is still alive, she is my own wife; we two have never
differed, much less engaged with our weapons, during the whole course
of our lives. No, we never hated each other, as you seem to think,
though you were missing just before my marriage from home. Besides,
you never, at the time, gave me a single hint that you loved my Emma."
Then he again took his bewildered friend by the hand, and led him into
another apartment to his wife, who had just returned from a visit of
some days to one of her sisters.
The pilgrim stood silent and thoughtful in her presence, while he
examined the form and features of the lady. Then, shaking his head
repeatedly, he said, in a low voice, "By Heavens! this is the most
wonderful incident of all!"
Frederick now related to him every thing which had occurred to himself
since they parted, and attempted to explain how he must have been
labouring under a temporary delirium during many years past.
"Oh! I know right well," answered the pilgrim, "how it is. It is now
that I am bewitched and insane; and hell has cast this juggling show
before me that I may not go to Rome and seek the pardon of my sins."
Emma tried to withdraw his attention from the subject, by recurring to
scenes and incidents of his childhood; but the pilgrim was not to be
undeceived. One day he suddenly leaped up, declaring he must instantly
set out, and forth he went without even saying farewell.
Frederick and his Emma often discoursed of the strange unhappy
pilgrim. A few months had elapsed, when, pale and worn, in tattered
attire and barefoot, his poor friend entered Frederick's apartment,
while he was yet asleep. He pressed his lips to his, and exclaimed
hastily, "The holy father cannot and will not forgive me. I must away
and seek my former abode." And with this he went hurriedly away.
Frederick roused himself, and was going into his wife's chamber, when
he met her women, who were all running to find him, in an agony of
terror and alarm. The Tannenhaeuser had been there: he had come early
in the morning, and uttering the words, "She shall not stop me in my
career!" had despatched her upon the spot.
Frederick had not been able yet to recall his thoughts, when a strange
feeling of horror came over him. He could not rest; he ran into the
open air, and when they wished to bring him back, he exclaimed, "that
the pilgrim had kissed his lips, and that the kiss was burning him
until he should meet with him again."
He then ran rapidly in a variety of directions in search of the
Tannenhaeuser and the mysterious mountain; and he was never afterwards
heard of. It is reported by the people, that whoever receives a kiss
from one of the dwellers of that mountain is unable to resist the
enchantment; which draws him with magic force into its subterraneous
depths.
THE RUNENBERG.
A young hunter was sitting in the midst of the mountain-ranges, musing
beside his fowling-floor, whilst the rush of waters and of the woods
resounded through the solitude. He was thinking on his destiny; how he
was so young, and had forsaken father and mother, and his familiar
home, and all the acquaintances of his native village, to seek out for
himself a new country, to escape from the circle of recurring habits;
and he looked up with a kind of wonder that he now found himself in
this valley, and in this employment. Great clouds were passing over
the heavens and sinking behind the hills; birds were singing from the
bushes, and an echo answered them. He slowly descended to the foot of
the hill, and seated himself beside a stream that was rushing over
rugged stones with a foamy murmur. He listened to the changeful melody
of the water; and it seemed as if the waves were telling him, in
unintelligible words, a thousand things that nearly concerned him, and
he could not but feel inwardly troubled that he was not able to
understand their speech. Then again he looked around him, and thought
he was joyful and happy; so he took fresh courage, and sang with a
loud voice this hunting-song:
Joyful and merry amid the height
The huntsman goes to the chase;
His booty must appear in sight
In the bright green thickets, though till night
Its path he vainly trace.
And there his faithful dogs are yelling
Through the solitude sublime;
Through the wood the horns are telling,
And all hearts with courage swelling,
O thou happy hunting-time!
His home is clefts and caves among,
The trees all greet him well:
Autumnal airs breathe round him strong;
And when he finds his prey, his song
Resounds from every dell.
Leave the landsman to his labour,
And the sailor to the sea;
None so views Aurora's favour,
None so tastes the morning's savour,
When the dew lies heavily,
As who follows wood and game,
While Diana's smile doth shew,
Till some beauteous form inflame
His heart, that he most loved can name,
Happy hunting man art thou!
Whilst he thus sang, the sun had sunk deeper, and broad shadows fell
across the narrow valley. A cooling twilight stole over the earth;
while only the tops of the trees and the round summits of the
mountains were gilded by the evening glow. Christian's heart grew
still sadder: he liked not to return to his fowling-floor, and yet he
might not stay; he seemed to himself so lonely, and he longed for
society. Now he wished for those old books which once he had seen at
his father's house, and which he never would read, though his father
had often urged him thereto; the scenes of his childhood came before
him, his sports with the youth of the village, his acquaintances among
the children, the school that had so often distressed him; he wished
himself back again amid those scenes, which he had wilfully forsaken
to seek his fortune in unknown regions, on mountains, among strange
men, in a new occupation. As it grew darker, and the brook rushed
louder, and the birds of night with fitful wing began their devious
wanderings, he still sat dejected and disconsolate, and quite
unresolved what to do or purpose. Thoughtlessly he pulled out a
straggling root from the earth; when suddenly he heard a hollow
moaning under ground, which wound itself onward underneath, and only
died away plaintively in the distance. The sound penetrated his inmost
heart; it seized him as if he had unconsciously stirred the wound of
which the dying frame of nature was expiring in agony. He started up,
and would have fled away; for he had heard aforetime of the wondrous
mandrake-root, which, on being torn, sends forth such heart-rending
moans, that the person who has done it is fain to run away maddened by
its wailings. As he was about to depart, a stranger stood behind him,
and asked him, with a friendly air, whither he was going. Christian
had wished for society, and yet he was terrified anew at this friendly
presence.
"Whither so hastily?" asked the stranger again.
The young hunter tried to collect his thoughts, and related how the
solitude had suddenly become so frightful to him, that he wished to
escape from it; the evening so dark, the green shades of the wood so
dreary, the brook spoke in loud lamentations, the clouds traversing
the heavens, drew his longing over to the other side of the mountains.
"You are yet young," said the stranger, "and cannot well endure the
rigour of solitude. I will accompany you; for you will meet with no
house or hamlet within a league of this. On our way we can talk
together, and tell tales to each other; so your troublous thoughts
will leave you. In an hour the moon will emerge from behind the
mountains; her light will also dispel the darkness from your mind."
They went on, and the stranger seemed to the youth almost as an old
acquaintance.
"How came you on these mountains?" asked the former; "by your speech I
perceive you are not at home here."
"Ah!" replied the youth, "much might be said on that subject; and yet
it is not worth the talk, not worth relating. I was forced away by a
singular impulse from my parents and relations; my spirit was not
master of itself; like a bird which is taken in a net, and vainly
struggles, so was my soul ensnared in strange imaginations and wishes.
We dwelt far from hence, in a plain where all around, you see no hill,
scarcely a height: few trees adorned the green level; but meadows,
fruitful corn-fields, and gardens, extended far as the eye could
reach; and a broad river glided like a mighty spirit by them. My
father was gardener to the castle, and wished to bring me up to the
same employment. He loved plants and flowers beyond every thing, and
could devote himself the entire day long to the watching and tending
of them. Indeed he went so far as to maintain he could almost converse
with them; that he learnt from their growth and thriving, as well as
from the varied form and colour of their leaves. I, however, was
averse to the gardening occupation; and the more, as my father tried
to persuade me thereto, and even with threats to compel me. I wished
to be a fisherman, and made the attempt; but neither did a life upon
the waters suit me: I was then apprenticed to a tradesman in the town;
but soon came home from him also. Once on a time my father was telling
of the mountains, which, in his youth, he had travelled over; of the
subterranean mines and their workmen; of hunters and their occupation;
and suddenly there awoke in me the most decisive impulse, the feeling
that now I had found my destined way of life. Day and night I mused
thereon, and imagined high mountains, caves, and pine-forests, before
me: my fancy created for itself immense rocks; I heard, in thought,
the din of the chase, the horns, the cry of the hounds and of the
game; all my dreams were filled with these things, and therefore I had
no longer any rest or peace. The plains, the castle, my father's
little contracted garden with the prim flower-beds; the confined
dwelling; the wide heaven extended all around so dreary, and embracing
no heights, no lofty mountains,--all became more and more melancholy
and odious to me. It seemed to me as if all men about me were living
in deplorable ignorance, and that they would all feel and think as I
did, if once the feeling of their misery could arise within their
souls. Thus I harassed myself: till one morning I formed the
resolution to leave my parents' house for ever. I had found in a book
some descriptions of the nearest mountains, with pictures of the
neighbouring districts, and thereafter I directed my way. It was in
the early spring, and I felt myself quite light and joyful. I hastened
with all speed to leave the plain; and, one evening, I saw in the
distance the dim outline of the mountain-chains lying before me. I
could scarcely sleep in the inn, so impatient was I to tread the
region which I regarded as my home: with the earliest dawn I was
awake, and again upon my journey. In the afternoon, I found myself
already below my much-loved hills; and, as a drunkard, I went on, then
stopped awhile, looked backward, and felt as if intoxicated with the
strange and yet familiar objects. Soon the plain behind me was lost to
my sight; the forest-streams were rushing to meet me; beech-trees and
oaks sounded down to me from steep precipices, with waving boughs; my
path led me past giddy abysses; and blue hills were standing high and
solemn in the distance. A new world was unlocked to me. I was not
weary. So I came, after certain days, having traversed a great part of
the mountains, to an old forester, who, at my earnest request, took me
to instruct me in the arts of the chase. I have now been three months
in his service. I took possession of the district in which I was to
have my abode, as of a kingdom. I made myself acquainted with every
cliff and cleft of the mountains; in my occupation, when at early dawn
we went to the woods, or felled trees in the forest, or exercised my
eye and my fowling-piece, or trained our faithful companions, the
dogs, to their duty, I was completely happy. But now I have been
sitting here for eight days upon my fowling-floor, in the loneliest
part of the mountains; and this evening my mind grew so sad as never
in my life before; I seemed so lost, so utterly unhappy; and even now
I cannot rid myself of that melancholy humour."
The stranger listened attentively, as they both wandered through a
dark alley of the wood. They now came into the open country; and the
light of the moon, which above them was standing with its horns over
the mountain top, greeted them friendly. In undistinguishable forms,
and many sundered masses, which the pale glimmer again deceptively
united, the cleft mountain-range lay before them; in the background
was a steep hill, on which an ancient weather-worn ruin shewed
ghastly in the white light. "Our way parts here," said the stranger;
"I am going down into this hollow; there, by that old mineshaft, is my
dwelling: the metal ores are my neighbours; the mountain-streams tell
me wonderful things in the night-season; thither, however, thou canst
not follow me. But see there, the Runenberg, with its rugged walls,
how beautiful and alluring the old stone-work looks down to us! Wert
thou never there?"
"Never," replied young Christian. "I once heard my old forester relate
strange things of this mountain, which, foolishly enough, I have
forgotten; but I remember my mind was horror-struck that evening. I
should like at some time to ascend the height; for the lights are
there most beautiful; the grass must there be very green, the world
around very strange; and, perhaps, one might find up there many a
wonder of the ancient time."
"You can scarcely fail," replied the other; "whoever only understands
how to seek, whose heart is right inwardly moved thereto, will find
there old friends, and all that he most ardently desires." With these
words the stranger rapidly descended the hill, without bidding his
companion farewell; he soon vanished in the thicket, and shortly after
the sound of his footsteps also died away. The young hunter was not
surprised, but only quickened his footsteps towards the Runenberg,
whereto every thing beckoned him: thither the stars seemed to shine,
the moon pointed out a bright path towards the ruins; light clouds
rose up in that direction; and out of the depths the waters and
rushing woods persuaded him, and spoke to him new courage. His steps
were as if winged; his heart beat; he felt within a joy so great, that
it almost rose to anguish. He came into places he had never seen
before, where the rocks became steeper, the foliage disappeared, and
the naked walls called out to him as with angry voices, while a
lonesome moaning wind drove him on. Thus he hastened on without
stopping, and came late after midnight upon a narrow footpath which
ran along by the side of an abyss. He heeded not the chasm which
yawned beneath, and which threatened to devour him, so impelled was he
by wild imaginings and unintelligible desires. Now his perilous way
drew nigh a high wall, which appeared to lose itself in the clouds;
the path grew narrower at every step, so that the youth was obliged to
hold fast by the projecting stones to avoid plunging into the gulf
below.
At length he could proceed no further; the path ended under a window;
he was obliged to come to a stand, and knew not whether to turn or
stay. Suddenly he saw a light, which behind the ancient wall appeared
to be moving. He looked after the gleam, and discovered that he could
see into an antique spacious hall, strangely adorned with various
kinds of precious stones and crystals, that sparkled in manifold
splendour, and mysteriously reflected each other from the wandering
light, which was borne in the hand of a tall female form, who, in a
thoughtful mood, was pacing up and down the apartment. She seemed not
to belong to mortals, so large, so powerful were her limbs, so firm
her countenance; but the enraptured youth thought he had never before
seen or imagined such beauty. He trembled, and yet secretly wished
that she might come to the window and perceive him. At last she
stopped, set down the light upon a crystal table, and sang with a
thrilling voice:
Where can the Ancients keep,
That they do not appear?
From diamond pillars weep
The crystals, many a tear,
In full fountain falling round;
And within sad tones resound.
In the waves so clear and bright,
And transparent as the light,
There is form'd the beauteous glance,
That doth the raptur'd soul entrance,
And moves the heart in glowing dance.
Come, ye spirits all,
To the golden hall;
Raise, from out the depths of gloom,
Heads that sparkle; quickly come,
Ye that are of wondrous power,
Be of hearts the masters now,
Where bright tears with passion glow;
Be the rulers of the hour.
As soon as she had ended, she began to undress, laying aside her
garments in a splendid wardrobe. First, she took from her head a
golden veil, and her long black hair flowed in full ringlets down to
her waist; then she loosed her bosom-dress, and the youth forgot
himself and the world in gazing at the superterrestrial beauty. After
some time, she went to another golden cabinet, took thereout a tablet
that glittered with inlaid stones, rubies, diamonds, and all kinds of
jewels, and stood contemplating it with scrutinising look. The tablet
seemed to form a strange unintelligible figure, with its several lines
and colours; one while, as its brightness glanced towards him, he was
painfully dazzled; then, again, a soft green and blue playing over it,
refreshed his eye; but he stood devouring the objects with his looks,
and at the same time absorbed in deep thoughts. In his inmost heart
there was opened up an abyss of forms and harmony, of longing and
desire; troops of winged tones and sad and joyful melodies passed
through his spirit, that was moved to the very foundation: he saw a
world of pain and hope arise within himself, mighty wondrous rocks of
trust and daring confidence, deep torrents as of melancholy flowing
by. He no longer knew himself; and he was terrified as the fair one
opened the window, and reaching forth to him the magic tablet, spoke
to him these few words: "Take this in remembrance of me!" He grasped
the tablet, and felt the figure; the invisible within him immediately
passed away, and the light, and the potent beauty, and the strange
hall, had vanished. As it were, a dark night, with cloud-curtains,
fell within his inmost soul; he searched after his former feelings,
after that inspiration and incomprehensible love; he gazed at the
costly tablet, in which the sinking moon was mirrored faint and
bluish.
He still held the tablet fast pressed within his hands, when the
morning dawned; and he, exhausted, giddy, and half-asleep, fell
headlong down the steep mountain-side.
The sun shone on the face of the stupified sleeper; who, on awaking,
found himself again upon a pleasant hill. He looked around, and beheld
far behind him, and scarcely discernible at the extreme horizon, the
ruins of the Runenberg; he searched for the tablet, and could no where
find it. Astonished and perplexed, he tried to collect his thoughts
and unite his recollections; but his memory was as if filled with a
confused mist, in which shapeless and unknown forms were wildly
contending with one another. His entire former life lay behind him, as
in a far distance; the strangest and the most familiar were so mingled
together, that he found it impossible to sever them. After long
struggle with himself, he at last thought that a dream, or sudden
madness, must have befallen him that night; but still he could not
understand how he had wandered so far into a strange and remote
region.
Still, almost overcome with sleep, he descended the hill, and came
upon a beaten path, which led him down from the mountains on to the
open country. All was strange to him; he at first thought that he
should find his native home, but he saw before him quite a different
region, and at length conjectured that he must be on the southern side
of the mountains, which in the spring he had trodden from the north.
Towards noon he stood over a village from whose cottages a peaceful
smoke was ascending; children clad in festal dress were playing on the
green, and from the little church came the sound of the organ and the
chant of the congregation. All seized him with a sweet, indescribable
melancholy; all so stirred his heart, that he was forced to weep. The
narrow gardens, the little cottages with their smoking chimneys, the
neatly parted cornfields, reminded him of the wants of poor human
nature, of its dependence on the friendly earth, in whose beneficence
it is obliged to trust; while the singing and the tones of the organ
filled his heart with a devoutness he had never felt before. His
feelings and wishes of the previous night appeared to him reckless and
wicked; he wished again, in a childlike, dependent, and humble spirit,
to unite himself to men as his brethren, and to withdraw from his
ungodly purposes and opinions. The plain, with its little river that
wound itself in manifold turnings about the gardens and meadows,
seemed charming and alluring to him; he thought with fear on his abode
in the solitary mountains amid the desolate rocks; he longed that he
might dwell in this peaceful village; and with these feelings he
entered the crowded church.
The singing was just ended, and the priest had begun his sermon, which
was on the kindness of God in the harvest; how His goodness feeds all,
and satisfies every living thing; how wonderfully in the corn He has
provided for the support of the human race; how the love of God is
incessantly communicating itself in bread; and therefore the devout
Christian may, with thankfulness, perpetually celebrate a holy supper.
The congregation was edified. The young hunter's looks were fixed on
the pious preacher, and observed close by the pulpit a young maiden,
who seemed, beyond all others, resigned to devotion and attention. She
was slim and fair, her blue eye gleamed with the most piercing
softness, her countenance was as if transparent, and blooming with the
tenderest colours. The stranger youth had never felt himself and his
heart so before; so full of love and so calm, so resigned to the
stillest and the most enlivening feelings. He bowed himself in tears,
when the priest at last spoke the blessing; he felt penetrated by the
holy words, as by an invisible power; and the shadowy image of the
night sank down behind him, like a spectre, into the deepest
distance. He left the church, stopped a while under a tall lime-tree,
and thanked God in a fervent prayer, that, without his deserving, He
had freed him from the snares of the evil spirit. The village was that
day celebrating the harvest-feast, and all men were determined to be
joyful; the children gaily dressed were rejoicing in cakes and dances;
the young men on the village square, which was encircled with young
trees, were preparing all things for the festival, where also the
musicians were sitting and trying their instruments. Christian went
again into the fields, in order to collect his thoughts and fix his
contemplations, and then returned to the village, where now all were
united in joyfulness and celebration of the festival. The fair
Elizabeth was also there with her parents; and the stranger joined
himself to the joyful throng. Elizabeth was dancing; and he had, in
the mean time, entered into conversation with the father, who was a
farmer, and one of the richest men in the village. The youth and
speech of the stranger seemed to please him, and so in a short time it
was agreed that Christian should remain with him as gardener. This he
was able to undertake; for he hoped that now the knowledge and
occupations he had so much despised at home would stand him in good
stead.
From this time a new life began for him. He went to live with the
farmer, and was reckoned with his family. With his station also he
changed his dress. He was so good, so serviceable, and ever kind; so
diligent at his labour, that soon all in the house, but especially the
daughter, became friendly to him. So often as on Sunday he saw her
going to church, he held for her in readiness a beautiful nosegay,
which she received from him with blushing thankfulness: he missed her
when the day passed without his seeing her; and then in the evening
she would relate to him legends and pleasant stories. They became ever
more needful to each other; and the old people, who observed it,
seemed not to have any thing against it; for Christian was the
handsomest and most industrious youth in the village. They themselves,
from the first moment, had felt a constraint of love and friendship
towards him. After half a year, Elizabeth was his wife. It was again
spring; the swallows and birds of song had come into the land; the
garden stood in its gayest attire; the marriage was celebrated with
all joyfulness; bride and bridegroom appeared as if intoxicated with
their happiness. Late in the evening, as they went to their chamber,
the young husband said to his beloved: "No, thou art not that form
which once charmed me in a dream, and which I never can quite forget;
yet am I happy in thy presence, and blest in thine embrace."
How joyful was the family, when, after a year, it was increased by a
little daughter, that was named Leonora. It is true that Christian was
at times somewhat more serious as he contemplated the child; but yet
his youthful sprightliness always again returned to him. He scarcely
ever thought of his former way of life, for he felt himself quite at
home and contented. After some months, however, the thought of his
parents occurred to him, and especially how his father would rejoice
at his peaceful lot, at his condition as gardener and husbandman; it
pained him that he had been able for so long a time to forget father
and mother; his own child reminded him of what joy children are to
parents; and so he at length resolved to put himself on the journey,
and revisit his native home.
Unwillingly he left his wife; all wished him happiness; and in the
fine season of the year, on foot he took his way. Already, after a few
miles, he felt how painful was the parting; for the first time in his
life he felt the smart of separation; the strange objects around
seemed almost savage to him; he felt as if he were lost in a hostile
solitude. Then the thought occurred to him that his youth was over;
that he had found a home to which he belonged, in which his heart had
taken root; he could almost lament the lost levity of former years;
and he felt the extremest dejection of spirit as at a village he
turned into the inn to pass the night. He could not comprehend why he
had left his affectionate wife and acquired parents; and peevish and
discontented, he next morning set forth to continue his journey.
His anguish increased as he came near the chain of mountains; the
distant ruins were already visible, and gradually became more
distinguishable; while numerous hill-tops rose round and clear from
out the blue mist. He went timidly on; often stopping and wondering
with himself at the fear, at the horror, which more and more oppressed
him at every step. "Madness!" he exclaimed, "I know thee well, and thy
perilous allurement; but I will manfully withstand thee. Elizabeth is
no idle dream; I know that she now thinks on me, that she is expecting
me, and, full of love, counts the hours of my absence. Do I not
already see forests as black hair before me? Do not the lightening
eyes look towards me from the brook? The giant forms, are they not
advancing to me from the mountains?"
With these words, he was about to lay himself down to rest beneath a
tree, when he saw an old man sitting under its shadow, who was, with
the greatest attention, contemplating a flower, now holding it towards
the sun, then again shading it with his hand, counting its leaves, and
striving in all ways to impress it strictly on his memory. As he
approached nearer, the form seemed known to him, and soon no doubt
remained that the old man with the flower was his father. He rushed
into his arms with an expression of the most vehement joy; the other
was delighted, but not astonished, at meeting him so suddenly.
"Art thou come to meet me already, my son?" said the old man; "I knew
that I should soon find thee, but I did not think that to-day such joy
would happen to me."
"How came you to know, father, that you would meet with me?"
"By this flower," replied the old gardener; "all my life I have been
wishing to be able once to find it, but never had the fortune; for it
is very rare, and grows only on the mountains. I set out in quest of
thee, because thy mother is dead, and the solitude at home was too
oppressive and afflicting to me. I knew not whither to direct my way.
At last I wandered through the mountains, dreary as the journey seemed
to me. By the way, I sought for this flower, but could nowhere
discover it; and now, quite unexpected, I find it here, where the
beautiful plain lies stretched before me; thereby I knew that I should
find thee soon; and, see! how truly the dear flower has prophesied!"
They embraced each other again, and Christian wept for his mother; but
the old man grasped his hand, and said: "Let us be going, that we may
soon lose sight of the mountain shadows. My heart is always sad at the
steep wild shapes, the horrid chasms, the gurgling waterfalls. Let us
again visit the kind, harmless level country."
They wandered back; and Christian became more cheerful. He told his
father of his new fortune, of his child and of his home: his speech
made him as if intoxicated; and, in talking, he now for the first time
felt truly how nothing more was wanting to his happiness. Thus, amid
tales joyful and melancholy, they arrived at the village. All were
rejoiced at the speedy termination of the journey; most of all,
Elizabeth. The old man took up his abode with them, joined his little
fortune to their estate, and they formed, together, the most contented
and united circle among men. The field increased; the cattle throve;
Christian's house became in a few years one of the most considerable
in the village; and he soon saw himself the father of several
children.
Five years had in this manner passed away, when a stranger, on his
journey, stopped, and took up his abode in Christian's house, as being
the most respectable in the village. He was a friendly, communicative
man, who related many things of his journey, played with and gave
presents to the children, and, in short, was kind to every one. He was
so pleased with the neighbourhood, that he was resolved to spend some
days there; but the days grew to weeks, and at length to months. His
sojourn surprised no one, for all had already been accustomed to
regard him as belonging to the family. Only Christian often sat
musing; for it occurred to him that he had already aforetime known the
traveller, and yet he could not recollect the occasion when he could
have seen him.
At last, after three months, the stranger took his leave, and said,
"My dear friends, a wonderful destiny and strange expectations impel
me forward into the nearest mountains; a magical form, which I cannot
withstand, allures me. I now leave you, and know not whether I shall
return to you. I have a sum of money by me, which is safer in your
hands than in mine, and therefore I pray you to take charge of it:
should I not come back in a year's time, then keep it, and take it as
a thank-offering for your kindness shewn to me."
So the stranger departed; and Christian took the money into his
keeping. He carefully locked it up; and at times, in the excess of
anxiety, looked over it, counted it to see that none was missing, and
made himself much ado with it.
"This sum would make us right happy," he once said to his father,
"should the stranger not return; we and our children would then be for
ever provided for."
"Let alone the gold," said the old man; "therein lies no blessing:
hitherto, praise God, we have wanted nothing, and by all means put
this thought away from thee."
Christian often arose in the night to waken the servants to their
labour, and himself to look after every thing. The father was anxious
lest, through excessive diligence, he should injure his youth and
health; therefore, one night, he arose in order to admonish him on the
subject, when, to his astonishment, he saw him sitting at a table, and
with the greatest eagerness counting over the gold.
"My son," said the old man, in sadness, "shall it come to this with
thee? has this cursed metal been brought under the roof only to our
unhappiness? Bethink thyself, my son, or the wicked fiend will consume
thy blood and life."
"Yes," said Christian, "I no longer comprehend myself; neither by
night nor by day have I any rest; see now how it looks at me, till the
ruddy glow goes deep into my heart. Listen how it clinks, this golden
blood; it calls me when asleep; I hear it when music sounds, when the
wind blows, when people are talking in the street. If the sun shines,
I see only these yellow eyes, with which it blinks at me, and wishes
to whisper secretly a word of love into my ear: so I am obliged
nightly to get up, though only to satisfy its strong desire, and then
I feel it inwardly exulting and rejoicing; when I touch it with my
fingers, it grows ruddier and more glorious in its joy. Only look
yourself now at the glow of its rapture!"
The grey-haired man, shuddering and weeping, took his son in his arms,
prayed, and then said, "Christel, thou must turn again to the word of
God; thou must more diligently and devoutly go to church: otherwise
thou wilt languish, and in the saddest misery pine thyself away."
The money was again locked up. Christian promised to betake himself to
other subjects; and the old man was composed. A year and more had
already passed, and no tidings heard of the stranger: the old man at
last yielded to the entreaties of his son; and the relinquished money
was laid out in lands and other ways. The young farmer's wealth was
soon talked of in the village; and Christian seemed extremely
contented and joyful, so that his father thought himself happy at
seeing him so well and cheerful; all fear had now vanished from his
soul. What, then, must have been his astonishment when, one evening,
Elizabeth took him aside, and told him, with tears, that she could no
longer understand her husband; he spoke so wildly, especially at
night; he had perplexing dreams; would often in his sleep for a long
time walk about the room without knowing it, and tell of wondrous
things which oft made her shudder. But most frightful to her was his
merriment in the daytime; his laugh was wild and boisterous, his look
strange and wandering. The father stood terror-struck; and the
troubled wife continued: "He is always speaking of the stranger, and
maintains that otherwise he has long known him, for that this
stranger-man is really none other than a woman of wondrous beauty; he
also will no longer go out into the field, nor work in the garden, for
he says that he hears underground a fearful groaning when he only
pulls up a root; he starts and seems terrified at the plant and herbs,
as if they were spectres."
"Merciful God!" exclaimed the father, "is the frightful hunger so fast
grown within him that it has come to this? Then is his enchanted heart
no longer human, but of cold metal; he who loves not flowers, has lost
all love and fear of God."
The following day the father went for a walk with his son, and
repeated to him much of what he had heard from Elizabeth; he exhorted
him to piety, and to devote his spirit to holy contemplations.
Christian replied, "Willingly, my father; and often I feel quite
happy, and every thing succeeds well with me: for a long time, for
years, I can forget the true form of my inward being, and lead, as it
were, a strange life with cheerfulness: but then suddenly, like a new
moon, the ruling star, which I myself am, arises on my heart, and
vanquishes the foreign influence. I could be quite happy, but that
once, on an extraordinary night, a mysterious sign was impressed
through my hand deeply within my soul; often the magic figure sleeps
and is at rest; I think it has passed away, when suddenly it springs
forth again as a poison, and makes its way in all directions. Then I
can think and feel nothing else; all around me is changed, or, rather,
is by this form swallowed up. As the madman shudders at the water, and
the infused poison within him becomes more venomous, so it happens to
me with every cornered figure, every line, every beam; all will then
unbind the form that dwells within me, and promote its birth; and my
body and soul feel the anguish; as my spirit received it by a feeling
from without, so into an outward feeling she desires, with agonising
throes, to work it forth again, that she may be free from it and at
rest."
"It was an unlucky star," said the old man, "that drew thee away from
us. Thou wert born for a still life; thy mind tended to quietness and
plants; then thy impatience led thee away into the society of savage
stones; the rocks, the rent cliffs, with their rugged shapes, have
overset thy spirit, and planted within thee the desolating hunger
after metal. Thou oughtest ever to have been on thy guard, and kept
thy view from the mountains. So I thought to bring thee up; but it was
not so to be. Thy humility, thy calmness, thy childlike feelings, have
been all overturned by obstinacy, wildness, and overbearing."
"No," said the son; "I remember quite distinctly that it was a plant
which first made known to me the misery of the whole earth; only then
I understood the sighs and lamentations which are every where
perceptible in all nature, if only one will listen. In plants, herbs,
flowers, and trees, there moves and stirs painfully only one general
wound; they are the corpse of former glorious worlds of rock, they
present to our eye the frightfullest corruption. Now I well understand
that it was this which that root with its deep-fetched moaning wished
to say to me; in its agony it forgot itself, and told me all.
Therefore are all green plants so angry with me, and wait for my life;
they desire to obliterate the loved figure in my heart; and every
spring, with their distorted deathly looks, to win my soul. With
unpermitted and malicious art have they deceived thee, old man; for
they have gained complete possession of thy soul. Only ask the rocks,
thou wilt be astonished when thou hearest them speak."
The father looked at him a long while, but could answer him no more.
They went silently back to the house, and the old man was likewise
horrified at his son's mirth; for it seemed quite foreign to him, and
as if another being was, as from a machine, sporting and awkwardly
labouring within him.
The harvest-feast was again to be celebrated; the people went to
church, and Elizabeth, with her children, set out to be present at the
service; her husband also prepared to accompany them; but at the
church-door he turned aside, and, deep in thought, went forth out of
the village. He seated himself on the height, and looked down on the
smoking cottages beneath him; heard the singing and organ-tones coming
from the church; and saw children gaily clad dancing and sporting upon
the village-green. "How have I lost my life in a dream!" said he to
himself: "years have passed away since I went down this hill among the
children; those who then were playing are to-day serious in the
church; I also went into the sacred building; but Elizabeth is now no
more a blooming child-like maiden; her youth is gone by; I cannot with
the longing of that time seek for the glance of her eyes: thus have I
wantonly neglected a high eternal happiness, to gain one that is only
passing and transitory."
Full of strange desires, he walked to the neighbouring wood, and
buried himself in its thickest shades. A shuddering stillness
encompassed him; no breeze stirred amid the leaves. Meanwhile he saw a
man approaching him from the distance, whom he imagined to be the
stranger; he was struck with terror, and his first thought was, that
he would demand back his money. But as the form came nearer, he saw
how greatly he had been mistaken; for the features which he had
fancied, dissolved away as into one another, and an old woman of the
extremest ugliness came up to him. She was clad in dirty rags; a
tattered cloth bound together some grey hairs; and she hobbled on a
crutch. With frightful voice she spoke to Christian, and asked after
his name and station. He answered her minutely, and added, "But who
art thou?"
"I am called the Woodwoman," said she; "and every child can tell of
me. Hast thou never known me?" With the last words she turned herself
about, and Christian thought he again recognised among the trees the
golden veil, the lofty gait, the majestic limbs. He wished to hasten
after her, but he had sight of her no more.
Meanwhile something glittering drew his eye down to the grass. He took
it up, and saw again the magic tablet with its precious
stones and remarkable figure, that he had lost so many years before.
The form and its varied light pressed all his senses with a sudden
power. He grasped it firmly, to assure himself that he had it once
more in his hands, and then hastened back with it to the village. His
father met him.
"See," cried he to him, "that of which I have so often told you, and
which I thought only to have seen in a dream, is now truly and surely
mine."
The old man contemplated the tablet a long while, and said: "My son,
my heart quite shudders as I view the aspect of these stones, and
foreboding guess the meaning of this inscription. See here, how cold
they sparkle, what cruel looks they cast up, bloodthirsty, like the
red eye of the tiger! Throw away this writing, which makes thee cold
and cruel, which will turn thy heart to stone.
See the tender flowers beaming,
As from out themselves they waken;
Like as children from their dreaming,
In smiling loveliness are taken.
Their various hues in playful bliss
All turn they to the golden sun;
And when they feel his burning kiss,
'Tis then their happiness is won.
And on his kisses so to languish,
To pine in love and melancholy;
Then smiling in their dearest anguish,
Soon fade in soft tranquillity.
This is to them the highest joy,
The fond delight they love to cherish;
Themselves in death to glorify,
Beneath their lover's glance to perish.
Then all around their perfum'd treasure
They profluent pour in raptur'd calm;
Until the air grows drunk with pleasure,
Enliven'd with the odorous balm.
Love comes all human hearts approving,
Responsive touching every chord;
Well may the conscious soul record,
'Now I know the due reward,
The gladness, sadness, pain of loving.'"
"Wonderful incalculable treasures," answered the son, "must there
still be in the depths of the earth! Could some one but explore them,
raise them up, and snatch them to himself! Could he but so press to
his bosom the earth as a beloved bride, that in anguish and love she
would willingly grant to him what she had most precious! The Woodwoman
has called me; I go to seek her. Close by is an old ruined shaft,
which centuries ago some miner has dug open; perhaps there I shall
find her."
He hastened forward. In vain the old man strove to detain him; he soon
vanished from his sight. Some hours afterwards, the father, with much
exertion, arrived at the old shaft: he saw footsteps impressed on the
sand at the entrance; and returned in tears, convinced that his son
had, in his madness, gone in, and been drowned in the depths of the
old collected waters.
From that time he was always melancholy and in tears. The whole
village mourned for the young farmer. Elizabeth was inconsolable; the
children lamented aloud. Half a year after the old father died;
Elizabeth's parents soon followed him, and she was obliged to take the
sole management of the large estate. Her many avocations removed her
somewhat from her sorrow; the education of her children, the
superintendence of her property, left her no time for care and grief.
So after two years she resolved on a new marriage, and gave her hand
to a young sprightly man, who had loved her from his youth. But soon
all things in the house assumed another form. The cattle died; men and
maid-servants were unfaithful; the barns filled with grain were
consumed by fire; people in the town who owed them various sums fled
away with the money. The landlord soon found himself compelled to sell
some fields and meadows; but a failure in the crops, and a year of
scarcity, only brought him into new embarrassments. It seemed nought
else than as if the gold, so wondrously obtained, were in all ways
seeking a speedy flight.
Meanwhile the family increased; and Elizabeth, as well as her husband,
became careless and dilatory from despair. He endeavoured to drown his
cares by drinking much of intoxicating wine, which made him irritable
and passionate, so that Elizabeth often bewailed her misery with
bitter tears.
As soon as their fortune declined, their friends in the village kept
aloof; so that in a few years, they found themselves quite forsaken,
and with the greatest difficulty could struggle on from week to week.
They had only a few sheep and one cow remaining; which Elizabeth
herself often tended with her children. She was once sitting thus with
her work on the grass, Leonora by her side, and a child at her breast,
when they saw from the distance a strange form coming towards them. It
was a man in a coat all in tatters, barefoot, his countenance sunburnt
to a dark-brown, and still more disfigured by a long rough beard; he
wore no covering on his head, but had a garland of green leaves
twisted through his hair, which made his wild appearance still more
strange and incomprehensible. On his back he carried in a fast-bound
sack a heavy burden; in walking he supported himself on a young
fir-tree.
When he came nearer, he set down his load, and heavily fetched his
breath. He wished the lady good-day; she was terrified at his
presence, the child clung closely to her mother. When he had rested a
while, he said: "I have just come from a very fatiguing journey among
the roughest mountains upon earth; but have, at last, succeeded in
bringing with me the most precious treasures which imagination can
conceive or heart can wish. Look here and wonder!" Hereupon he opened
his sack, and emptied it; it was full of pebbles, mixed with large
pieces of flint and other stones. "It is only," he continued, "that
these jewels are not yet ground and polished, that they fail to take
the eye. The outward fire, with its brightness, is yet too deeply
buried in their inmost heart; but one has only to strike it out, and
make them feel that no dissimulation will any more serve them, then
you will see of what spirit they are the offspring." With these words,
he took one of the hard stones and struck it vehemently against
another, so that red sparks sprang forth between them, "Did you see
the glance?" he cried. "Thus are they all fire and light; they
illuminate the darkness with their laughter, but as yet they do it not
willingly." So saying, he again packed all up carefully in his sack,
which he tied fast together. "I know thee very well," he then said
sadly; "thou art Elizabeth." She started with terror.
"How earnest thou to know my name?" she asked, with foreboding
shudder.
"Ah, good God!" said the unhappy one; "I am indeed Christian, who once
came to thee as a hunter. Dost thou, then, know me no more?"
She knew not, in her horror and deepest compassion, what to say. He
fell upon her neck and kissed her. Elizabeth exclaimed, "O God! my
husband is coming!"
"Be tranquil," said he; "I am as good as dead to thee. There in the
forest my fair one awaits me; the powerful one, she that is adorned
with the golden veil. This is my dearest child Leonora. Come hither,
my dear, beloved heart; give me too a kiss,--one only,--that I may
once again feel thy mouth upon my lips, then I will leave you."
Leonora wept; she clasped close to her mother, who, in sobs and tears,
half turned her towards the wanderer; he half drew her to himself,
took her in his arms, and pressed her to his bosom. Then he went
silently away, and in the wood they saw him speaking with the
frightful Woodwoman.
"What is the matter?" asked the husband, as he found mother and
daughter pale and dissolved in tears. Neither would answer him.
But the unhappy one was from that day never again seen.
THE MYSTERIOUS CUP.
The forenoon bells were sounding from the great cathedral. On the open
place, men and women were moving in various directions, carriages
passing along, and priests going to their churches. Ferdinand stood
upon the stairs regarding the multitude, and contemplating those who
went up to be present at high mass. The sunshine glistened on the
white stones; every one sought shelter against the heat; he only had
been long standing in meditation, leaning against a pillar, under the
burning beams, without feeling them; for he was lost amid the
recollections which had risen up in his thoughtfulness. He thought on
his former life, and inspired himself with the feeling which had
penetrated his being, and extinguished all other wishes.
At the same hour he had stood here in the former year, to see the
women and maidens going to service; with listless heart and smiling
eye he had contemplated the various forms. Then there came across the
square a youthful form in black, tall and noble, her eyes modestly
cast before her on the ground; unembarrassed she ascended the stairs
with lovely grace; her silken dress lay around the most beautiful of
forms, and vibrated as in music about the moving limbs. She was going
to mount the highest step, when unconsciously she raised her eye, and
its azure beam met his glance. He was pierced as by lightning. She
stumbled, and quickly as he sprang forward, he could not hinder but
that for a moment she, in the most charming posture, lay kneeling at
his feet. He raised her; she looked not at him, but was all a blush,
nor answered his inquiry whether she was hurt. He followed her into
the church, and saw only the image as she had knelt before him, and
the loveliest of bosoms bent towards him. The following day he again
visited the threshold of the temple; for him the place was
consecrated. He had intended to take his departure, his friends were
impatiently expecting him at home; but now from henceforth this was
his father-land; his heart was inverted.
He saw her often--she did not shun him--yet only for separate and
stolen moments; for her rich family sufficiently watched her, still
more a powerful and jealous bridegroom. They confessed to each other
their love, but knew not in their situation what to counsel; for he
was a stranger, and could offer his beloved no such great fortune as
she was entitled to expect. Now he felt his poverty; yet when he
thought on his former way of life, he seemed to himself surpassingly
rich, for his existence was hallowed, his heart floated for ever in
the fairest emotion. Nature was now friendly to him, and her beauty
revealed to his meditations, he felt himself no longer a stranger to
devotion and religion; and now he trod this threshold, the mysterious
dimness of the temple, with far other feelings than in those days of
levity. He withdrew from his former acquaintances, and lived only to
love. Whenever he passed through her street, and only saw her at the
window, that day was for him a happy one. He had often spoken to her
in the twilight of evening, as her garden adjoined to that of a
friend, who, however, did not know his secret. Thus a year had
elapsed.
All these scenes of his new existence again passed through his
remembrance. He raised his eyes; that noble form was even then gliding
across the square--she lightened upon him from among the mixed
multitude as a sun. A lovely song sounded into his longing heart; and
as she approached, he stepped back into the church. He held towards
her the holy water; her white fingers trembled as they touched his;
she bowed graciously. He followed her, and knelt near her. His whole
heart melted away in melancholy and love; it seemed to him as if, from
the wounds of longing, his existence was bleeding away in ardent
prayers; every word of the priest thrilled through him, every tone of
the music gushed devotion into his bosom; his lips quivered as the
fair one pressed the crucifix of her rosary to her ruby mouth. How had
he not been able to comprehend this faith and this love before?
The priest raised the host, and the bell sounded. She bowed herself
more humbly, and crossed her breast. Like lightning it struck through
all his powers and feelings; and the altar-picture seemed alive--the
dimness of the windows as a light of Paradise. Tears streamed
profusely from his eyes, and allayed the inward burning of his heart.
Divine service was ended. He again offered her the holy font; they
spoke some words, and she withdrew. He remained behind, not to excite
notice; he looked after her till the hem of her garment vanished round
the corner. Then he felt as the weary bewildered traveller, who in the
thick forest beholds the last gleam of the descending sun.
He awoke from his dream, as a dry, withered hand struck him on the
shoulder, and some one called him by name. He started back, and
recognised his friend the morose Albert, who lived apart from men, and
whose lonely house was open only to the young Ferdinand. "Are you
mindful of our engagement?" asked the hoarse voice.
"O, yes," said Ferdinand; "and will you keep your promise to-day?"
"This very hour," replied the other, "if you will follow me."
They walked through the city to a distant street, and there into a
large building.
"To-day," said the old man, "you must give yourself the trouble to go
with me to the back part of the house, into my most solitary chamber,
that we may not be at all disturbed."
They passed through many rooms, then up some stairs, and along several
passages; and Ferdinand, who had thought that he knew the house well,
now could not but wonder at the number of the apartments, as well as
the singular arrangement of the spacious building; but more than all,
that the old man, who was not married and had no family, should occupy
it alone, with only a single servant, and would never let out any
portion of the superfluous room to strangers. At length Albert
unlocked a door, and said, "Now we are at the place." They entered a
large and lofty chamber, hung round with red damask, that was trimmed
with golden listings; the seats were of the same stuff; and through
heavy red silk curtains, which were let down, there glimmered a purple
light.
"Wait a moment," said the old man, as he went into another room.
Ferdinand, in the mean time, took up some books, in which he found
strange unintelligible characters, circles and lines, together with
many curious plates; and from the little he could read, they seemed to
him to be works on alchemy: he knew, also, that the old man had the
reputation of being a gold-maker. On the table lay a lute, singularly
overlaid with mother-of-pearl and wood, and representing
birds and flowers in splendid forms. The star in the middle was a
large piece of mother-of-pearl, worked out in the most skilful manner
into many intersecting circles, almost like the centre of a window in
a Gothic church.
"You are looking at my instrument," said Albert, who had now returned:
"it is two hundred years old; I brought it with me as a memorial of my
journey into Spain. But now leave all that, and take a seat."
They sat down at the table, which likewise was covered with red cloth;
and the old man placed something on it which was carefully wrapped up.
"From pity to your youth," he began, "I lately promised to foretell
you whether or not you could become happy; and this promise I am
willing to fulfil at the present hour, though you recently wished to
treat the matter as a jest. You need not alarm yourself, for what I
design can happen without danger. I shall make no dread incantations,
nor shall any horrible apparition terrify you. The thing which I shall
endeavour may fail in two ways; either if you do not love so truly as
you have wished to make me believe, for then my labour is in vain, and
nothing will shew itself; or if you should disturb the oracle, and
destroy it by a useless question, or by a hasty movement leaving your
seat, the figure would break in pieces. So you must keep yourself
quite still."
Ferdinand gave his word; and the old man unfolded from the cloths that
which he had brought with him. It was a golden goblet, of very costly
and beautiful workmanship: around its broad foot ran a wreath of
flowers, twined with myrtles and various other leaves and fruit,
highly chased with dim and brilliant gold. A similar ring, only
richer, adorned with figures of children, and wild little animals
playing with them, or flying before them, wound itself around the
centre of the cup. The chalice was beautifully turned; above, it was
bent back toward the lips; and within, the gold sparkled with a ruddy
glow. The old man placed the goblet between himself and the youth, and
beckoned him nearer.
"Do you not feel something," said he, "when your eye loses itself in
this splendour?"
"Yes," said Ferdinand; "this brightness reflects into my very inmost
being,--I might say, I feel it as a kiss in my longing bosom."
"It is right," said the old man. "Now let your eyes no more stray
around, but keep them fixed on the glance of this gold, and think as
earnestly as you can on your beloved."
Both sat still awhile, and, absorbed in contemplation, beheld the
gleaming cup. But soon the old man, with mute gesture, first slowly,
then more quickly, and at last with rapid movement, proceeded with
extended finger to draw regular circles around the glow of the goblet.
Then he paused, and took the circles from the opposite direction. When
he had thus continued for some time, Ferdinand thought he heard music,
but it sounded as from without in a distant street. Soon, however, the
tones came nigher; they struck on his ear louder and louder, and
vibrated more distinctly through the air; so that, at last, he felt no
doubt but that they issued from the interior of the goblet. The music
became still stronger, and of such penetrating power, that the heart
of the young man trembled, and tears rose into his eyes. Busily moved
the old man's hand in various directions across the mouth of the cup;
and it appeared as if sparks from his fingers were convulsively
striking and sounding on the gold. Soon the shining points increased,
and followed, as on a thread, the motion of his finger; they
glittered of various colours, and crowded still more closely on one
another, till they rushed altogether in continuous lines. Now it
seemed as if the old man in the red twilight was laying a wondrous net
over the brightening gold, for at will he drew the beams hither and
thither, and wove up with them the opening of the goblet: they obeyed
him, and remained lying like a covering, waving to and fro, and
playing into one another. When they thus were fastened, he again
described the circles around the rim; the music subsided, and became
softer and softer, till it could no longer be perceived; and the
bright net-work quivered, as if in agony. It burst in increasing
agitation, and the beams rained down drops into the chalice; but out
of the fallen drops arose a reddish cloud, which formed itself in
manifold circles, and floated like foam over the mouth of the cup. A
bright point darted up with the greatest rapidity through the cloudy
circles. There stood the image; and suddenly, as it were, an eye
looked out from the mist; above, golden locks flowed in ringlets;
presently a soft blush went up and down the quivering shade; and
Ferdinand recognised the smiling countenance of his beloved--the blue
eyes, the delicate cheeks, the lovely red mouth. The head waved to and
fro, raised itself more distinctly and visibly on the slender white
neck, and bowed towards the enraptured youth. The old man kept on
describing his circles around the goblet, and thereout issued the
glancing shoulders; and at last the whole of the lovely image pressed
from out the golden bed, and gracefully waved to and fro.
Ferdinand thought he felt the breath as the beloved form inclined
towards him, and almost touched him with burning lips. In his
ravishment he could no longer command himself, but impressed a kiss on
the mouth, and endeavoured to grasp the beautiful arm, and quite to
raise the lovely form out of its golden prison. Then a violent
trembling suddenly struck through the image, as in a thousand
fragments the head and body broke together; and a rose lay at the foot
of the goblet, in whose blush the sweet smile still appeared.
Ferdinand passionately seized it, and pressed it to his mouth. At his
ardent longing, it withered and dissolved away in the air.
"Thou hast badly kept thy word," said the old man, angrily: "thou
canst only impute the fault to thyself."
He again wrapped up his goblet, drew aside the curtains, and opened a
window. The clear daylight broke in; and Ferdinand, in a melancholy
mood, and with many apologies, took his leave of the murmuring old
man. He hastened with emotion through the streets of the city, and sat
down under the trees without the gate. She had told him in the morning
that she was to go that night with some relations into the country.
Intoxicated with love, he now sat, now wandered into the wood. Still
he beheld the fair form as it ascended from the glowing gold: he
expected to see her step forth in the splendour of her beauty, when
the fairest of shapes broke in pieces before his eyes; and he was
angry with himself that, through his restless desire and the
bewilderment of his senses, he had destroyed the image, and perhaps
his own happiness.
When, after the midday hour, the pathway began to be crowded, he
withdrew further into the thicket, but watchfully still kept his eye
upon the high-road, and curiously examined every carriage that issued
from the gate. Evening drew on, a red glimmer was thrown up by the
setting sun; when the richly gilded coach rushed out from the gate,
and shone brightly amid the evening glow. He hastened towards it.
Already her eye had sought his. Graciously smiling, she leaned her
fair bosom from the window. He caught her loving look and greeting.
Now he stood by the side of the carriage, her fall glance falling upon
him; and as she hastily drew back, the rose which had adorned her
bosom flew out, and lay at his feet. He hastily took it up and kissed
it; and it seemed to him as if it prophesied that he should no more
see his beloved one,--that now his happiness was destroyed for ever.
* * * * *
People were up and down stairs; the whole house was in commotion; all
were making a noise and bustle about the morrow's great festival. The
mother, as the most active, was also the most joyful. The bride heeded
nothing, but retired, meditating her destiny, into her own chamber.
They were still expecting the son, the captain and his wife, and two
elder daughters with their husbands. Meanwhile Leopold, a younger son,
was mischievously busy in increasing the noise and disorder,
perplexing every thing, while he pretended to further it. Agatha, his
still unmarried sister, endeavoured to make him reasonable, and to
persuade him to meddle with nothing, and to leave the others in peace.
But the mother said: "Do not disturb him in his folly; for to-day more
or less of it does not signify. Therefore I only beg you all that, as
I have already so much to think of, you will not trouble me about any
thing that is not absolutely necessary. If the china should be broken,
or some of the silver spoons be lost, or the strangers' servants break
the windows,--with such trifles do not vex me by recounting them. When
these days of disquiet are over, then we will have a reckoning."
"You are right, mother," said Leopold; "these are sentiments worthy of
a governor. Also, if some of the maids should break their necks--or
the cook get drunk, and set the chimney on fire--the butler, for joy,
let the malmsey run or be drunk out,--you shall hear nothing of such
childish tricks. But if an earthquake should overturn the
house,--that, dearest mother, it would be impossible to keep secret."
"When will he ever become wiser?" said the mother. "What will thy
sisters think, when they find thee again quite as foolish as they left
thee two years ago?"
"They must do my character the justice," replied the lively youth,
"that I am not so changeable as they or their husbands, who, in a few
years, have so very much altered, and not to their advantage."
The bridegroom now entered, and inquired for the bride. Her maid was
sent to call her.
"My dear mother," said he, "has Leopold made known to you my request?"
"That I cannot tell," she replied; "for, amid the disorder now in the
house, one can scarcely retain a reasonable thought."
The bride entered, and the young people saluted each other with joy.
"The request I meant," continued the bridegroom, "is, that you would
not take it ill if I brought yet another guest into your house, which,
in truth, is, for these days, too full already."
"You know yourself," said the mother, "that, spacious as the house is,
I could hardly find another chamber."
"Nevertheless," exclaimed Leopold, "I have partly provided for that,
by having the large room in the back of the house put in order."
"Why, that is not commodious enough," replied the mother; "for many
years it has been only used as a lumber-room."
"It is splendidly restored," said Leopold; "and the friend for whom it
is designed does not regard such matters--he is only anxious for our
love. Besides, he has no wife, and prefers to be in solitude; so that
it will be quite the place for him. We have had trouble enough to
persuade him, and bring him again amongst his fellow-creatures."
"Not, surely, your morose gold-maker and conjuror?" asked Agatha.
"No other," replied the bridegroom, "if you please to call him so."
"Then, dear mother, do not let him," continued the sister; "what
should such a man do in our house? I have sometimes seen him pass down
the street with Leopold; I have been frightened at his countenance.
The old sinner, too, almost never goes to church; he loves neither God
nor men; and it will bring no blessing on so solemn an occasion to
have such infidels under the roof. Who knows what may spring from it?"
"How now thou speakest!" said Leopold, angrily: "because thou dost not
know him, therefore thou condemnest him; and because his nose does not
please thee, and he is no longer young and handsome, therefore,
according to thy notion, he must be familiar with spirits, and a
wicked man."
"Grant, dear mother," said the bridegroom, "a little place in your
house to our old friend, and let him partake in our general joy. He
appears, dear sister Agatha, to have experienced much misfortune,
which has made him distrustful and misanthropic. He avoids all
society, with the exception of myself and Leopold. I have much to
thank him for: he first gave my mind a better direction; yea, I may
say, perhaps he alone has rendered me worthy of my Julia's love."
"He lends me all his books," continued Leopold; "and, what is more,
his old manuscripts; and, what is still more, money upon my bare word.
He has the Christian disposition, my little sister; and who knows but
that, when thou comest to be better acquainted with him, thou mayest
not forego thy prudery, and fall in love with him, odious as he
appears to thee at present?"
"Well, bring him to us," said the mother; "I have already been obliged
to hear so much about him from Leopold, that I am curious to make his
acquaintance. Only you must answer for it, that we cannot afford him a
better lodging."
In the mean while travellers had arrived; they were members of the
family, the married daughters and the officer, and had brought their
children with them. The good old lady was delighted to see her
grandchildren; all was welcoming and joyful talk; and when Leopold
and the bridegroom had also received and returned their salutations,
they went away to look after their ancient melancholy friend. This
latter lived, for the greater part of the year, about three miles from
the city; but he also kept a little dwelling for himself in a garden
near the gate. Here, by chance, the two young men had become
acquainted with him: they now met him at a coffee-house, as they had
previously appointed. As it was already evening, they after a little
conversation returned back to the house. The mother received the
stranger very graciously; the daughters kept themselves somewhat
distant; Agatha especially was shy, and carefully avoided his glance.
After the first general conversation was over, the eye of the old man
turned fixedly on the bride, who had come into the company later; he
appeared enraptured, and it was observed that he endeavoured secretly
to dry off a tear.
The bridegroom rejoiced in his joy; and when after some time, they
stood aside at the window, he took the hand of the old man, and asked
him, "What do you say of my beloved Julia? Is she not an angel?"
"O my friend," replied the old man, with emotion, "such beauty and
grace I have never yet seen; or rather I should say (for that
expression is incorrect), she is so beautiful, so charming, so
heavenly, that it seems to me as if I had long known her; as if she
were to me, stranger as she is, the dearest picture of my imagination,
that which had ever been at home within my heart."
"I understand you," said the young man. "Yes, the truly beautiful,
great, and sublime, when it sets us in astonishment and admiration,
still does not surprise us as something strange, unheard-of, never
seen; but our inmost existence in such moments becomes clear to us,
our deepest recollections are awakened, and our dearest feelings are
made alive."
At the supper the stranger took but little part in the conversation;
his gaze was intensely fixed upon the bride, so that, at length, she
became embarrassed and alarmed. The officer told of a campaign, which
he had served in; the rich merchant, of his merchandise, and the bad
times; and the landowner, of the improvements he had begun on his
estate. After supper, the bridegroom took his leave, to return for the
last time to his lonely habitation; for in future he was to live with
his young wife in the mother's house, in chambers already furnished.
The company separated, and Leopold conducted the stranger to his
apartment.
"You will excuse it," he began, as they went along, "that we are
obliged to lodge you somewhat far away from us, and not so
commodiously as my mother wished: but you see yourself how numerous
our family is, and other relations are coming to-morrow. You will, at
least, not be able to run away from us, for certainly you could not
find your way out of this spacious mansion."
They went through several passages, and at last Leopold took leave of
his friend, and wished him good night. The servant placed two
wax-lights on the table, and having asked the stranger if he should
assist him to undress, which service being declined, he also withdrew;
and the stranger found himself alone.
"How, then, does it happen," said he, as he walked up and down, "that
to-day that image springs so vividly from my heart? I forgot the long
past, and thought I saw herself; I was again young, and her voice
sounded as of old; it seemed to me as if I was awaking from a heavy
dream; but no, now I am awake, and the pleasing delusion was only a
sweet dream."
He was too restless to sleep: he contemplated some pictures on the
walls, and then the chamber. "To-day," he exclaimed, "every thing is
so familiar, I could almost delude myself to imagine that this house
and this apartment are not strange to me." He tried to fix his
recollections, and took up some large books which were standing in a
corner. When he had turned over the leaves, he shook his head: a
lute-case was leaning against the wall; he opened it, and took out a
strange old instrument, which was damaged and wanted the strings.
"No, I am not mistaken," he cried, astonished; "this lute is too
remarkable--it is the Spanish lute of my long-deceased friend Albert;
there stand his magic-books; this is the room where he wished to
awaken for me the happy oracle: faded is the red of the tapestry, the
golden embroidery is become dim; but wonderfully vivid in my mind is
all pertaining to those hours. Therefore it was that I shuddered as I
came hither through those long, complicated passages where Leopold led
me. O heaven, on this very table rose the image, springing forth as if
watered and refreshed by the redness of the gold. The same image
smiled on me here, which this evening has almost made me frenzied in
the hall--that hall where I have so often walked in familiar speech
with Albert."
He undressed, but slept only little. Early in the morning he arose,
and again surveyed the room; he opened the window and saw as formerly
the same gardens and buildings before him, only that in the mean time
many new houses had been built. "Forty years have since then
vanished," he sighed, "and each day of that time contains a longer
life than all the remaining period."
He was again called to the company. The morning passed away in varied
conversation; at length the bride entered in her marriage-dress. As
the old man noticed her he fell into such agitation, that every one in
the company observed it. They proceeded to the church, and the nuptial
ceremony was performed.
When they had returned to the house, Leopold asked his mother, "Now
how do you like our friend, the good morose old man?"
"I had imagined him, from your description," she replied, "to be much
more frightful; he is indeed mild and sympathetic, and might gain from
one a real trust in him."
"Trust!" exclaimed Agatha; "in those frightful burning eyes, those
thousandfold wrinkles, that pale contracted mouth, and that strange
laugh which looks and sounds so scornfully! No, God preserve me from
such a friend! If evil spirits wish to clothe themselves as men, they
must assume such a form as this."
"Probably a younger and handsomer one," replied the mother; "but I
cannot recognise the good old man in thy description. One can see that
he is of a hasty temperament, and has been used to lock up his
feelings within himself; he may have experienced much misfortune, and
so is become mistrustful, and has lost that simple openness which
especially belongs to those who are happy."
Their conversation was interrupted by the coming in of the rest of the
party. Dinner was served, and the stranger sat by Agatha and the rich
merchant.
When the toasts were beginning, Leopold cried out, "Now stop a little,
my worthy friends; we must have the festal goblet for this, which
shall then go the round."
He was about to rise, but his mother beckoned him to keep his seat.
"Thou wilt not be able to find it," she said; "for I have packed all
the plate away." She went out hastily to seek it herself.
"How active and sprightly our old lady is to-day," observed the
merchant, "for all her breadth and weight! and though she reckons full
sixty, how nimbly she can move! Her countenance is always bright and
joyful, and to-day is she especially happy, for she makes herself
young again in the beauty of her daughter."
The stranger applauded his saying, and the mother returned with the
goblet. They filled it full of wine, and from the head of the table
began to pass it round, each proposing the health that was dearest.
The bride drank the welfare of her husband; he, the love of his fair
Julia; likewise every one in his turn. The mother lingered as the
goblet came to her.
"Now quickly," said the officer, somewhat roughly and hastily; "we
know well that you think all men faithless, and not one of them worthy
of a woman's love. What, then, is dearest to you?"
The mother looked at him, as an angry seriousness suddenly overspread
the mildness of her countenance. "As my son," said she, "knows me so
well, and so severely blames my disposition, let me be permitted not
to express what I was thinking, and let him endeavour by his constant
love to falsify what he attributes to me as my conviction." She passed
on the cup without drinking, and the company was for some time in
silent embarrassment.
"It is reported," said the merchant, in an under-tone, leaning over to
the stranger, "that she did not love her husband, but another who
proved faithless to her; they say she was once the handsomest maiden
in all the town."
When the goblet came to Ferdinand, he looked at it with astonishment,
for it was the very same from which Albert had aforetime called up to
him the beautiful shadow. He looked down into it and on the waving of
the wine; his hand trembled; it would not have surprised him had that
form again bloomed forth from the magic bowl, and therewith his
evanished youth. "No," said he, after some time; "that which glows
here is wine."
"What else should it be?" said the merchant, laughing. "Drink, and be
happy."
A thrill of terror struck the old man, as he hastily pronounced the
name, "Francesca!" and placed the goblet to his burning lips. The
mother cast on him an inquiring and astonished look.
"Whence is this beautiful goblet?" said Ferdinand, who was ashamed of
his embarrassment.
"Many years ago," replied Leopold; "even before I was born, my father
bought it, with this house and all the furniture, from an old lonely
bachelor, a reserved man, whom all the neighbourhood considered a
magician."
Ferdinand did not like to say that he had known that man; for his
whole soul was too much perplexed, as it were in a strange dream, to
let the rest look into it, even from a distance.
After the cloth was removed, Ferdinand was left alone with the mother,
while the young people withdrew to make preparations for the ball.
"Sit down by me," said she; "we will rest, for our dancing years are
past; and, if the question is not too bold, pray tell me if you have
ever seen our goblet elsewhere, or what was it that so very much moved
you?"
"O, gracious lady," cried the old man, "pardon me my foolish vehemence
and emotion, for since I have been in your house I feel as if I were
no longer myself; every moment I forget that my hair is grey, that my
loved ones are dead. Your beautiful daughter, who now celebrates the
happiest day of her life, is so like a maiden whom I knew and adored
in my youth, that I regard it as a miracle. But no, not like, that
expression is too weak, she is her very self. Here, also, in this
house have I often been, and once in the strangest manner became
acquainted with this goblet." Hereupon he related to her his
adventure. "On the evening of that day," he concluded, "I saw for the
last time my beloved one, in the park as she went into the country. A
rose fell from her, this I have preserved; but she herself was lost to
me, for she became faithless, and soon after married."
"Merciful God!" cried the old lady, starting with emotion; "surely
thou art not Ferdinand!"
"That is my name," said he.
"And I am Francesca," replied the mother.
They wished to embrace, but immediately started back. Each
contemplated the other with searching glance; both endeavoured to
develop again out of the ruins of time those features which erewhile
they had known and loved in one another. And as in dark tempestuous
nights, amid the flight of black clouds, for a few fleeting moments
solitary stars ambiguously glimmer, immediately again to
disappear,--so shone for the time to these two, lightening from the
eyes, the brow, and lips, a transient glimpse of some well-known
feature, and it seemed as if their youth wept smiling in the distance.
He bowed himself low, and kissed her hand, as two big tears burst
from his eyes; then they embraced each other heartily.
"Is thy wife dead?" asked the mother.
"I was never married," sobbed Ferdinand.
"Heavens!" cried the lady, wringing her hands; "then I have been the
faithless one! Yet no, not faithless. When I returned from the
country, where I stayed two months, I heard from every one, from thy
friends, not from mine only, that thou hadst long since gone away and
been married in thy fatherland. They shewed me the most credible
letters, and pressed me vehemently, availing themselves as well of my
despair as of my indignation; and so it happened that I gave my hand
to another, a deserving man; but my heart, my thoughts, were ever
devoted to thee."
"I never removed from this place," said Ferdinand; "but after a time I
heard of thy marriage. They wished to part us, and they have
succeeded. Thou art a happy mother; I live in the past: and all thy
children I will love as if they were my own. But how wonderful that we
should never since have met!"
"I seldom went abroad," said she; "and as my husband soon after
assumed another name on account of an estate which he inherited, you
could have had no suspicion that we both were living in the same
city."
"I avoided men," said Ferdinand, "and lived only to solitude. Leopold
is almost the only one that has again drawn me forth and led me
amongst men. O my beloved friend, it is like a horrible spectre-story,
how we lost and have again found each other!"
The young people, on their return, found the old couple dissolved in
tears and in the deepest emotion. Neither told what had befallen them;
the secret seemed too holy. But from that time the old man was the
friend of the house; and death alone parted the two beings who in so
strange a manner had again found each other, in order shortly after to
be re-united.
THE LOVE-CHARM.
Emilius was sitting in deep thought by a table, waiting for his friend
Roderick. A light was burning before him; the winter evening was cold;
and, glad as he was at other times to dispense with his companion's
society, on this occasion he was particularly anxious for his
presence, as he wished to tell him a secret, and to ask his advice.
The shy, retiring Emilius, in the common business and the ups and
downs of life, found such difficulties and so many insuperable
obstacles, that Destiny seemed to have been in one of her ironical
moods when she connected him with Roderick, who was, in all respects,
the very opposite of his friend. Unstable and flighty, with the first
impression he was all on fire; there was nothing he would not
undertake; he had plans for every thing; no project could be too
difficult, no obstacle could deter him; while in carrying them out he
soon tired, and flagged as rapidly as he had been eager and elastic at
the outset; and difficulties, instead of being a spur to urge him to
increased activity, then only caused him to fling aside in disgust
what he had at first so enthusiastically undertaken. Hence he was for
ever full of schemes of some sort, but throwing them away and
forgetting them with as little reason as he had before thoughtlessly
adopted them. Between two such contradictory tempers not a day passed
without a quarrel, which threatened to be fatal to their friendship.
Yet perhaps, what seemed at first sight only to be a cause of
division, was, at bottom, one of the closest bonds that held them
together. In their hearts they were exceedingly fond of each other,
yet each found the greatest satisfaction in being able to complain of
the way the other treated him.
Emilius was a young roan of property. His father and mother were dead,
so that he was his own master. He was of an imaginative though
somewhat melancholy turn of mind; and being now on his travels to
complete his education, he had been staying some time at a large town
to enjoy the pleasure of the carnival, about which he did not care a
straw, and to transact certain business with some of his relations
whom he had not yet taken the trouble to call upon. On his way there
he had stumbled upon the quicksilver Roderick, who was living not on
the best possible terms with his guardians, and, to rid himself of
them and their troublesome admonitions, had gladly availed himself of
his new friend's offer to take him with him as a companion on his
travels. Again and again they had been on the point of separating, but
their quarrels had only served to shew them how indispensable they
were to each other. When they came to any place of importance, they
were hardly out of their carriage before Roderick had seen every
thing there was there worth notice--the next day most likely to forget
all about it again. While Emilius, after first spending weeks in
preparing himself with books, that nothing might escape his
observation, out of indolence generally left the place having seen
hardly any thing. Roderick went to all the public places, made a
thousand acquaintances, and not unfrequently would bring them to the
solitary apartments of his friend, and as soon as he began to be tired
of them himself, leave them alone for Emilius to entertain. Emilius's
modesty too was often severely distressed by the way in which Roderick
would speak of his talent and knowledge to sensible, well-informed
people; for he never confined himself to strict truth; and although
for himself he said he could never find time to listen to what his
companion had to say on these matters, yet he gave them to understand
there was scarce a subject in literature, history, or art on which
they could not derive from him the most valuable information. If
Emilius was disposed to do any thing, Roderick was sure to have been
at a ball the night before, or to have caught cold at a sledging
party, and be obliged to keep his bed; so that in the society of the
most restless and excitable of sociable mortals, he lived almost
wholly by himself.
This evening, however, Emilius counted on him with some certainty, as
he had promised faithfully to spend it at home, to learn what it was
that for some weeks past had been weighing on his friend's spirits.
Emilius spent the interval in composing the following verses:
Spring-time, it is blithe and gay
When the nightingale sits on the hawthorn-spray,
And every leaf and every flower
Quivers with joy at the music's power.
The play of the gentle evening air
In the golden moonlight is passing fair,
As over the tree-tops it whispering sweeps
And its wings in the linden's fragrance steeps.
The glance of the new-blown rose is bright
As the gleaming of stars on a summer's night,
Like a bride for the altar the garden arraying,
And love in a thousand flowerets playing.
Yet brighter, and fairer, and lovelier far
Is the pale little lamplet's trembling star
Which yonder my love in her chamber shews
As she lingers at night, to her couch ere she goes.
Her delicate tresses I watch her unbind,
From around her fair temples the rose-wreath unwind;
Her exquisite form to my rapturous gaze
With each motion the tightening nightdress betrays.
And oh, when the lute in her fingers she takes,
And stirr'd at her bidding sweet music awakes,
With a thrill at her exquisite touch, from the strings
The spirit of melody laughingly springs.
She sends out a song to recall him again,
The wandering rogue--but she sends it in vain;
For he flies to my heart with a shout of loud laughter
For shelter; and there the pursuer flies after.
Oh, out with thee, mischievous villains, away!
But together they bar themselves in as they say,
"Till this shall be broken we budge not from here,
And the Love-god we'll teach thee to know and to fear."
Emilius stood up impatiently. It was now dark, and Roderick was not
come; he was craving to tell him of his love for an unknown beauty who
lived opposite to them, and kept him all day watching at the window,
and all night waking in his bed. A sound of footsteps on the stairs.
The door opened without any one knocking, and in came two gay-looking
figures with very ugly masks on their faces; one dressed as a Turk, in
a long gown of blue and red; the other as a Spaniard, in a doublet of
red and light yellow, and a plume of feathers in his cap. Emilius was
getting impatient, when the Turk took off his mask, and shewed the
well-known, broad, merry face of Roderick.
"My dear fellow," he said, "what a dismal-looking face! that is not
the way to look at carnival-times. I and my young officer friend here
are come to carry you off. There is a great ball to-night at the
saloon. I know you have sworn never to go about in any other dress
than this dingy old every-day black; but come along as you are--it is
late."
"As usual," replied Emilius very angrily. "You have forgotten our
agreement it seems.--I am exceedingly sorry," he added, turning to the
stranger, "that it is not in my power to accompany you. My friend is
too hasty in making engagements for me. I cannot possibly leave the
house, as I have subjects of importance to talk over with him."
The stranger, who understood Emilius's manner, and felt his visit was
ill-timed, took his leave immediately.
Roderick, however, who took it all with the greatest coolness, put on
his mask again and stood up before the mirror. "What an object it
makes of me!" he said; "it is a miserable, tasteless device after all:
don't you think so?"
"What a question!" said Emilius in the greatest indignation. "To make
a caricature of yourself, and drown your senses in dissipation, is
just the sort of thing you most enjoy."
"Because you do not like dancing," said the other, "and take it to be
a pernicious invention, no one else is to amuse himself. How
ridiculous it is when a man is made up of nothing but whims and
fancies!"
"Yes, indeed," replied his irritated friend, "I am sure I have reason
enough to remark it too of you. I had hoped that, as you promised, you
would give this one evening to me, but----"
"But it is the carnival," said Roderick, "and all my friends and a
number of ladies are expecting me at the great ball to-night. Really,
my dear friend, if you will but think of it, you will see it is mere
disease in you to feel such extreme dislike to these things."
"Which of us two is most diseased," answered Emilius, "is a point I
will not attempt to decide. Your astonishing levity, your craving for
dissipation, your restless hunting after pleasures which do not reach
the heart, but only leave it sick and weary, does not seem to me to
indicate a very healthy frame of mind. Granted, however, if you will,
that my feeling is mere weakness, you would do better in some things
to let it take its way; and there is nothing in the whole world which
drives me more frantic than a ball with its fearful music. Some one
has said that to a deaf man, who cannot hear the music, a ball-room
must look like Bedlam let loose; but to me this terrible music itself,
these infernal tunes whirling and whizzing round with inconceivable
swiftness faster and faster, seizing all one's thoughts, saturating
one's body and soul, and haunting one like so many spectres,--is not
this the very jubilee of frenzy and madness itself? If dancing is ever
to be endurable to me, it must be to the tune of silence."
"Well done, Mr. Paradox," said his friend; "you have got to this, have
you? to find the innocentest, naturalest, pleasantest thing in the
world a horrid, unnatural monster."
"I cannot help my feelings," said he very seriously; "as long as I can
remember, these tunes have made me miserable, have often driven me to
despair. To me they are the fiends and furies of the world of sound;
they squeak and gibber round my head, and grin at me with hideous
laughter."
"Mere nervousness," answered the other; "it is just like your
ridiculous horror of spiders, and a number of other innocent
creatures."
"Innocent you call them," he said passionately, "because they do not
affect you; but some people feel, and I am one of them, at the sight
of these hideous creatures, such as toads and spiders, or that most
odious of all nature's abortions, the bat, their very souls shaken
with unutterable horror and loathing; to them they can be neither
indifferent nor unmeaning, because their very being is the
contradiction of their own. Truly one may laugh at unbelievers whose
imagination is too weak for ghosts and hobgoblins, and other children
of darkness that we see in fevers or in one of Dante's pictures, when
the commonest life gives us master-pieces of all that is most
horrible. No one can have a real love for the beautiful unless he
feels a hatred of these monsters."
"Why feel hatred?" asked Roderick. "Look at the sea, the great
water-kingdom, full of the strangest, comicalest, most amusing
figures, the whole deep looking like a grotesque masquerade; why is
one to find nothing there but the horrible phantoms your mind makes
them seem to you? But these fancies of yours do not stop here; you
make an idol of the rose, while for other flowers you have as
passionate a hatred. What has the poor orange-lily done to offend you,
and the many other beautiful children of the summer? So there are
colours you cannot bear, and scents, and thoughts. And you never do
any thing to overcome these repugnances; you yield to the first
temptation; so that at last, instead of a person, you will be nothing
but a bundle of whims and caprices."
Emilius was now angry to the bottom of his heart, and would not
answer. He had given up all present purpose of making his
communication; indeed, importantly as he had said he had a secret that
he wished to tell, his volatile friend seemed to have no curiosity to
hear it, but sat playing with his mask on the sofa in the greatest
indifference. At last he cried out suddenly, "Be so good, Emilius, as
to lend me your large cloak."
"What for?" he asked.
"I hear music in the church yonder," answered Roderick. "I have never
happened to be at home any evening at this hour before, and now it
comes in just at the very nick of time. I can put on your cloak over
my dress; and when the service is over, go on straight to the ball."
Emilius muttered something, and fetched the cloak from his wardrobe,
which he flung to Roderick, who had just risen, with an ironical
laugh.
"Take my Turkish dagger I bought yesterday, if you please," Roderick
said, as he wrapped the cloak round him. "It is rather too serious an
article to have about one as a plaything. Some trifle goes wrong, an
angry word or two, perhaps, with some one, and no one knows how one
might not use it. Adieu till to-morrow then. Peace be with you." He
did not wait for an answer, but ran down the stairs.
As soon as Emilius was by himself, he tried to forget his indignation,
and take his friend's behaviour as absurd. He took up the white,
glittering, beautifully-wrought dagger in his hand, and looked at it.
"I wonder," he said to himself, "how a man feels that has run this
sharp steel into an enemy's breast? or suppose he was to hurt with it
the object of his love." He ran it into the sheath, and then carefully
turned back the shutters from his window, and looked across the narrow
street. The house opposite was all dark; there was no light stirring;
the dear form that dwelt in it, and at this hour was generally to be
seen engaged in some household matter, seemed to be away. "Perhaps she
is at the ball," thought Emilius; "and yet it is not like her retired
ways." Suddenly a light appeared, and a little girl, that his beloved
unknown had as a companion, and was usually with her a great part of
the day, carried a candle across the room, set it down, and closed the
window-shutters. A broken binge prevented them from completely
shutting, and an opening remained large enough for any one standing
where Emilius was, to see over a part of the little room; and here he
would sit in a trance of happiness till long after midnight, watching
every gesture, every movement of his beloved's hand. Delightedly he
would observe her teaching the child to read, or giving it lessons in
sewing and knitting. On inquiry he learnt that this child was a poor
orphan whom the beautiful maiden out of compassion had taken to live
with her, and was herself educating. It was a mystery to Emilius's
friends why he was living in this narrow, out-of-the-way street, in
such inconvenient lodgings, and what he could possibly be doing that
he was seen so little in society. By himself, and doing nothing, he
was most happy as he was; all that vexed him was, that he could not so
far overcome his shyness as to seek a nearer acquaintance with this
beautiful being, who had more than once encouraged him with a smile of
greeting or thanks for some trifling compliment he had ventured to
pay. He little knew that she would sit gazing over at him as
intoxicated as he; he never guessed what wishes were working in her
heart; of what an effort, what a sacrifice she was capable to gain
possession of his love.
After walking uneasily up and down his room for some time, and the
light and the child had again disappeared, he suddenly came to the
resolution, contrary to his inclination and his nature, to go to the
ball; it had struck him that his unknown must have made an exception
to her usual retired way of living, and gone, for once in a way, to
take a taste of the world and its dissipation.
The streets were brilliantly lighted; the snow crackled under his
feet. Carriages rolled by, and masques in all sorts of guises past
him, chattering and humming as they went along. In a number of houses
he heard the odious music; and he could not prevail on himself to take
the shortest road to the saloon, to which people were hurrying and
streaming from all directions. He walked round the old church, and
gazed at the tall spire as it rose up majestically across the sky; the
loneliness and silence of the place forming a striking contrast to the
thronging of the town. The deep porch of the church was covered with
all sorts of carved work, which he had several times examined with the
greatest pleasure, and had called back into his memory the days of
ancient art and times gone by; and he now stept aside into it for a
few moments to give himself up to his meditations.
He had scarcely entered, when his attention was caught by a figure
moving restlessly backwards and forwards, and apparently waiting for
some one. By the light of a lamp, which was burning before an image of
the Virgin, he was able to make out the face as well as the strange
dress. It was an old woman with features of the extremest ugliness,
which struck the eye the more because they were set off, in a singular
manner, against a scarlet boddice covered with gold lace. She wore a
dark petticoat, and her cap also glittered with gold. He thought at
first it must be some tasteless masque that had missed his way and
strayed there by mistake. As she passed under the light, however, it
was plain that the old yellow withered face was no imitation, but a
real one. Presently two men appeared wrapped in long cloaks; they
seemed to approach the place with caution, stop, looking often from
side to side, to see if any one followed them.
The old woman went up to them. "Have you got the candles?" she asked
hastily, in a gruff, hoarse voice.
"Here they are," said one of the men. "You know the price; it is all
right."
The old woman seemed to give some money, which the man counted under
his cloak.
"I may rely on it," she said again, "that they are made exactly by the
prescription, and that there is no fear of their working?"
"Small doubt about that," answered the man, and disappeared again with
hasty steps in the darkness.
The other, who stayed behind, was a young man. He took the old woman's
hand, and said, "Is it possible, Alexia, that these rites and forms
and strange old words, which I never can have any faith in, have
power to fetter the free will of man, and force it to love and to
hate?"
"Ay is it, young gentleman," said the old woman; "but one and one must
make two before that can be. It is not these candles alone that can do
the work, though they are steeped in human blood, and moulded at
midnight under the new moon; nor the magic rites, nor the invocation;
there are many other things wanted besides these, as the artists in
these matters know well."
"Then I may depend on you?" said the stranger.
"To-morrow, after midnight, I am at your service," replied the old
woman; "and you shall not be the first to have reason to complain of
my skill. To-night, as you may have heard, I have some one else on
hand, a fellow with sense and understanding, whom it may be my art
shall produce some effect upon." The last words she muttered with a
half laugh; and the two then separated and went off in different
directions.
Emilius passed out shuddering under the dark arch, and raised his eyes
to the image of the Virgin and Child. "Before thy eyes, thou blessed
one," he said half aloud, "these children of darkness dare make their
schemes for their infernal deeds! Oh, as thou holdest thy Child in thy
embrace of love, so may the Invisible Love keep us continually in its
all-powerful arms, and our poor hearts beat ever in joy and sorrow in
the presence of One greater, who will never let us fall."
Clouds swept by over the tower and the sharp edge of the roof of the
church. The everlasting stars looked down serene and calm; and Emilius
with a strong effort flung off these horrors of darkness, and thought
of the beauty of his unknown. He went back into the crowded streets,
and approached the brilliantly illuminated mansion which contained the
ball-room. A crowd was round the door, a confused din of voices and
carriages rattling backwards and forwards, and at intervals the swell
of the alarming music pealing upon his ears.
He had no sooner got into the room than he was lost in the rolling
crowd. Dancers sweeping past him; masques running against him and
pushing him from side to side; kettle-drums and trumpets dinning in
his ear; life itself seemed on a sudden to be turned into a dream. He
passed up and down among the rows of people with his eye alert only to
find one pair of bright eyes and the brown tresses of one beautiful
head. Never had he more passionately longed to catch a sight of her;
yet, with the adoration he felt for her, he could not help being
provoked to think she could find any pleasure in losing herself in
such a stormy ocean of madness and dissipation. "No," he said to
himself, "she cannot love me; no heart that loves could seek such an
infernal scene, where human beings are turned to fiends, and wild
shrieks of laughter, and these trumpets clanging, drown every pure and
holy feeling in devilish scorn. The rustling trees, the bubbling
fountains, lute-music, and the voice of noble song streaming out from
the impassioned bosom,--these are the sounds amidst which is the home
of love; but this is the very jubilee and thunder-cry of hell in all
the madness of despair."
He could not find the object of his search, however, though he had
three times gone up and down the saloon, and scrutinised carefully all
the unmasked ladies, either dancing or sitting; and the idea that that
beautiful face was concealed under one of the disgusting masks was too
intolerable to be admitted for a moment.
"You are here after all, then?" said the Spaniard, who came up and
joined him. "You are looking for your friend, I suppose?"
Emilius had really never thought of him. Somewhat ashamed, he replied,
"Indeed I am surprised not to see him here. His mask is remarkable
enough."
"Only conceive what the strange fellow is about," said the young
officer. "He has not danced once since he has been in the saloon.
Directly he entered he fell in with his friend Anderson, who, it
seems, has just come back from his travels. Their conversation fell
upon literature; and as Anderson did not know the new poem which has
just come out, nothing would satisfy Mr. Roderick but that they must
shut themselves up in one of the back rooms; and there he is now with
a single candle reading the whole production aloud to him."
"That is so like him," answered Emilius. "He is made up of whims and
fancies. I have done all I could--I have even risked one or two
friendly quarrels--to cure him of this way of living so altogether
extempore, gambling away his existence in impromptus; but these
follies are so grown into his heart, that he would sooner lose his
dearest friend than part with them. This book you speak of he
professes to be passionately fond of, and always has it about with
him. The other day I asked him to read it to me, and he began to do
so. We had scarcely got beyond the opening, and I had begun to enter
into the beauties of it, when suddenly he jumped up, ran out of the
room, and presently came back with the cook's apron on, made a
prodigious fuss to light a fire, and all to do me a beef-steak, for
which I had not the slightest inclination, and which, though he
fancies he does them better than any one in Europe, few people that
have tried once are very anxious to attempt a second time."
The Spaniard laughed. "Has he never been in love?" he asked.
"After his fashion," said Emilius bitterly; "as if he wanted to make a
fool of himself and turn love into ridicule; with a dozen women at
once, and, if you believe what he says, to desperation. In a week he
has forgotten them all."
They were parted by the crowd, and Emilius went off to the room the
Spaniard had pointed out to him, where he heard his friend's voice
declaiming long before he reached it.
"Ah! there you are, are you!" Roderick cried to him; "you are come in
the very nick of time; we are just at the place you and I left off at
the other day; so sit down and listen."
"I am not in the mood at present," said Emilius; "neither do place and
time seem the best adapted for the purpose."
"And why not, pray?" answered Roderick. "It is all in ourselves. Every
time is the right time to employ oneself in a proper way. Or perhaps
you want to dance? They want men; and at the expense of an hour or two
skipping about, and a pair of tired legs, you may make half a dozen
grateful young damsels fall in love with you."
Emilius was already at the door: "Good night," he said; "I am going
home."
"Stay one moment," called Roderick after him; "I am going away early
to-morrow morning into the country with this gentleman. I will look in
upon you before I go, to say good-by; but if you are asleep, don't
trouble yourself to wake, as I shall be back again in two or three
days.--That is the strangest fellow," he said, turning to his new
friend; "so solemn, so serious and soberminded, he is a regular
kill-joy; or rather, he does not know what joy means. Every thing must
be lofty, ideal, exalted, for him. His heart must take a part, even if
it be a puppetshow he is looking at; and when things do not come up to
his notions, as of course most things can't, then he gets upon stilts,
turns tragical, and the whole world is going to the devil. Under every
clown's and pantaloon's mask he looks for a heart overflowing with
longings and supernatural impulses; harlequins must philosophise on
the nothingness of human wishes: and if these expectations are not
exactly realised, tears start into his eyes, and he turns his back on
the pretty show in a fever of scorn and indignation."
"Is he melancholy?" asked his hearer.
"Not exactly that," said Roderick; "only his parents, I think,
indulged him too much, and he has taken no pains with himself. He has
let his feelings ebb and flow regularly, till it has grown into a
habit; and if ever the usual set of emotions are put out, he cries, 'A
miracle!' and offers premiums to doctors to come and clear up a
marvellous natural phenomenon. He is the best fellow in the world; but
all the pains I have taken to cure him of these absurdities are thrown
away: nothing does him any good. It is as much as I can do to keep in
his good graces at all, he is so angry when I speak to him."
"A doctor would be the thing for him, I should think," said the other.
"It is one of his peculiarities," answered Roderick, "to despise the
whole art of medicine from beginning to end. Disorders, he says, are
all different in different persons, and all general rules and theories
are mere absurdities. He would rather go to old women, and use their
sympathetic simples. Again, on other grounds, he despises all
prudential proceedings, and every thing like orderliness and
moderation. From his childhood he has had his ideal of what a great
man ought to be, and what his endeavour is to be to make of himself;
and one of the points of this ideal is to have an utter scorn of all
_things_, particularly of money; and so, that he may never be
suspected of being economical, or not liking to give away, or indeed
of thinking of money at all, he flings it away in the absurdest way in
the world. Consequently, with all his fine property, he is always poor
and in difficulties, and is made a fool of by every one who is not
great in the sense in which he understands greatness. To be his friend
is the most difficult of things; for he is so irritable, that if one
does but cough, it is a sign one is not spiritual, and to pick one's
teeth would throw him into convulsions."
"Has he never been in love?" inquired Anderson.
"Why, who is he to love?" answered Roderick: "he despises all the
daughters of earth. If his ideal were to shew a fancy for a bow or a
ribbon, much more to dance, it would break his heart. And if she did
but catch a cold, I don't know what would become of him."
Emilius was again in the crowd; when on a sudden the shock and pain
which such scenes and concourses often produced came over him again,
and chased him away out of the room and the house, along the now empty
streets, to his house. It was not till he found himself alone in his
own room that he recovered his self-possession. His servant lit his
candle and placed it on the table; and Emilius told him to go to bed.
The other side of the street all was dark as the grave; and he sat
himself down to let the thoughts the ball had awakened in him flow off
into a poem.
There was calm in the spirit's depths;
In chains the demons slept;
With purpose fell to work his ill
Uprose the wicked will.
"Fling wide," he cried,
"The prison-gate,
Come forth, ye demons all!"
With yell and shout
That hideous rout
Sprung out at the welcome call.
Tralala! Tralala!
Whoop, whoop, whoop, hurrah, hurrah!
Trumpet crash and cymbal clash;
Flute, and fife, and violin,
Squeaking, shrieking, clattering;
Clarions ring with deafening din;
Now hell's chorus shall begin,
Now the fiends of madness reign;
Gentle child-like peace is slain.
In and out, across, about,
Whither pass this tumbling rout?
Merry dance we, and the lights flash free,
Jubilee, jubilee, jubilee!
Kettle-drums bang and cymbals clang,
And the devil drown care in the pool of despair.
With smiling lip and flashing eye
Yon fair one bids me to her side;
Yet silent soon those lips shall lie,
And wither'd be her beauty's pride.
Death's clammy hand is on her brow--
Ha! 'tis a skull that's beckoning now!
She must die; yet what care I?
Well to-day and well to-morrow,
What have I to do with sorrow?
Ay, grin as thou wilt, thou pale spectre, at me;
I'll live and dance on, and I care not for thee.
To-day that face is fresh and fair,
To-morrow 'tis bleach'd, and white, and bare:
Come then, dearest, while we may,
Let us drain love's sweets to-day.
Oh, seize the moment ere it flies!
Anguish and tears,
Sorrow and fears,
Have mark'd thee for their prize.
The angel of death
Swept by on the blast;
On thee fell his breath
Or ever he past.
Gnawing worms and rottenness,
Death, decay, and nothingness:
These are thy doom--how soon, how soon!
Thou must die, and so must I.
One touch of thy robe, as the dance sweeps by,
One squeeze of the hand, one glance of the eye,
And the grim king has clutch'd thee--on! on! let us fly!
Thou art lost, thou art gone; and away stagger I.
So why should I care?
There is joy in despair:
More maids by dozens at my feet,
With tempting bait of proffer'd sweet.
Here's a fair dame would be my bride,
And she is fair as are the maids
That wander in Elysian glades:
Shall it be she, or shall it be another?
There's a bold beauty at her side,
That looks as if she'd like a lover,
Ready to take whate'er she can,
Provided only 'tis a man.
Oh, these mad pleasures and these sirens smiling,
With cheating hopes and mocking shows beguiling--
Hell's curse is on them! Is the blossom fair?
Hate, envies, murders, are the fruit they bear.
So fast we whirl along the stream,
Life is death, and love a dream;
Ebbing, flowing, wave on wave,
Soulless, lifeless to the grave.
Nature's beauty is a lie--
She is all deformity;
Flower and tree the mocking guise
Which cheat our fond believing eyes.
On then, ye cymbals, with your din;
Scream clarionets, and bugles ring:
Crash, crash, crash! 'tis the fiend-world's knell,
Yoicks forward--forward--home to hell!
He had finished, and was standing at the window. Then came she into
the room beyond him, beautiful as he had never seen her: her dark hair
was loose, and hung in long waving tresses on her ivory neck. She was
lightly dressed, and it seemed she had some household matter to
arrange before retiring to rest; for she placed two candles on stands
in front of the window, spread a cloth on the table, and again
disappeared.
Emilius was sunk in his sweet dreamy visions, and the image of his
beloved was still playing before his fancy, when, to his horror, he
saw the fearful scarlet old woman stride across the room, her head and
bosom gleaming hideously as the gold caught the light from the
candles, and again vanished. Could he trust his eyes? The darkness had
deceived him; it was but a spectre his fancy had conjured up. But no;
she comes again, more hideous than before; her long grizzled hair in
loose and tangled masses floating down upon her breast and shoulders.
The beautiful maiden is behind her, with pale and rigid features, her
fair bosom all unveiled, her form like a marble statue. Between them
was the little lovely child, weeping and praying, and watching
imploringly the maiden's eyes, who looked not down. In agony it raised
its little hands and stroked the neck and cheeks of the marble beauty.
She caught it fast by the hair, and in the other hand she held a
silver basin. The old woman howled and drew a knife and cut across the
little thing's white neck.
Then came there something forward from behind, which they did not seem
to see, or it must have filled them with the same horror as it did
Emilius. A hideous serpent-head drew out coil after coil from the
darkness, and inclining over the child, which now hung with relaxed
limbs in the arms of the old woman, licked up with its black tongue
the spouting blood. And a green sparkling eye shot across through the
open shutter into the brain and eye and heart of Emilius, who fell
fainting to the ground. Roderick found him senseless some hours after.
* * * * *
On a beautiful summer morning a party of friends were sitting round a
breakfast-table in a garden summer-house. They seemed very merry,
laughing and chattering, and drinking the health of the young bride
and bridegroom, and wishing them long life and happiness. The young
couple themselves were not present; the beauty herself being still
engaged at her toilet, while the bridegroom was wandering up and down
the walks at the other end of the garden, to enjoy in solitude the
sweetness of his own reflections.
"What a shame it is," said Anderson, "that we are not to have any
music! All our young ladies are put out about it: they say they never
longed so much for a dance, and it is not to be: it is said he cannot
endure it."
"We are to have a ball though, I can tell you, and a right mad and
merry one too," said a young officer; "every thing is arranged; the
musicians are come, and we have stowed them away where no one shall
know any thing about them. Roderick has taken the direction on
himself; he says we ought not to give way to him too much; and that
to-day, of all days in the world, his whims and fancies must not be
indulged."
"He is so much more sociable and like his fellow-creatures than he
used to be," said another young man, "that I do not think he will be
displeased at the alteration. The whole affair of this marriage has
come on so suddenly, so little like what we expected of him, he must
be changed."
"His whole life," said Anderson, "has been as remarkable as his
character is. You all know how he came last autumn to the city on a
tour he was making, and lived all the winter through there by himself,
shut up in his room as if he was melancholy mad. He never went near
the theatre, or any other of our places of diversion; and had very
nearly quarrelled with Roderick, who was his most intimate friend, for
trying to dissipate him a little, and prevent him from for ever
indulging his gloomy humours. All this excitableness and irritability
of temper was at the bottom nothing but disease, as the event proved;
for four months ago, I believe you know, he fell into a violent
nervous fever, and was so ill that every one gave him up. He recovered
at last, and got rid of some of his fancies; but the strange thing
was, that when he came to his senses again, his memory was entirely
gone: his memory, that is, of all that had happened immediately
previous to his sickness. He could remember his childhood, and all his
boyish adventures were fresh as ever; but the last year or two were
blanks. All his friends, even Roderick, he had to become acquainted
with over again; and it is only by slow degrees that here and there
faint glimmerings of the past are beginning to come back upon his
recollection. When he was taken ill, his uncle took him into his own
house, where he could be better attended to: he was just like a child
in their hands, and let them do any thing they pleased with him. The
first time he went out to enjoy the fresh spring-air in the park, he
saw by the road-side a young maiden sitting apparently in deep thought
on a bank. She looked up as he passed; their eyes met, and, as if
overcome by some indescribable feeling, he sprung out of the carriage,
sat down at her side, caught her hands in his, and dissolved into a
flood of tears. His friends were afraid that this outburst of feeling
was a relapse into fever; he was quite quiet, however, and seemed
happy and good-humoured. He paid a visit to the parents of the young
lady, and the first time he saw her again he asked her to marry him.
Her father and mother made no difficulty, and she consented. He was
now happy; a new life seemed to have sprung up in him; every day he
got better and stronger, and his mind easier: a fortnight ago he came
here on a visit to me, and the place delighted him so much that
nothing would satisfy him but what I must part with it to him. If I
had pleased, I might have turned his inclination to my advantage: any
thing I asked he was ready to give, so that the bargain be concluded
immediately. He made his arrangements, sent furniture down, and his
plan is to spend all the summer months here. And so it has come to
pass that here we are all of us to-day gathered together at my old
place for his wedding."
The house was large, and most beautifully situated; on one side it
looked upon a river, with a garden sloping down to the water's edge
full of flowers, which filled the air with fragrance; and beyond, a
long range of hills skirting the bank of the river, and magnificently
wooded. Along the front was a broad open terrace, with rows of orange
and citron trees, and little doors leading to the various offices
underneath the house. The other side a lawn extended out to the park,
from which it was only divided by a light fence. This front of the
house had a very beautiful though very singular appearance. The two
projecting wings enclosed a spacious area, which was partly roofed
over, and divided into three stories, forming open galleries running
along the centre of the building, supported on tiers of pillars rising
one above another. From these galleries were doors opening into all
the different rooms in the house; and the various figures passing
along these spacious corridors, behind the columns above or below, and
disappearing into the different doors, in their various occupations,
produced a very singular effect. In one or other of them the party
used to collect itself at teatime, or for any games that might be
going on; so that from below the whole had the air of a theatre, when
it was the greatest pleasure to stand and watch the passing forms
above, as in a beautiful tableau.
The young party were just rising, when the bride crossed the garden to
join them. She was richly dressed in violet velvet, with a necklace of
brilliants on her ivory throat, and her white swelling bosom gleaming
through the rich lace which covered it; a myrtle sprig and a wreath of
roses formed her simple though most tasteful head-dress. She greeted
them kindly, and the young men were overcome by her extraordinary
beauty. She had gathered some flowers in the garden, and was returning
to the house to see after the arrangements for the banquet. The tables
were set out in the lowest of the open galleries. Their white damask
coverings, and the glass and crystal vessels on them, were of the
greatest beauty. Multitudes of flowers of every hue and colour stood
in elegant vases; the pillars were wound with wreaths of green leaves
and roses; and how enchanting it was to see the bride moving up and
down among the flowers, so gracefully passing between the table and
the column, looking that all was right in the arrangement. Presently
she vanished, and then appeared again for a moment at the upper
gallery as she passed to her chamber.
"She is the most charming, the most beautiful creature I ever saw,"
Anderson cried; "my friend is a lucky man."
"And her very paleness," put in the young officer, "enhances her
beauty; her dark eyes flash so above those marble cheeks; and those
lips, so glowingly red, make her whole appearance truly enchanting."
"The air of silent melancholy," said Anderson, "which surrounds her,
adds to the majesty of her bearing."
The bridegroom came up to them and asked for Roderick. The party had
already missed him for some time, and no one could guess what had
become of him; they now dispersed in search of him. At last a young
man they asked told them he was down below in the hall, playing off
tricks at cards, to the great amazement of a troop of grooms and
servants. They went down and disturbed the circle of gapers. Roderick,
however, did not let himself be put out, but went on for some time
with his conjuring. As soon as he had done, he went with the rest of
the party into the garden, saying, by way of accounting for his
employment, "I merely do it to strengthen those fellows' faith for
them. Their groomships are setting up to be free-thinkers, and it is
as well to give them a staggerer now and then--it helps to their
conversion."
"I perceive," the bridegroom said, "that my friend, among his other
accomplishments, does not think charlatanism beneath his notice."
"We live in strange times," he answered; "one must not despise any
thing now-a-days; nobody knows what he may not come to."
When the two friends were alone, Emilius turned again into the retired
walk, and said, "Can you tell me why it is that to-day, which is or
ought to be the happiest of my life, I feel so deeply depressed?
Whatever you may think of me, I assure you I am not fit for the duties
that devolve on me; I have no skill to move up and down a crowd of
people with a civil speech for every one; entertain all these hosts of
her and my relations, with respects for fathers and mothers, and
compliments for ladies; receive visitors, and see that horses and
servants are taken care of--I cannot do it."
"Oh, all that goes right of itself," said Roderick. "Your house is
capitally arranged for that sort of thing. There is your steward, a
famous fellow, with omnipotence and omnipresence in his hands and
legs; he is made on purpose to arrange these matters, and see large
parties taken care of, and put properly in their places: leave it all
to him and your pretty bride."
"This morning," said Emilius, "I was walking before sunrise in the
plantation here: my thoughts had taken a very serious turn, for I
felt, to the bottom of my soul, that my life was now become fixed and
definite, and that this love had given me a home and a calling. As I
approached the summer-house yonder, I heard voices. It was my beloved
in earnest conversation. 'Has it not turned out as I predicted?' said
a strange voice; 'exactly as I knew it must be? you have your wishes,
so be content.' I could not prevail on myself to go in to them; and
afterwards, when I came to the summer-house again, they were both
gone. I can do nothing but think and think what these words could
mean."
"Very likely she has long loved you," said Roderick, "and you have not
known any thing about it: all the better for you."
At that moment a late nightingale began to sing, as if to wish all joy
and good fortune to the lovers. Emilius became more and more gloomy.
"Come down with me into the village yonder," said Roderick; "I will
shew you something to amuse you. You are not to suppose you are the
only man that is to be made happy to-day. There is a second pretty
couple. A young scamp, it seems, what with opportunity and having
nothing else to do, got upon too intimate terms with a damsel that
might be his mother, and the fool thinks he is in duty bound to make
her an honest woman. They'll have dressed themselves out by this time.
The scene will be rich; I would not miss it for the world."
The sad and gloomy Emilius let himself be dragged away by his
talkative friend, and they reached the cottage just at the moment the
cavalcade passed out on their road to the church. The young countryman
had on his every-day linen smock, and his only piece of smartness
consisted of a pair of leather gaiters, which he had polished up to
make look as bright as possible. He was a simple-looking fellow, and
seemed shy and awkward. The bride was tanned by the sun, and her face
shewed very few remaining traces of youthfulness. She was coarsely and
poorly dressed, but her clothes were clean, and a few red and blue
silk ribbons, rather faded, were pinned up in bows on her stomacher.
The worst part of her figure was her hair, which they had pasted up
with a daub of fat and meal, and done into a great cone with hair-pins
straight up from her head, on the top of which they had placed the
marriage-garland. She tried to laugh and seem in good spirits, but she
was ashamed and frightened. The old people followed. His father was in
the employ of the house; and the cottage, as well as the furniture and
clothes, all betrayed the extremest poverty. A dirty-looking
squint-eyed fiddler followed the troop, grinning and smirking, and
scraping away on a thing professing to be a violin, which was made up
half of wood and half of pasteboard, having three pieces of packthread
for strings.
The cavalcade halted at the sight of the new landlord. Some
saucy-looking servants of the house, young boys and women, began to
laugh and cut jokes at the expense of the young couple, particularly
the ladies'-maids, who thought themselves a great deal prettier, and
saw that they had infinitely smarter clothes. A shudder passed over
Emilius. He looked round for Roderick, but he had run away again. An
impudent-looking boy, a servant of one of the visitors, who wanted to
be thought witty, pressed up to Emilius, and said, "What does your
worship say to this brilliant couple? neither of them know where they
are to get a piece of bread for to-morrow, and this afternoon they
are going to give a ball, and have engaged the services of that good
gentleman yonder."
"Not know where they are to get bread?" cried Emilius; "can these
things be?"
"Oh, yes," the other went on; "every one knows how miserably poor they
are; but the fellow says he will do his duty to the creature, though
she has not a farthing. Yes, indeed, love is all-powerful: the
ragamuffins haven't got so much as a bed; they have begged enough
small beer to get drunk upon, and they are to sleep to-night in the
straw."
There was a loud laugh at this, and the two unlucky objects of it did
not dare to raise their eyes.
Emilius pushed the chattering fool in bitter anger from him. "Here,
take this," he cried, and flung a hundred ducats, which he had
received that morning, into the hands of the astonished bridegroom:
the parents and the bridal pair wept aloud, threw themselves on their
knees, and kissed his hands and clothes. He struggled to free himself.
"Keep want from your bodies with that so long as it will last," he
said, half bewildered.
"Oh, you have made us happy for our lives, best, kindest sir!" they
all cried.
He scarcely knew how he broke from them. He found himself alone, and
ran with tottering steps into the wood, where, in the most secluded
spot that he could find, he flung himself down upon a bank and burst
into a flood of tears.
"I am sick of life," he sobbed, in the deepest emotion. "I cannot
enjoy it, I cannot, will not be happy in it. Oh, take me quickly to
thyself, kind Earth, and hide me in thy cold arms from these wild
beasts that call themselves men. O God in heaven, what have I done,
that I sleep on down and wear silk apparel? that the grape spends her
choicest blood for me, and men crowd round and cringe to me with love,
and honour, and respect? This poor fellow is better, is nobler than I;
yet misery is his nurse, and scorn and bitter mockery wish him joy
upon his wedding-day. Every dainty morsel I enjoy, every draught from
my cut glasses, my soft couches, and all this gold and ornament, oh,
they are tainted with the poison of sin, so long as the world hunts to
and fro these thousands upon thousands of poor wretches that hunger
for the dry crumbs that fall from my table, and have never known what
comfort means. Oh, now I understand you, ye holy saints; though the
proud world turned from you with disdain and scorn when ye gave your
all, even the cloak upon your back, to poverty, and chose rather as
poor beggars to be trodden under foot, and bear the scoffs and sneers
with which pride and selfish gluttony drive misery from their tables,
rather to endure yourselves the last extreme of wretchedness, than
bear upon your consciences this vile sin of wealth."
The world, and all its forms and customs, swam as a mist before his
eyes; he thought he would find now his only friends and companions
among the abject and the vile, and renounce for ever the society of
all the world's great ones.
They had been waiting for him a long time in the saloon for the
ceremony to be concluded; the bride became anxious, and her father and
mother went out into the park to look for him. After some time, when
he was partially recovered from his emotion, and his feelings were
easier, he returned, and the solemn knot was tied.
And now they all left the great saloon for the open gallery, where the
tables were set out, bride and bridegroom first, and the rest
following in order. Roderick offered his arm to a lively-looking,
chattering young lady.
"Why do brides always cry and look so serious and solemn at a
wedding?" said she, as they entered the room.
"Because they never felt before this moment the true mysteriousness of
life," answered Roderick.
"But our bride here," said his companion, "exceeds every thing I have
ever seen; she looks perfectly miserable: I haven't seen her smile
once."
"It is all the more honour to her heart," replied Roderick, who,
strange to say, seemed really affected. "You do not know, perhaps,
that some years ago she adopted a lone little orphan girl, and took
her to live with her and educate her. She devoted the whole of her
time to the child, and the love of the dear little thing was her
sweetest reward. She was just seven years old, when one day she had
gone out for a walk in the city, and never came home again; and
notwithstanding all the trouble that was taken to recover her, no one
has ever been able to tell what has become of her. This misfortune the
noble-minded woman took so much to heart, that a silent melancholy has
settled upon her ever since; and nothing has been able to distract her
from her regret for her little playfellow."
"What an interesting story!" said the young lady. "Some time or other
we may have a most romantic conclusion, and a pretty poem written
about it."
They seated themselves at the table, bride and bridegroom in the
centre, looking out upon the beautiful landscape. There was a great
deal of chattering and talking and drinking healths, and every one
seemed to be in the best possible spirits. The bride's parents enjoyed
themselves exceedingly; the bridegroom alone was gloomy and
abstracted; he did not seem to enter into any thing that was going on,
and took no part in the conversation. He started as he heard music
ringing down from above through the air; but he soon recovered
himself: it was but the soft note of a bugle which floated for a few
moments over the garden, then swept across the park and died away
among the distant hills. Roderick had placed the musicians in the
gallery immediately over the banquet, and this arrangement seemed to
satisfy Emilius. Towards the end of the feast he sent for his steward.
"My dearest," he said, turning to his bride, "shall not poverty have
a share of our abundance?" He desired that a number of bottles of
wine, some roast meat, and a large portion of various other dishes,
might be sent to the poor couple in the village, that they also might
have reason to remember the day as a day of joy and happiness.
"Only see, my dear friend," cried Roderick, "how every thing hangs
together in this world. This chattering and running about after every
body else's business but my own you so often complain of in me, has
given you the opportunity of doing this piece of kindness."
Many persons present began to say something complimentary about
benevolence and compassionate hearts, and the young lady talked of
generosity and nobleness of feeling.
"Oh, speak not so!" cried Emilius indignantly. "It is no kind action,
no action at all; it is nothing. If the swallow and the linnet fill
themselves with the refuse fragments of our abundance, shall not I
think of a poor brother-mortal who has need of my assistance? If I
followed the impulse of my heart, I should soon find little from you
and the like of you but such scorn and laughter as ye gave the saints
of old when they went out and made their homes in the wilderness, to
hear no more of the world and its generosities."
No one spoke; and Roderick saw by the flashing eyes of his friend that
he was violently displeased: he was afraid his excitement might lead
him still more to forget himself, and endeavoured as quick as possible
to give the conversation another direction. Emilius, however, had
become uneasy and restless. His eyes were continually turned towards
the upper gallery, where the servants, who occupied the highest floor
of the house, were busily engaged.
"Who is that ugly old woman in a grey cloak, going backwards and
forwards, making herself so busy there?" he asked at last.
"She is one of my servants," answered the bride; "she is to have the
overlooking of the ladies' maids and the younger girls."
"How can you bear to have so hideous a creature about you?" said
Emilius.
"Oh, let the poor thing be," replied the bride; "ugliness must live as
well as beauty, you know; she is a good honest soul, and can be of the
greatest use to us."
They rose from table, and the party now pressed round the new
bridegroom to wish him all joy, and to beg to be allowed to have their
ball. The bride threw her arms round him affectionately as she said,
"My first request, dearest, you cannot refuse; it will make us all so
happy; it is so long since I have been at a ball, and you have never
seen me dance--are you not anxious to know how I shall look?"
"I never saw you in such high spirits," said Emilius; "I will not
spoil your pleasure, do just as you please; only don't expect me to
jump and tumble about and make myself ridiculous."
"If you are a bad dancer," said she, laughing, "you may be sure you
will be left in peace." She ran away to make the requisite alterations
in her dress for the ball.
"She does not know," Emilius said to Roderick as they walked away
together, "that there is a secret door into her room from the one
adjoining; I will surprise her while she is dressing."
When Emilius was gone, and the ladies had also disappeared to put on
their ball-dresses, Roderick took some of the young men aside and
brought them to his own room. "It is getting late," he said,--"it will
soon be dark; so now be quick all of you and get your masks on, and we
will make this night a right mad and merry one. Any device you can
think of, no matter what; the more hideous objects you can make
yourselves, the better I shall be pleased--not a monster in creation
but what I must have him--humpbacks, fat paunches, all of them. A
wedding is such a strange piece of business, married people find, all
of a sudden, such a wholly new fairy-tale set of circumstances round
their necks, that we cannot make it absurd and mad enough to start
them properly in their altered condition, and set them rolling along
their new road; so to-night shall be a right wild mad nightmare, and
never listen to any one that tells you to be reasonable."
"Don't alarm yourself," said Anderson; "we brought a box of masks and
dresses from town with us that will astonish even you."
"And only look here," said Roderick, "what a treasure I have got from
my tailor! the tasteless wretch was going to clip it to pieces for
lappets. He bought it, he said, from an old woman, who I fancy must
have worn it at Lucifer's gala on the Block's berg. This scarlet
bodice with its lace and fringe, and the cap here all over glittering
with gold, will look infinitely becoming; and then with this green
petticoat on, and saffron trimmings, and this hideous mask, I will go
as an old woman at the head of the whole troop of travesters to their
room, and we will lead off our young lady in triumph to the ball;
come, be quick with you."
The bugles were still playing, and the company were either dispersed
in groups about the garden, or sitting in front of the house. The sun
was going down behind a mass of heavy clouds, and a greyish mist was
spreading over the landscape, when suddenly its last beams burst out
under the dark curtain, and all the landscape round, and the house
itself, with its galleries and columns, and wreaths of flowers, was
bathed in a blood-red glow. At that moment the bride's parents and the
rest of the spectators saw the wild troop of figures sweep along the
upper gallery, Roderick going first as the scarlet old woman; and
after him humpbacks, fat-paunched monsters with huge periwigs,
harlequins, clowns, pantaloons, spectral dwarfs, women with broad
hoop-petticoats and yard-high frisures, all like the phantoms of a
hideous nightmare. On they went, tumbling, twisting, staggering,
tripping, and strutting along the gallery, and disappeared into one of
the doors.
Suddenly a wild shriek burst from the inner chambers, and out dashed
the pale bride into the crimson light; a short white petticoat was her
only dress; her fair bosom all open, and her hair floating in wild
disorder down her back. With quivering features, and eyes starting
from their sockets, she rushed madly along the corridors. Blinded with
terror, she could find neither door nor stairs; and fast behind her
flew Emilius, with the Turkish dagger gleaming in his uplifted hand:
she had reached the end of the gallery and could go no further; he
caught her. His masked friends, and the grey old woman, were close
behind; but ere they reached him the dagger was in her breast, he had
cut across her white neck; the red blood glittered in the evening
glow. The old woman flung her arms round him to drag him off; but with
one fierce effort, he hurled himself and her over the balcony, and
fell, dashed in pieces, at the feet of his relations, who, in silent
horror, had witnessed the bloody scene. Above and below, along the
stairs and corridors, were seen the hideous masks rushing wildly up
and down; like accursed demons come from hell.
Roderick took the dying Emilius in his arms. He had found him in his
wife's room playing with the dagger; she was nearly dressed as he
entered. At the sight of the scarlet dress his memory had returned;
the terrible scene of that night rushed before his senses; gnashing
his teeth, he had sprung upon his trembling flying bride to avenge
that murder and those devilish arts. The old woman confessed the crime
that had been committed before she died; and the whole house was
turned suddenly to sorrow, and mourning, and woe.
THE BROTHERS.
There lived near Bagdad, Omar and Mahmoud, two sons of poor parents.
On their father's death they inherited only a small property; and each
resolved to try to raise his fortune with it. Omar set forth to seek a
place where to settle. Mahmoud repaired to Bagdad, began business in a
small way, and soon increased his property. He lived very thriftily
and retired, carefully adding each sequin to his capital, as the
ground-work for some new plan of making money. He thus got into credit
with several rich merchants, who sometimes assigned to him part of a
ship's freight, and entered into speculations in common with him. With
repeated good fortune Mahmoud grew bolder, ventured larger sums, and
every time they brought him in a high interest. By degrees he became
better known, his business extended, he had granted many heavy loans,
had the money of many others in his hands, and fortune seemed
constantly smiling. Omar, on the contrary, had been unfortunate, not
one of all his ventures had been successful; he came, quite poor, and
almost without clothes, to Bagdad, heard of his brother, and went to
him to seek his aid. Mahmoud was rejoiced to see his brother again,
though he deplored his poverty. Being very good-natured and sensitive,
he immediately gave him a large sum out of his business, and with this
money he at the same time established him in a shop. Omar began by
dealing in silk goods and women's apparel, and fortune seemed more
favourable to him in Bagdad: his brother had made him a present of the
money, and so he had no occasion to worry himself about repayment. In
all his undertakings he was less prudent than Mahmoud, and, for this
very reason, more fortunate. He soon gained the acquaintance of some
merchants, who till then had done business with Mahmoud, and he
succeeded in making them his friends. By this his brother lost many a
means of profit, which now fell to _his_ lot. And Mahmoud too had just
chosen a wife, who forced him into numerous expenses, which before
that he had not had to make: he had to borrow of his acquaintances to
pay debts; money which he was expecting failed to come in; his credit
sank; and he was on the verge of despair, when news arrived that one
of his ships had foundered, and nothing, not the least morsel of any
thing, had been saved; at this moment a creditor appeared, pressingly
demanding the payment of a debt. Mahmoud saw very clearly that his
last hope of fortune depended on this payment; and he therefore
resolved, in the greatest distress, to have recourse to his brother.
He hastened to him, and found him very much out of sorts on account
of a trifling loss which he had just undergone.
"Brother," began Mahmoud, "I come, in the utmost perplexity, to ask a
favour of you."
_Omar._ Of what nature?
_Mahmoud._ My ship has gone to pieces; all my creditors are urgent,
and will not hear of delay; my whole happiness depends on this one
day; do just lend me ten thousand sequins for a time.
_Omar._ Ten thousand sequins?--You're not talking nonsense, brother?
_Mah._ No, Omar, I know what that sum is very well; and just so much,
and not one sequin less, can save me from the most disgraceful
poverty.
_Omar._ Ten thousand sequins?
_Mah._ Give them to me, brother; I will do my utmost to return them to
you in a short time.
_Omar._ Where are they to come from? I have much due to me that is
still unpaid; I don't myself know what I am to do,--this very day I
have been cheated of a hundred sequins.
_Mah._ Your credit will easily procure me this amount.
_Omar._ But not a soul will lend money now. There's mistrust on all
sides; not that I am mistrustful, heaven knows, but every one would
guess that I want the money for you; and you know best on what frail
threads one's confidence in a merchant often hangs.
_Mah._ Dear Omar, I must confess I didn't expect these demurs from
you. If we were to change sides, you would not find me so suspicious
and dilatory.
_Omar._ So you say. I am not suspicious either; I wish I could help
you. I call God to witness, how glad I should be.
_Mah._ You can, if you like.
_Omar._ All I have would not make the sum you require.
_Mah._ O heavens! I had reproached myself for not making my brother
the first of whom I asked assistance; and I am truly sorry that I have
burdened him with a single word.
_Omar._ You are angry; you are wrong in being so.
_Mah._ Wrong? which of us neglects his duty? Ah, brother, I don't know
you!
_Omar._ I have just lost a hundred sequins to-day; another three
hundred are not at all safe, and I must make up my mind to the loss of
them. If you had but come to me last week,--oh, yes, then most
heartily.
_Mah._ Must I then remind you of our former friendship? Ah! how low
can misfortune degrade us!
_Omar._ You talk, brother, almost as if you wished to insult me.
_Mah._ Insult you?
_Omar._ When one does all one can,--when one is in distress oneself,
and in hourly fear of losing more,--can a man in such a case help
being vexed when he receives nothing but bitter mockery and abject
contempt for all his good-will?
_Mah._ Shew me your good-will, and you shall receive my warmest
thanks.
_Omar._ Doubt of it no longer, or you will enrage me; I can keep cool
a long time, and bear a good deal, but when I am irritated in such a
deliberate way----
_Mah._ I see how it is, Omar; you play the insulted man, only to have
a better excuse for breaking friends with me entirely.
_Omar._ You would never have thought of such a thing, if you were not
caught in such paltry tricks yourself. We are most prone to suspect
others of those vices with which we are most familiar ourselves.
_Mah._ No, Omar;--but since such language as yours encourages me to
boast,--I must say, I didn't act so towards you, when you came, a poor
stranger, to Bagdad.
_Omar._ And so for the five hundred sequins which you then gave me,
you want ten thousand from me now.
_Mah._ Had I been able, I would gladly have given you more.
_Omar._ To be sure, if you wish it, I must return you the five hundred
sequins, though you can shew no claim to them by law.
_Mah._ Ah, brother!
_Omar._ I will send them to you:--are you expecting no letters from
Persia?
_Mah._ I have nothing more to expect.
_Omar._ To be frank with you, brother; you should have lived a little
more closely, and not have married either, just as I have kept from it
to this very hour; but from your childhood you were always somewhat
indiscreet, so let this serve as a warning to you.
_Mah._ You had a right to refuse me the favour I requested of you, but
not to make me such bitter reproaches into the bargain.
Mahmoud's heart was deeply touched, and he left his ungrateful
brother. "And is it then true," cried he, "that covetousness only is
the soul of men? Their own selves are their first and last thought!
For money they barter truth and love; do violence to the most
beautiful feelings, to gain possession of the sordid metal that
fetters us to the grovelling earth in its disgraceful chains!
Self-interest is the rock on which all friendship is shivered. Men are
an abandoned race. I have never known a friend nor a brother; and my
only intercourse has been with men of trade. Fool that I was to speak
to them of love and friendship! Money only it is that one must change
and exchange for them."
Returning home, he took a circuitous path, in order to let his painful
emotions subside. He wept at the sight of the noisy market-throng;
every one was as busy as an ant in carrying stores into his dingy
dwelling; no one cared for the other, unless induced by a sense of
profit; all were hurrying this way and that, as insensible as ciphers.
He went home disconsolate.
There his grief was heightened; he found the five hundred sequins,
which he had once given with the greatest good-will to his brother;
they were soon the prey of his creditors. All he possessed was
publicly sold; one of his ships came into port, but the cargo only
served to pay the remainder of his debts. Poor as a beggar, he left
the town without even passing by his hard-hearted brother's house.
His wife accompanied him in his misery, comforting him, and seeking to
dissipate his grief, but she succeeded very poorly. The remembrance of
his misfortune was still too fresh in Mahmoud's mind; still he saw
before him the towers of the town where the brother dwelt who had
remained so cold and unmoved by his distress.
Omar made no inquiries after his brother, that he might have no
occasion to compassionate him; he fancied, too, all might after all
have passed off well. In the mean time his credit had suffered in some
measure on his brother's account; people began to be mistrustful
towards him, and several merchants were less ready than formerly in
entrusting him with their money. In addition to this, Omar grew very
miserly, and proud of the fortune he had amassed; so that he made many
enemies, who took pleasure in any loss that he might suffer.
It seemed as if destiny were determined to punish his ingratitude
towards his brother; for loss after loss followed in quick succession.
Omar, who was all anxiety to recover these losses, hazarded larger
sums, and these too were swallowed up. He ceased to pay the money
which he owed; mistrust of him became general; all his creditors
pressed him at the same time; Omar knew no one who could assist him in
this crisis of perplexity. He saw no other resource left him, than
clandestinely to quit the town by night, and to try if fortune would
be more favourable to him in another quarter.
The small property which he had been enabled to take with him was soon
exhausted. His disquietude increased exactly as his money waned; he
saw before him the most abject poverty, and yet no means of escaping
it.
Full of pensive thoughts and lamentations, he in this state reached
the Persian frontier. He had now spent all his money, except three
small coins, which just sufficed to pay for a supper in a
caravanserai; he felt hungry, and as the sun was already declining, he
hastened his steps, in order to reach some place of shelter, where for
that night, and perhaps for the last one, he might lodge once more.
"How wretched I am!" said he to himself. "How does fate pursue me, and
claim me in my misery! What a frightful prospect lies open before me!
I shall be obliged to live on the alms of compassionate souls, to bear
contemptuous repulse, not dare to murmur when the profligate stalks
unabashed by, without deigning to give me a glance, and then squanders
a hundred gold pieces on some miserable toy. O poverty, how thou canst
debase mankind! How partially and unfairly does fortune dispense her
treasures! She pours the whole tide of her wealth on the vicious, and
lets the virtuous perish of hunger."
The rocks that Omar surmounted made him tired; he sat down to rest
upon a bank of turf by the road-side. There a beggar on crutches came
hobbling past him, murmuring an unintelligible prayer. He was tattered
and famished, his burning eyes lay deep in his head, and his pale form
was enough to cut one to the heart, and compel one to pity. Omar's
attention was drawn, against his will, to this object of abhorrence,
that murmured still, and stretched forth his arid hand. He asked the
beggar's name, and then, for the first time, remarked that the unhappy
creature was both deaf and dumb.
"Oh! how indescribably happy I am!" cried he; "and do I still lament?
Why can I not labour? why not satisfy my wants by the work of my
hands? How glad, how happy would this miserable object be to exchange
with me! I am ungrateful towards Heaven."
Seized with a sudden impulse of compassion, he took his last pieces of
silver out of his pocket, and gave them to the beggar, who, after a
mute expression of thanks, pursued his way.
Omar now felt extraordinarily light-hearted and cheerful; the Deity
had, for his instruction, held a picture as it were before him of the
misery to which man may sink. He now felt power enough within him to
bear with poverty, or by activity to cast it off. He made plans for
his sustenance, and only wished he could at once have an opportunity
of shewing how industrious he could be. Since his noble-minded
compassion for the beggar, and the generosity with which he had
sacrificed to him his whole remaining stock of money, he had had
sensations such as he had never known before.
A steep rock abutted on the road, and Omar ascended it with a light
heart, to take a view of the country, made still more lovely by the
setting sun. Here he saw, lying at his feet, the beautiful world, with
its green plains and majestic hills, its dark forests, and
brightly-blushing rivers, and over all this the golden web-work of the
crimson evening; and he felt like a prince who ruled over the whole,
and put forth his power over hill, and wood, and stream.
He continued sitting on the peak of the rock, absorbed in the
contemplation of the landscape. He resolved to await there the rising
of the moon, and then to continue his journey.
The crimson of evening vanished, and twilight dropped from the clouds:
the dark night followed. The stars twinkled in the dark blue vault,
and earth silently reposed in solemn quiet. Omar gazed fixedly on the
night, till his eye wandered dizzily among the countless stars; he
supplicated the majesty of God, and felt a holy awe thrill through his
soul.
Then it seemed that a beam of light arose in the distant horizon; it
ascended in blue coruscation, and passed as a shining flame to the
zenith of heaven. The stars retreated palely, and, like the light of
new-born morning, it flickered over the firmament, and rained down in
softly tinted beams of crimson. Omar was astonished by the wondrous
phenomenon, and feasted his eye on the beauteous and unusual gleam;
the forests and hills around him sparkled, the distant clouds floated
in pale purple, and the radiance of the whole converged into a vault
of gold over Omar.
"Hail, noble, compassionate, virtuous one!" cried a sweet voice from
above; "thou takest pity on misery, and the Lord looks down on thee
with well-pleased approval."
Like dying flute-tones, the night-winds whispered round Omar; his
bosom heaved happily and pantingly, his eye was drunk with splendour,
his ear with heavenly harmony; and from amid the effulgence stepped
forth a form of light, and stood before the enraptured one; it was
Asrael, the radiant angel of God.
"Mount with me in these beams to the abodes of the blessed," cried the
same sweet voice, "for thou hast deserved by thy nobleness of soul to
view the blessedness of Paradise."
"My Lord," said the trembling Omar, "how can I, a mortal, follow thee?
My earthly body is not taken from me yet."
"Give me thy hand," said the form of light. Omar tendered him it with
trembling rapture, and they soared through the clouds on the crimson
beams. They traversed the stars, and sweet sounds waited on their
steps, and the blush of morning lay in ambush in their path, and the
fragrance of flowers filled the air with aroma.
Of a sudden it was night. Omar shrieked aloud, and found himself lying
at the foot of the crag, with shattered arms. The dark red moon just
rose from behind a hill, casting its first doubtful gleams on the
rocky valley.
"Oh, thrice-wretched me!" cried Omar lamentingly, on recovering his
senses. "Was Heaven so little satisfied with my misery that it must
dash me in a false dream from the peak of the rock, and shatter my
limbs, that I might become the prey of hunger? Is it thus that it
compensates my pity for the unfortunate? Oh, who was ever unhappier
than I?"
A figure shuffled past him with pain, and Omar recognised him to be
the beggar to whom he that very day had given the remainder of his
money. Omar called out to him, and besought him in a pitiful strain to
share with him the benefaction which he himself had bestowed, but the
<DW36> went heedlessly gasping on his way; so that Omar did not know
whether he had heard him, or was only dissembling, that he might seem
to have a right to disregard him.
"Am I not more wretched than this outcast?" said Omar, lamenting amid
the stillness of night. "Who will take pity on me, now that all is
taken from me that could comfort me?"
He fetched a deep sigh, his arms pained him, a burning fire raged in
his bones, and every breath was drawn in torture. Now he took a review
of his fortune, and, for the first time, thought once more on his
brother.
"Oh, where art thou, noble-minded one?" cried he; "perhaps the sword
of the angel of death has already smitten thee; misery perhaps has
consumed thee in the most wearing poverty, and thou hast cursed thy
poor brother in the last hour of anguish. Ah! I have deserved this at
thy hands; now do I suffer the penalty of my ingratitude, my
hard-heartedness! Heaven is just!--And I too could stalk along so
proudly, and call on God to witness my virtue! O Heaven, forgive the
sinner who, without a murmur, bows to thy chastisement."
Omar buried himself in pensive thoughts; he remembered with what
brotherly love Mahmoud had received him when, for the first time, he
was destitute; he reproached himself for having neglected to save him,
and for not having repaid by that means his debt of gratitude: he
longed for death, as the term of his penalty and his sufferings.
The moon shone brightly over the landscape, and a small caravan,
consisting of a few camels, wound slowly through the vale. The lust of
life again awoke in Omar; he cried out for aid to the passers-by, in a
voice of wailing. They laid him carefully on a camel, that they might
have his wounds bound up in the next town, which they reached by break
of day. The merchant attended the unfortunate man himself, and Omar
recognised in him--his brother. His sense of shame knew no bounds, as
neither did the compassion of Mahmoud. The one brother begged for
pardon, and the other had already forgiven; tears flowed down the
cheeks of each, and the most touching reconciliation was solemnised
between them.
Mahmoud had repaired to Ispahan after his impoverishment, and had
there made the acquaintance of a rich old merchant, who soon grew fond
of him, and assisted him with money. Fortune was favourable to the
exile, and in a short period he recovered his lost wealth. At this
moment his old benefactor died, making him his heir.
On his recovery, Omar travelled with his brother to Ispahan, where the
latter set him up anew in business. Omar married, and never forgot how
much he owed to his brother; and from that time forward both lived in
the strictest concord, and afforded the whole town a pattern of
brotherly love.
Transcriber's Note:
Archaic syntax and inconsistent spelling retained.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales From the 'Phantasus', etc. of
Ludwig Tieck, by Ludwig Tieck
***
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaBook"
}
| 3,078
|
Do not implement the struct `SimpleLinkedList` as a wrapper around a `Vec`. Instead, allocate nodes on the heap.
This might be implemented as:
```
pub struct SimpleLinkedList<T> {
head: Option<Box<Node<T>>>,
}
```
The `head` field points to the first element (Node) of this linked list.
This implementation also requires a struct `Node` with the following fields:
```
struct Node<T> {
data: T,
next: Option<Box<Node<T>>>,
}
```
`data` contains the stored data, and `next` points to the following node (if available) or None.
### Why `Option<Box<Node<T>>>` and not just `Option<Node<T>>`?
Try it on your own. You will get the following error.
```
| struct Node<T>
| ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ recursive type has infinite size
...
| next: Option<Node<T>>,
| --------------------- recursive without indirection
```
The problem is that at compile time the size of next must be known.
Since `next` is recursive ("a node has a node has a node..."), the compiler does not know how much memory is to be allocated.
In contrast, [Box](https://doc.rust-lang.org/std/boxed/) is a heap pointer with a defined size.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 6,599
|
Business News›News›Elections›Lok Sabha›India›What is a voter ID card?
A voter ID card is simply a document which ascertains your identity as an adult citizen of the country, and is primarily used in casting one's vote in municipal, state, and general elections.
A voter ID card is simply a document which ascertains your identity as an adult citizen of the country, and is primarily used in casting one's vote in municipal, state, and general elections.It is issued by the Election Commission, and is also known as Electoral Photo ID Card or EPIC. It can be used as as general identity, address, and age proof for other purposes such as buying a mobile phone SIM card or applying for a passport.
The voter card of yesteryears was black & white in colour, but is now issued in color laminated card format. This plastic card contains one's passport size picture, date of birth, and the address. It also has a serial number, a hologram sticker and stamped signature of the issuing authority.
The ECI has made voter identification mandatory at the time of polls - you have to show your Voter ID Card issued by the ECI or any other documentary proof allowed by the ECI in order to be able to vote.
Also, having your Voter ID Card does not mean that you will definitely be allowed to vote, it is essential that your name should appear in the electoral rolls. Once you have found out that your name is present on the electoral roll and you also possess an identification document prescribed by the ECI (the Voter ID card or any other acceptable document), you will be eligible to vote.
Official identity cards issued to MPs/MLAs/MLCs, etc.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 6,125
|
**THE
WORLD'S
Strongest
Librarian**
A Memoir of Tourette's, Faith,
Strength, and the Power of Family
**JOSH HANAGARNE**
GOTHAM BOOKS
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Copyright © 2013 by Joshua Hanagarne
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Excerpt on pages 179–80 of Henry Rollins's "The Iron" reprinted with permission of
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Hanagarne, Joshua, 1977–
The world's strongest librarian : a memoir of Tourette's, faith, strength, and the power of family / Joshua Hanagarne.
pages cm
ISBN: 978-1-101-62177-6
1. Hanagarne, Joshua, 1977– 2. Librarians—Utah—Salt Lake City—Biography.
3. Public libraries—Utah—Salt Lake City. 4. Tourette syndrome. I. Title.
Z720.H24H36 2013
020.92—dc23 2012037713
Designed by Spring Hoteling
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
_Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.
In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;
however, the story, the experiences, and the words
are the author's alone._.
This is a work of nonfiction. I've re-created the majority of the dialogue, but it's all faithful to the substance of the conversations. When writing scenes, I interviewed the other people involved to see whose memory was the best. This led to some spectacular posturing about the health of our respective brains. Whenever we had different memories of how something happened, I tried to give the tiebreaker to my dear old mom. I'm sure I'll still find mistakes in here, probably the second after the book is published, but I doubt they'll be of much consequence.
—Josh Hanagarne
For Janette, who waited
# CONTENTS
**INTRODUCTION**
**CHAPTER 1**
808.543—Storytelling
011.62—Children—Books and Reading
**CHAPTER 2**
155—Silence
302—Friendship in Children
813—King, Stephen, 1947—Criticism and Interpretation
**CHAPTER 3**
616.89075—Diagnosis, Differential
302.3—Bullying
**CHAPTER 4**
305.31—Lust Religious Aspects Christianity
231.74—Revelation
123—Free Will and Determinism
**CHAPTER 5**
289.3—Mormons Missions
193—Knowledge, Theory of
**CHAPTER 6**
364.163—Fraud
613.71—Bodybuilding
808.5—Voice—Social Aspects
646.726—Botulinum Toxin—Therapeutic Use
**CHAPTER 7**
646.78—Marriage
591.473—Mimicry (Biology)
**CHAPTER 8**
153.6—Truthfulness and Falsehood
616.692—Infertility—Popular Works
636—Dogs
021.65—Library Science
**CHAPTER 9**
613.7—Kettlebells
362.734—Adoption
306.874—Fathers and Sons
291.13—Greek Mythology
**CHAPTER 10**
027.8—Libraries and Education
92—Strong Men—United States—Biography
006.7—Blogs
828—George Orwell
**CHAPTER 11**
612.82—Neuroplasticity
306—Peace—Psychological Aspects
616—Pain
**CHAPTER 12**
121—Belief and Doubt
155.432—Mothers and Sons
**CHAPTER 13**
616.042—Abnormalities, Human
165—Fallacies, Logic
305.891—Highland Games—Social Aspects
**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**
# INTRODUCTION
Today the library was hot, humid, and smelly. It was like working inside a giant pair of glass underpants without any leg holes to escape through. The building moved. It breathed. It seethed with bodies and thoughts moving in and out of people's heads. Mostly out.
"You tall bigot!"
I stopped and wondered if these two words had ever been put next to each other. The odds were astronomical; even someone with my primitive math skills knew this. I laughed, which didn't help the situation, which was this: A guy wearing a jaunty red neckerchief had walked by the reference desk, yelling about the "motherfucking Jews and lesbians on the Supreme Court." I had asked him to lower his voice and voilà! Now I was a tall bigot...the worst kind of all.
"What are you, some kind of _Jew_?" he sputtered. I've never seen someone so enraged. I wondered what he'd do if he knew I'd been raised Mormon.
Maybe he was mad because he couldn't find the anti-Semitism section. The library has a robust collection of what I call non-cuddly hate lit. This is one of my favorite things about working here: If you believe censorship is poison, here lies paradise. We have sections on anti-Mormonism, anti-Semitism, anti-anti-Semitism, anti-atheism, anti-God, anti-feminism, pro-gay...there's something to offend everyone.
Moshe Safdie, the architect who designed the Salt Lake City Public Library, won numerous awards for his vision and technical derring-do. He thought big, appropriately, because a building that can hold 500,000 books is enormous. The number of items circulating each hour is rivaled only by the number of people napping in the corners. But nothing is as impressive as the way the building _looks._ I work in a beautiful building made almost entirely of glass. Seen from the air, it looks like the Nike Swoosh if it got frightened and began to cower.
An older librarian—one of the few other males—once said to me, "Whatever we deal with, coming here is always a visual reward." This statement is poetic, accurate, and maddening. Because most of the time it feels like people show up just to fight about something with total strangers like me. Which is fine. I'm not here for the good company.
One of the reasons I work here is because I have extreme Tourette Syndrome.* The kind with verbal tics, sometimes loud ones; the kind that draws warning looks. Working in this library is the ultimate test for someone who literally can't sit still. Who can't shush himself. A test of willpower, of patience, and occasionally, of the limits of human absurdity.
A patron recently took exception to a series of throat clearings I couldn't suppress. As he approached, I put on my customer service smile and readied myself for one of those rare, mind-blowing reference transactions that I hear about from other librarians. Instead this man said, "If you're going to walk around honking like a royal swan, you don't belong in the library. I'm going to call security. Somebody needs to teach you a lesson."
I stood up. I'm six feet seven inches tall, and I weigh 260 pounds. "Is it you?" I'm not confrontational, but I don't lose many staring contests. I'm good at looming when it's helpful. He walked away.
I also work here because I love books, because I'm inveterately curious, and because, like most librarians, I'm not well suited to anything else. As a breed, we're the ultimate generalists. I'll never know everything about anything, but I'll know something about almost everything and that's how I like to live.
Earlier today a young woman asked me to help her find a book about how to knit lingerie. This is the sort of question library school recruiters should feature in their dreary PowerPoint presentations, not claptrap about how we're the "stewards of democracy." They would definitely attract more males to the profession. When I arrived in my library department two years ago, the alpha male was a sixty-six-year-old woman.
On our way to the lingerie section—yes, the official subject heading is Lingerie, call number 646.42—I tripped over another young woman who was lying on the floor beneath a blanket, nestled between two rows of law books. I'm thirty-five years old and it both relieves and elates me to know I can still be surprised.
"I'm sleeping here!" she yelled.
I'm rarely at a loss for words outside the library. But within its walls I'm required to form sentences that no logical person should ever have to utter, for instance, "You can't sleep on the floor at the library under your blanket."
"I don't snore!" she said, gripping her blanket with both hands, as if I might snatch it away.
"I'm sure you don't," I said. "That's not the point."
"Well, there's no other point!"
This was an occasion when my need to be right didn't feel that important. I made a phone call. Security interrupted her derailed slumber and led her out of the building. _And stay out,_ I pictured them yelling, tossing the blanket after her, where it would be swept into traffic by a sudden gust of wind.
I felt a twinge of envy. I couldn't remember the last time I'd taken a nap. I'll admit to often feeling sleepy in the library. Most of the time, in fact. The building was constructed with the ability to save power and warm itself, so the glass walls make it difficult to find an area that isn't bathed by soporific sunbeams. I briefly considered lying down on the floor between _Black's Law Dictionary_ and the Morningstar investment guides. Someone would probably report me, but I might be imposing enough to buy myself a power nap. Then someone came to the desk for help and the plan ended before it began.
I really want someone to ask me a question that is not "How many times can I fall asleep in here before I get kicked out?" I really want this building to serve the purpose for which it was intended—as a breeding ground for curiosity.
I work on Level 3. If you're on my floor you're probably looking for information about Bigfoot or the healing powers of crystals, self-help, or psychology; you're trying to expunge something from your record and need the law section; you need to lose weight; you heard that people make money on the Internet; you need to summon some pixies; you want to get into hat-making; you can't sight your rifle; you're sick of the Jews; you're sick of the people who won't shut up about being sick of the Jews; you're looking for a Bible; or you're cramming for the SAT. Unless you're just looking for a place to sleep, in which case I'd direct you to any of the comfortable chairs laid out around the perimeter, out of my direct line of sight. And if you're hooking up with your drug dealer, that's usually conducted in the restrooms.
Later this morning, something actually happened that didn't require me to wake someone up or tell him to watch porn at home. An African American man asked me if the Hutu tribe in Rwanda had any Jewish ancestry. What a fascinating question. We started hunting through the library's incredibly expensive, underpromoted, and underused research databases. After an hour we realized that the question was bigger than we could complete during one session, but he had enough leads to pursue on his own. We'd forgotten that the rest of the world existed as we leaned over my computer and hurried to and fro in the stacks grabbing books.
As always, many patrons wanted to research their genealogy. I always wonder why. Were they trying to discover whether they might have an inheritance coming to them? Being kept from them? Researching the people who led to their own genetic impairments? I have Tourette Syndrome because of some combination of my parents' crazy innards. His genes met hers and said, "Hey, let's get stupid!" I can't blame them for not knowing any better. If there's a memo out there that says Never cross a Navajo and a Mormon or you'll create a twitchy baby who will be a burden forever, they never got it.
At lunch, many of the librarians lurched up to the staff room and fell onto chairs and couches with their books and magazines. Librarians as a rule move about as well as the Tin Man did before Dorothy brought him the oilcan. Their heads often sit so far forward on their necks that they look like woodpeckers frozen in mid-peck. Their shoulders are rounded from answering the phone, typing, eating, and reading. Their hands at rest inevitably rotate into the typing position. They spend so much time looking down at computers and into books and talking down to people from their tall desks that it's become an unnatural effort to raise their eyes to make eye contact during conversation.
I move quite well, partly because during my lunch break, I go downstairs to the library's diminutive fitness room, wrap my hands in thin, well-seasoned leather strips to protect them, and bend horseshoes. I'm also working on the goal of deadlifting six hundred pounds, but I do that outside the library walls. The sound of six hundred pounds hitting the ground is serious. Dropping that much weight in the basement of the library would echo up to the top floor and wake everyone up. When I hit a snag, I call my coach, a man named Adam.
Adam is a former air force tech sergeant, an expert in hand-to-hand combat, and the sort of hard-ass who describes poor haircuts as "a lack of personal excellence," even though his hair is currently poufy and awful and makes him look like a Dragon Ball Z character.
He has the entire poem, all sixteen lines, of "Invictus" by William Henley tattooed on his left arm.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
More on him later.
After lunch a teenage boy with chains crisscrossing his pants slumped into the library, limping as if he'd stepped into a bear trap. He needed some books for school, he told me, "Books that aren't all gay and shit." I'd love to have a sign demarcating that section. We probably need another one for the child abuse books. The teenagers love that stuff. One of our most popular books is a memoir about child abuse: _A Child Called "It"_ by Dave Pelzer. I tried to read it once and was too unsettled by the second chapter to ever pick it up again. But the teens can't seem to get enough of it.
I can always tell the kids who've been sent to the library to find a book from some teacher's boring reading list. They trudge in with their eyes on the carpet, breathing hard with annoyance. Many of these kids will do anything to avoid talking to us. Many of these kids have never said anything to me besides, "Yeah, I have to read this book called _Johnny Tremain._ " Kids who want to read Pelzer's book practically jump on top of my desk in their eagerness to read about a child being mistreated. We should probably just give up and order a hundred more copies of _A Child Called "It."_
After helping the kid find the not-gay section, I watched another patron vomit into a garbage can.
"Pardon me, sir," I said. "Could you make it to the restroom?"
"I'm fine here," he said.
I did lots of dusting. I focused on the tops of shelves that only the very tall can see. I helped a delightful elderly woman with an unidentifiable accent create an e-mail account on the public computers. When I asked her what she liked to read—I can't figure out how to quit asking this question of total strangers—she said, "I enjoy the nakedest of romances."
There was some excitement in the afternoon. We had a break in a two-year-old mystery. Someone has been waging a war against the harmless 133s. Occultism. Crystals. Sylvia Browne. Summoning pixies safely—yes, there is apparently a wrong way to do it. Energy fields. Enneagrams. Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey. Angels. Satan. These books have been vanishing.
One day a shelver spotted a shelf that was wrenched open at the bottom. In the hollow underneath it was a bunch of Wicca books and the timeless classic _Witch in the Bedroom: Proven Sensual Magic_. When we looked under the other shelves, we found a couple hundred books that had been hidden. We pretended to be outraged—this was censorship!—but it was hilarious. I wanted to know who was doing it, and how.
When we put the books back on the shelves, they vanished again. Replacement copies disappeared as well, sometimes within an hour. I'd taken to patrolling the perimeter every ten minutes, determined to apprehend the crooks and thank them for entertaining me so well—and to remind them that there were a few Sylvia Browne books on the shelves that they'd missed. We found no one.
But today a shelver saw two men raising the bottom shelves! They escaped. We investigated and found dozens of missing books. Now we're trying to figure out how to entice the shelf-secreters back and trap them. I suggested leaving some books about Stonehenge and the Mayan calendar strewn about as bait. I long to shake the hand of the man or woman who scuttled _Accepting the Psychic Torch_ out of sight, out of mind, out of reach, in the dust below the bookshelves.
I can't imagine the monks in the libraries of yore dealing with this nonsense. Waking people up, encouraging them to view porn, vomit, and procure drugs elsewhere. Sure, those monks had to condemn Jews and lesbians, but they didn't attend patron education workshops because there were no patrons, only themselves. Beyond the occasional visit from a grand inquisitor, they were left alone to use the libraries as they were meant to be used.
The purpose of libraries—to organize and provide information—hasn't changed. They're billed as the Poor Man's University. (Many librarians also bill them as the Poor Man's Day Care or the Poor Man's Urinal.) I love working here because the reasons behind libraries are important to me.
The public library contains multitudes. And each person who visits contains multitudes as well. Each of us is a library of thoughts, memories, experiences, and odors. We adapt to one another to produce the human condition.
Libraries have shaped and linked all the disparate threads of my life. The books. The weights. The tics. The harm I've caused myself and others. Even the very fact that I'm alive. How I handle my Tourette's. Everything I know about my identity can be traced back to the boy whose parents took him to a library in New Mexico even before he was born.
The library taught me that I could ask any questions I wanted and pursue them to their conclusions without judgment or embarrassment.
And it's where I learned that not all questions have answers.
* I've had neurologists who write "Tourette Syndrome" without the apostrophe _s_ and others who write "Tourette's Syndrome." I'm going to use Tourette's when I only use one word, and Tourette Syndrome when I use two. That seems to be the most common.
# **CHAPTER 1**
# 808.543—Storytelling
011.62—Children—Books and Reading
I don't like to see children cry, but I couldn't feel much sympathy for the little guy. I told his mom there was no need to apologize as he sniffled and wept and wiped his nose on his Pokémon T-shirt. The problem? Our library system's Expanded Card lets a patron borrow a hundred items. But this boy's mother was playing the Evil Queen and would only let him take fifty.
It was hard to feel much sympathy for him, but empathy? Oh, yes, I've been there. When I was his age, and even today, when it comes to books and libraries, too much is never enough.
I love to witness kids' unvarnished curiosity. They're willing to ask questions because they still understand that that's how to find answers. Most of the younger kids I see in the library would rather put the question out there and run the risk of sounding silly than go without an answer. Another evening, a six-year-old girl approached my desk with a piece of paper. "Can you tell me how to spell 'princess'?" she asked.
"I'll tell you what," I said. "Why don't you write down the first letter, and I'll tell you if you make a mistake, okay? Then you can write the second. We'll keep going until the word is spelled out." She got it and was very proud. I wondered why she thought she couldn't spell. When put on the spot like this, most kids were better spellers than they thought they were, although there were exceptions. When Oprah was giving away free Kentucky Fried Chicken dinners, a five-year-old asked me how to spell "KFC." I didn't laugh. I was happy that she felt like she could ask. She reminded me of myself at that age—whatever I didn't know, I could ask, and if my parents didn't know the answer, the librarians would.
For its first few years, my life was divided by a lightning strike into two distinct chapters: Before Fern and After Fern. Fern, my first romantic love, from E. B. White's book _Charlotte's Web._
It was during the Before Fern years that I entered my first library in Moab, Utah, carried by my mom.
Inside the library was order. Information cataloged into rows, authors, titles, columns, shelves, and librarian's preferences. Everything had its place. Everything proceeded according to patterns established even before the current crop of ancient librarians began working there. The lights were dim and the atmosphere was the opposite of the manic landscape outside. I slobbered and drooled as she wandered through the aisles.
"How old is he?" a librarian asked.
"Thirteen months."
"Hmm...looks like somebody's been forgetting to feed him."
They laughed. I was as cube-shaped as it's possible for a human to be. My grandfather actually told my mom that she should put me on a diet. My mom said that she'd put me on a diet if he'd go on one as well.
Mom walked away from the desk and began browsing. After finding books for herself, she put me on the floor in the children's section. According to her, I put a book in my mouth and chewed. When I fell asleep, she picked me up and checked out her books.
She walked three blocks to our big yellow house, which lay nestled at the base of a red sandstone hill. The house was two stories tall and included a terrifying unfinished basement. My mom pushed a playpen onto the porch, laid me inside of it, and read until my dad got home.
"How was your day?" she asked him. He told her. Familiar patterns repeated themselves. Cleaning up. Dinner. Diapers. Bottles. Laughter. When it was my bedtime, my dad put me into my crib. He lifted one of the cardboard books that my mom had borrowed from the library and read it to me before kissing my forehead and turning out the light. When he turned and saw my mom watching, he smiled. "I never get tired of this." He'd begun reading to me about eight months before I was born.
My dad was twenty years old, my mom a year older, when I was born. They'd met at a uranium mine in Moab the previous summer. He was trying to figure out what to do with his life and decided that shoveling mud was the best way to do it. She was home from college for the summer and was working in the mine's assay lab.
When approaching from the north, the hundred miles leading into Moab are lonely and desolate and abrasive to the eyes. The traveler experiences the visual equivalent of a tumbleweed rubbing across his face. The landscape is featureless except for the unbecoming oceans of sagebrush that spread to the horizon in all directions. Mild bumps masquerading as hills are the only visual distraction. It's so dreary that the highway can't even work up the ambition to turn once in a while. It just plods straight ahead, as bored by its surroundings as the travelers on its surface. But when the salmon-colored walls begin shooting up from the horizon, the sudden shift is like being smacked over the head with a lovely watercolor.
An exquisite red bowl of sandstone cradles the road, guiding it along a highway that has at last begun to twist and turn again. Sand dunes roll between and around the rock formations and seek shade at the base of the cliffs. Sheer walls of rock veer off at crazy angles, and the fractured sandstone cliffs give the impression that the whole structure—the mesas, peaks, bluffs, and plateaus—was assembled by a giant toddler with a limited attention span. From a massive block of red stone, the toddler carved out the bowl and threw a handful of houses down into the basin. Then he pounded the rocks with a giant hammer, creating the jagged splinters and pillars that jut out in every direction. In other places, stones without edges have been sanded down until they appear soft as a blanket.
The town of Moab itself is hidden until the traveler turns and crosses a bridge that divides the canyon walls. The Colorado River winds under that bridge, wrapping the town in its coils. The water is dark, with sandbars peeking up from the shallow spots.
The uranium mill sits at the northern edge of Moab. There's no pit, but piles from the tailings of mined earth make a lofty ring like a radioactive Bundt cake or a toxic anthill. Leach pads the color of airplane lavatory water fan out from the ring. Looking down from the air, the surrounding red walls, the ponds, and the crater caused by the ring become an ugly bloodshot eye, glaring from the ground.
That's where Frank Hanagarne, Jr., worked during the summer of 1976. He was the strongest, tallest, funniest, roughest guy in the universe. Frank stood north of six feet four (he would top out at six-five), with thick glasses that could double as blast doors. The left side of his mouth sneered constantly, as if someone had slipped a fishhook through it and was tugging it from an invisible scaffold above his head. He could throw anyone over the moon with one finger.
Linda Dalton was over six feet tall and had a bust and legs that generated intense interest from the town's boys, not that many of them were brave enough to talk to her. She had blond hair that fell to just above her ears, as if someone had melted a yellow Frisbee and set it on her head. She was an athlete and looked it. Her squared shoulders were built for climbing trees and fighting with seven siblings. Her legs were long and strong, and she had a reputation for being able to start any motorcycle in town. She referred to men who couldn't start her dirt bike as "weenie legs." The moment my dad saw her exiting the assay lab at the uranium mill, her hips drawing a figure eight as they hurried to the parking lot, his mouth flew open and he thought, _I'm going to marry her._
He did, just before the year ended. Little changed in the next few months besides the fact that they lived together and were sufficiently married to get it on with the Lord's approval. My parents say they got married because they're soul mates. It's a nice thought, but if they're soul mates, they're made for each other in the same way as cotton candy and cooked carrots are. Here's my simple theory about their union: Teenagers are horny and Mormons don't have sex before marriage. For all my mom's good intentions and lofty spirituality, she was tooling around in a hot nineteen-year-old body set ablaze by hormones. My dad didn't have the spiritual or moral restraint she possessed, especially before they met, and he was even younger and less mature than she was. They can talk about soul mates and logic and love all they want, but I think agitated hormones won the debate and spirituality tagged along behind. Soon, my mom's womb was toting a twitchy little embryo around Moab while they made preparations to become a family. On December 1, 1977, they gave the world their first contribution to the Hanagarne race of giants.
By the time I was born, Mom had decided that she'd stay home with me. My dad supported her decision. For all his flaws, then and now, he could work anyone into the ground and was happy to prove that he could support his fledgling family. And he did, while she stayed home and tried to create an intelligent, courteous, kind, morally upright, and insatiable bookworm.
Sometimes I think a cliché is best: My parents were my heroes. In my eyes, my mom was nicer than anyone in the world. She could also sing more sweetly, cook better; she was smarter, and was certainly the most beautiful woman. More than anything, she liked to play games. This would only become truer as the years passed. She'd pretend to fall asleep while walking across the living room, stopping, mouth agape, and beginning to snore while we all screamed, "Mom! Mom! Wake up!" She'd take my He-Man action figures and make them marry my sister's Rainbow Brite toys. Sometimes if we disagreed with her, she'd turn her hands into blades and chase us around, rapidly karate chopping our backs and stomachs until we admitted she was right. One of her favorite pranks was to wait until my dad was showering, fill up a paper Dixie cup full of ice water, and then throw it over the shower curtain. We'd all laugh while he screamed and vowed to take revenge, half hoping that he'd storm out in a rage, naked and dripping. Once, during one cold February, she was trying to get my picky brother to eat stroganoff. "Will you do it if Dad runs around the house naked?" she asked him.
"Ha!" My dad knew he would never eat it. But then my dad was naïve enough to go and use the restroom. My mom quickly divided up Kyle's stroganoff onto my sibling's plates. When my suspicious but defeated dad stepped out onto the porch in nothing but his fraying slippers, he said, "Only once, right?" And then he ran. My mom quickly locked the door and turned on the porch lights. "Let me in!" he yelled, pounding on the door.
"You have to run!" she said. "Then we'll see!"
We lived at the top of a long cul-de-sac, so it wasn't like anyone was going to see his pale, shivering body hoofing it through the crunchy snow, but he sure was mad when she finally let him in. Until he saw that we all had tears of glee rolling down our cheeks. Then he laughed and demanded that someone bring him a robe. This just made us all laugh harder and he stalked off to cover himself.
Most people would agree that there's only one word to describe my dad. But I don't think any two would choose the same word. When my wife was my fiancée, she described him as a "great tethered bear." That's pretty accurate. But she has reason to jab at him. During a spirited discussion (that he started) about which animals we each wanted to claim as our spirit animals (he insisted), he named her _Gaagi bechant—_ which is Navajo for "bird shit on head." A malevolent bird once gave her an undistinguished gift from above, and she had foolishly told my dad.
If pressed—and pressing a tethered bear is unwise—my dad would probably describe himself as "Navajo." It's how he has portrayed himself—shrilly and defensively—for decades, despite being a white guy. It's his shtick and it's funny when it works. He's got a good tan, but that's about as far as it goes. The Navajo meaning of Hanagarne is, depending on my dad's mood, "Leader of People" or "Those whom God has saved." My own half-hearted attempts to research the origins of my name have only revealed one interesting fact: I have a great-uncle named Cigarette. A couple of generations back, the Hanagarnes were indeed full-blood Navajos, but today we're so white you can go snow-blind if you stare at us for too long. Most of Dad's family lives on a reservation in Shiprock, New Mexico. But by the time my dad was born, the proud blood of the People made up only a quarter of his DNA.
This itty-bitty heritage never stopped Dad from attributing one hundred percent of his failures and successes to twenty-five percent of his bloodline. Navajo fierceness. Navajo boldness. Glossy Navajo hair that looks like a horse's mane and is the stuff of shampoo commercials. Navajo thirst. Navajo diabetes. Good or bad, anything he can attribute to his Navajo roots is a win for him. His dream is that my siblings and I will bring our families to Shiprock one day to live in the mansion he'll build. Picture the landscape from _Mad Max._ Now picture the rain from the movie _Seven._ Dip a paintbrush in a bucket of gray, the shade of the Modern Library covers, and paint the entire city. Now open the book _The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression_ and upend it over the citizens. Now throw in lots of turquoise jewelry. And really good fry bread. That's Shiprock. It always feels like it's raining there, even when it isn't. But to Dad, what matters is that the Hanagarne clan will be reunited on native soil and his children will embrace their heritage.
Dad calls me _awee_ , which he says is the Navajo word for the layer of congealed fat that sits atop Navajo stews. It actually means baby. But semi-fluency in Navajo is only one of my dad's superpowers. His lineage gives him abilities that the X-Men would envy: "I can sneak up on a deer," he says. "Not only am I beautiful, but I sing like a bird." "I'm the only Navajo who can grow a beard." "My advice is always right."
My parents didn't really fight, but reading was a continual point of good-natured disagreement. Mom adored fiction. My dad couldn't understand why someone would read a book about things that weren't real. "Isn't the real world interesting enough for you? I mean, the world we live in?" Dad would retort when Mom teased him about not reading.
"I read," he said. That was true. He just didn't like the books my mom and I did. He was studying engineering at a local college and was more interested in practical titles like _F-16 Tactical Maneuvers._ When the two of them went to bed, they'd spend some time reading together—she lost in the fictional world of a popular novel, and he reading about something useful by the light of her halo.
Whatever their mild disagreements about literature, they were united in their adoration of me. They spent the majority of their free time teaching me, usually under the guise of playing games. My dad had less free time, so he couldn't play as many games with me, but Mom was so fun that I didn't notice the disparity.
One day Mom and I were sitting on the living room floor practicing the fine art of recognizing shapes. My goldfish, Jaws, watched from his bowl atop the television. At age four, I was already wearing glasses, which were constantly bent. My mom liked to say that my three greatest talents were making librarians happy, sitting on my glasses, and reading. "Josh," she said. She pressed a paper heart to her chest. "I love you with all my heart."
"Mom," I said, peering through my thick, bent glasses and holding up a paper circle, "I love you with all my circle."
Most days included a trip to the library. I never had a chance not to love the place. My mom and I usually sat in the kids' section, shoulder to shoulder on the couch while I turned the pages and read aloud from books like _Tawny Scrawny Lion_ and _Are You My Mother?_
I owned lots of books, but I usually had nearly as many checked out from the library. My mom often made this deal with me: "Josh, go outside and play for an hour and then we can go to the library." I'd go outside and read stories to my dog, Topaz, and then we'd go to the library, where the librarians knew me by name. One morning after fifteen minutes of me shuffling my feet and sighing loudly as I followed her around the house, Mom cut me a better-than-usual deal: "All right! If you'll go play outside for thirty minutes, I'll take you to the library."
I grabbed the first book I saw, ran outside, and read it in the front yard. _Mr. Gopher_.* My mom had gotten this book for me a week earlier and we'd read it several times already.
As I read I had a wonderful idea. Mr. Gopher lived in a hole. He came out occasionally to eat marigolds, his favorite breakfast. I'd already eaten breakfast, but that didn't mean I couldn't have some more. While my mom busied herself in the house, I ate a bunch of marigolds from her garden. She gardened for many of the same reasons that she practiced devout Mormonism: Her parents did it, it gave her a sense of purpose, and it allowed her a source of reliable beauty, no matter how ugly the rest of the world might get.
Now, if you were to design something that a person shouldn't swallow, you couldn't do any better than the marigold's pointy, curved seeds. This indelicate second breakfast lodged painfully in my throat. My eyes started to water. I ran inside, hands around my neck, and tried to convey that I was dying. I could breathe, but I couldn't swallow.
Like her mother, Mom was good at folksy remedies. She got me to eat some bread to push the seeds down. "This always works," she said. The bread mixed with the seeds and formed a doughy, prickly, unmovable lattice below my uvula.
"All right, we're going to the doctor," she said, shooing me outside. During the drive to the clinic, she kept telling me to breathe. This is my first memory of true panic. My mom couldn't fix this. The question had been asked for which she had no answer.
Soon I was sitting on a table sheathed in flimsy paper. The doctor asked me to tilt my head back. I sat rigid, hands bunched into fists. He asked again. When I didn't respond, he put his hand on my forehead and tipped my head back. A pair of long clamps came into view. I sat still. I opened my mouth. I tried not to gag when the cold metal hit the back of my throat.
The doctor grabbed the tips of the seeds and withdrew them from my throat, one by one. "What happened?" he asked my mom as he worked.
"A story went to his head," Mom said. She told him about Mr. Gopher. He nodded at her swelling stomach and said, "Are you ready for another one?"
"He likes books," she said. "They give him ideas, though."
"That's the point, right?" said the doctor.
I wasn't yet in kindergarten when _The Cat in the Hat_ gave way to, with some help from my parents, more advanced fare like the Encyclopedia Brown books.
"Where do we keep our magnifying glass?" I asked my dad.
"We don't have one. Why?"
I didn't tell him that I was trying to solve a mystery I'd invented: "Who stomped on this anthill?" I'd stomped it an hour before that. Days earlier I'd stumbled and fallen into an enormous anthill in the hills behind our house. I raced down to our backyard, sprinting and falling, covered in ants, screaming and slapping at myself, interrupting the lunch my mom and some friends were having on the back lawn. She stripped me down and they all helped slap the ants off me. My dad reminded me of this humiliating experience, which he'd gotten quite a laugh out of. "Are you sure it wasn't you? Seems like you've got the motive."
"No, Dad."
"He's going to drive his teachers crazy in the fall," Dad told my mom.
"No, he won't," she said. "There are worse problems for a teacher than a kid who loves to read. They'll love him."
"I love him too. But just because they'll love him doesn't mean he won't drive them crazy. Can't we just get him some books about airplanes or something?"
"He can read what he wants. He's nervous enough about school without you fussing. It's going to be however it's going to be."
After reading _Harriet the Spy_ , I started keeping spy notebooks. _The Great Brain_ convinced me that I'd make my fortune as a genius, while _Where the Wild Things Are_ confused me—when I threw a tantrum I got sent to bed and that was that; I was never transported to a faraway land of giant beasts who made me king. And yet, for all my book lust, I didn't know what true mania was until we brought home _Charlotte's Web_ and the After Fern era began.
_Charlotte's Web_ looked like other books. It had a cover, a title, and pages. I sat on the couch and started leafing. My mom asked if I wanted her to read it to me. "I'll try it first by myself," I said. In the early pages, a farm girl named Fern saves a piglet named Wilbur from being killed and decides to raise him herself. I stopped on page 11 and stared at the picture. The book drifted toward me as the walls of our house dissolved. My face got hot. And then the sound of my mom's laughter snapped me back into reality.
I looked up. Mom stood in the doorway with mirthful tears in her eyes. "Can you show me which picture you were kissing?" she asked when she could talk again.
It was the picture of Fern pushing Wilbur in a stroller that first caught my eye. And then there was a picture of her sitting on a milking stool, watching Wilbur in his sty with a love in her eyes that lit my head on fire. She was so beautiful that I forgot where I was and wound up kissing a dusty page in a library book. But so what? I wasn't embarrassed. I wanted to be that pig. I would even have worn the bonnet. Later, I practiced making faces at myself in the mirror, looking up at myself under my long eyelashes, just like Wilbur.
"I'm in love with Fern," I told my mom the next day. She laughed harder than I thought was possible. That is, until my dad came home and she told him. Her laughing was nothing compared to his. He still thought fiction—other than Tony Hillerman's detective tales set on the Navajo reservation—was a waste of time, but he was giddy at this sign that I'd be interested in girls.
On the first day of kindergarten, I put my copy of _Charlotte's Web_ in my new plastic crayon box. After the first hour of school, I wasn't nervous anymore. When I opened my lunch that day, there was a note on top of my sandwich: _I'm glad you're my son._ That was the first of the many messages Mom would write.
_I'm proud of you._
And just as often— _Your dad and I love you so much._
At the end of the first week of school, my mom wasn't there to pick me up on time. It was an early-dismissal day and she'd forgotten. It took only thirty minutes for my teacher to get her on the phone and down to the school. I hadn't given her much thought in the interim. I was in the middle of my first book club meeting. To teach us the alphabet, our teacher used inflatable cartoon characters that each held a letter. When my mom rushed in full of apologies for the teacher and for her oblivious son, I was seated at a table with some letter people. They each had a book, which I'd selected from the shelves that ringed the class. I'd asked each of them to read a page, and then tell me what it said, so that I could absorb more books in less time. I don't think there was anything special about my reading ability—if I read better at that age than other kids it was because I didn't spend much time doing anything else. I didn't understand that that wasn't the norm for boys my age. After that day my teacher, who'd helped me arrange the book party, started letting me take books from the class onto the playground for recess if I wanted them. I usually did.
After the initial uneasiness of something as new as spending half the day in a classroom, I loved school. How could I not? My parents had a knack for making _everything_ into a game. Learning was a reward. And when I came home from school, instead of asking, "How was school today?" they'd ask, "What did you ask today?"
My memories of those teachers are about how kind they were. I certainly didn't cause them as many headaches as the kids who couldn't sit still or pay attention, or who didn't like books, numbers, or anything not involving recess. And I was perhaps pathologically respectful of my elders. Despite my dad's rough edges, my mom molded me into a perfect little gentleman, and she taught me that nobody was as worthy of respect as a teacher.
So it was with great reluctance that I disagreed, ever so politely, with Ms. Poindexter, my first-grade teacher, as she cast the Thanksgiving program. But I had to. I wanted to score a big role, and not just any role. I wanted to be a pig, and not just any pig.
"What is it, Josh?"
"I'll be a pig. My name is Wilbur. I'm from _Charlotte's Web_."
Ms. Poindexter sighed. The Thanksgiving play didn't call for a pig named Wilbur. She sized me up, which wasn't hard; I was already the tallest kid in class. "No, you're a tree," she said.
"I don't want to be a tree," I said.
"You're tall and we have enough animals, Josh."
"Okay. I'll be a tree that oinks."
"Please go sit down, Josh."
After a month of rehearsals in which I tried my best to look arboreal, it was time. We shuffled onto the stage in the gymnasium at Farmington Elementary and divided into Indians, pilgrims, some animals, and one tree. As the show progressed, it became apparent that the tree was alive and was possibly fighting a stiff breeze.
My parents squinted at me in the dark auditorium. "Why's he doing that?" whispered my dad.
Under the bright lights, my nose, eyes, lips, and tongue contorted as if they'd seceded from my face and were involved in a game of one-upmanship.
"I don't know," said my mom.
Not only did my tics last the entire performance, they got worse the longer I was onstage.
"Josh, honey, are you okay?" my mom asked after the show.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
My parents didn't tell me what had happened. I didn't know anything was wrong.
After the play, Mom and Dad started a surveillance operation at home. Mom observed me while I watched TV, while I played with my friends, while I read, and while I wrestled with my dad. After a week of mental note-taking, she asked me why I was doing it.
"Doing what?"
She explained what they'd seen the night of the play and told me that I was still "doing it."
"What do you mean?"
Mom curled her upper lip and touched her nose with it. She blinked her eyes rapidly, at the same time, then in intervals of forceful winking with either eye. She jerked her head back and forth as if trying to toss away some hair that had fallen over her eyes. She stretched her neck to its limit like a turtle, then bobbed her head backward and forward like a chicken. "Like that. Do you think you could stop?"
"Do I really look like that?"
She made a deal with me. "If you quit doing that for five minutes I'll buy you a new book," she said.
"Mom, I'm sorry," I said, after lasting only one minute before the tics returned. Lips and nose and tongue and eyes. Up and down. Up and down. Over and over and back again. Now that Mom had pointed it out, I was more aware of "doing it." Not always, but often. I didn't like it that she wanted me to stop. If it were a good thing, she wouldn't care.
"It feels weird if I don't do it. Am I really doing it all the time?"
Mom became convinced that what I was doing wasn't a deliberate behavior. She felt so bad about this that she took me to the library that night after dinner.
I brought home some books about sharks. I'd probably read as many books about shark attacks that year as I did fictional stories about gallant horses and child sleuths.
Dad sat by me while I opened the first book. Certain sharks, I discovered, can't breathe if they stop swimming. They have to move or they can't breathe.
"That's like me!" I said.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I can't stop moving either."
Dad thought about it and then said, "Well, you like sharks, right?"
I did.
"Sharks are the toughest things ever!" he said. "What do you want, to be a little dolphin? Would you rather be a kitten? No way! Sharks get whatever they want. A shark can punch the whole world in the face and then just swim away. That's going to be you."
A couple of weeks later, Dad came home from work agitated. "Josh has Tourette Syndrome," he told my mom during dinner. My little sister Megan babbled away in her high chair. She was two, chubby, and her head was as round and seamless as a bowling ball. A messy bowling ball.
"What?"
"I was talking to a guy at work and he said his boy's doing some of the same things Josh is doing."
"And?"
"And his boy has Tourette Syndrome."
"And?" said my mom.
"What do you mean, 'and'?"
"What's Tourette Syndrome?" I asked, twirling a bunch of spaghetti on my fork and flying it over my plate.
My mom said, "What are you talking about? Isn't that that thing where people just yell and swear all the time? Josh doesn't have that." She looked at me. "You have to eat your salad, Josh."
"Swearing is bad," I said.
My dad pushed food around his plate in a circle. "Well, I was talking to the guy, and it sounds a lot like...you know." The ticking clock was the only noise until my mom drummed her fingernails on the table and then tapped the pitcher of water with her fork. _Ding._
Megan giggled.
"Well...," Mom said. "Maybe we could investigate it a little more. But don't make your mind up yet." She poured herself a glass of water and held it for a while, not drinking.
My dad nodded and turned to me. "What do you think about all this, buddy?" he asked.
I stood up on my chair. "I don't care. I'm a shark."
My mom watched me through the glass of water, then put it down. She walked over, picked me up, and sat me back down in my seat. "Even sharks don't get to stand on the chair at dinner."
"Leave him alone," said my dad. "He's a Great White."
I felt like I'd grown a foot taller. My dad always knew just what to say.
My parents tucked me into bed together and Mom read to me. Dad returned to say prayers. After we prayed, Mom squeezed my hand and said, "You'll be fine."
I heard them talking in their bed. The rhythms changed and the volume rose and fell.
The next day Mom and I went to the library again. While I looked for books about talking animals, she found a book about Tourette's. When we got home, I went into my room with _Charlotte's Web_ and she sat on the couch with her neurology book.
She learned that, in the broadest sense, Tourette Syndrome affects people in three ways. It either makes them move involuntarily, vocalize involuntarily, or both. These movements or sounds are called "tics." Motor and vocal tics both have a continuum that can swing pretty freaking far. Mom was both unnerved and incredulous. The book made it sound like Tourette Syndrome was a life sentence of perversion. Study after study talked about poor little boys who kept getting suspended from school because they couldn't quit displaying their weenies in public. The author discussed famous people who may or may not have had Tourette's; Mozart, for example. Oh, and there was speculation that some of the poor women who were burned at the Salem witch trials might not have been possessed by the devil, but may have had Tourette's.
But most of the book focused on the disorder itself. Even less was known about it then, but the symptoms mentioned were so different from what my mom saw me doing that she couldn't convince herself that it was Tourette's.
I didn't know about the book. She told me all of this later. This is something I give my parents a lot of credit for: After their initial rounds of questioning, they didn't bring up the subject anymore. I wasn't asked to talk about the tics, or asked to fight them. Once they decided I wasn't in danger, they kept their worries to themselves and let me get back to being a relatively carefree kid. They didn't see the point of having Tourette's, if that's what it was, on my mind, even if I was having frequent tics.
They didn't take me to a doctor. My father had a deep suspicion of them. "Doctors are idiots," he said after I'd been diagnosed with asthma; the prescribed inhaler did nothing for my symptoms. Mom took me to a specialist when I asked why I wasn't getting better. "A specialist is like a super-doctor," she said. "A super-idiot," said Dad. When the super-doctor misdiagnosed me with an allergy to dairy products, my dad crowed.
I learned that doctors could be wrong. Doctors have the opportunity and the credibility to really screw up someone's life. Doctors' calm detachment and reassurances could help my parents, but they might not help my symptoms. My parents didn't feel the need to put them on the case yet.
"Hold still," said Ms. Poindexter, pressing the now-red cloth to my forehead. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you all, but you need to slow down out on that playground."
"I tripped," I said. It made me sick to lie.
I could've told Ms. Poindexter what had happened, but I thought it would sound stupid. My long arms and endless energy made me a menace during games of tag. I had the longest reach, the longest legs, and I could run forever. I'd been running down another victim when I started shaking my head from side to side, like the hair-shaking tic my mom had shown me, but with the ferocity of a T. rex who had just caught its prey. This violent motion altered my trajectory and I plowed face-first into a brick wall.
I'd been a happy little airplane, soaring above the clouds. Now there was a kamikaze pilot in the cockpit of my skull, scowling at the horizon, trying to find a battleship to crash into.
I started crying when my mom asked me what had happened.
"I lied to Ms. Poindexter."
Faced with my strange tics, Mom did what she always did—she went merrily along her way, seeing beauty in all things. She's part caterpillar, weaving a lovely cocoon of euphemisms around herself, giving purpose to life and seeing the best in things.
Not my dad. He probably wouldn't admit it, but I suspect that he wondered how the circus would treat me in the freak show. I picture him watching me pick at my carrots at dinner and thinking, _Eat up, boy. It beats those fish heads they'll be serving you out of buckets._
But for now, safe in my mother's cocoon, the circus would have to do without me.
* I can't find any record of this book, but my mom swears that's what it was called. She then wondered if maybe it was called _Mr. Mole_ , but I can't find any record of a fictional mole eating marigolds either.
# **CHAPTER 2**
# 155—Silence
302—Friendship in Children
813—King, Stephen, 1947—Criticism and Interpretation
Forty-five small faces watched me as story time began. The fidgeting kids teetered on the verge of chaos. They waited for a crack in my composure, any sign that I couldn't hold or didn't deserve their attention.
But I'm too big, too loud, too _fun_ for this pack of three- to five-year-olds. Especially armed with a book like _No! That's Wrong!_ by Zhaohua Ji and Cui Xu. What child could resist the allure of a well-illustrated story featuring a rabbit that puts a red pair of underwear on its head? I waved my arms while I talked and stomped around the library's meeting room.
When a small face wandered away, I raised my storytelling voice until it was pointed at me again.
They were mine until a ratty-looking German shepherd burst into the room, barking like Cerberus himself. The kids exploded into motion. Some cried, some recoiled. Most stood and chased the dog around the room chanting, "Doggy doggy doggy!" The dog was too fast for me to grab, not that I would have tried to grab a strange dog. Mothers locked in conversation dotted the room's perimeter. I tried to get their attention and failed.
In ten seconds, story time had ended. I walked into the library and asked, "Whose dog is that?"
A woman in a blue sweat suit glanced up from her computer. "It's mine," she said, before returning her eyes to the screen. She was playing Farmville on Facebook.
"Your dog is not allowed in the library."
"He's okay." _Type type type._
"Your dog is in there screwing up story time."
_Typeity typeity type._
I turned off her computer. "Get that dog out of here."
She squawked and hissed, but she did it.
I'm not a children's librarian; I was filling in. But I wanted these kids to understand that books are wonderful and that learning is worthwhile. I didn't want to lose them to a dog.
Later, as I patrolled, I heard the sound. Only one thing sounds like paper being ripped—but my mind refused to acknowledge it as I walked through the stacks, looking for the source of the noise.
I walked around the young adult shelves and stopped. A boy and a girl, perhaps four and three years old, were kneeling on the floor, tearing pages out of a large, colorful picture book, and throwing them into the air, creating an illustrated mess that fluttered back to earth in tatters. "Hey!" I said, louder than I meant to. "Where's your mom?"
The boy pointed toward the computers. "Can you show me who she is?" I asked. The boy nodded and stood up. The girl returned to the book and took the corner of a page in her hand. "Don't!" I said. Her arm dropped. I watched her until she stepped away from the book.
The boy led me to the computers and pointed to a woman who was squinting into the depths of MySpace. I cleared my throat. She looked at me. "Yeah?"
"Is this your son?"
"Why?" Her eyes flicked back toward the screen, where a picture of a kitten called for her attention.
"Because he was tearing pictures out of a book while you were here on the computer."
"Oh." Her eyes moved to the computer again. Her lips moved a bit as she read something on the screen.
"And you'll have to pay for the book," I said. She jumped like someone had poured cold water down her pants. "I can't! I don't have the money!"
"Ma'am, those kids are your responsibility. If you bring them here, whatever they do is your responsibility." Her eyes narrowed and I wondered if she might bite me. "I'm not telling you how to parent," I said. "But you'll have to pay for the book."
She turned to her son and slapped his hand. He flinched and cowered. "Why you gotta do things like this, stupid? This is my last computer session and now I've got to quit it!" I envisioned myself lifting her over my head and spinning around a few times WWE-style before tossing her into the ceiling fan. Instead, I went to the desk and told my assistant manager that I was going for a walk. What the woman had said (and done) to her child shocked me more than seeing those kids tear the pages out of that book. And the library's fan doesn't rotate at a high enough RPM to shred someone to pieces.
Had we lost another kid? I'd seen it before. The sight of that boy tearing up that book suggested that books were simply objects for him, not worlds between covers. Just things that made a pleasant noise when rent and scattered. And now I imagined that boy had a negative association to hinder him—read and get hit. Read and it hurts. Books are bad. Mom gets mad when I look at books. This was a reach, but it didn't feel like it because the whole incident had echoes of every other child I'd seen whose tenuous perceptions of the library could shift instantly.
Kids like Javier.
Javier was friendly when he was alone. He was at ease with any librarian in the branch. He asked lots of questions and he asked for lots of books. When he was alone.
Accompanied by his older brothers or friends, however, he was aloof and uninterested. If he spoke to us within earshot of his peers, it was to mock us. "Oh, please don't tell me you _like_ doing this job!" he said to me one day while walking through the doors with his brothers.
"You know I like it," I said. "I told you yesterday when you came in. You _asked._ Remember?"
"Oh, man, whatever," he said, turning to his brothers for approval. "Like I'd—" They'd stopped in the lobby to make phone calls; he was alone. I could almost feel the confusion and embarrassment pouring off him. But he said nothing. Then his brothers returned and Javier hardened his face and strutted into the library, bumping me with his shoulder. "Oops," he said.
We usually lose the boys first. They're excited about reading at first, but once they get tight with someone who looks down on reading, knowledge, or librarians, their opinions change. Some, like Javier, are torn, at least for a while. Most get swept up in how good it feels to belong to a group, and our group rarely gets chosen. This is frustrating but understandable. It doesn't mean we quit trying to reach them, but it's hard.
I was walking to my fourth grade class at Helen M. Knight Elementary. I counted the falling autumn leaves. A rock skittered away under my foot and planted me on my butt in the road. From this vantage point I saw a culvert in the curb.
A baby chick sat in the mouth of the pipe. Besides its muddy feet it was perfect, the kind of yellow, downy chick whose image greeted me on Easter mornings from various foil candy wrappers.
I scooped the chick up and ran home, four blocks' distance. Mom wasn't pleased to see me rushing back in the door, and wasn't thrilled when the chick hopped from my crayon box onto the floor. She shooed it outside.
The chick stood motionless on the lawn. Four-year-old Megan toddled onto the porch and squealed and pointed. The chick fell on its side and was still.
"Oh," said my mom.
I cried so hard that she almost let me stay home. That night Mom said that she'd given the bird a nice funeral and that now it was in Heaven.
This was a new idea, this Heaven for birds. As far as Heaven for humans, like the other kids in my Sunday school classes, I had a vague idea of a place full of clouds, harps, and singing. But what would Bird Heaven be like? Bottomless bird feeders full of the choicest seeds? Birdhouses with fireplaces in them so they wouldn't have to fly south for the winter? A world without predators? I pestered my mom with these questions and she humored me as long as she could. But most of these discussions ended with her saying, "You'll have to ask your teachers." I did. My teachers eventually responded with "You'll have to ask your mother."
My dad didn't admit that he didn't know things; he invented answers as needed. "Buddy, Bird Heaven is basically just one long worm that birds can eat forever and ever, amen," he said with all the gravitas of a Supreme Court justice. "And even better, the birds never get full—they can eat and eat and every bite or peck is just as enjoyable as the one before it."
Dad had converted to the LDS Church—the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—shortly after his nineteenth birthday so he could marry my mom. He took the lessons from the local missionaries and quit drinking, smoking, and swearing. The elders taught him the missionary discussions at Mom's parents' house. He learned about the angel Moroni and the prophet Joseph Smith and committed to read and pray about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. He got baptized on Halloween day, 1976. The mask of belief that he donned kept him going to church, pleasing my mom, and he would become a devout member of the Mormon Church. Eventually.
But he could never compete with Mom on that front. Few people could. It's hard to talk about my mom without making her sound fanatical, because she weighs all decisions against her faith, but nothing is further from the truth. Nobody laughs more than my mom. Nobody is more playful. Or humble. She's no grim True Believer. There's a verse in the Book of Mormon that sums her up perfectly: _Men_ (and women) _are that they might have joy._
Mom didn't believe that her purpose was to be grave and dour and disapproving of every little thing. Her purpose was to have joy, and nothing was more joyful to her than raising her kids righteously. If a Jehovah's Witness has ever knocked on your door and demanded that you admit that the world was going to Hell and maybe, just maybe, you could save yourself if you let them in—she was the opposite of that.
Mom obeyed church doctrine more from a sense of not wanting to disappoint God than from fear of damnation. It was that simple: We obey our parents, and He was the parent of everything. She loved Him. She served a loving being that was as real to her as the chick in the drain was to me. This God provided everything we had, and brought our happy family together, so going against His wishes was either carelessness or ingratitude. Christianity hinges on the struggle to repay an Unpayable Debt, a constant wondering whether you've done enough to earn salvation, but this didn't weigh her down.
My mom lived and died by the maxims "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all" and "It's humiliating to be lied to, so we don't do it." She could say this, and live it, with total conviction, because we were made in God's image. God wasn't some punk who belittled people for laughs, and He didn't lie. So neither would she, and neither would we. Or if we did, she wanted us to acknowledge our mistakes and correct them by asking forgiveness.
My dad was willing to bend or ignore certain maxims if it meant he could have a laugh, make his kids laugh, or have a good story to tell.
I'd gone to church every Sunday for the previous eight years. I didn't love it, I didn't hate it; it was just the way it was. I'd be lying if I said that it was exciting. Of course, being exhilarated wasn't the point of church. The point was to worship with quiet reflection—the opposite of what an eight-year-old boy wants.
Church was just part of life, like june bugs in the summer or books on our shelves. I'd rather have been reading my books than spending my time pretending to adore the Bible and the Book of Mormon, which were dull. The stories _behind_ the doctrine weren't dull. The _stories_ in the scriptures weren't dull. There was nothing dull about virgin births and Joseph Smith translating the Book of Mormon with magic glasses and Ammon cutting off everyone's arms, Schwarzenegger-style, when a bunch of grubby crooks tried to steal the king's flocks.
The teacher stood before us during Sunday school. "Ammon was a Nephite. Do you know who the Nephites were?"
I raised my hand. "The Nephites were the good people in the Book of Mormon. Except when they were being bad and stupid."
"That's right, but it's not nice to say 'stupid.' And the king put Ammon in charge of his flocks of sheep. His job was to guard them from robbers and other people who wanted to make trouble for the king. One day while Ammon was in the field, a group of Lamanites came and started scattering the flocks, and the animals were running away. Do you know who the Lamanites were?"
"They were the bad people in the Book of Mormon. Except when they were being good."
"Right, Josh, but remember, when they were bothering the king's flocks, they were being wicked. But Ammon told his friends that they should go find all the sheep and that God would help them."
"And then he cut off—"
"Not yet, Josh. When they had gathered the flocks up again, the Lamanites came again and made more trouble. So Ammon, because he wanted to make the king happy, started throwing stones at them with his sling. It wasn't a slingshot like you might be thinking of—it was a little piece of cloth with strings on it. You could put a rock in the bag, twirl it around, and throw the rocks out of it, really hard. In fact, he threw some of the stones so hard that he killed some of the Lamanite robbers."
"Yeah, and then he cut—"
"This made the Lamanites angry. So they took their weapons and tried to kill Ammon. But Ammon was full of the power of God, and even though there were so many of them, he took out his sword and started smiting off the arms of the robbers. Do you know what 'smiting' means?"
Everyone joined in. "He cut off all of their arms!" Noises of disgust and delight filled the air as we swung imaginary swords and recoiled from the imaginary pile of arms that grew with each savage smite.
"Yes, but he did it because the flocks belonged to the king, and the Lord had plans for him. They were the Lord's flocks, and Ammon couldn't let anything bad happen to them. And to show the king what a good servant Ammon was, some shepherds took the arms and dumped them out at the king's feet. And the king was impressed with Ammon's righteousness and glad that he still had his flocks. So what do you think the lesson is here?"
"What did the king do with all the arms?" I asked.
The teacher's shoulders slumped. "I don't know, Josh."
The lesson was that we spent the rest of the day having feverish, high-stakes sword battles at home with our exasperated parents.
But these exciting stories didn't work on the page. I didn't like the _thee_ s and _thou_ s and the stories ended before they began. You could skim a verse and miss a civil war. Reading the scriptures was the opposite of hearing or reading a story and watching it unfold, and that felt like some perverse, literary, alchemical reversal. That a book could be transmuted into something boring. Borrrrrrring.
This was most evident during family scripture study. Here's how it was supposed to work: My mom would select a passage for one of us to read aloud, or maybe we'd take turns reading it. And we'd discuss the story and the doctrine in reverent tones and exclaim about how wonderful it all was and say, "Oh, oh, aren't we so blessed and lucky to have a map as fine as the Holy Scriptures!" We, the children, would thank our parents for showing us the way, and they'd beam with pride at their children's insatiable curiosity for the good word of God. And then we'd set goals and talk about how good we'd be tomorrow, and then the next day, and the family would be knit ever tighter with the bonds of love and scriptural fellowshipping. You couldn't listen to someone speak at church for five minutes without hearing about how essential it was that families read and pray together. And so we did. Then we'd close with a song and a prayer and be better for it all. Ideally.
When we actually had family scripture study, it went like this: Megan and I would groan and throw ourselves on the floor while Mom got the books. Kyle drooled nearby. My dad would wink at me over the cover of his scriptures. He was as bored as I was, but wouldn't admit it unless he wanted to tease my mom.
"Can't we just tell the story?" I asked one night when we were going to read a section that contained a juicy, thrilling war.
"Yeah, let's do that," said my dad.
My mom started reading:
And it came to pass that after this tenth year had passed away, making, in the whole, three hundred and sixty years from the coming of Christ, the king of the Lamanites sent an epistle unto me, which gave unto me to know that they were preparing to come again to battle against us.
Blech.
This style made it impossible to picture the massive battle that took place verses later, or that the victorious Nephites got so arrogant that their brilliant war chief/prophet, Mormon, renounced them and said, "Okay, suckers, fend for yourselves, I won't lead you." And this started a chain of events that led to the Nephites being wiped off the face of the earth. Gone! But we got _none_ of that by reading the scriptures word for word. When she quit reading, my mom wanted to talk about the spiritual responsibilities we had, and my dad said, "Can you guys imagine what it would be like to fight all day with a sword that weighed as much as you do?"
We couldn't, but we liked to try. It wasn't that we didn't believe that what we read was true. But knowing it was true didn't make it feel like it mattered more. My mom might close with a solemn line like "And that is why it is very, very important that we do what we know is right." To which we would respond, "Okay, can we have Otter Pops now?" To which she would respond, "Okay, fine, but think about what you—I'm not finished! Get back in here!"
"Yeah, guys, come back," my dad would say, hunting for the remote in the couch cushions. "Do we really have Otter Pops?"
When you join the Mormon Church, you can expect to receive a calling soon. Callings are assignments, ranging from the bishop of the ward to the person who leads the music to the person who greets you at the door (yes, there are divinely ordained greeters). A ward is the name for a geographically delineated congregation. If you live in this zip code or neighborhood, you go to this building for services. In larger locations a stake comprises several wards. Your calling depends on your age and on the inspiration of the person leading the church group you're part of. For instance, the Young Men's Organization comprises the male members of a ward from age twelve to eighteen. Suppose the bishop calls you to be the Young Men's president. You accept, and now you oversee the teachers of the Young Men's classes, activities, and more. Now suppose that one of your teachers moves away. You have to call a new one. You do this by praying for guidance and listening for inspiration.
Not everyone has a calling, because the decision to call someone rests on the answers that a church leader receives during prayer. So maybe you'd make a great teacher, but if you never flash into someone's head while he's trying to figure out the best person to fill that slot in Sunday school, your number might never come up.
You can probably see how this could be exploited. Even an organization with God at the helm is still run by people. Fallible people bring their personalities and foibles and flaws with them when they agree to serve. If you get a calling that puts you in close and frequent proximity to someone who you find about as enjoyable to be around as an outhouse, it doesn't mean that you now love that person. And if you were in a position to assign callings to ward members, a weaker (read: normal) person might be hesitant to give someone they didn't like a calling that meant seeing that person more often.
You can always say no when you're called, although if you believe your selection is inspired, it's hard to say, "Sorry, tell omniscient God I just can't right now. I don't think he knows." When it's time for you to be released from a calling—because your circumstances make it impossible to continue, or someone receives inspiration that you're done—you're done. That calling goes to someone else and becomes his responsibility.
As a retention tool, callings make sense. A calling helps new converts stay active. After the euphoric intensity of spiritual conversion—not unlike what the ancient Greeks called "being consumed by a ball of fire"—begins to fade, they have a reason to be there. They're not just a face in the crowd; they're people without whom _those specific, necessary_ tasks will not get done.
Immediately post-conversion, my dad was called to teach the Sunbeams class, which is ages three to four. On his second Sunday in his new calling, the person monitoring the halls during classes (another calling) heard a ruckus coming from his room. Upon entering, he found my dad asleep on the floor. The children had removed a screen from the window. Half of them were playing in the parking lot.
The bishop quickly released Dad from his calling.
My mom was always serving, often by sitting in more meetings than she wanted to, although she might not have admitted it. She almost always had multiple callings, despite having young children and despite having assignments that were time-intensive, such as leading the Young Women's organization. When the calls came, she accepted them.
My dad was faithful enough so that my mom wouldn't regret marrying him, but if the Sunbeam incident was any indicator, his priorities swung more toward naps than pious service. My siblings and I had enough faith in our parents to obey them and accept what they said about the grand scheme of things, meaning the Plan of Salvation.
The Plan was the doctrine of Everything Happens for a Reason. We came to earth because we sided with Jesus in the preexistence, unlike the poor bastards who chose Satan and landed in Hell before they even got to visit earth. Once here, we were tempted and tried and given opportunities to prove that we could be faithful and worthy of returning to Heaven. When something bad happened, it was so that we could show that we could react wisely to difficulties. If something good happened, it was so that we could have a chance to express our gratitude to a benevolent God. There was no guesswork for us, no questions about the Meaning of Life, no existential dread, etc. The Plan boiled down to "do more good things than bad things, repent of the bad things, you'll be rewarded." We liked my dad's definition better: "This is the church of Don't Be a Dick."
Now pass the Otter Pops.
My mom was so faithful it was like she was playing a different sport. She knew that we were walking the path back to glory. But we all felt like we were heading in the same direction, together. The church put us together constantly, and this is still miraculous to me: Whether or not following the doctrine meant that we'd be together in Heaven, the family-centric aspects of the gospel led to a family that I _wanted_ to spend eternity with.
Every Monday night we had family home evening. This was exactly what it sounds like: time set aside to be together. We played games, told jokes, went to the movies, occasionally had scripture study...we did what we wanted and we did it together. I'd guess that I spent more time sitting with my family, laughing and talking and being _together_ than any kid I knew. And if we _didn't_ spend time together, at least before we all became teenagers and had our own social circles, it was weird. A day without us laughing at the dinner table was abnormal.
Megan is four years younger than I am, Kyle came four years after Megan, and Lindsey three years after that. I didn't understand that not everyone loved to be with their siblings, or their parents, or God forbid, even their children. Hell, my dad didn't even always know where his family members lived, let alone when he'd see them next.
I remember a weekend when my dad was going to take us all fishing and he told us that we could each bring one friend. We chose each other. At Hidden Lake we fished and played and swam and, when the sun set, we said a blessing over the fish we'd caught. It was the most natural thing in the world.
We always blessed the food when we ate and my dad snuck jokes into the prayers. His love for fly-fishing was profound, and without fail, every time we'd sit down to eat the fish he'd caught, he'd ask God to please make "the bounty provided by my fly-rod expertise to be even more delicious because of the skilled hands that caught it."
We always had family prayer before we slept. In private, I struggled. I knelt and did my best to feel pious and connected to the God who watched me, knew my name, saw everything I did, and knew my thoughts. My Sunday school teachers said, "Just talk to him like you would to a friend. Saying your prayers is just checking in and telling someone about your day."
So I chatted it up with this all-powerful deity. _I cut the fingers off my mom's Isotoner glove so that I could start an arm wrestling club. I read two Beverly Cleary books today. I ate some candy. I put a frog on a big leaf and watched it float away down at the creek._ Was this interesting to anyone but me? The thought of _not_ being the center of my own universe was impossible, but the thought that it mattered to anyone not living in my house didn't resonate.
My teachers taught me to tell God the sins I'd committed during the day and ask for forgiveness. _Dear God, I ate some grapes out of the produce section at the supermarket. When Mom dropped me and Greg off to go swimming, he asked me if I wanted to swear and we yelled "Shit!" every time we went off the diving board. Oh, and I ate a bunch of candy bars out of Aunt Sue's SnackShack business, the one she drives over to the high school during lunch period. During a game of Four Square I kicked the ball and it hit Kelly in the butt. She kicked me and threw me down and while we were wrestling I decided that I wanted to spend more time wrestling with girls. P.S. I'm sorry and I'll never, ever do any of it again._
At night I made the gravest promises while praying; the conviction dissolved before breakfast.
I was also supposed to ask God questions. This was more interesting. I had plenty of questions, and answers were like candy. I'd been taught that prayers were answered by a feeling of a "burning in the bosom," "hearing the still, small voice," or feelings of clarity and assurance. But my emotions got tugged around by everything. It was easy to "feel" the answers I wanted as a distractible kid.
I remember my parents taking me to the first _Land Before Time_ movie, and especially the scene where the shrill little dinosaurs made it to the Great Valley. The music swelled; they'd come so far and the hair on my neck stood on end and my eyes watered. It was how I felt when Luke Skywalker was trying to save Darth Vader after he threw the emperor off the walkway and the saddest music ever played in the background. I cried at the end of _Terminator 2_ when Arnold gave the thumbs-up while lowering himself into the molten metal (Come on! A machine learned the value of human life!). I felt something similar when I finished Super Mario Bros. 2 on the original Nintendo. Good grief, if my mom bought Pop-Tarts it felt like a sacred experience. But prayer didn't give me that undeniable, visceral reaction. I never experienced anything unequivocally divine or had sensations that I couldn't associate with anything else. If I felt something during prayer, it was as likely because I was humming the soundtrack to _The Land Before Time_ as it was because a Supreme Being was bridging the gaps in my understanding.
I never found answers in silence. Of course, sitting still and listening for inspiration was challenging with the constant interruptions of my blinking eyes and facial contortions.
Halfway through my fourth-grade year my parents told us we were moving to Spring Creek, Nevada. My dad had taken a job at a Nevada gold mine.
When I asked why we were moving, they said it was a great opportunity for my dad and that they "felt good about it" after praying on it. If they thought they had divine support behind the move, how could I argue? I tried, though. Oh, I tried.
I didn't want to leave my friends. I didn't want to go to a new school full of kids who didn't know me.
So I asked God if we should move. I tried to stay very still. I squinted and listened and frowned and sent my mind into the cosmos to plead with whoever was there. After a couple of minutes I knew I'd received an answer. I felt better when I was done praying than before I'd started. If that wasn't a sign, what was? What a relief!
"Mom, Dad, I prayed and we aren't supposed to move," I said. Stalemate! Two parties ask the same question; each receives a different answer. Who is right? Who can prove that they received enlightenment? The child's prayer is worth as much as anyone's, yes?
No.
We moved to Spring Creek, an ugly little clump of brown nothing with sagebrush for hair, lurking eight miles outside of Elko. We moved, I started school, and I was miserable...for about twenty-four hours.
On my first day at school I was walking the perimeter of the playground at recess. A couple of hours earlier I'd been introduced to the class, who didn't seem interested in me. That was a relief. But then a girl named Heather, sitting behind me, had tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, half hoping for a smile or some other sign that I was more than a wretched sub-creature. Instead, she blinked her eyes and touched her nose with her upper lip. "Your head is too big," she said. In fairness, she was probably right. Until I was about twenty-five, I was rail thin and had a big head. She probably thought I looked like a big toddler.
Moab was a million miles away. I couldn't keep my face still. The wind blew just to bother me and the happy sounds of the recess-in-progress were excruciating.
_Oh please oh please,_ _please help me!_ my mind cried.
"Hey!"
I kept walking.
"Hey, Josh!"
I'd read enough books to know about mirages, but I didn't know if one could occur in the winter on snow-covered asphalt. Walking toward me was a boy named Keith—he'd been a good friend in Moab before moving a couple of years earlier. Until this moment I didn't know where he'd gone.
_Thank you_ , I whispered.
The first day of fifth grade at Spring Creek Elementary began with an assembly. We were the first students in a brand-new school. I wasn't impressed. Sure, the walls were white with new paint and the desks sparkled, but it was just a building. Then my teacher took our class into the school's library. New desks were one thing—a room full of new books was something else.
_These books haven't been read._ A virgin landscape of pages and paragraphs and dust jackets that gleamed so brightly under the fluorescent lights that they deserved a choir of singing angels to announce their advent.
"How many can I check _out_?" I asked.
The school librarian laughed. She was the only one.
My teacher had fifth _and_ sixth graders in the same class. This meant that 1) the class was huge; 2) each grade got half of the teacher's time and attention; 3) I could read as much as I wanted after I did my work. Our teacher didn't have time to check on me. I'd never been so excited. Now I'd have daily, uninterrupted hours of reading time.
One day as I sat reading _Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret_ , I realized that someone was calling my name.
I looked up and noticed that the class was quiet. I looked to the left into Jason Lawson's eyes. Jason was a cross between a gargoyle and a demon, a blond mixture of torment and confidence. He breathed cruelty and ate nice kids. He held up a book and started blinking his eyes and making noises that signaled to everyone that he was someone stupid.
He was me.
Everyone laughed, except me. The teacher wasn't in the room and I didn't know how to deflect the attention away from myself.
I returned to my book, but the page was no longer written in English. The laughter burned my face. It finally stopped when Mr. Maderis returned and class resumed. I blinked, over and over. I couldn't stop.
I was no longer anonymous; I'd become That Kid. That Kid who does That Thing. I was already as tall as my teacher so I couldn't exactly hide.
Around my parents and siblings, I had tics, but if my siblings noticed, they didn't mention it. That might have been my mom's doing, or maybe they'd never known me without tics, so that me _not_ having tics would've been what caught their attention. My parents never asked me about it unless I mentioned it. I was safe with my family.
My other refuge was the bookmobile, a big, fat RV full of books. A library on wheels that came to school once a week. The driver looked at me like I stank when I asked her how I could become a bookmobile driver.
The first time the bookmobile came I grabbed the biggest book I saw: _The Tommyknockers_ by Stephen King. Thus began a beautiful partnership. The deal was that King would write gigantic books and I'd drown in the obscene word counts, lost to the world until the book was closed. _The Tommyknockers_ was full of swearing and I was uneasy during a section in which a woman's picture of Jesus began talking. People had sex, lost their skin, murdered one another, and wrecked their town. And there were aliens. I couldn't get enough of it.
I followed _Tommyknockers_ with _Pet Sematary,_ a book that frightened the bejabbers out of me. Then came _Misery._ That's when I learned that my deal with Stephen King included one small contract rider: My mom couldn't know about it.
The day after I checked out _Misery_ I came into the living room to find my mom with a serious look on her face. "Honey, sit down."
I sat.
"Can you tell me why you'd want to read this?" she asked, waving the book at me.
_Because it's a book_ , I thought. "It's a good story," I said.
"How far have you read?" she asked.
"About a hundred pages."
"And what's it about?"
"It's about a writer who gets in a wreck. He gets saved by a nurse, but it turns out that she's crazy, but he's hurt so he can't get away."
She nodded. "I want to tell you a couple of things so you'll know why I ask. I read the whole book this morning. It made me feel sick. I'm not saying it's good or it's bad, I just want you to know how it made me feel. Did you know that she ends up cutting off his foot with an ax?"
"Really! Why?"
She shook her head. She hadn't intended to pique my interest. "Did you read about why she couldn't be a nurse anymore?"
"No."
"Because she was killing kids in the hospital."
"Really? How did they catch her? Did she go to jail?"
She smiled. "Do you think the author escapes?"
I nodded. "He has to."
"Well, you're right about that. But first she runs over a police officer with a lawnmower, and she cuts off the writer's thumb with an electric knife, and at the end he has to kill her to get away, and I—" My eyes were so wide and excited that she stopped. "Honey, do you really think that's a good story for you to be reading? Oh, no, you don't!" I was reaching for the book.
"I've got to see how it ends!"
"I just told you how," she said. "If you want to read it when you're older, that's your choice, but it's not an appropriate book for a fifth grader. And no more Stephen King in this house for now. Please."
When I complained to my dad, he said, "Your mom's right, don't read fiction." But the only way I could've quit reading King's books was to "not be there." "There" being the bookmobile. But it didn't stop pulling up to the curb just because my mom didn't want me reading about crazy nurses chopping people up with axes. So I formed a brilliant plan. I checked out two books whose covers were the same size: _It_ by Stephen King, and _The Color of Her Panties_ by Piers Anthony.
_It_ was about a monster who murders children. A terrifying book full of blood, scares, and sharp teeth. _The Color of Her Panties_ was a harmless, pun-riddled volume in the Xanth fantasy series. I removed their dust jackets and switched them. I was so cunning that I even taped the dust jackets down so they wouldn't fall off accidentally. The Great Brain would have approved.
And yet, to brilliant young Josh, he of the big forehead, bent glasses, and darkening literary appetites, it never occurred that a mother who didn't like blood and mayhem in her young son's books might also frown on a book that proudly purports to be about panties.
When Mom saw the book I was reading— _It_ wrapped in panties—she asked to see it. She removed the dust jacket and saw what I'd done. We looked at each other for a long time without saying anything.
I've read every book King has written since. A contract is a contract. If she saw no issues with binding herself to a God she'd never seen, I didn't see why I couldn't bind myself to a guy out in Maine who wrote horror stories.
But man doesn't live by mayhem alone. The darkness, and the illicit thrill of reading King, had to be tempered with books that didn't cause nightmares. Ideally, with books that caused other, warmer sorts of dreams altogether. My girl Fern had competition. Lots of it. When I wasn't reading horror I was spending time with the sassy new brunette and a pair of gorgeous blond twins.
Beverly Cleary created the brunette, Ramona Quimby. My favorite was _Ramona the Brave_ , and there was one scene in that book where I knew I was hers.
During an argument over dinner, Ramona announces that she's going to say a "bad word" to shut everyone up and get some respect. Her family goes quiet with anticipation. "Guts!" she yells. _"Guts! Guts! Guts!"_ And of course they all burst out laughing. I vowed to marry Ramona.
The public library was twelve miles away from our house, and my mom couldn't always take me. One Friday she was sick and my dad was out of town. This was the worst possible scenario; "I will not be taking you into town this weekend," she said before retiring to bed on Friday evening. I fought the withdrawal as long as I could, but finally decided to raid Megan's shelves, which were filled with girls' books.
And that's how I met the Wakefield Twins from Sweet Valley High. I read about ten of them that weekend. I was hooked. Boys' books, girls' books, it didn't matter. They were stories (with lots of kissing) that progressed from point A to point B, and once I'd started reading, I couldn't abide the unresolved stress that came with not finishing them. But that wasn't something I could explain to the bookmobile driver the following week when I checked out a Special Double Issue!!! of Elizabeth and Jessica's trip to Europe.
"Are you sure _this_ is what you want?" she said, holding it up for everyone to see. Jason Lawson snorted behind me. I couldn't tell him about point A and point B and the narcotic of long-arc narrative. I couldn't explain how worried I'd been after Enid got in the plane crash and thought she'd be in a wheelchair forever. I couldn't tell him that the snotty rich kids Lila Fowler and Bruce Patton weren't as bad as they seemed. I couldn't tell him about how annoyed I was that Elizabeth stopped dating basketball player Todd, but was now with soccer-playing weenie Jeffrey French. Soccer!
But maybe I could appeal to his sense of lust. "I think they're cute," I said, pointing to the book's cover, where Elizabeth and Jessica were laughing at something in Europe. _Huh? Huh? Anyone?_
Oh, boy. Wrong thing to say.
That night I asked God to melt Jason Lawson's head.
It "felt" like I'd asked for the right thing.
The next morning I was shocked to find Jason's ugly face glaring at me. He still had his eyes, ears, teeth, and tongue, and all were functioning adequately enough for him to catch my eye and call me "sperm head" in front of the whole class. We'd had sex ed a week earlier and being called sperm head was now a hideous and trendy insult. I went home after school in a haze of embarrassment, but before going inside I got into the back of the family van and whispered, _I hate God. I love the Devil._
It was out. It was out and I couldn't take it back. I waited to be smited, as if by Ammon's avenging sword, exploded, imploded, burned, struck by lightning, or for the skies to open up and say, "I heard that, sperm head!"
Instead...silence. Nothing but the sounds of wind and dogs barking and faint voices from the nearby golf course. The silence didn't disturb me. Or encourage me. It made me wonder. Was this a test? Had I damned myself? Was Someone waiting to see if I'd have the courage to say it again? I didn't.
Silence and stillness were in short supply in my life. There were only three times when I could count on them: when I slept, when I read, and apparently when I blasphemed.
By uttering those words, I'd taken a risk and stepped toward the limits. A friend would later tell me that the best way to expand your limits is to work within them. I'd put my hand out and tried to find the wall but there was nothing there.
# **CHAPTER 3**
# 616.89075—Diagnosis, Differential
302.3—Bullying
During the school year at the Day-Riverside library—a branch of the Salt Lake City Public Library System—at about three in the afternoon, the doors would open and a flood of kids would spill into the stacks and over the computers. Most of them got beached on the PCs. The rest of them would wash up on the chairs, or sometimes the floor. And then, in accordance with some occult signal, they would all start jabbering like seagulls.
While this was going on, I'd patrol and do some looming. After fifteen minutes there was always new graffiti. Most tags were what I saw in the nearby neighborhoods—Rose Park Kids, Inner City Souljas, and one prolific enigma with horrible penmanship who advertised himself as Sir Snowflake. But sometimes I'd find an act of vandalism so exceptional that I couldn't bear to clean it up. Sometimes I didn't even share it with anyone in the hopes that it would go unnoticed.
Carved into a desk: _I love math!_
Written on the edge of a bookshelf in permanent black magic marker: _I am a shelf. I am alive!!!_ I liked that one so much that I almost took the shelf home.
MC Hammer fever was at its zenith when I was in eighth grade, and so were the huge baggy pants he wore onstage. MC Hammer danced like a maniac and the sight of the students trying to mimic his athleticism in the junior high hallways must have been annoying for the teachers. Suddenly every kid was dressing like him and cutting steps into their hair. I knew kids who wanted glasses just because Hammer had them.
I wore my best pair of Hammer pants to school one day—they were purple with enormous yellow dots. The pants hid my skinny legs, although my feet were enormous and getting bigger by the day.
But the pants couldn't hide a bigger problem. Ever since I'd turned thirteen, my body had betrayed me in myriad ways. From the second I opened my eyes to the time I closed them at night, I was humming with desire. I wanted every girl I saw. I was a gawky highlight reel of fantasies that I barely understood but couldn't turn off. And it was getting worse.
I'd fallen asleep in science class with my head on the desk. I woke to the laughter of my eighth-grade classmates. My favorite Hammer pants showcased an unfortunate erection that had reared up majestically during my nap. Everyone was looking at it.
Wow.
I ran—well, shuffled quickly—out of the room and hid in the restroom down the hall. I sat in a stall until my legs fell asleep. The next few weeks were predictably awful. But I learned a great truth in the last half of that school term: Kids can forget anything. Even you. Two months later they were picking on someone else.
I fought competing impulses. I wanted to be seen—and not seen. And I wanted both on my own terms. I wanted the females to giggle and ask to feel my muscles (I was six-three and my muscles were virtually nonexistent). I wanted the males to part when I walked down the hall.
Too bad.
Ms. Henderson passed out the math tests. The room was quiet. To my horror, I started clearing my throat. "Hmm- _hmm! Huh._ " With each noise, my feet stomped the ground. "Huh! _Huh!_ " I had never concentrated on a math test so hard. But maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought. Maybe nobody could hear me.
We'd been working on our tests for about five minutes when Steven, who sat in front of me, turned around and yelled, "Shut up!" into my face. Somehow the class got even quieter. Everyone looked at him, then at me.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Am _I_ okay?" he said, eyes wide. But I didn't know what else to say. I looked down at my desk, feeling like someone had poured lava into my hair. I cleared my throat again, louder than before. I looked at Steven again. I don't know if I looked as scared as I felt.
"I've got something in my throat," I said. Ms. Henderson took me outside. Math class was in a metal double-wide trailer at the hill above the main school building. Each clanking step on the walkway outside triggered a new tic. "Huh huh huh!"
"Are you okay?" Ms. Henderson asked.
I didn't know. Was I okay? I only knew that I couldn't ever take another math test. And I had geography the next hour.
"Huh HUH!" I covered my mouth. My stomach filled with rocks. How could this be happening? _Why_ would this be happening? And what was it? Ms. Henderson let me call my mom, who came and took me home.
I cried all afternoon. "Mom, what's wrong with me?"
"I don't know, Josh," she said. "But we'll find out. You'll be okay."
For the first time I could remember, nothing she said made me feel better. The urges to croak, stomp my feet, and clear my throat didn't subside. They kept going at dinner, and as I lay in my bed that night. I was exhausted by the effort of the twitching and noises, but couldn't sleep because of the twitching and noises.
That night my mom called Ms. Henderson and asked if I was being disruptive to the class. She had flashes of that Tourette's book in her head and needed to know if I was telling the truth about what had happened. Had I really just been clearing my throat? Had I just been making noises? Was there anything I wasn't telling her? Horror of horrors, had her husband been right and I was destined for the circus?
Ms. Henderson told her that I was fine, that I wasn't a disturbance in class, and that I didn't need any accommodations. "If you start treating him like he's different," she said, "he'll start to think he's different. If he starts to think he's different, he's going to start acting like he's different. That's not what he needs."
But I was making so many involuntary noises. There was the hooting baby owl sound. And the slobbering dog just finishing a round of wind sprints. Sometimes I whistled like wind in a ghost town. Other times I had a perpetual frog in my throat that sat there even after constant throat-clearing. But thankfully, the tics were usually at their most diverse when I was alone.
I stumbled through the rest of the year, hoping that everyone would catch a bad case of amnesia between June and August so that nobody would remember me on the first day of high school.
Over the summer I'd only gotten noisier. I was hooting and yowling and yapping and generating weird looks every time I was in public. While school was out, this was manageable. My friends knew I had tics. Everyone at church knew, but things were mild enough that most people chalked it up to extreme fidgets. At least, that's what I told myself, and my mom was willing to agree with any line of thought that made things easier for me. Even trips to the quiet library were doable—it wasn't like anything would have kept me away, but the librarians knew me. I could find a book, get absorbed, and the tics would stop. Or if that didn't work I could grab a book and run outside.
In the fall, I tried out for the freshman basketball team. I was tall enough to make the team without any relevant skills, and I wanted the status. I didn't know that being on the freshman team was about as prestigious as being the fat kid who swam with his T-shirt on, at least in our school's pantheon of sports. But I'd get to dress up. On Game Day, all Elko High School athletes dressed up. If I was among the handful of students wearing a tie on a Friday, I fantasized, girls would notice me and think _Oh, he's on the team. I should probably ask him out on a date._ Silk shirts were as popular as Hammer pants, so I asked for one when I made the team. A week later I had a blue silk shirt that, after an hour of wear, looked like a poorly erased chalkboard. I wore it with tight slacks that wouldn't reveal anything, should I fall asleep in class.
I didn't receive the adoration I hoped for the first time I wore my silk shirt, although Anna L. told me I looked nice. I had decided to complement the new look by shaving the sides of my head and growing the top out into a bushy red Mohawk. With my thick, upright hair, I looked like one of those troll dolls, except that my haircut made me about eight feet tall.
Making the team meant going to practice every day. As soon as my breathing quickened on the gym floor, my tics kicked in. The harder I played, the worse they got. And the harder I played, the more I got to play. The more I played, the more I was seen on the court before hostile crowds. The more I played in front of crowds that already hated our team, the more I had tics in front of people who were already looking for reasons to mock me.
But there was a nice surprise that would've been completely unsurprising to anyone else—the harder I practiced, the better I got. Who knew that by repeating a task, you could improve? Our team wasn't bad either, and I realized that I liked to win more than I hated having my tics on full display.
Nobody hated our team more than our archenemies from Hawthorne,* Nevada. Our teams hated each other; our fans hated each other. Even our cheerleaders glared across the court during games. With its casinos and buffets and factories and scummy basketball teams, Hawthorne smelled like a huge dirty butt, waving in the wind.
Near the end of the first quarter against Hawthorne I caught the ball in the post and jumped for an easy lay-up.
"Don't twitch!" a voice yelled from the crowd.
I missed the shot. Had I heard what I thought I had? I looked at the home crowd on the other side of the gym. A sea of yellow jerseys and pom-poms. Who had yelled? Or were they all yelling it and I only heard that one voice? My feet were suddenly heavy and I felt sick. I gritted my teeth and played harder than ever. It worked. I shut my man down on defense. I made a few baskets. I forgot about the voice in the heat of joyous competition. Then I caught the ball down low again. I went up for a shot and heard more than one person yelling something about "twitch." I got fouled. As I took my place on the free-throw line, the crowd began to chant.
"Twitch! Twitch! Twitch!"
I hadn't imagined it. I made one out of two shots. Halftime followed shortly after.
In the locker room I was dizzy with nerves and sat down unsteadily. "Are you all right?" asked a teammate.
"Yeah," I said. _I don't know_ , I thought.
We matched each other point for point in the second half. The more the crowd yelled at me, the angrier I got. _Couldn't they see that something was wrong with me? How dare they!_ But at the same time I was thinking, _You have to stop doing this. Of course they're laughing at you! You'd be laughing too! Just make yourself stop!_
I could hear my dad bellowing. "Kill him! He got fouled! Pass it! Good grief, are you _kidding me_?" He wasn't exactly a master at controlling himself during my games. During one legendary game against Battle Mountain, the referee actually walked into the crowd and offered my dad the whistle to shut him up. He didn't take it, but he didn't quiet down either.
Down the stretch I kept getting fouled and had to shoot several sets of free throws. The crowd chanted every time. After making my final shot, I pointed at the crowd and laughed. The Hawthorne crowd howled and stomped, but we had won. That was all that mattered. When I walked out of the locker room after the game, a group of rival students saw me and immediately began twitching, jerking their elbows, heads, and contorting their faces.
It was as visceral as being kicked in the crotch. I put my head down and hurried by. I could hear the sounds of their laughter all the way home.
"Well, at least you won," Dad said afterward. I hadn't said anything yet. "Well, you did," he repeated, while I looked out the window of our enormous red van.
"Honey, what is it?" said my mom.
"I think I want to see a doctor," I said. "I want to know what's going on with me."
They looked at each other. "We'll get you an appointment with a specialist as soon as we can," said my dad. "You know, that crowd was probably laughing at me as much as at you."
I laughed.
"No 'probably' about it," said my mom. "But you deserved it."
I turned on the light in the backseat. I'd brought a slim book that I'd grabbed at the high school library, _The War Prayer_ by Mark Twain. In the book, the citizens of a small town gather in a church to pray for the young men of their town, who will soon leave for war. The service proceeds with a pastor singing the virtues of honor, and the congregation prays for victory.
A stranger walks into the building and announces that he is God's messenger. His job is to say out loud all of the things that the church members are thinking. He proceeds with the grisliest recounting of the horrors of war, pleading with God to shred their enemies' bodies with their bullets and blades.
When he's finished, the townspeople ignore him. _It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said._
Several weeks later we traveled to Reno for another basketball game. My game had further improved and I anticipated a good fight between our teams. It was only in the fury of competition that my tics let me go. If I had time to think, I had time to twitch. But if I was shoving against someone, gritting my teeth, wanting to win just to make them lose, I had some control.
Things were going fine in the first quarter when I began fighting for a rebound with their center, a massive kid who had surely been held back eight times. He elbowed me in the back and yelled, "You can't box me out, you pussy!" I fell to my knees, then jumped up and turned to shove him. He leaned down into my face—yes, he was really tall—and blinked his eyes spastically. Apparently I was still having tics, even when I thought I had them under control. I was horrified. He laughed as we ran up the floor. I tried to avoid him but he was guarding me. Every time he bumped into me he laughed. I avoided his gaze until halftime when I looked back after he pushed me again. But I had nothing. We were getting killed.
"What's with you?" asked Coach McCabe.
"I don't feel good," I said, slumping onto a bench. "I think I need to sit out the rest of the game."
I didn't sit out, but I played even worse in the second half. When the game ended and we the vanquished lined up to shake the opponents' hands, I looked at the ground. I didn't see who slapped me on the back of the head, but I knew.
My mom told me that I'd been the bigger man, and that turning the other cheek is always better. But turning the other cheek was all I knew how to do.
I prayed a lot in the two weeks between the game in Reno and the visit to the neurology clinic at the University of Utah. I needed answers.
I thought I might have some weird form of cancer. I thought I might have some brand-new disorder that would be named after me once I died. My tombstone would say, _Here lies Josh. He just wanted to quit blinking and yelping._
When we pulled into the parking lot at the neurology clinic I started to sweat. I was torn between wanting an answer and wanting to control what the answer would be. I only wanted there to be something officially wrong with me if it also came with a quick solution. The doctor would reach into his pocket and produce the bottle of pills that he kept on hand for those rare boys who couldn't quit barking in math class. I'd pop a couple and be cured by the time we got home. My condition was annoying, but was I making too much of it? It distressed me, but what if I got worse the second I knew what was happening to me?
My parents were out of the car for about thirty seconds before they realized I hadn't moved. My mom leaned in and squeezed my hand. "Come on."
I sat in the waiting room while my knees knocked and my hands shook like I was being marched to the gallows. My memories of the doctor are unremarkable: He had red hair and a white coat. He spent fifteen minutes having me stand with my heels together, touch my nose with my index fingers, and then watching me intently and scratching notes on a pad while I tried not to twitch too much. I was suddenly worried that if I showed him the worst of my symptoms he would misdiagnose me and give me the treatment meant for people with syphilis or rabies.
"This is Tourette Syndrome," he said, putting down his pen.
And there it was, just like that. I had a thing and the thing had a name.
"I read a book about Tourette's," Mom said. The book said this, and the book said that, and "Oh, my goodness, it's a relief to know what's actually going on, because Josh has been so nervous. Haven't you, Josh?"
"So what now?" I asked. Whatever the diagnosis, this was the only question I really cared about.
"Well," said the doctor, "I wouldn't recommend any medication, unless you feel like the situation is unmanageable. But it doesn't sound like you've had too bad of a time of it until now."
"But there are medications that would help with this?" asked my dad.
"Some patients show improvement with certain drugs that are typically used to treat blood pressure issues, and there have been studies which suggest that some people with Tourette's respond well to antipsychotics."
Now this was what I had worried about. Was I psychotic?
"But you wouldn't recommend any of those right now, you said, right?" asked my mom.
"There are side effects to many of these medications that may not be worth the cost if the symptoms are currently tolerable for Josh."
My parents looked at me. Were the symptoms tolerable? Yes, meaning I wasn't in physical pain, I went to school, I played on the basketball team and had good friends. Girls weren't paying any attention to me and my haircut was bad, but for the results-oriented person examining my life on paper, it probably looked like I had nothing to whine about. And that was a question I asked myself constantly: Was I whining? Would a tough person make an issue out of any of this? Would my dad have been here at the doctor in my place if it had been him? No way. Would my mom have been here? Probably not until she had put in another year of prayer.
"I'm doing okay," I said.
"Josh, you've actually been having a rough time," said my mom.
"I'm fine," I said.
Silence.
"I don't want any pills," I said. I didn't know whether that was true. But I said it, the doctor had other appointments, and we left without pills, prescriptions, or much in the way of progress. But we had a name. The question "What is wrong with me?" had an answer. The answer was Tourette Syndrome. My dad's knee-jerk declaration from nine years earlier had been correct.
"I knew it," he told my mom as we drove home.
She said nothing.
"Josh, I knew it. I told her!" He held up his hand. I gave him five. Then he offered his hand to her.
"Are you done?" she said.
"I knew it way back then," he told my siblings when we got home. They had almost zero reaction, since they had never heard about any of that. They knew I'd gone to the hospital and they just wanted to know if I was okay.
"So you're okay, though?" said Megan after I recapped the meeting for her.
"Yeah."
"Good." And that was the end of it.
Back at school I vowed not to tell anyone what had happened.
"I just found out I have Tourette Syndrome," I told Sarah in science class while we conducted an experiment with tuning forks.
"Yeah, I've got Tourette's," I told Mr. Williams, my electronics teacher. "It can be pretty bad."
"Yeah," I told my friends at lunch, "there's a name for what's been going on with me."
It was even a day where I wasn't having any noticeable tics. But I managed to tell everyone I could. Nobody had much to say besides, "Oh, man, that sucks," because they knew even less about it than I did, if that were possible.
During the last hour of school, the tics returned and hit with such frequency that catching my breath was a challenge.
"Mom, I'm going stay home from school for a while," I said that night. I was too embarrassed to deal with it.
"No, you're going," she said.
"It's my decision," I said.
"No, actually, it's not," she said. "It's mine, but you're not even deciding. You're letting this thing decide for you. Don't."
This was the first time I saw Tourette's as a separate being; a parasite that I was in a relationship with. I named her Misty, short for "Miss T."
Here's the crash course in how my Tourette's feels. I'm not going to explain what causes it, because doctors are still speculating about it. There are theories about dopamine imbalances and nutritional sensitivities and the hunt is on for the guilty genes, but that information hasn't ever been useful to me. What I can talk about is what it feels like to have tics, and to _need_ to have tics.
Think of what it feels like when you need to sneeze. You become aware of it slowly; first there's an itch. Maybe you wiggle your nose or squint to scratch it, but the itch builds until you let it out. Of course, you could hold the sneeze in, but what happens if you stifle it? There's no relief or resolution. It feels _wrong._ You sneeze so the feeling is expelled.
When I have a tic, whether it's a noise or a movement, it's similar to the urge to sneeze. There's a pressure that builds up in my eyes if I want to blink, in my forehead if I want to wrinkle it, in my shoulders if I want to jerk them up toward my ears, in my tongue if I need to feel the edge of it slide against a molar, in my throat if I need to hum or yell or whistle. The urge can also be everywhere at once, which results in a tic where I flex every part of my body, hard and fast. Wherever it is, sooner or later, I have to let it out. But the relief doesn't last long. The pressure might fade, rebuild, and jump out again in a few seconds, a few minutes, or longer.
I can hold a tic in if I really try, but there's a price to pay for doing that. It seems that for me, I must release a specific intensity of tics each day. I can mete it out in lots of small tics, or I can hold it in and have it rage out in a blast when I get home from work, like a clogged steam valve on a radiator. I hold it in on airplanes, in meetings, in church, in classrooms, and whenever possible, on the reference desk.
For the rest of the book, you can assume that I'm always having tics. I thought about writing the noises into the dialogue, but that quickly became so obnoxious that your experience reading this book would have been just as annoying as it is to actually have the tics. So here's what I'll do: In the coming chapters, when I experience new, significant tics, I'll say so. Once I've had a new type of tic, you can assume that it stays in the rotation. Each new tic is stacked on top of what came before it.
So then, on with it.
Misty spoke her own language, but used my mouth to do it. She often started and finished my sentences, although she didn't interrupt me while I was talking. She made me say things like:
"Woo!"
"Hep!"
"Hup!"
"Dit dit deet." Whenever she spoke in multiple syllables, each sound descended in pitch.
"Ssss!"
"Nee nah."
"Hmm HMM."
"Zur."
But they're just noises, I told myself. I could handle her, now that I knew who she was.
My mom's father built a barn all by himself when he was thirteen. He lived in a tent with his family during the Depression. When it was time to feed his family of nine during the lean winter, he poached deer, despite being Moab's chief of police. This was a man who didn't make excuses, and a lot of that had trickled down to my mom. She didn't want some label interfering with my becoming a productive citizen.
Neither did my dad. For over a decade he'd risen between three and four in the morning to drive the ninety miles to the gold mine for ten-hour shifts that started at six o'clock. "Work is what a man does," he said. "Men who don't work hard aren't normal." If I was going to be normal, I'd have to work.
My first job was at a trap-and-skeet club, where I sat underground in a bunker, loading a machine with clay pigeons. The throwing arm of the machine was a thick dull blade that revolved from its base in a noisy parabola. Its arc came within inches of my chest, but it felt like it sliced just out of range of my throat. But I knew that it was completely safe, because my boss said, "It's completely safe." The shooters would arrive and buy each other drink after drink until they were sufficiently inebriated to load and operate their shotguns as I sat in the bunker beneath them with my eyes on the blade.
Soon, my hand left my lap and began tapping the blade with the knuckle of my index finger. _Boom!_ The blade flung itself in a circle just after I pulled my hand away. My heart twisted like an uncoiling snake. My hand went back to the blade. I put it back on my leg. The pigeon flew through the opening. I replaced it with my right hand and Misty put my left hand in front of the blade. I didn't tap it this time; I actually put it in the blade's path. The blade was dull—I don't think it would have sliced my fingers off. But it certainly would have broken them. I watched all of this in horror, from a great distance, even though I was participating. Nobody outside knew that anything was wrong inside the bunker. But I couldn't keep my hand still. Even when I sat on it, there was an undeniable urge to put my hand in harm's way. It wanted to be on the blade. It _wanted_ to be in danger. It was as difficult to ignore as it had been to stay quiet in Ms. Henderson's math class. But now I was in danger. Or was I? It wasn't like I absolutely couldn't keep my hand under me. It was more that I wanted to put it on the blade _and_ keep it underneath me. I didn't feel _right_ until I tapped the blade with my finger. The pressure would build. The "sneeze" tormented me until I let it go. But the satisfaction was momentary. The urge to do it again would build immediately. Sooner or later, I'd hurt myself.
The job didn't get easier as the weeks wore on. I desperately wanted to quit, but no matter how I looked at it, my parents would think I was making excuses. "So your hand won't sit still, huh? My dad lived in a tent!" "So you're scared, huh? Try being scared of not knowing when you'll get paid again!"
Then a solution presented itself so perfectly that I half believed it was divine inspiration. When I told my parents I wanted to quit, my dad immediately said, "Why?"
My mom said, "But you've only been there for a couple of months, what's wrong?"
I took a deep breath. "This is going to sound dumb, but—"
My dad nodded.
"—but I feel bad missing church on Sunday. I know it's only a couple of times every month but I feel like I'm getting out of the habit."
My mom was nodding as proudly as if I'd just given my allowance to a homeless man. My dad wasn't as pleased. "I've been working for years and I haven't always been able to get to church and I've been fine for it."
"Frank, you've told me that you miss it when you're away," said my mom.
"But I don't ignore my responsibilities, miss it or not."
"It just doesn't feel...right," I said. I sighed. There's a great case to be made for using religion to win arguments, as long as you only debate with other believers. My dad faced a difficult proposition: He could force me to keep my job, but that would look like he was making light of my spiritual commitment.
"Josh, we'll support whatever you decide to do," said my mom, patting my dad's knee.
I took a job as a cook at Pizza Hut, which didn't interfere with Sundays. It turned out to be more dangerous than the trap-and-skeet club.
I couldn't keep my hands under control around anything warmer than my video game console at three in the morning on a Sunday. Bare lightbulbs, seat-belt buckles that had gotten too much sun, and oven burners—all bad news. I'd get the urge to tap them with my elbow. And if one elbow tapped, the other one had to as well. Sometimes my forehead needed to touch things.
The first time I washed dishes at Pizza Hut I burned my hand on an iron pizza pan. At any moment during the evening shifts there were at least thirty of them waiting to be washed. They'd arrive about three minutes after the pizzas had left the oven, so the pans were still hot when they got to me. I'd been alone for about five minutes when I began tapping one of the pans with the knuckle of my right index finger. Soon all my fingers wanted in on the action. Not only was I playing finger-tag with the pans, the pans weren't getting washed. Although I was wearing an oven mitt, I could still feel plenty of heat and had to pull my fingers away.
Misty hadn't yet scarred me, so maybe I was just being a weenie. But if I ended up covered in third-degree burns, who could deny me accommodation or sympathy? My dad would understand a burn, and my fingers kept dancing back to the hot pans.
My parents argued over whether I should be allowed to quit. "If it's too hard for him, he shouldn't have to do it," Mom said.
"How does he know it's too hard if he doesn't try to stick it out for a while?" Dad asked.
My mom prevailed. I was off the hook.
* Not the school's real name
# **CHAPTER 4**
# 305.31—Lust Religious Aspects Christianity
231.74—Revelation
123—Free Will and Determinism
The public restrooms at my library are vile. Every minute someone's in there relieving himself or bathing in the sink. The air doesn't circulate and the stench is palpable. But they have nothing on the teen section. To walk through the young adult area is to traverse a cloud of hormones and poor hygiene and lust and anger that's as real as a thicket of skunky roadkill.
Whenever the teenagers are quiet, I assume it's because they're impregnating each other on the library furniture. Teenagers get so wrapped up in each other that they don't even think to hide. One night while I was closing I saw a young couple sitting on a couch. Well, he was sitting on a couch. She was sitting on his lap and their faces were locked together tightly enough that, had I not been able to hear their rough breathing, I might have wondered if they were alive. I tried to make my footsteps heavier, but if they heard me, they gave no sign.
I cleared my throat. I was about to say, "Look, you can't sit on top of him and do it in the library," but we were closing, so I just said, "You've got about one minute before we close." Security had to remind them five minutes later. They wandered away, presumably down to Level 2. Level 2 is the fiction department; it also houses the Canteena, which is the area reserved for teenagers and rutting. It has a television, colored benches, and computers for surfing the Internet. It was apparently designed to distract them from reading the young adult books that also happen to be there.
Two things kept getting in the way of my carnal desires: God and Tourette's.
For Mormon boys, the sixteenth birthday is a milestone. For me it meant the great quest to rub mine against hers. Now I could date. "Getting some" probably isn't what you're thinking. To a young Mormon boy, "getting some" meant a peck on the cheek, a hand to hold, someone to breathe hot air on your neck in a car late at night...I wasn't choosy about the specific acts of debauchery.
The primary goal for a Mormon is to marry a worthy spouse in the temple. Marriage is part of the Plan of Salvation. I'd been taught that, before coming to earth, we were all in the Preexistence, spirits waiting for our turn to live on the third planet as corporeal beings. We knew we'd be tested to prove ourselves worthy of returning to the highest kingdom of Heaven. There are three tiers in Mormon Heaven—telestial, terrestrial, and celestial.* The key requirement to vaulting past the terrestrial and telestial heavens and attaining celestial exaltation was finding that spouse.
The grand search for a partner starts for most at age sixteen, when we're first allowed to date. By then we've supposedly learned enough about right and wrong that we won't get each other pregnant the first chance we get. Besides, it had been drilled into us endlessly that premarital sex is a terrible sin; only murder is worse. You can repent of most sins by making restitution, but you can't bring a dead body back to life, and you can't restore your virginity. We are made in God's image and God is no fornicator. The importance of remaining pure and unspotted in the eyes of God was underscored by our Sunday school teachers' constant reminders: "Nothing good happens under a blanket" and "Sleep with your hands above the covers."
I went to church every Sunday, said my prayers, and went to seminary in the mornings. I was doing my part in the Plan.
When I turned sixteen, Kellie, a pretty girl in my ward, agreed to go on a date with me. Since Elko, Nevada, wasn't exactly bursting with nightlife opportunities for kids—casinos and brothels being out of the question—I took her to see _Mrs. Doubtfire_. I was excited, but also terrified by what might happen. My fantasies and church teachings had taught me to think that an orgy was always right around the corner, and that I might very well be hell-bound by morning. I also wanted to be irresistible and smooth, and my increasingly random tics made it harder to predict how my body would behave.
"Remember who you are," said my mom. "Be a gentleman."
I picked Kellie up in my tiny Honda Civic hatchback—I was already six feet seven and I suspected that my parents bought this car hoping it would serve as a chastity belt with good gas mileage. I'd tucked a coil of fuel tubing—a circle of rubbery hose—inside the pocket of my dad's old leather jacket, which he'd agreed to let me wear even though it was June. My latest tic was to bite my lips, tongue, and the inside of my cheeks repeatedly. So my plan was to secretly slip the rubber tubing into my mouth and bite down on it if the tic showed up. I was hoping that I wouldn't need it, but if necessary, I could probably chomp away in the darkened theater without Kellie noticing, unless we got down to making out as soon as the previews started.
The biting tics lay dormant. Instead, I yipped and yapped and hooted. Luckily, most Robin Williams movies are punctuated by deafening trumpet blasts and madcap soundtracks, so if Kellie noticed (I'm sure she did), she didn't say anything. But I needed her to say something about something.
"This is really funny," I said, nodding at the movie. It wasn't.
"I _know_!" she whispered. She hadn't laughed once. But that's Robin Williams for you. The zanier he got, the less we smiled. We had that much in common, at least.
My fantasized make-out session never materialized. While our shoulders occasionally touched during the movie, that was it. I was inexplicably operating at half-capacity wittiness. If Kellie knew I was struggling, she gave no sign, but I knew the date was a dud. As I drove out of her driveway, an involuntary scream burst out of me, much louder than anything I'd done in the theater.
My mom was waiting up for me. "Did you have fun?"
"Yes," I lied. My honor was still intact, but I was too exhausted and frightened about the future to care.
"Did you put the moves on her?" Dad asked. "The moves are in your blood."
"Frank!" Mom said.
"Because if you need to learn the ropes, I can teach you. I am wise in this way. Ask your mother."
"No," I said.
As I lay in bed, tossing and turning with that particular agony known only to lusty young boys after an evening that goes nowhere, I thought about the Plan. Believing in the Plan meant that I had Tourette's _by design_. I didn't want to saddle anyone else with it in a partnership, but I was _supposed_ to find someone to marry. This meant that someone else's Plan was to marry a guy with worsening Tourette's and bear his burdens.
My date with Kellie was a dud and a fluke. When I tried to talk to girls—and I failed to try most of the time—I usually wound up talking about myself. "Hi, I'm Josh, I've got this weird thing so you might see this—" The girls would look at me expectantly. These were inevitably the times when my tics wouldn't emerge, so my opening line was to tell someone that I had a disorder that resulted in no symptoms. Blah. Maybe my dad did need to teach me the ropes.
It was 1994 and Nirvana had released the album _Nevermind._ Thrift stores in Elko filled with young men trading in their MC Hammer pants and vying for used, ragged sweaters and threadbare pants. I didn't know who Kurt Cobain was when I borrowed a basketball teammate's CD player during a trip and put those headphones on. By the time we got back to Elko I knew the words to every song. Or, I knew what I thought the words were. It was silly to think that the howling and unintelligible and nonsensical lyrics and the screaming feedback of the guitars had been written for me, but that's how it felt. The music sounded like I felt. It wasn't that I was angry, or disenfranchised, or that I hated my life, or that I really had anything to complain about. But I felt...more aggressive.
I thought I'd been interested in girls before, but by the time the basketball season ended, I was gripped by a mania that nearly tore me in half. One day at school I had my road to Damascus moment: Every other girl was wearing a Nirvana shirt.
That night at dinner I said, "My tics were really bad today." This always killed the conversation. Not that it stopped me from saying it. I could neutralize any and all small talk that wasn't related to or involving me. "I want to try something with music."
"What do you mean? You mean besides piano?" Dad asked. I'd started piano lessons when I was five, and I was still taking them. Piano had given me good posture, but I'd never heard a girl say, "Why can't I just find a boy with suitable scapular alignment?"
"I think I want to learn how to play the guitar. I think it looks fun and I think it would help me."
"Electric or acoustic?" said my dad.
I pictured the girls in the Nirvana shirts. "Electric."
"Fine," Dad said. "I'll take you over to Salt Lake and we'll go to Wagstaff. Have you ever been there? Tons of guitars."
"Really?"
"If you think it will help, then yes, really," said my dad.
My mom couldn't argue with that, but she was still trying to figure out what my angle was.
"Girls love guitars," said my dad. " _You_ love guitars," he said, pointing at my mom.
"Don't tell me what I love, you oaf."
We left for Salt Lake City the next weekend, as promised. We rose early and had breakfast at JR's, a restaurant inside one of the casinos. Even at seven in the morning, the cacophony of people losing money served as background music. "When we moved here, your mom and I used to come down here and play the slots," Dad said while we waited for our food.
The thought of my mom playing the slot machines was as alien as the thought of her pole dancing. This was fascinating, and not just because Mormons don't gamble. With the aim of being good examples for us kids, my parents kept their guard up fairly well, she better than he. But occasionally I'd see glimpses of the kids they had been, exhibits of the past, usually offered as evidence by one parent as a mild, good-natured indictment against the other. What else had they done that I didn't know about? What else might they _still_ be doing that I didn't know about?
I looked into the casino. One row of slots was taken by a row of elderly women whose blue hair looked psychedelic under the garish lights. One of them wore a tight black glove on her slot-pulling hand to keep it rust-free. They sold these gloves at many shops in Elko, including the convenience stores. They were usually on the counter with the impulse buys. Like the scant red panties bundled into the shape of a rose.
"Did you really play the slots?" I asked.
"Just a little bit," he said. "Just for fun. We wouldn't do it now. Your mom definitely wouldn't. Hey, look at her!" He had noticed the lady with the glove.
"Was it because you don't have enough money to gamble now or because you're trying to be good?"
Dad laughed. "We definitely had less money back then, but it's both. It's a dumb habit and it's even worse when people get addicted. Do you think she's addicted?" Then he nodded and winked at the lady with the glove as she walked by. "Oh yeah, she's got to have it." We finished breakfast, got in the truck, and left Elko.
Half an hour into the drive I pulled a paperback out of my jacket pocket and started reading. My dad said, "What's your book about? Looks pretty spicy."
I closed it and wondered what to say. I'd started reading fantasy a couple of years earlier. I held a copy of Piers Anthony's _And Eternity_ , from the Incarnations of Immortality series. Each book told the story of a mortal who replaces one of the Incarnations: Fate, War, Time, Death, Nature, Evil...and Good. _And Eternity_ was about how the other Incarnations decide that God has been negligent and must be replaced. But that hadn't caught my dad's attention. The cover of _And Eternity_ shows two women standing on clouds in a ray of light, arms outstretched in a pose of worship. Sprawled in front of them is a young, black-haired woman toying with a necklace. She is wearing thigh-high black nylons, a black tank top, and is lying turned to the side, apparently looking at my dad.
"Well, this series is about these incarnations—they're actually called 'offices,' like the Devil would have his own office, but his incarnation is called Evil, and—"
"Who's she?" Dad interrupted, pointing at the girl in the thigh-highs. I couldn't tell him that it was looking like she'd be the one to replace God, so I said, "Never mind, it's dumb. I know."
He laughed. "Just because it's dumb doesn't mean you can't like it." He gestured at the landscape. "Isn't the real world interesting enough for you?" We were driving through an interminable expanse of sagebrush and flatness. At its most vibrant, sagebrush looks like a bouquet of flowers that has been dropped in a mud puddle. "Fascinating," I said.
Once we got to Wagstaff Music, I wandered the aisles, not knowing the differences between the guitars, and checking out the price tags. Occasionally I'd put a finger out and touch a glossy finish, or pluck a string. I furrowed my brow, trying to look like a discriminating shopper. I even picked up one guitar and held it out with the neck pointing away from me. I squinted one eye and looked down the neck as if I was gauging something.
My dad elbowed me in the side and hissed. " _Sssss!_ " He pointed across the room with his lips, where a kid was playing a guitar with his eyes closed. He swayed and nodded his head as his facial expressions changed. He'd be as blank as a zombie, then as concerned as a parent whose toddler is wandering toward the road. He was playing something heavily distorted and heavily awesome. My dad closed his own eyes and swayed in a passable, but less awesome imitation of the guitarist.
The kid was wearing a Nirvana shirt.
His guitar was black with a white pick guard and a light brown fret board. _What if he buys that guitar? That's my guitar._
"May I help you gentlemen?" a voice asked.
I shook the sales clerk's hand and pointed to where the kid was...putting down the black guitar! "How much is that one?"
"The Peavey Predator, huh?"
All told, the guitar and amplifier, a beginner's guide, plus a strap, four picks, and a cord, cost my dad $250. I hugged him in the parking lot. We drove to my aunt Kathy's house and stayed the night. I opened my instruction book on the bedspread and plugged the guitar into the amp. I raked the pick along the strings and experimented with the settings on the amplifier for most of the night. When my dad banged on the ceiling above me I unplugged and kept noodling around.
I soon learned that when I played the fierce Peavey Predator, I didn't have tics. I could practice for eight hours in one day and banish Misty. I quickly started a band with some friends, the horribly named Broken Rainbow. We played at one battle of the bands (we didn't win), in our garages (we won, the neighbors lost), and senior prom the next year. To my mom's extreme dismay, soon I was drawn to heavier, more aggressive music. Nirvana was extreme in the beginning, but its effect wore off. I needed more. The most extreme music I ever got into was the band Slayer. I had Slayer T-shirts, all the albums, and I talked about the band with a focus bordering on autism. I talked about the band so much that I was given the nickname "Slaytan," a mash-up of Slayer and Satan. I thought I could get away with having it stitched onto my basketball sweatshirt. I somehow forgot that my mom did my laundry.
"Are you kidding me?" she said, holding the shirt up to my face. I couldn't believe it, but that was when I noticed that it was spelled wrong. S-L-A-Y-T-O-N. That was my escape hatch. "It's the name of a band," I said. She folded her arms across her chest and squinted at me. "You don't say?"
"Mom! You don't spell Satan with an _o_!"
"You don't say...."
We didn't talk about it again.
As much as I loved my guitar, the girls weren't coming around. "Like bees to a hive," my dad had said. But no.
Then Jennie came to seminary one morning. Nothing like meeting the woman of your dreams in church to squelch your teenage dreams of debauchery. She was a year younger than I was, about five-ten, and in my mind, absolutely ravishing. I watched her as the teacher droned on, something unimportant about the Plan of Salvation and my very own destiny. I knew what my destiny was. I knew where it was too. It was seated three chairs down and was wearing a skirt. But how was I going to meet Jennie? No, scratch that. I met her the same day everyone else did—the teacher introduced her and we all said hi and introduced ourselves. Alas, I didn't say "hi" in a way that caused her to fall at my feet. But then! Salvation.
That first year with the band, Steve—our drummer—and I improved at our instruments. My other two friends, the bass player and an additional guitarist, were great at jumping around, but they were...uninspired musicians. Steve and I had talked about adding another guitarist, but anyone who played was already in a rival band.
Jennie's brother was Steve's age, and even though he was three years younger, he was already better at the guitar than I would ever be. He was incredible, a very special musician. Steve introduced us and soon I was jumping around in Jennie's garage every afternoon. From there it was a short trip upstairs to her room to woo and flirt. A month later I took her to the high school Christmas dance and kissed her for the first time. We were so dizzy and stupid and drunk on each other after that night that I probably wouldn't have ever graduated from high school if it hadn't been so easy.
Misty was jealous. Every time I was around Jennie, my tics got worse. I gave her my standard script, but I was nervous:
_Yeah, it's called Tourette Syndrome. If you've ever seen that movie_ What About Bob? _you've probably heard of it. It makes me move and make noises. I've got too much dopamine in my brain. It sort of overflows and signals get sent to my body that tell it to do things that I'm not consciously wanting it to do. Sorry if it annoys you. It annoys me too._
One night while we watched TV, I yelped and clacked my teeth together over my tongue. "Ouch!"
"What happened?" Jennie asked.
"Bit my tongue." I winced and moved my jaw around and hoped that she would want to kiss it better. Instead, she smiled, took off one of her shoes and said, "Here, you should bite down on this."
My first reaction was anger. _How dare she laugh at this!_ But then I laughed. Jennie had no inclination to coddle me about this. I think she saw that it was more of a hassle for me than a burden. She waved the shoe in my face. "I just like the idea of you walking around with a shoe hanging out of your mouth. I think it would be...most dashing."
"Most dashing, huh?"
"Most dashing."
My mom thought we were getting too serious. The church encourages group dating. Pairing off is seen as bad news, with good reason. Leave four kids alone who are trying to be good and it's unlikely that an orgy will break out. Leave them unsupervised and in pairs and who knows? Our parents were oblivious and trusting. "Are you sure you guys can be good?" my mom asked when I told her that I was sleeping over at Jennie's house, again.
"Oh yeah. I'm sure." Her parents actually let me sleep in Jennie's room! We couldn't believe what we were getting away with! After that first kiss we slowly grew bolder, needier. It took a while, though. We were tentative and felt guilty sometimes, but we couldn't resist going further forever. As long as we told her parents we were being good, we could roll around and dry hump the sun up every weekend. We never had sex, and we knew that we wouldn't unless we were married. We drove each other crazy and took things to a point that would have caused most people to say "And you didn't? _How?_ "
How? Because the church was there in the background. No matter how much fun we had, there was always an unspoken guilt. And it would have meant that I couldn't serve a mission on schedule when I turned nineteen.
We were walking around Spring Creek's disgusting, leech-filled, moss-choked marina in the spring of 1996 when I said, "When do you think we should get married?" We were about four months into our relationship. We were "in love" with that crazed certainty that only headstrong teenagers seem to be capable of.
Jennie cocked an eyebrow. "You want to marry me, huh? Why?"
"You know why," I said, kissing her in a way that, in my head, was very smooth. "Because I love you." We threw "I love you" around like someone would murder us if we stopped.
"Then we'll get married when you get back."
"Back?"
"From your mission." Shrieking children jumped off the dock, then emerged from the water shrieking even louder as they saw the leeches clinging to their clammy skin.
I had avoided this conversation. I wanted to keep avoiding it. "So I have to go, huh?"
"You do if you want me. That's how it works." I could talk Jennie into just about anything, but not this. And I didn't want her to backtrack on her beliefs. And her parents wouldn't want her to marry me if I didn't serve a mission. My parents wouldn't either. When a young man of mission age didn't go, there was always a reason. Either he didn't believe or he had sinned and his mission was delayed as he sorted out the repentance process. The process essentially entailed confessing to your bishop and then waiting for a year while remaining in good standing. I wouldn't say that a church ward has more gossipers in it than other groups of similar size, but there were plenty. Worthy young men served missions. _Unworthy_ young men stayed home and set the gossip's tongues ablaze.
"Okay. If that's how it works," I said. Jennie and I hadn't talked about the church much. Doing so would have called attention to our delicious nighttime activities, which had no premarital justification. I couldn't say, "Bishop, look, I know the church says we can't treat each other like jungle gyms just yet, but biology and evolution are telling my cells that we should breed. Or at least go through the motions as often as possible." But now I'd brought up the question and couldn't take it back.
"You _are_ planning on going, aren't you?" she said.
"Of course!" _I don't know._
"Good."
I graduated from high school in June of 1996 and spent that summer working as a delivery driver. If I served a mission, I wouldn't leave until early in 1997, so I had to figure out what to do with myself by summer's end. My friend Erik was going to a college in Twin Falls, Idaho, for a semester before his own mission. Jennie still had a year of high school left. I didn't want to hang out at home and work at the mine.
"Mom, I think I want to go to college at CSI with Erik for a semester."
She was delighted. "Great! I think that's really smart to get one semester behind you before you go."
_Right. Before I go._
I was the same age as my dad was when he confronted the same question about conversion. He could get baptized and marry my mom or not.
To avoid my own confrontation, I played along as if I had unshakable faith, but that semester was nothing more than a desperate grab at distraction.
Here's the least you need to know about young Mormon men going on missions:
Jesus told his apostles to scatter to the winds and spread the word. Mormon doctrine instructs us to follow what Jesus taught. Whether Mormons are Christians is hotly contested in some circles, but I'll tell you this—at that point I had watched my family worship Jesus Christ, and _only_ Jesus Christ, for eighteen years. Regardless, Jesus said that other people needed to hear his message, so that was why we served missions.
When Joseph Smith got the party started over in America a couple of millennia later, it couldn't have gone anywhere without missionaries. There was no Twitter and you couldn't put a stupid Facebook ad for the church in front of everyone. Those early elders took their Books of Mormon, chose a direction, started walking, and preached. It's the same idea now. When it's time, you submit your paperwork and then wait for your mission "call" to arrive in the mail. You don't know where you'll spend the next two years—missions for elders last twenty-four months, versus eighteen months for sisters—until you open that envelope. The Philippines? Guam? Toledo? Los Angeles? Okinawa? You don't know. Once you learn where you're going, you get started at a missionary center and then you're out in the field, trying to baptize everyone.
It is assumed that you'll go when you're nineteen if you're a male. Sisters don't go for a couple more years, and many marry during that extra time. Mission expectations are different for women. Nobody is forced to go, male or female, but if a woman was to say, "I'd rather stay home and go to school or get married or work," nobody would question that.
During that semester I took some introductory classes that were as boring as they sounded. The one exception was a psychology class. As I read the syllabus I noticed a Tourette's discussion during the abnormal psychology unit. The lesson was a disappointment, however, and merely restated what I'd already heard: There is no cure for TS but doctors are working on it.
My relationship with Misty was getting painful. She wasn't violent, but the repetitive strain was taking a toll on my joints. I saw how much pain I could eventually be in if the current level of tics maintained over the next few years or even decades.
I drove home to see Jennie on the weekends, but we spent much of the time fighting about things that didn't matter. I was always in the mood to argue. One night she asked, "What's the worst part about having Tourette's?"
I bit back whatever I was going to say. "You know...I'm not sure."
"Think about it. I'm not sure what's going on with you, but I don't like you much lately." I wasn't ready for the "I'm not sure I want to go on a mission but can we be together anyway?" discussion. Or maybe I wasn't sure that Jennie was capable of it. I didn't know how to tell her that Misty was trying to rip me away from her, which is how it felt. When I started dating Jennie, everything felt new. Every day felt like the morning after a rainstorm when everything glistens and smells fresh. We were unblemished and faultless. We knew just enough about each other to want to know more. Now we had been together for over a year and we knew enough about each other to want to keep certain things to ourselves.
"Jennie, I'm not sure I'm able to be happy," I finally said.
"Well, that's pretty melodramatic," Jennie said as she hugged me. "Of course you can be happy. That's why I love you. When you're happy, you're happier than anyone I've ever met."
I tried again. "Okay, I think the worst thing is that I'm always waiting for something. And I'm not talking about waiting for time to pass. Not like waiting to go to college or waiting for a basketball game to start. Or waiting to see you or to go do something fun or go on vacation or anything. I mean...."
Why was this so hard to explain?
"I feel like there's someone else here. Like I'm not able to make all of my own decisions, because there's this thing in my head that decides what I'm capable of. I hate it that I can't make you understand exactly how it feels. I know I've been a jerk, but when it's bad, I feel mean. I don't know how to say it any better than that. I'm not very good at waiting for things, and now I'm always waiting for the next tic. I never know what's going to happen, even though it's not that bad. It's exhausting. I don't know if I know how to be happy or nice when I'm this tired and anxious all the time. What if I can't do the mission? What if you can't ever rely on me for anything?"
"You'll go and I'll wait for you. You'll do what you can, and that will be enough."
"But—"
"It will be enough for me."
"Do you really believe it all, Jennie? The church?"
She looked at me for a long time before nodding. "It feels right to me. It feels real."
I drove back to Twin Falls the next evening. Erik wasn't home. I let myself into our place and sat in the dark. I listened to the clock ticking and the cows lowing outside in the nearby pasture. I was annoyed to realize that I had tears in my eyes. Too many tics. Too many unmade decisions. Too much uncertainty and worry that things might not get better. And worry that things weren't all that bad to begin with and that they simply _felt_ harder than they should. That somehow by feeling so burdened, I was proving that I was weak and weak-willed. The house was suffocating. I ran outside, into the driveway.
It started to rain when I got into my car. The paved roads turned to dirt as I left the city and drove to nowhere. How many years were in the average life? If I were lucky enough to have a long life, how many tics would be in those years? On that road, in the dark, it seemed that there was so little to believe in. So little cause for hope. The road ended and I stopped the car. The rain beat at the windows from every angle. Looming over the doubt and dread was the awful suspicion that I was just being a stupid drama queen and that I should really just suck it up and get to work. _That's what Dad would say._ Was I just a kid, experiencing a kid's immaturity and worry about the future? Was this just teenage melodrama? Even if that were true, wondering about it, acknowledging it in some way...wouldn't have made it _feel_ true. What felt true was that I was wracked with panic and tears. What was true was that I was sitting in a car that was much too small for me, out in the middle of rural Idaho, at the end of a rutted road, far from the reach of the town's lights.
I cried embarrassingly hard. There was a set of Scriptures under my seat. They usually got put there on my way to church and then forgotten for the rest of the week. I opened the books at random, settling on Section 6 of the Doctrine and Covenants, a series of "revelations" to the prophet Joseph Smith and others. Section 6 was a revelation given to Oliver Cowdery, the scribe who had assisted Smith in the translation of the Book of Mormon. Verse 22 is allegedly Christ speaking to a doubting Oliver:
If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.
I'd said hundreds, if not thousands, of prayers, simply going through the motions. I knew the words. I knew the actions and the reverent posture. I knew how it was supposed to work and how it was supposed to feel. But I didn't know what it meant to really cry out in my heart. To beg for an answer. To _need_ an answer for my own sake. Relying on my mom's faith, or whatever Jennie wanted me to do, wasn't enough tonight. I started talking. "I need to know. I don't know what to do. I have no idea what's going to happen to me and I have no idea how strong I'm supposed to be before I deserve help from you. I don't even know if you're there. I hope you are, but I don't want to believe things because they make me feel better. I want to believe them because they're true. Is it possible to know that? Is it?"
The wind stopped. The rain stopped. Despite the goose bumps that stood up on my arms, I was warm and calm inside, as still and peaceful as the weather outside. If you've ever lost control of your body to sobbing, you know it's hard to calm down until you're cried out. I'd been in the thick of that, nowhere close to drying up. And yet it had happened. One moment you might have thought I was weeping at my mom's coffin. The next...everything was fine. Clarity and calm flooded through me. Part of me watched this happening from a distance and said, _Now hold on...is this really an answer?_
But it was a small part of me. The rest of me marveled at how _different_ I suddenly felt. I wish I could describe it better. I would tell that to a bishop later and he would laugh as he said, "Why should you be able to use mortal words to accurately describe something divine? Doesn't the very use of words cheapen the experience? How could it not?"
Feeling was enough for my parents, for my leaders, for the girl I planned on marrying. And now it felt like it would be enough for me. I couldn't explain away what had just happened, because I'd never felt that way before. I didn't say _That was an answer_ , but it was close enough for me to decide. After the next week of school Erik and I drove home to Elko again. That night at dinner I said, "I think I want to put in my mission papers."
"Good!" said my mom.
"You sure you're ready to leave your girl here for the wolves?" said my dad. The dinner passed in predictable chatter. "I wonder where you'll get sent?" "Where do you want to go?" "What language would you want to learn?" "Are you scared?" It wasn't much of a scene because I don't think anyone but me ever doubted it.
I told Jennie I was going. "I'm scared," I said. "How do you feel?" had been her second comment, right after "Oh, _Josh_!" I let her be proud of me. It felt good. It felt right. It gave me purpose; her happiness seemed like an end worth pursuing.
I spent the next month doing paperwork, getting a physical, applying for a passport, checking boxes, getting fitted for white dress shirts, and wondering where I'd go.
My call arrived in the first week of December. I held the envelope while my mom called my dad at work. "Yes, he'll wait until you're all here."
Another cliché: That was the longest day of my life. Inside that envelope was a summons to do something utterly foreign to me. It was a membership card to the ranks of the missionaries, plane tickets that needed to be booked, a physical symbol of the conviction I said I had, a sign to Jennie that I wanted to marry her, and the end product of a revelation I had received during a rainstorm, that now looked far less portentous and insignificant inside of an eight-and-a-half-by-four-inch square of paper.
By seven P.M. everyone was there in my living room, watching and smiling. My heart leapt about. "Everyone," I said, "I'm not sure how I feel about all this. So if it's okay, after I read it, I don't want a bunch of cheering and hugging. I just want to go outside and think."
My mom visibly deflated. Jennie's mom nodded. My dad laughed. "Do whatever you want. It's your night." Jennie rubbed my shoulder as I opened the envelope and read aloud:
Josh Hanagarne, you have been called to serve in the Washington DC North Mission, where you will teach the gospel of Jesus Christ in the Spanish language.
I would leave on January 7. One month away.
Everyone gave me the distance I'd asked for. "Fix the government while you're there!" said my dad. I stood and exited through the front door. I walked out into the center of our yard, the snow crunching beneath my feet. It was an impossibly clear night and the air was pure and sharp. The door opened and closed somewhere behind me and Jennie was at my side. "You think you can see stars like this in DC?" she asked, kissing my cheek.
I smiled but didn't say anything.
"How do you feel, Josh?"
I half succeeded in smiling but couldn't put it into words, so I just said, "I don't know. I really don't. I'm going to miss you all. I'm going to miss you."
"We'll be here when you get back."
* I'd been taught that even the lowest level of Heaven is so great that, if we could see it, we'd kill ourselves to get there. But it's only in the celestial kingdom that you can have your spouse, your family, and be in God's presence. Ultimately, anything but the celestial kingdom sucks and you'd spend eternity racked with regret in the lower kingdoms, knowing you could have done better, but the chance has passed.
# **CHAPTER 5**
# 289.3—Mormons Missions
193—Knowledge, Theory of
"This is the nonfiction floor, right?"
"Yes, sir, it is." He looks beyond annoyed at my answer.
"Okay...Josh," he says, leaning in to sneer at my name tag. "Then why is the religion on this floor?" And now it's clear. There's a shrill atheist standing before me. But his question is valid. It's a question for Mr. Dewey himself, I suppose. As cataloging issues go, this was thorny.
If you classified religion as pure fiction, you'd annoy the devout. And the fiction department that already groans under the weight of so many James Patterson novels would be stressed to its limits. But if you classified religion as nonfiction, you lent it credibility by placing it on the same floor with the sciences and books about cupcake decorating.
People who raise this issue never ask about the Sylvia Browne books or the occult mysteries section, also on my floor. They're never annoyed that the healing power of crystals is advocated at great length one mere aisle away, or that the massive books of reptile-paranoia guru David Icke take up a square foot here and there. They accept that people who want to summon fairies would visit my department, but that anyone who prays to a God or Gods is an imbecile who mustn't be tolerated.
Even as a mildly religious person I am fascinated by this question. My fascination rarely makes atheists less irritated, but I find this the ultimate distillation of theory vs. experience. Anecdote versus empiricism. This floor also houses the psychology and psychiatry section, the self-improvement books, books on reflexology and alternative medicine, and the endless, trendy volumes of stock speculation. I find these books every bit as dodgy, in terms of verifiability, as the religion books.
"Well, who can I talk to about getting this resolved?" he asked. What ambition he had! The debate of believer versus nonbeliever has been raging for—oh, I don't know, since we can't even agree on how old the earth is, but it's been at least a few thousand years, even for creationists. But this man was going to resolve it. Once and for all. I sent him to admin on Level 5.
Maybe our library director could handle this softball.
Every Wednesday, hundreds of missionaries enter the Missionary Training Center (the MTC) in Provo, Utah. Most of them are young men between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, but there are plenty of senior citizens serving various types of service missions, and there are the sister missionaries.
As my parents drove me to the MTC, we didn't talk much. My mom stared out the passenger window and sniffled occasionally. My dad wasn't doing much better. He kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I'd try to smile but only manage a hideous twist of the mouth that betrayed my nerves and excitement. Nowadays, parents drop their missionaries curbside where they are whisked away by other MTC trainees. They say their good-byes in the car and away they go. But when I went through, parents and kids went in together and checked in at the front desk. The MTC resembled any college building—long hallways, high ceilings, classrooms, dorms, auditoriums. But here pictures of church leaders past and present lined the walls. They watched us walk to a conference room with a couple hundred other newbies.
The president of the MTC—this was a calling as well—spoke about the great work we had embarked on. He commended our red-eyed parents for their sacrifices, but assured them that we'd be protected and watched over. I wondered if he was thinking, _Okay, everyone, toughen up. Good grief._
To us, he said, "Remember that because you have made this choice, the time in the mission is not yours. You have dedicated it to the Lord. Serve with honor and you will be rewarded. And the families you find will be blessed." Then we were all standing up and hugging. My mom wrung her skirt in her hands and stared at the ground as my dad embraced me. "Seven hundred and thirty days," he said in a shaky voice. "See you then. I'm so proud of you." I turned to my mom.
"I love you, Josh." That was all she could say. Of course this made me cry too, but not as much as I'd expected. All around us were the sounds of backs being slapped and noses being blown and apron strings being snipped. Then it was time. The parents left the room. We were now missionaries. Righteous, anxious kids in new suits and skirts being herded into processing.
I received a packet with my dorm room number, the name of my companion (Elder Sansom), a room key, information about the cafeteria and class schedules, my district (the dozen or so missionaries I would attend classes with), and a list of study materials to buy at the missionary store. The first priority was to buy the six missionary discussions that were the core of the structured teaching material. After finishing my shopping, I walked to the male dorms. En route I passed some laughing sister missionaries who were impossibly attractive now that they were completely off-limits in any way I cared about. There would be six sister missionaries in my district that I'd see daily for the next eight weeks, but it's not like we could sit around and flirt and kiss and do anything fun. We weren't there for fun. It wasn't our time.
My room was the size of two large elevators. Two sets of bunk beds bookended the narrow space. I set down my luggage, sat on the bottom bunk, and said a prayer. _Thank you for getting me here. I hope I can accomplish what I'm supposed to._ Did anyone hear me? Was I was just a nineteen-year-old boy sitting in an empty room, trying to feel something that wasn't there? Either way, it was still and peaceful—besides the tics, of course.
As the building filled, the most common question was "So where are you going?" The Philippines, Japan, rural Nevada, Vietnam, Canada, Washington, DC. The breadth of missions was staggering. This was a big production. This was serious business. And how incredible that we were all there of our own free will, and unpaid. Elder Sansom, my companion, was a stocky blond man headed to Costa Rica
By nighttime every room was full. Some elders had a contest to see who could climb all the way to the ceiling by supporting their feet on one side of the hall and their hands on the other. Footraces down the corridors. Constant pranks. Everyone swapping pictures of girlfriends and bragging about where they were from and how they had played in a band and who wanted to arm wrestle?
There were those who remained wholly incapable of levity. They sat in their rooms and scowled at the noise, reading their scriptures and shaking their heads at the tragic loss of solemnity.
Everyone I talked to cared about being there. But come on, a nineteen-year-old boy is a nineteen-year-old boy. Put them all together and don't be surprised if there are some shenanigans, a stench that was referred to as "the wall of flame," and lots of noise.
Classes started the next day. Because I was learning another language, I'd be at the MTC for eight weeks, versus the three weeks for English-speaking missionaries. I had to learn how to teach the six discussions, but I also had to learn Spanish, which added new frustrations and satisfactions.
The routine: wake up at six A.M. and shower. Get to breakfast by seven. Classes started at eight. There were three classes each day, in two- to three-hour blocks. Teachers were former missionaries. Each class opened with a prayer; then we'd drill the language. Everyone in my district was going to a Spanish-speaking mission, but I was one of only four who would go to Washington, DC. The language training was predictable.
**Teacher:** | " _La cama!_ "
---|---
**Us:** | " _La cama!_ "
**Teacher:** | "The bed!"
**Us:** | " _La cama!_ "
**Teacher:** | " _El evangelio!_ "
**Us:** | " _El evangelio!_ "
**Teacher:** | "The gospel!"
**Us:** | " _El evangelio!_ "
We had a message to share, but didn't know the words yet. So we drilled basic conversation. The plate, bed, wall, Bible, table, Savior, how to say your name, an introductory "Hi, we're missionaries" script, and gospel principles. When we learned to say words like "beautiful" or "I love you," I found myself staring at the sisters. I missed girls.
When we weren't learning languages, we practiced teaching the six discussions. The discussions began with an introduction to church fundamentals—Joseph Smith's vision, the Book of Mormon, and the centrality of Christ to the religion—and the sixth lesson ended with the newly baptized member's integration into a ward.
Sometimes our teachers taught us and we'd play the investigator, which was the word for a prospective convert who showed interest. Sometimes we'd reverse roles. Sometimes we'd commit horrific vocabulary errors, like accidentally requesting a whore instead of a napkin. Swearing in Spanish didn't feel vulgar at all. We used the word _chingar_ constantly and thought nothing of it until a Mexican elder heard us, walked in, and said, "All of you shut the fuck up." We were outraged!
"Elder!" I said. "You can't— We're in the MTC!"
"That's what it sounds like to me when you use the word _chingar_."
We stopped.
We were always with our companions, but I was lucky; Elder Sansom and I got along well. I hated never being alone, but I knew myself well enough to accept the reasoning behind it. It was very easy to catch an elder staring out the window at the sisters' dorms and know that he was imagining all those young women. And probably not imagining them studying their scriptures and practicing their languages. I could've talked myself into many adventures, had I been alone, courageous, and suave. But because we were always with the district—or at least with our companions—we kept one another in check. No girls, no swearing, very little English, and no mercy for the losers who refused to have fun.
I worked hard, but there were always distractions. The worst thing Jennie ever did was send me a calendar with her picture on every page. One night I flipped on my reading light in the dark and opened to the page detailing her family's trip to Lake Powell. There she was in a nightshirt and a sombrero, long tan legs bent at a saucy angle and lips blowing me a kiss. Damnation, that made it hard to sleep.
I think I missed my pleasure reading as much as I missed her. I read constantly, although all I could read was the King James Bible, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants (a book of revelations recorded by Joseph Smith), the Pearl of Great Price (more canonical writing translated by Smith), the missionary discussions, and various teaching guides.
I needed it. Despite my years in seminary and Sunday school and family home evenings, I'd never read the Book of Mormon all the way through, and it was the cornerstone of our teaching. Everything in the church hinges on the Book of Mormon being the word of God. It's what we have that no other church does. It was translated by a prophet that no other church had. It clarified the confusion caused by the various interpretations of the Bible. It was the missing piece. And it was boring.
So I missed my books. I missed my authors. I almost asked Jennie to flout the rules and send me a copy of _Catch-22_. I didn't ask, but I walked right up to the edge and got on my knees, ready to beg.
But, no, I was here because I knew the truth and I would help others know it as well. Unless I spent too many nights looking at spicy pictures of the Lake Powell trip.
There was the occasional scandalous departure from the MTC. There were always rumors about "the sister missionary that the dorm leader got pregnant" and similar tales. We'd all heard stories about missionaries who entered the MTC unworthily and then got slapped silly with guilt as the weeks passed. While applying for a mission, you went through interviews with your bishop and stake president (a stake comprises several wards. The bishop in each ward reports to a stake president). At each of these you were asked if you had any unresolved transgressions. You could lie to these men and say no, but you couldn't lie to God. One elder confessed to us with a hilariously inappropriate tale of the lurid acts he'd committed with his girlfriend days before coming to the MTC.
"And the thing was," he said, "she was just so...virginal...that..."
"Okay, enough," said Sister C.
"I just need you to understand that what we did was—"
"We understand."
He left that night.
My only day of real doubt arrived in the form of a letter from my mom. Amid the normal reports and pleasantries was the sentence: _I thought you would want to know that Alan D. died unexpectedly. Complications with surgery._ I set the letter down and stared at the wall. "Are you all right?" asked Elder Sansom.
"No."
Alan was a twelve-year-old boy who was born with spina bifida. He was a fixture at church. He couldn't walk, stand, or speak clearly, but those of us who'd spent enough time with him understood him. If he liked you, he'd take your hand and press it to his face. I thought of the last time my hand was on his face and I broke. This was someone I loved. A happy kid, even though he'd been dealt a terrible hand. A child born to a wheelchair and a life of surgeries and pain, and now he was dead. He'd never done anything wrong. He didn't deserve his fate. He deserved to be rewarded for being so brave. He was tougher than anyone should have to be. Now he had come and gone and I wondered how his poor family was feeling. If I was upset, their grief and anger must have been profound and bottomless. Were they asking the same questions I was?
Why? How could You?
Or did they picture their son in a better place? In a better body?
What was I doing here? Each question—all the same question, really—was a door with a different answer behind it.
Is there a God? (Yes, and he killed Alan.)
Is there a God? (No, obviously. Alan is dead and you're wasting your time. Go home and bang your girlfriend.)
Is there a God? (Yes, and He has a plan. Alan's death is part of that plan. You might not understand it, but what do you expect? You're not some divine, omniscient being. Quit being an arrogant dick and thinking you _should_ understand.)
Is there a God? (Maybe. You know how to find out.)
The prayer was short. _I don't know what to do. If You are there, please help me understand what I'm supposed to do. Or I don't know if I can stay here. Please give me an answer._
That night I had a cinematic dream. It began with two white feet walking along a path. Gradually I saw more and more of the person attached to those feet; it was Alan. When I saw his face—his clear, relaxed face—he began to sing. A clear and lovely melody, the hymn "I Stand All Amazed." He turned and I saw that there was someone on the other side of him. Someone holding his hand. Each time I moved to see who it was, Alan moved and blocked my view. In the dream I knew that Alan was walking with Jesus Christ. Walking, and singing, and smiling, and not holding the slightest grudge about the challenges he'd endured on earth.
I'd woken up from dreams screaming. I'd woken up from dreams with tears in my eyes. But I'd never woke feeling like this. It felt like clarity. Warmth. Certainty. Confidence. Above all, it felt like an answer. That night I believed that I wasn't alone. I rolled out of bed, knelt, and said, "I will stay."
March arrived. It was time.
On our last night, I knelt with my district, a bunch of kids in ill-fitting suits and modest dresses, about to be scattered over the earth, charged with a great responsibility. One of the sisters led us in prayer.
"Please help us to find the people who are ready to listen. And thank you for bringing us together here." Her voice broke and then we were all bawling like infants. I don't think I've ever packed more hugs into a five-minute period than I did that night. I was scared, I was happy, I felt like I was doing the right thing, and best of all, I'd get to see Jennie the next day at the airport for a few precious minutes. It's ridiculous, but for those of us who had girlfriends coming to see us off, "Are you going to kiss her good-bye?" was a topic of intense debate. For the people with sticks up their butts, the subject was closed:
"You accepted the calling to be a missionary. You promised to sacrifice these two years without distractions or temptations. If you weren't allowed to kiss your girlfriend the night after you entered the MTC, why would that be different now?"
I got off the bus, saw Jennie beaming from the curb at the airport, and smashed my lips against hers so desperately that it took my Clydesdale of a father to drag me off. I'd planned on kissing her good-bye no matter what, but I got to kiss her hello as well.
"You look different," said my mom.
"You're uglier than ever," said my dad.
"We're so proud of you," said Jennie's mom.
Jennie's dad nodded. "Your dad's right, but so is Jennie's mom."
I hugged my siblings. My teary, sobbing siblings. That's when I knew what it means to be a big brother. Three sets of arms wrapped around me, attached to people I hadn't always been kind to, but whom I would die or kill for without hesitation. I pried them off so I could kiss Jennie again as the missionaries from my district—those going to DC—either smiled or shook their heads in lame disapproval.
In the MTC we were groomed to feel as if asking someone to change their entire life—and their faith—would be simple. That if we could just find the courage to open our mouths, over and over, the words would be there. "The people who are prepared to listen will hear what you have to say, even if you don't say it well," our teachers reassured us. It would be so easy. I had visions of clambering up the Washington Monument, whipping out a bullhorn and shouting, "All right, people, listen up. Shit just got real!" The mall would fill with people begging me to baptize them in the reflecting pool.
As the plane descended into DC, however, some of my self-assurance vanished. This city was full of people I'd never met. Somehow I'd have to go meet them all and share something with them.
I'd split most of my life between the small towns of Moab, Utah, and Spring Creek, Nevada. I hadn't ever seen a city larger than Salt Lake. I don't even remember ever going to school with a black student. But my early impressions of DC had nothing to do with the size of the buildings, the color of people's skin, or the bustling streets. It felt mean. It was crowded. Nobody seemed to like each other. All of the faces were mixtures of anger and weariness. I was almost terrified. Had there ever been people less interested in me? How was I going to do this?
Enter my trainer, a missionary I'll call Elder Santiago. If he had doubts about my abilities, he didn't show it. On our first day on the street, he walked right over to a black man waiting for a bus and said, "Sir, have you received your free copy of the Book of Mormon yet? It's another testament of Jesus Christ." I watched this display of confidence and verve from a distance before remembering that I should've been standing beside him. I got there just in time to hear the guy say, "I don't want to hear it. Leave me alone." The next man said, "I won't waste your time, but don't waste mine. We got nothing to talk about."
At the MTC we'd been assured that if we just told people what we knew, the Spirit would help them feel the truth of it. "I know this is true," I said to an amiable man on the subway. He laughed and said, "What do you mean, you _know_? How do you define the word 'know'?" I tried to explain what it felt like to receive an answer. "Young man, I can tell you mean well, but listen—feeling is _not_ knowing. We can't have a productive conversation about this if _I_ think but _you_ feel."
Others weren't so kind. I'd never had someone tell me to "fuck off" before. Now I'd heard it three times in two hours. And my verbal, choking, and yipping tics would flare up with each rejection. This terrified me; it was obvious that rejection would be the most reliable part of our routine.
People looked down at their purses or briefcases when we approached them on the sidewalk. They started conversations on phantom phones. Some smiled and nodded patiently while sneaking glances at their watches. The people most willing to talk with us were priests and preachers, and they just wanted to argue. The success I'd dreamed of didn't arrive that first day, but it wasn't a bad day. I was doing what I'd come to do. I hadn't crumpled into a cowering ball of uncertainty. Nobody mugged me. I wasn't a brilliant orator but I was opening my mouth and trying.
If we had any success that first week, I couldn't see it. We hadn't taught one lesson, let alone committed anyone to baptism. But I told myself that we were planting seeds. Maybe later someone would remember those two boys who'd knocked on their door, remember that they had slammed the door in our faces, and wonder if they'd been wrong. Or something.
One day we were almost home for the night when a voice behind me uttered the sweetest words: "Excuse me, Elders, could you please come and talk to my mom about Jesus?" I turned to see a man gesturing to me. His hand was missing several fingers; the remaining ones ended above the largest knuckle. The stumps oozed what looked like syrup. He was maybe thirty years old, wearing a gray sweat suit. He pointed behind him to a woman a block back. She appeared to be crying.
"Of course," I said.
"Elder Hanagarne," said Elder Santiago.
"We'll be right back down," I told the man. "I'm going to go set up a couple of things." Because I'd been called to teach in Spanish, all interested English-speaking investigators were turned over to the English-speaking elders as soon as possible. Four of them lived on the floor below ours. They didn't answer my knocking. I dragged Elder Santiago to our room and he watched me silently as I took a Book of Mormon out of my drawer, forty dollars of my own money, and a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. The man was waiting downstairs. His mother was nowhere in sight. "Oh, you brought me a Bible!"
"Sort of." I put it in his hand, along with the money and the bread. This was more like it! Someone needed help and I could provide it.
The man said that he could meet with the English elders the next day at eleven. He gave me an address and a phone number, which I wrote in my planner. Then he grabbed the money and the bread and jumped into a car that was suddenly at the curb. I watched the car drive away and smiled at Elder Santiago.
We didn't get in touch with the English-speaking elders until later that night. I was so proud. "He says you can call anytime tomorrow between—"
They all laughed. "Is this the guy with no fingers? Don't talk to him again, man. He's not interested; trust us. He wants money. Get used to beggars and scammers." They'd all dealt with this man more than once. The first person who'd been interested in the message had pretended.
I flopped into my bed. There were too many sirens in the city. Even with the blinds pulled the room was too bright. I stood and looked out the window. When I noticed that I couldn't see the stars, I thought of the many nights I'd spent sleeping on the trampoline back home with my siblings, endless galaxies spiraling away into nothingness over our heads.
I missed my family.
It had been a hard day of toil and rejection. We'd probably talked with three or four hundred people—an average day—without success. I was getting used to having doors slammed in my face. Of having girls wink at me and not being able to offer anything but salvation in return. Of being stood up for five appointments in one day and wondering how to fill the time.
Elder Wrigley, a district leader, came to check on our group. He was a giant, an inch taller than me. He sent his own companion with Santiago and worked with me that day. At the first door he knocked on, he said, "Have you ever wondered why Hispanic people are more likely to let us in?" I didn't have time to answer. The door was opened by a small woman from El Salvador. She spoke no English. But she insisted that we come in. _Pasale, pasale._ And suddenly I was teaching my first full discussion. She listened while Elder Wrigley and I spoke and gave us some water to drink. She declined to be visited again, which confused me since she had ushered us in with such gusto.
Outside, Wrigley said, "A lot of these people think we're from immigration. They've just arrived from Nicaragua or El Salvador or wherever and suddenly there are two white people wearing ties at their door, looking serious."
"So that's why she didn't ask us to come back?"
"Yeah. I'm sure she would have kicked us out sooner if she could have figured out how to do it nicely. Their culture's a lot more polite than ours."
This was true. The Hispanic community certainly had its share of people who couldn't stand us, but most were willing to talk, even if just to heckle us. In my experience, black people would usually hear us out and invite us in. We knocked on a door once and a small black guy with a huge smile opened the door. He invited us inside and asked, "Can I look at those books?" He ignored us while we tried to teach the first discussion. He flipped through the Book of Mormon and stopped on each of the inset pictures. "So what's happening here?" The picture showed a fat man in a purple robe—a bad king named King Noah—condemning one of God's prophets to be burned at the stake. I related this story and he slammed the book down and yelled, "Mother _fucker_." He sat back and shook his head, staring at something over my shoulder. "You telling me this fat fuck burned up a man of _God_? God _damn_." These sorts of interactions weren't all that productive, but they were lively. And way better than slammed doors and rolled eyes.
By the six-month mark I had helped baptize two people. The average for our mission was seven baptisms over two years. This was pretty standard for stateside missions. Compared with places like Santiago, Chile, where a missionary might teach _and_ baptize ten people in a day, our success felt paltry.
Our success stories were two teenage boys who let us in when we knocked on their door. Elder Santiago and I were there to follow up with their mother, a contact made on the street. She had urged us to visit and then didn't show. The boys were obviously bored by everything we said about the church, so we started talking about sports. We went to the park and played two on two for a while. When the game ended, Elder Santiago said, "Have you guys considered getting baptized?"
They shrugged and said, "Sure, we'll do it." We taught them the rest of the lessons, baptized them, and managed to be surprised when they never came to church and stopped taking our calls.
But we'd done it. We gotten two baptisms, and I hoped that this success would sustain me and drive me to work even harder.
It did, but then everything changed.
Eight months out, I was out on the street on a sunny day when I suddenly punched myself in the face. Boom!
It hurt.
I looked at my bloody hand. What the hell? People gawked at me, but they weren't nearly as surprised as I was.
Everything looked the same. The sky was still blue and the clouds were still white. I still had my Book of Mormon in my unbloodied hand and I was still sweating like a tall, skinny faucet in the August heat. My feet still ached and I still had a terrible haircut. Elder Miller—the best friend I would make in the mission—gaped at me. "Are you all right?"
Before I could answer, it happened again. Wham! "Let's go home," I said. I managed to get on my bike and pedal. I didn't hit myself while on the bike, but I did scream a couple of times. We rode for thirty minutes and I collapsed onto our couch and sat on my hands.
"What can I do?" Elder Miller asked.
"I don't know." _Wham!_ My right hand had sneaked out from beneath me. I wanted to call my mom. But I couldn't. We were allowed to call our families on Mother's Day, long past, and on Christmas, which felt like it was a century into the future. For the rest of the afternoon I yelled, hit, and scratched myself raw.
It was too much. The next day I called the mission president and asked if I could call my parents. When my mom answered the phone, I blurted out what had happened to me and waited for her reaction.
"I've never heard of Tourette's doing this," she said.
"What should I do?"
"See a doctor. Do what he says. Let us know how it goes. We love you, honey, hang in there."
Elder Wrigley drove me to a neurologist in Bethesda. President Graff came as well. The doctor outlined the profiles for various pills and asked which I felt most comfortable trying.
I agreed to take the drug Klonopin. After a week I'd report back to President Graff. There wasn't much to report:
"It's making me really sleepy, but it's not helping with anything."
"Can you continue to work?"
"Yes. We're going out tonight."
"Please let me know if I can help. Go out if you can. Someone might need to meet you today."
The tics weren't as bad after that first horrible, violent day. They hurt and they made it hard to go outside, but I was doing all right. After about a month, the worst of the injurious tics—hitting and scratching myself—stabilized and I was merely walking around screaming, "Huh huh huh!" at the top of my lungs, like a quarterback calling for the huddle.
I continued to work and it paid off. Elder Miller and I met the person that missionaries dream of—the one who'd been prepared for us. We knocked on Sonia's door and the first thing she said was, "I knew someone would come. I've been praying for someone to come talk to me about God." She accepted everything. Instantly. The most fascinating thing was that she'd met with missionaries before, in her home in Bolivia. She'd even taken a couple of the discussions. But as she put it, "It was never _you two._ "
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You know how there are so many self-improvement books in the bookstore? They all say the same thing. So why do people keep reading them? They basically all say 'You can do it!'"
I laughed.
"Well, Elders, you do not know this, but you are the same as all the other elders, and you are different. You are _not_ them, even if you tell me all the same things. I _feel_ things when it is the two of you that I do not feel with others, even if the words do not change so much."
I was unprepared for this eagerness and openness after the months of fruitless toil. We baptized Sonia a month later. It was a small ceremony at our ward building. She wore a blue dress with a white collar to the church and changed into a one-piece white jumpsuit for the ceremony. The bishop gave a brief talk in the chapel, then the handful of us in attendance guided Sonia into a room with a baptismal font. Elder Miller stood next to Sonia and intoned, "Sonia, having authority given me of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." He guided her under the water, supporting the small of her back, then pulled her up. I was one of the two required witnesses who made sure it was done properly, "just like Jesus," according to the Book of Mormon. Sonia's husband wept. He hadn't attended the discussions, although he supported Sonia's decision. "This felt very important," he told me. "I think I'm ready to start learning."
When Sonia emerged from the dressing room later, she hugged us with tears in her eyes. "Thank you thank you thank you. I feel...new."
_Feeling is not knowing._ I'd been hearing this unwelcome echo since the day I'd hit myself.
When we got home, Elder Miller said, "Elder, that was a good baptism. That's why we're here." After dinner we studied until he fell asleep. I looked at the clock and listened to my body groan as it tensed and shook, twitched and rigidified. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. Slap slap slap. Suddenly all the food in my stomach was rebelling. This was a recent development. I was now contorting so badly, so frequently, that food wasn't settling in my stomach very often. The more this happened, the more my body thought that was how it should deal with food: by rejecting it.
I walked into the backyard, looking for stars. There were none, although there was a perfect October Halloween moon, the kind of moon that exists for bats and witches to fly across in silhouette. The house next door had an eerie decoration—a rubber gorilla head on a pole. When the wind blew, which it did often, the gorilla's mouth moved and fluttered. Tonight it was saying: _Feeling is not knowing. Why didn't you tell Sonia that you haven't prayed in a month?_
How could I? How could I tell Sonia that I was furious at God? The worst part of Tourette's wasn't the bodily harm or even my inability to go outside sometimes. It wasn't that I was being driven toward increasing isolation. It was the uncertainty. It felt like driving at night, with headlights coming toward me, and every car seemed to be in my lane. I no longer had a destination. I only knew that everything coming toward me had the potential to wreck me, to derail any plan I could make.
I'd heard the saying, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." I didn't want to talk about anything with Him, let alone my plans. I didn't care that Christ, when he took the sins of the world on Himself, felt every pain that anyone would ever endure, including what was happening to me. I didn't care that there was a world full of people who needed to hear our message. I didn't care about any of it. I just wanted to sit still. I wanted to be able to think again. To focus. I wanted to stop losing weight from my already whittled frame. How could I tell Sonia that I, an ordained missionary, resented her relationship with God? That she was much closer to Him than I was capable of? That I was disgusted by the whining in my head and tormented by my own questions?
"How?" The gorilla head said nothing. The wind had died.
The next two months were worse every day. The tics were constant and brutal. The weight loss scared me. I'd lost control of my body, my faith, and had nothing that resembled a fighting spirit. My birthday was on December 1. Our district went bowling. In the bowling alley I bit the insides of my cheeks until blood was leaking out the corners of my mouth. I managed to hide it before anyone saw. That night I called Elder Wrigley and asked him to set up a meeting with President Graff and me.
The next day my mission president and I sat across from each other at a desk in a church office in Bethesda. "The medication isn't helping, is it?" he said. He had the kindest eyes.
I shook my head. "I don't know what to do."
"Elder, do you know how much you weigh? Right now?"
"No, but I'm having a hard time eating."
"Do you feel like you can still do the work?"
"I want to. I want to be able to do it. I—" Good grief, crying again. I'd probably cried more in the last two months than in my entire life. "I think I want to go home. But what if I'm just giving up? How do I know if I've done enough?"
President Graff reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "Oh, Josh. You've done enough. You served with honor and if you choose to leave now, you need to know that you served your entire mission. You did all you could and you did all that was asked of you. The families you reached would agree with me, whether you know it or not."
I'm not sure if I let him convince me, or if I'd already made up my mind, but it was enough. I nodded. "Okay. What happens next?"
When I stepped off the airplane in Elko, Nevada, my family was waiting for me. My mom hugged my emaciated frame and cried while my dad and my siblings watched. Then they all hugged me, and believe me, you've never heard such sniffling. But it felt good. It felt right. It felt like home.
"Son," my dad said as we headed home, "we talked to President Graff. He said to make sure to tell you that you did enough. We're going to get you some help."
"From who?" I asked.
"We'll get you help," said my mom. "We'll try everything, but you have to keep trying too. You don't get to give up."
I'd awoken that morning as a missionary, Elder Hanagarne, on the other side of the country. Tonight I was just Josh, a kid unpacking his bag in the bedroom he'd left a year earlier. I spent most of that night in my bed with a reading light and _Catch-22_ , trying to find the things that used to make me laugh.
They weren't there anymore.
# **CHAPTER 6**
# 364.163—Fraud
613.71—Bodybuilding
808.5—Voice—Social Aspects
646.726 Botulinum Toxin—Therapeutic Use
There are always two LICs on duty at my library. Librarians in Charge. This title makes you the first responder to events weird enough to merit a first responder.
When I'm LIC, I walk the building and ask at each desk, "I'm the LIC, do you guys need me to do anything? Anything you've been putting off?" They usually say, "Well, how nice!" as if it's the most surprising thing they've ever heard. I don't do it out of altruism, misguided or otherwise. I do it because I have this nagging memory that there's a spreadsheet of rules and procedures out there somewhere that says I'm supposed to do this.
Admin takes library process seriously. "Crucial," I've heard it described.
It's not crucial.
As I descend the spiral staircase between floors I hear: "Oh, he can help you! There's Josh! Josh can help you! Hey, Josh!" The employee—let's call him Jim—waves me over. Standing before Jim is a person in a pink sweat suit, with long gray hair and a gray goatee.
"Hi, can I help you?"
"Yes!" booms a sonorous baritone. "This...person"—pointing at Jim—"won't stop calling me sir and I'm a legal female!"
I am so proud of my straight face. Librarians in Charge don't surprise.
"Is this true, Jim?" Jim has pulled his feet up into the tall chair he sits in. He covers his face with his hands, then looks at me through spread fingers. "I have no idea what's happening here."
"Oh yes, you do!" A driver's license appears under my nose. The person's thumbnail points at what looks like the letter _F_ under Gender. The card vanishes before I see a name or photo.
"See! See!"
"I've worked with Jim for a long time," I say. "If he'd really seen what you thought you were showing him, I don't think he would've been antagonizing you on purpose."
"Oh, so you're taking his side? You're going to lie too?"
"It's got nothing to do with sides. I'm just giving my opinion."
"Well, you don't get to say you're something you're not, and he doesn't get to say I'm something that I'm not! I use the ladies' restroom!"
"I agree. I just think it's a misunderstanding."
"You probably just think I'm off my meds."
"Look, is there anything I can do to help?" I say. "I don't want you to leave angry, but we're not getting anywhere."
"Okay, okay, look. I'm putting my hands in my pockets to show you that I'm not a threat to you. Okay?"
It's true. "Okay, you're not a threat to me," I say. "We agree."
The hands are back! Fists under my nose! "If I wasn't a lady!"
I'm in danger of laughing and never being able to retrace the steps to equilibrium. "Can I do anything else for you? Did we get this figured out?"
Not quite, because the guy points into the lower Urban room, to a display about the benefits of voting. "That sign out there says the vote is the great equalizer. Take it down."
"No."
"Well, I've studied a lot and I'm going to tell you something. Something that you might not like. Are you ready to hear it?"
"Probably not."
"You probably think we're hard enough on the Japs, but you're wrong. We can't let everyone forget what they did. We can't." I shake his hand and he leaves.
I walk behind the reference desk where Jim stares into his computer. "Are we done?" He looks up. "Oh good, he's gone! Now what in the world was he saying about his ID? I had no idea why he started yelling."
"Go," said my mom.
I looked around. I could have gone into another building and started gambling, or taken a prostitute for a spin, or purchased a shiny new saddle. I could have—
"Go," she said. "We've got to try this."
"This is stupid. I don't think I can."
"We're here. We're going to try it. Gail said he really helped her once."
"He gave Gail a lemon potion so that—"
"It wasn't a potion."
"—so that her knee would feel better."
"It _wasn't_ a potion."
"But how's her knee?"
"It's still bad, but she didn't go for her knee, so you don't know what you're talking about. Please. Just go." She shoved me in the chest.
"Hey!"
Mom turned the edges of her hands into blades and threatened me with karate chops, a tactic she often employed when we said we were too sick for school. She sliced the air between us. "Yah! Yah!"
I climbed the stairs, Mom trailing.
My first week home we'd all had a great time getting reacquainted and sharing stories and laughing and moaning about poor Josh and how we were going to do "whatever it takes" to fix things. A couple of weeks after that my siblings were finding other things to do than sit around and watch me cry. I didn't blame them. Misty was uncontrollable. The noises were louder, the punches were harder, and she never left. I could barely think. I drove to Salt Lake to visit Jennie, but after a couple of weeks with her I could tell that she was wondering whether she had other things to do than be my nurse. I couldn't blame her; there were no signs that things would improve. We spent the next few months talking about getting married once I got better. Then we stopped talking about it altogether. Then, in a burst of loneliness, panic, and impulse, I kissed another friend in Elko when she was over late one night, told Jennie about it, and she dumped me. This was heartbreaking, but then, everything was. I was a twitchy, delicate little daffodil with feelings made of porcelain.
My mom didn't know what to do about my emotional state, but she was determined to stop Misty.
Wind chimes greeted us as Mom and I entered Dr. H's office. Somewhere a tiny band of pan flutists piped away. My doubts grew at the sight of the Kachina doll on the wall, at the smell of incense, at the sound of cowboy boots clomping down some dark corridor toward us. The man who emerged from a bead curtain had definitely read Stephen King's _The Stand_ and modeled his appearance after Randall Flagg, the Walkin' Dude. Jeans. Boots. Smiley-face button. Denim jacket over a collared black shirt. A long, thin gray ponytail unfurling behind him like the remnants of an old cape. A predacious smile. He offered a hand. I shook it. His hand was very soft. The pan flutes played on.
"Well, we're here!" said my mom.
"Yes," said Dr. H. "Yes, you are." He locked eyes with me, trying to convince me that I was a toothsome cut of pork. He stepped closer. When I retreated and groped behind me for the door, he said, "Welcome to the place!" and hustled us inside. He was a chiropractor. "But so much more." He bid me look at the table with its doughnut-shaped headrest. Stuffing leaked out from the cracked upholstery. Pictures and paintings of elk and meadows and angels covered the walls. "I am a healer, Josh."
I looked at my mom.
"I heal." He invited me to lie facedown on the table. "Ever been to a chiropractor before?"
"No."
"Good, because I'm much more than a chiro. All right, just relax then. What religion are you? Wait, don't answer that yet." Dr. H placed the heels of his palms on top of my fifth lumbar vertebra. "Exhale." _Crack._ He pushed, something gave, I gasped, and yelped, a tic that sounded like "Woo!" _It's not working._
"We're some of those Mormons," said my mom.
"Correction, you are _two_ of those Mormons," he said. "I shared your faith for a while. I share it still at times. It is all in the sharing. Ever been on a vision quest?" _Crack._
"No, I—"
"Don't answer that..." _Crack_.
At his behest I turned faceup.
"When I was on my first vision quest I saw who most people might refer to as the Lord. Turn your head to the left, please. Relax." He placed one hand against my ear, one on my shoulder, and cracked my neck.
"But it wasn't the Lord," said Dr. H, "because how can we really tell, do you understand? Oh my, your jaw is tight. Open your mouth please."
His ring tasted the way you'd expect a piece of metal that had been on a finger for years to taste. Having my jaw cracked was not unpleasant, however. There was release in it. Much of my pain was from overuse and rigidity. Beyond the specific pains in the tense areas, there was an overall systemic tension that I hadn't been aware of—until this valorous healer began pretzeling me. He stepped back and put his hands on his hips. "Do you want to know about perfection? Do you want to know about calm?"
I looked at my mom. The interlaced steeple she'd been making out of her white-knuckled fingers was drooping under the burden of this folly. When she saw me looking, the sagging frame sprang back to life. "Sure!"
"Do you believe there is a cure for you?" Dr. H asked, leaning into my face. If I'd had any money, I would have bet that the white fleck in his beard was a small chip of long-dried Ramen noodle. "The key to your cure is to become as calm as young Joseph Smith was when he walked into the Sacred Grove and saw God. Do you know what Tourette's is? Do you know what causes it?"
"Dopamine?" I said.
"The same thing that causes all of mankind's ills. Have you read _Brave New World_ by Orwell?
"Aldous Huxley wrote _Brave New World_."
"Ah. But do you want to know what causes your Tourette's?"
"Sure!" said my mom.
"A lack of perfection." Dr. H extended his arms to his sides as if he was about to be pulled apart by horses. "Now, I want you to imagine yourself in a perfect, perfect circle." He brought his arms forward in a slight curve. "If you can imagine that perfect, perfect circle for seventeen seconds, you will be healed. Do you think that Joseph Smith could have seen what he did if he had not been able to stay still for a measly seventeen seconds?"
"Well," said my mom, "there was actually more to it than that...."
_Or less_ , I thought.
"Well, perhaps," said Dr. H, "but—"
"I'll try," I interrupted.
"I'm proud of you, Josh," said the good doctor.
"Thank you." I concentrated. But alas, I only made it to fourteen "perfect, perfect seconds" before Misty'd had enough and tasered me.
"I'm still proud of you, Josh," he said. "We can't all connect the first time out, can we? When was the last time you read the Book of Mormon, by the way?"
I'd come home prepared to avoid the slump I'd heard about from other returned missionaries. Suddenly you're home and there are all these other things you want to do and if you let it go you'll fall out of all the habits you've gotten into, like reading your scriptures all the time.
"I read some this morning," I said. I'd actually spent most of the morning reading _The Shining_ , a welcome-home present from Jennie.
"Good, then this next part will go easier." Dr. H vanished into another room. "We can still cure you," his voice announced before his body reappeared. "And don't worry about the circle. It will always be there when you're prepared to revisit it." He was brandishing bottles of clear liquid.
He set the bottles down with great aplomb, announcing them as if they were visiting dignitaries. "Zinc!" _Thump._ "Copper!" _Thud._ "Tungsten!" He looked down at me as if expecting me to jump up and scream, "Oh yeah, now you're talking!" before we exchanged thunderous high fives. When I didn't move, he sighed and tutted and said, "Cross your arms."
I crossed my arms. He placed one of the bottles—I think we started with zinc—atop my crossed arms. He grasped my right wrist with his hands and said, "Now I'm going to pull back. I need you to resist. Can you resist?"
I inhaled. "I can resist." I was tired and wanted to resist the teeth out of his head. I resisted while he pulled my arm. I resisted in my head when the result seemed to please him. He produced a little notebook and jotted with as much exuberance as one can jot with. He performed more tests to determine which minerals my body needed. Bottle after bottle on my chest. "Resist me! The body speaks!" he said each time. Based on the resistance, he prescribed bottles of copper and zinc water, which Mom purchased.
In the parking lot later, Mom looked at the bottles clinking in my lap and said, "That was so stupid."
I laughed. We went to lunch and said, "Resist me!" for an hour.
Dr. H eventually went to prison for a year. No matter what anyone tells you, there's no magic bath that cures cancer.
He hadn't been the first stop. My neurologists—in DC and now one in Salt Lake—had already prescribed several medications, with mixed results. The problems with the pills were that 1) they didn't work and made me feel like crap; or 2) they seemed to work and then stopped because I'd outlasted the placebo effect; or 3) they actually _did_ work but then they stopped, which was worse than never working to begin with.*
Dad wasn't surprised when I recapped our visit. "Criminy, what did you think would happen with that guy? I saw Gail the other day and she was limping around like a cripple."
"Frank!" Mom said. "She didn't go to him for her knee!"
Dad winked at me. The next day he walked through the living room, saw me lying on the couch half awake, and nudged me with his boot. "Get up. Get some shorts. Get in the truck. We're going to the gym."
I reached for a ready-made excuse. The bag was empty.
We drove to town. "Why do I have to do this?"
"You don't have to." He turned on the stereo and fired up a Dwight Yoakam tape that my mom hated. "But you need to. And so you'll do it."
"I don't want to."
"Then you shouldn't have gotten in the truck, smart guy."
"I'm smart."
"Then you'll admit that the chances of that couch you're so in love with driving itself down this road with you laying on it are pretty poor, right?"
"Lying."
"What?"
"Lying on the couch. Not 'laying.'"
He whistled. "Wow, is it nice? Being a genius? It looks nice. Thanks for the correction. I'll turn around and tell your mom that she's got nothing to worry about. All I meant was that if you'd stayed on the couch, you wouldn't be in the truck."
"Okay."
"No. Not okay. You're going to the gym with me. I think this will be good for you."
"Why?"
"Because I've been depressed before. I know some things. But listen, can I ask you a question?"
"Yeah."
"Is there anyone you look up to? I'm serious, now. No jokes."
"I don't know," I said. What good would it do to say I looked up to my dad? Or my grandpa? Or the prophet or Pee-wee Herman for that matter?
"Well," Dad said, "you've got to find someone to follow. Do you know who that is?"
"You?"
"I wish. But no. It's you. You have zero confidence."
"Yes, I do."
"Yes, you have zero confidence. No, I know that's not what you meant, but, no, you don't, and do you know how I know?"
"Because you're in touch with Navajo spirits."
He exhaled hard through his nose. "Do you ever get tired of being so funny? It's a nice little smoke screen, but I know you. Confident people do stuff. They get stuff done. They make things, even if it's just making money. You know what you're making?"
"It doesn't matter."
"You're making our couch sag. That's about it. You're making your mom sad because you're not trying. You're making your siblings miserable because you're acting like you're miserable."
"I am. I'm depressed and on a bunch of drugs. I want to take more of them every day just to feel different."
"This isn't depression and that's not their fault. But I don't want to fight. I think what we're about to do is going to give you a way to make some progress."
"There's nothing important about lifting weights."
"There's nothing insignificant about progress. Let's just give it a try."
Dad had been lifting inconsistently for most of his adult life. He'd usually go until he injured himself showing off, take a couple dozen months off, wait for New Year's to roll around, and then decide that this would be the year he got his bench up to 350. He once hurt himself in a Denver sporting goods store by bench-pressing for the Broncos cheerleaders, who were duly impressed as my mom let him lean on her for support as they exited.
The gym parking lot contained few cars. Nothing about it screamed "Salvation!" or "Remake yourself!" Except for the poster on the wall: a man in a black string tank top doing curls under the words "Remake yourself!"
My dad scanned his card. "And he needs a guest pass," he told an old guy behind the counter. "And he'll need one of those slinky tank tops from that poster he's looking at."
"Don't sell 'em," said the guy.
There were four other people there. Two peppy women in spandex hopped up and down while holding tiny dumbbells under their chins in both hands, as if they were trying to fill chalices with the sweat of their labors. "Wow, they're really laying it all on the line, aren't they?" whispered my dad. "This place gets some weird customers."
A short guy wearing a fearsome black bandanna stalked before the wall-length mirrors. He yanked up the hem of one leg of his Daisy Duke denim shorts and flexed his quadriceps in the mirror. He nodded. He had an enormous tattoo on his calf.
"We need to get you some little shorts like that," said my dad. "Man, you're skinny. Let's get started."
"Okay. How?"
He led me over to the rack of free weights. "Just find a couple of dumbbells that you can put over your head and start pressing them until you can't. Let's start there. I'd like to see your shoulders get a little bigger."
"Why?"
"I'll tell you later. I'm going to go bench. Now lift."
I tested a few dumbbells and settled on a pair of 45-pounders. I could only manage a couple of consecutive overhead presses before I got wobbly and pulled out of alignment. I felt silly. But as I began to fatigue, the other people faded. There was just me and my body. My stupid, thin, Benedict Arnold of a body. I could focus on getting the movements "right" or I could worry about everyone else. I focused on the details.
"Just rest until you can get a couple more reps, then get a couple more," said the guy next to me. "There's no trick. Only patience. And food. And sleep."
When I couldn't lift the 45s, my dad appeared and said, "Keep going down the rack. Do what you can with the 35s, then the 25s, then the 10s. They'll start feeling heavier." I ran the rack. It astonished me how something so light could weigh so heavily on my body when moments earlier it had been so easy. For forty-five minutes, I repeated the process with various exercises. Back in the truck I realized that I hadn't thought about my tics for nearly an hour.
"Was I having tics in there?" I asked my dad.
"Yeah."
I wanted him to say "No and that's what I was getting at! You're cured!" But if I was oblivious to my symptoms, wasn't that the same result? "Huh. Why did you say you wanted my shoulders to be bigger?"
"It'll change the way you walk. It's hard not to be confident if you walk like you're wearing a cape, with it blowing out behind you. Big shoulders help with the cape. Should we come again tomorrow?"
"Yes." I did want to go again, to see if I could replicate that experience of feeling like I had control of myself, or the experience of not worrying what anyone else thought about my tics.
"Great. In that case, we've got to make a stop." We pulled into a store where Dad bought a spiral-bound notebook. "You'll want this."
"Why?"
"Because that"—he tapped the notebook—"is a small victory. That's where you track your wins. Find a way to win and you start getting things done."
Not only did I go back to the gym the next day, I went back every day that week. I even went alone once. I got a look at the short-shorts guy's tattoo: It was of himself, wearing his workout outfit, _doing the leg press in a column of fire._
Misty fussed harder than ever, but it was as if she were barred from the gym. Afterward, yes, I would pay for it with savage tics. But during those sessions of clanking weights and sliding pulleys and yes, even the stupid guy with the aviator shades admiring his thighs, I forgot about the price I'd pay. What I did in the gym made everything outside easier. What a fascinating, bizarre turnaround; I was choosing to do something so difficult and painful that my symptoms didn't seem as bad.
I grew. I no longer looked like a svelte bone with glasses. I was wearing the cape.
That was in the spring of 1998. I spent the next year at home with my family, recovering. I lifted almost every day and put most of the weight back on. But the biggest change wasn't physical. It was spiritual; I could go to the gym and lift myself into a quiet oblivion, but Misty insisted on tagging along when I went to church. Being in that quiet chapel was too much, so I stopped going. At first, I missed it. I felt guilty being home while my family worshipped. Soon I stopped feeling guilty and looked forward to the three hours of quiet each Sunday when I had the house to myself. Well, myself and Misty.
I got a letter from Erik, the friend I'd attended college with in Idaho before our missions. He was finishing his mission in Brazil and let me know that he'd be going to Rick's College—an LDS junior college that would later become Brigham Young University–Idaho—in the fall of 1999. I resolved to go with him.
"That's great," said my dad. "I'll help you pack. Let's go do it right now."
We didn't pack that day, but a year later my dad said, "Do you really have to take these?" as he taped up another box of my books.
"It's not that many," I said.
"It's eight boxes. That's eight boxes too many when you're going to have other books to read, like your textbooks that I'm paying for."
"Yeah, I know, but..."
"But what?"
It was a good question. "I want to take them."
"He wants to take them," said my mom. But then, after hefting a box herself, she said, "Now why do you want to take these?"
That evening, the first one in my new apartment, I unpacked those books and filled our living room's one bookcase with Stephen King, Socrates, a bunch of _Far Side_ anthologies, and a bunch of other volumes that, yes, I truly didn't need to bring with me. But it was too late.
College life at Ricks was fine, but I was surprised to find that going to church was one of the best parts. Every Sunday, everyone in my ward—a few hundred kids comprising a few apartment complexes—got dressed up and went to church to check one another out. It's an interesting experience to watch religious males try to out-righteous one another to catch the eye of the women. A bizarre bit of posturing, everyone trying to put the "stud" in Bible study. I got caught up in it, which was great for my spirituality. If our Sunday school class was going to be discussing the Book of Mormon, I'd better be ready, so I read. If we were going to do a service project, I'd be the first one there.
I'd decided to major in philosophy. I really don't know why, except I liked the idea of myself thinking deep thoughts. It was kind of like when I decided to be a chess prodigy. It was more like I thought, "You know, I'm the sort of person who should be a chess prodigy." But then I realized I had to practice and study chess matches and so I quit. I liked the idea of Josh, the philosopher. I liked it so much that I enrolled in an ancient Greek class. Misty didn't appreciate my studies. If I sat in the library, she had me shouting, then up and pacing around, trying to outdistance her with my lengthy stride. But she was a shadow that didn't fade with the sunset. And she wasn't merely attached to me at the heels. Every single cell in my body had a parasitic shade clinging to it. There were no depths or heights that I could descend or climb to in order to leave her behind. There was only the hope that she'd get distracted.
"I'm really sorry, sir," said a voice that really and truly did sound really sorry. "Someone has complained about the noise. Is there anything I can—" I was studying for a Greek test. I had managed to escape into the Middle Liddell Lexicon as I prepped for a frenzy of conjugations and translations the following morning. Suddenly, a hand on my shoulder.
I was already up and gathering my things. "No, no, you're fine," I said.
"I just meant—"
"It's not your fault. I can't help it but it's not going to stop." I hadn't even known I was doing anything. This was something new. I'd been absorbed in something and still having tics. Was nothing sacred, to bellow clichés at the sky?
"No, I had no idea it was happening," I told my mom on the phone that night.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well...shoot."
I lifted weights exactly one time that school year. It was a night when I was trying to study for a Book of Mormon class. Every time I tried to take a note, Misty yanked my pen across the page. One page ripped, then another, and then the pen moved past the page and now there was a big pen mark on my desk. I put on a sweat suit and walked to the school's weight room.
It was full of people. A big line of guys waiting to bench press, groups of girls talking and laughing, a bunch of people on treadmills, and me. Everyone looked like they had so much energy. The current medication made me slow and weak.
"Huh!" I yelled. Misty had followed me. Nobody looked. The room was full of grunting, so hopefully we'd go unnoticed. And maybe if I slapped my face, everyone would think I was just psyching myself up for a big lift.
I went to the squat rack, which of course was not being used—squats are hard and legs aren't mirror muscles. I put 135 pounds on the bar. I put it on my shoulders, squatted down, and...that was that. I couldn't stand back up. I sat down, letting the bar find the safety pins that were three feet off the ground. I rolled onto my side and crawled out of the rack. I noticed a couple of people watching. When I stood back up, my head swam.
I couldn't stand to be weak, but having people see it was worse.
I didn't go back.
"Have you given any more thought to the Botox?" asked my mom during a desperate phone call. The first semester had ended and I told her that I wasn't sure I could handle the spring term. She'd heard about an experimental treatment. Botulism toxin to paralyze the vocal cords. No more screaming, in other words. This wasn't the final frontier for youth-obsessed people who simply had to know that their potentially sagging vocal folds were restored to the peak and vigor of their twenties. This was for people who treated public spaces as if they were recording booths for gag-reel noises. This was for people who, when they happened to make noises, made the wrong ones.
"No. Yes. Yes, I have, but just right now. Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay all right. I guess. I'll come do it."
You might think that before agreeing to something like voice-stealing injections in your windpipe, you might study up and figure out what you were in for. Nah. I was much more interested in figuring out how I could convince a girl I was pursuing to come with me for the procedure. Cyndi. She was tall. She had red hair. She said that if I ever wrote a book she'd read it. She'd never date me, but we hung out constantly. She wouldn't kiss me, but she said she liked me as much as she'd ever liked anyone. Maybe that was why Misty tolerated her: Cyndi made it look as if there were a We, when in fact it was still just me.
Cyndi agreed to go with me. I wasn't sure how the injections would go, but I'd be able to dazzle her with courage and comeliness under pressure.
On the way to Salt Lake, Cyndi and I stopped for dinner and then drove to a park. I had my guitar and a blanket in the back of the car. "Do you mind if I play for you for a while?" I asked.
"Sure," said her mouth. _What are you up to?_ said her eyes. _Don't get any ideas_ , said her arms, which were now folded across her chest.
"I just want to play for a while. I don't know when I'll be able to sing again." This was going to be my sentimental trump card but my voice broke and I realized that it was true. So I sang. I strummed and sang while the stars came up. Cyndi wrapped the blanket around herself. My fingers were numb but the songs were as clear as they had ever been. I finally stopped when I had played every piece I had written or learned. As the final note died away, I had a tic. I could see it in the cold air between us, this sudden burst of breath and nerves.
"That was nice," she said. "But they were all sad songs."
"Sad songs are all I know," I said.
Then we drove to my aunt Cathy's house, where we'd sleep. My mom met us there.
Otolaryngology clinic. What an ugly word. What an ugly place. Nobody in the waiting room smiled. Why would they? They were ostensibly all here to get their throats or larynxes snipped or molested or savaged. They'd all be shambling away in a couple of hours, greatly changed. Diminished.
But I didn't expect this demeanor from the staff. For all his nonsense, Dr. H's inane cheer had been more calming than these icy cyborgs. An unsmiling woman signed me in. An unsmiling orderly shuffled into the room and stooped about, replacing tissue boxes.
The doctor who would change me was bald. So very bald, with the type of gleaming skull that one only affects in order to convey an air of menace and sociopathy. His glasses had no rims. He was utterly mad and soulless.
One knows these things.
"Hello," he said, unsmiling. "I'll be back in a few minutes after you've been prepped."
The madman's assistant robot monotoned the procedure. "You will lie on the table. You will have gel applied to your temples. The doctor will aim needles through your throat over and over until his arms are exhausted. You will be voiceless forever. Cyndi will never kiss you. Bleep bloop."
The reality didn't feel any better than my mental interpretation. I sat in the reclined chair. The man I would come to know as the Joyless Healer swabbed my head with some foul goo that smelled like the inside of a Halloween mask. I turned my head to look at my mom and Cyndi.
"Hold still," commanded the orderly with a whir of grinding gears.
"We're here," said my mom.
"Heh-heh," I said, "this reminds me of that scene in _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ where they get him ready for electroshock."
"This is quite different from that," said the revenant doctor. "This is not electroshock therapy and this is not a liquid conductant. You are getting botulism injections in your vocal cords. Now, lean your head back, don't move. Don't swallow. "After inserting the needle I will need to move it slightly to get into position. Hold still. This will be uncomfortable."
Pressure in my throat. A pinch. Momentary release as the needle punctured my windpipe. It was unpleasant but not agonizing. Just uncomfortable.
"I said don't swallow," said the doctor. "Do it again and we may have to start over. This is not a booster shot." It tasted sort of like the mist of an asthma inhaler. An antiseptic tang that I felt as much as tasted.
Finally he withdrew the needle. I unclenched the hands I didn't even realize I'd turned into fists, and began to sit up.
"That was only halfway," said the doctor. "Sit back. Don't swallow."
Vocal cords! Plural! Silly me.
When it was over, I felt my face to see if I'd been crying. Nope. My mom, on the other hand, looked as though someone had been sticking needles into the throat of her firstborn as she watched with a dreadful mixture of horror, hope, and fascination. Cyndi looked bored.
"All through," said the Joyless Healer with what sounded like tremendous disappointment. "Your voice will probably begin returning within weeks. Please see the nurse on the way out if you'd like to schedule your next round." He departed in a whoosh of lab coat and malice.
I stood. "Well," I said. Wait! I could still talk!
"Are you okay?" said my mom.
"Let's just get out of here."
Cyndi took my arm as we walked down the hall. She didn't look at me, and nothing about her said anything to suggest that I should grab her hand or propose to her or kiss her, but it was good. We walked to the parking lot. My mom hugged me. "It's going to be all right."
I nodded. "I hope so." Then she was gone, driving west to Elko.
Cyndi and I stopped at a gas station and bought sodas for the drive. In the car I turned on the radio. "Oh, I love this song," I started to say before realizing that my voice was losing power. By the time we made it back to school it was nearly gone. A week later it was as gone as it would get. I could whisper, but not with enough force to speak over the phone.*
It took tremendous effort to whisper.
I toyed with the idea of wearing a sandwich board that said in big, blocky, crooked letters: CAN'T TALK MUCH. STILL LIKE TO TRY. WANT TO MAKE OUT?
The tics: While it was true that I could no longer scream, and being in public was easier, I finally had a verification of something I had long suspected—there was a daily intensity quota that must be met. I had to expend a certain amount of energy on tics each day. It could be meted out over many small tics, or a few dozen huge ones. So even though I wasn't screaming, my body was still trying; it just couldn't make the noise. If I couldn't be noisy, I could still be an abomination of motor skills gone amok.
With sweat pouring down my face I traversed a crowded café on my way to class. "Hey!" My flailing arm had just knocked soda into a kid's face. "Oh oh oh I'm so so sorry," I whispered, grabbing a handful of napkins off someone else's table. It seemed very quiet as I reached toward him. Then I realized he didn't want me mopping up his face. "I've got...I've got—"
"It's okay. It's okay. I get it. Just please stop."
"Really?" _Really? Please explain it to me._
Every five or six weeks, my voice would return to the point of making me self-conscious and uneasy. So I'd head over to Salt Lake and surrender my voice to the Joyless Healer. I was still doing my silent screaming all the time, which gave me six-pack abs for the first time because every single cell in my torso contracted with great force from sunup to sundown.
But the shots helped me get through both semesters. I went home to Nevada after spring term with more confidence than I'd had in a long time. I worked as a delivery driver during the day and went to the gym at night.
As long as I was making some sort of progress in the weight room I could make progress in other areas. I couldn't put it into words yet, but I was learning that the more I could do, the more I could do. Progress in one direction made progress in other directions, if not easier, more likely. It made me want to engage with other challenges. It made me want to go back to school and get going again. I had something resembling hope. Perhaps I was benefiting from an illusion of control in a universe of chaos, but the results were so good I couldn't slow down enough to care.
Until one morning when I was getting in the shower. I wasn't one to sit around and stare at myself in the mirror all day, but I wasn't above the occasional appreciative look at myself to verify that, indeed, I was lifting weights. I enjoyed seeing a new muscle, a new vein, a new narrowness.
But nothing this new. A pink bulge the size of a peach sprouted from my abdomen, just to the right of my groin. I tentatively pushed it with my finger. It slid back into my body. I flexed my abs. The bulge reappeared.
"Mom, I think I've got a hernia," I said.
"Let me see!" I let her see.
"Yeah, no doubt about it, that's a hernia. Well, shoot, honey, I'm sorry." I saw a doctor that afternoon. A week later I had hernia repair surgery. I woke with a mottled black-and-blue abdomen. If you've ever quit an exercise routine, you can probably guess what happened to me six weeks later when I was allowed to lift again.
I didn't lift. I didn't strive to regain the strength. The element of control was gone. I let it go, but it was gone nonetheless.
And when it was time to go back to school, I couldn't face it. So I didn't.
* Over the years I tried everything that neurologists try. The Klonopin didn't help. Neither did Risperdal. Or Haldol. Or Clonazepam. Or Clonidine. Or Zyprexa. Or Tetrabenazine. A neurologist put me on a nicotine patch, which apparently had helped someone in some study. Every few months I tried something new. Every few months, a new letdown. My neurologists said they hadn't dealt with many cases as severe as mine. They seemed delighted to have this chance to experiment.
* From here on, just assume that if I'm talking, I'm whispering. I could communicate, but I only had the energy for five-to-ten-second bursts of whispers. Most of the time, it just wasn't worth the effort.
# **CHAPTER 7**
# 646.78—Marriage
591.473—Mimicry (Biology)
There's no lovelier place to watch a snowstorm from than the reference desk on Level 3 of the Salt Lake City Public Library. In the fading light, in this glass magnificence, it's a happier world out there, something from a Christmas card. Even during this phone call, I can't keep my eyes off it. Yet...an urgent situation of considerable shrillness is developing behind me.
Our desk is round. Librarians sit inside the hole of the doughnut. Voices behind me are now raised so loud that I turn around, hand the telephone to my colleague, and say, "Take this and take a break." He does.
Now we are alone. Our eyes meet. Above her right orbit, a thin purple eyebrow drags its right edge toward the siren call of something beneath her large straw hat. She presses her heavily lined lips together. They are so glossy that I can hear the noise of them closing.
"He is"—she gestures toward my receding colleague's back—"...unsuitable person." She relaxes her face. The eyebrow stays on high alert. "I wonder if you—could you be...suitable?"
I smile my least confused smile and ask, "How can I help you?"
"He is unsuitable person."
"Yes, but how can I help you? They don't get much more suitable than me!" I sound much peppier than I feel. How can there be that much snow in the sky? How can it fall so quietly?
"Yes, I have problem. Downstairs I am trying to listen to compact disc. The machine does not work. Fix it. You fix."
"This is Level Three. We don't have anything to do with that. Have you told them about the problem down there? Would you like me to call them?"
"I ask them once. The American girls laugh. They are not interested in helping. You fix it." After several iterations of this routine I agree to send an e-mail to the technology department.
"No. I will send. You give me their address."
I print out their e-mail address and hand it to her. "Here you go."
She looks at it and makes a sound that sounds like _pyeh!_ "You can't send?"
"You said you wanted to do it."
She squints at my name tag. It's an old one, a spare. At one time it read:
**The City Library**
**Josh**
**Manager**
I'm not a manager anymore, so now it looks like this:
**The City Library**
**Josh**
**Manager**
I only use this tag when I forget my usual badge.
"Is not even you? Pyeh!"
"Yeah it's me. Manager's crossed out, not Josh."
"You send that e-mail. You send now."
I send the e-mail. It says:
Computer Services, I told someone I would send you this e-mail. I know it's not your department. I asked her to contact AV first. But she insisted that you see the e-mail. Good luck. Josh.
"Sent!" I say.
"Americans..." She looks around. I see how long and thick her ponytail is. It is glorious. I am ready to forgive it all. I'm ready to—
"You know what I say if American millionaire asks to marry my daughter?"
"No."
"I forbid. I forbid it ten thousand times!" She narrows her eyes as if I'm hiding a cushioned ring box behind my back, ready to surprise her daughter—whose name is almost certainly Svetlana, or maybe Pyeh!—from bended knee.
"That's a lot of forbidding."
"You think I don't know this? I was teacher. We are not stupid. Some of us are teachers. My husband. Teacher. You Americans."
I shake her hand, say it was nice to meet her, and watch her walk toward the stairs. "Stay dry out there!" I say.
She turns, glares, sets her bag down. "What is mean by 'stay dry'?"
"It means that it's snowing out there and don't get your hair wet."
"There is only one meaning of this phrase?"
"Are you really asking?"
"You are saying I am drunkard, yes?" She tips her thumb toward her mouth as if she is stumbling intoxicated through the streets of a Primorye province village, as I'm apparently implying.
"No. Don't get your hair wet. That's all."
"If...if I find there is more than one meaning for this phrase, I will return." She looks at me over the top of her glasses. She points at me. Her eyebrow wriggles with her disapproval.
"I will verify...I will. I hope that you are honest tonight." She leaves.
The snow didn't stop until late the next afternoon. It was a beautiful storm.
"Josh, I've found the perfect girl for you. Her name is Janette." Mom was home from church looking triumphant.
"No thanks." I was done with dating. Jennie had taught me that modern females didn't consider weepy, frail men the ultimate aphrodisiac. Besides, who had time for dating with my busy life? Since I hadn't returned to school, I now had a breakneck schedule of weaning myself off my medications, napping, visiting the Joyless Healer to surrender my voice, and staring at the walls. I rarely left the house. The days slogged by.
Maybe Mom was right. Maybe dating would shake me out of this no-life. On the other hand, Mom's track record with "perfect girls" for me was blemished. She'd never actually set me up with anyone, but she floated trial balloons.
"You know, I sure do like the Wallace girls. Are they dating anyone?" Or "That Kimberly sure is getting pretty." I acknowledged and ignored.
"Okay," I said an hour later. "How can I meet her?"
"She's singing in our ward next Sunday so you'll have to come."
Ugh. One upside of the previous year was that Misty didn't want me going to church. She wanted to stay home and watch movies or read. This placed my soul in jeopardy, but I never felt like I was missing much. Still, I had to go the next Sunday if I wanted to meet Janette Watts.
That morning I put on my suit and went to church with my family, where I watched Janette on the stand—the area behind the pulpit where speakers sit before rocking the mic like there's no tomorrow. She was five-eight with brown hair. She wore a pale-blue dress with a lace collar. She wore little makeup. Her face was pretty, heart-shaped, and soft. Her natural expression looked to be a contented smile. She looked kind. I flipped through the hymnal during the opening songs. Since I couldn't sing anymore, I spent the time looking at the names of the composers and lyricists. There were tons of Ebeneezers. But wait! One hymn had been composed by none other than "H. S. Thompson." My first exposure to Hunter S. Thompson had occurred a few weeks earlier when I bought a copy of _The Great Shark Hunt_ at a thrift store. And now here he was in the LDS hymnal. But no. The dates were wrong. The song was composed way back in 1770, stupid. It wasn't Hunter.*
When Janette started singing, I forgot about it. Her voice was a clear, confident, lovely soprano. I've never paid attention to a hymn the way I did to that song. I couldn't listen to her sing and be cynical or pessimistic. Suddenly life felt so precious and full of possibilities that I wouldn't have been surprised if a butterfly had landed on my wrist as a baby deer walked in to lick my face.
After, my mom raced up to tell Janette how wonderful she was. Then she nudged me forward and said, "This is my son Josh." I shook Janette's hand and nodded hello.
"It's really great to meet you," she said, and she gave me a smile that seemed genuine. I grinned like a fool. "You too," I whispered, jerking my head down and to the left, twice. Smooth operator.
"She's a folklorist," a mutual friend named Amy told me later. "She knows lots of stories. You'll get along great." We made plans to go to a barbecue at the home of some of Amy's relatives.
That evening I did push-ups until I collapsed. The next morning I ran two miles, then went to the gym in Elko to lift, the first time I had done so in months. I couldn't get myself back in shape for my date with Janette, which was three days away, but it seemed like a good time to get over the hernia and get back at it.
Janette picked me up in a white Buick Century, "the least fancy car in existence," she said. Now that I had her up close and could get a good look at her, she had the loveliest eyes I'd ever seen—a strange mixture of warm orange and icy green, depending on the light.
"Well, we can't all drive Honda Civics," I whispered.
She was easy to talk to. By which I mean, she was easy to listen to, since I couldn't say much. But she laughed at my whispered jokes.
"What do you like to read?" I asked.
"I just read a book by Mary Higgins Clark. I can't even remember what it's about, but it starts with this woman buried underground and she's supposed to have a string in her coffin. When she pulls the string the bell above ground rings so everyone will know someone's buried alive. It scared me because the bell didn't have a clapper. So I quit reading and all night I felt like someone was looking in the window at me."
I adored mysteries. Since reading Agatha Christie's _Ten Little Indians_ , I'd read everything by her. "What does someone being buried alive have to do with your window?" I asked her.
"Plenty."
"What're you doing in Elko?"
"I started working at the Western Folklife Center as my first job out of grad school."
"Did you have to write a thesis?"
"Yes. I wrote about an old cemetery."
"Do men get intimidated by you because you're so smart?"
She blushed and smiled. "I bet you ask all the girls that."
_Yeah. All the girls._ "And you probably pretend you're not a genius with all the men you date."
"I don't date much." Had it been the wrong thing to say? Her shirt had an American flag on it. "Would you consider yourself insanely patriotic?" I asked, pointing at it.
"No. I like America, though."
"What do you like most about it?"
"Barbecues."
"Good answer. So let me just get this out there: Would you ever marry a twenty-three-year-old?" I would turn twenty-three later that year. "Just checking.
"There's no wrong answer," I added. "It could be any twenty-three-year-old, so don't think I was asking about myself."
"No," Janette said finally. "I think I need a man with a...." She squinted into the depths of her soul. "With a...401(k)." Then, horror-faced: "I can't believe I just said that. I don't know where that came from."
"Are 401(k)s the ultimate aphrodisiac?"
"Only for perverts. New subject. What are _you_ reading?"
"You know the Harvard classics?"
"No. Should I?"
"When I thought I wouldn't be able to go to school anymore, I thought about how else I could get some education. I was getting addicted to eBay, but I never bought anything. I saw a listing for the Harvard Classics once. It's these fifty-two books that take up about five feet and if you've read them you're supposedly as educated as anyone, or something. I got them for Christmas and made this goal to read one each week this year and then I'd be done and a genius."
"How's it going?"
"Bad. I made it through the first three weeks. Don't read _The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini_."
"What's it about?"
"A guy makes some stuff out of silver. That's it."
"Hasn't there been anything good?"
" _Don Quixote_ 's always good. I got through _The Inferno_ by Dante. I nearly died trying to read Robert Burns. I'm not big on poetry."
"What about cowboy poetry?"
"I'm not sure. I got to recite a poem that I wrote in sixth grade with my best friend at the cowboy poetry gathering. It was about a feud. But I've never really read any of it. But the only other Harvard books I finished were two books of quotes. Something by a Quaker and a bunch of sayings from Epictetus. I just can't ever see myself getting into the science papers of Charles Lyell, but we'll see."
Janette turned the car into a driveway. When we stopped, I got my guitar out of the trunk as Janette went and said hello to Amy.
"What did she say?" I asked Amy when I got her alone.
"She said you're better looking than she expected."
"What does that mean? She saw me on Sunday."
"And she said she told you she wanted a man with a 401(k). I told her you don't have one."
"But she saw me at church," I whispered.
"She said the light was weird there. Are you going to play for us?" She nodded at my guitar.
"Uh, yeah, maybe. I told her I played and she said to bring it."
After we ate, Janette said, "Play a song for me." Suddenly everyone else was outside and Janette and I were alone. I'd been playing a lot of folk instrumentals from various countries. With the loss of my voice, my playing had changed. Without my vocals providing the melodies, my fingers had to. I was more interested in finger-style guitar with complicated melody in the upper register and bass notes played on the thicker bottom strings. The song was called "Sakura Variations."
"That's beautiful," said Janette.
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
When I got home, my parents mobbed me. "Well?" said my mom.
"It was good," I said.
"How good?" said my dad. "Good as in—"
"And you're going to see her again?" said my mom.
"Yeah." My mom's not much of a smirker, but whatever was going on with her face at that moment said, "I _knew_ it. I was _right_!"
My dad is a smirker. So he smirked. But he looked happy.
The next weekend Janette and I hiked around Silver Lake.
"You're as nimble as a mountain goat," I told her as we walked the shallow incline around the lake.
"I practice," she said. "At home I build little obstacle courses and I see how many hours I can spend without touching the ground. My best is four days."
"Really? Pippi Longstocking did that."
"No."
Thanks to the Botox, I didn't have to worry about whether I'd scare Janette with hoots and whoops. But without the noises to define the "real" me, I didn't know exactly who I was. At first, I exhausted myself whispering getting-to-know-you small talk into Janette's ears. The longer we talked, though, the more I listened. I wasn't just learning who she was, but also who I was when we were together. I thought, _We've already seen each other three times._ She was spending her free time with _me._ She could have been crocheting, which she loved, or reading Mary Higgins Clark, or practicing with that lovely Siren's voice. Instead, she was with me, laughing and talking about nothing.
At some point we started holding hands. We looked at our interlaced fingers. She smiled. I snapped my teeth together and whistled two notes. When I'm touching someone, the tic often molds itself to wherever I'm touching. Because I was holding her hand my own hand tensed up and gave her an abrupt, but not painful, squeeze.
"I like you," I said.
"I'm glad."
A week later I agreed to come to her family reunion that summer.
One night she said she'd "made peace with being alone." This is a very Mormon way to feel if you are a single woman past twenty-two years old, and she was twenty-nine. So many students at church college campuses are engaged or married by the time they're in their early twenties.
"There were always girls that looked better," Janette said. "My friends are all my age. They all look about the same way I do. They're all single. None of us has ever even been kissed."
It bothered me that Janette didn't see herself as being as worthy as all the other women out there. The ones who weren't "her age" or who "looked better" or who were getting kissed because they were better somehow. I knew that any guy who knew her like I did would be as smitten as I was.
The phone rang. It was her dad. With a worried look she gave me the phone. "He wants to talk to you."
"Hello?" I said.
"Hi! This is John Watts. I just wanted to say that we're looking forward to meeting you. Janette's a great woman. See you soon. You'll fit right in. I can tell." When I hung up, I handed Janette the phone.
"You won't be alone," I said. "It might not have anything to do with me, but I don't want you to feel that way." Before she could protest, I kissed her cheek.
The night before the reunion Janette asked if I wanted to play Phase 10, a card game in which players race each other to make ten different card combinations.
"I'll play," I said, "but we should play for something."
"Like what?" she said.
"If I win, you have to kiss me."
"I knew you were going to say that. Okay, but what if I win?"
"You won't. Ready?"
She dealt the cards. By the time Janette was on Phase 6, I was still stuck back on 3.
"Is it my imagination, or do you look slightly despondent as you win yet another round?" I asked.
"Don't flatter yourself."
Then followed a rally that had never been seen before, and will never be seen again. Somehow, by the time Janette was at Phase 7, I was on 6. By the time I got to 8, I had caught up.
"My willpower is changing your momentum," I said.
"Why would you waste your powers on something like this?"
"If you're really asking then you don't know how attractive you are."
I won. When I set the last card down and said, "I'm out," Janette stood and began pacing. I don't think I'd ever actually seen someone wringing her hands, but she was doing it.
"Oh," she said. "Ah." She looked at me. Wring wring wring. "So?"
"So?" I said, standing. "So now you tell me how you want it." She blushed and laughed. Her hands fell to her sides and I kissed her.
Just like that, things were different. We were something different, and she had been kissed. "How do you feel?" I asked.
"I feel nervous about you meeting my dad."
"Really? He seemed so nice on the phone."
"Oh, he's nice. That has nothing to do with it. Go. Sleep. I'll be ready when you get dropped off tomorrow."
I kissed her again. She didn't wring her hands this time.
Janette grew up in Sunset, twenty-five miles north of Salt Lake City. She was tense by the time we got to Wendover, the midpoint between Salt Lake and Elko. By the time we got to Salt Lake she was grinding her teeth.
"I need to tell you some stuff about my dad. He goes to these mountain man rendezvous ever year," she said. "He'll probably introduce himself to you as Flintstriker, which is his mountain man name." From what she said, his mountain man experience was limited to Boy Scout Jamborees; he'd been serving in Boy Scouts for most of his adult life. Every year he'd go to a Jamboree—a gigantic campout with scouts from the region—and wear his leathers and fire his black powder rifle.
"We don't call him Flintstriker," she said. "And he shoots his rifle in the middle of the night on New Year's. He'll tell you everything he's doing in church right now. He'll probably mow the lawn at five in the morning tomorrow. Our backyard's always covered with deer hides that he's tanning. And he goes to DI"—Deseret Industries thrift stores—"and buys snowmobile parts and then puts them in the backyard and they just sit there forever. Drives my mom nuts. And..." She looked to see if I was reaching for the door handle, but I couldn't wait to meet him. Would he greet us in a coonskin cap? Would he demand that we leg wrestle on the lawn? Would he give me some manly test to prove that he was superior to me, like asking me to locate the spark plugs in his car?
When she pulled into the driveway, the front door opened and John Watts stepped out. You can tell that some people are friendly from a block away. He was about five-ten with the roundest belly I'd ever seen. Suspenders pulled dark green pants up over the belly to meet a maroon T-shirt. He shook my hand and squeezed hard. "Welcome!"
Five minutes later I threw a tomahawk; it twirled end over end, and struck the "throwing stump" with its handle, which then splintered. John nodded. "Not bad." Then he threw his own hawk, which missed the stump and clattered against the fence. And, yes, stretched across the fence was a deer hide that he'd tanned himself. I retrieved our axes and returned to the throwing line.
I was delighted to be at Janette's parents' home, throwing pieces of metal at a piece of wood with a man who indeed called himself Flintstriker. He even showed me a wooden box with his mountain man name scrimshawed into its lid. I hadn't had a chance to say one word about myself. John jabbered on about everything while Janette caught up with her mom, Linda. Linda looked exactly like what you'd picture if I told you that she was sixty-five years old, with glasses and white hair, and looked really nice. She laughed after everything anyone said, including herself.
After her parents went to bed, Janette showed me my room. "This was my room growing up. It shares a wall with the bathroom. That was exactly as glorious as it sounds." There was a chest of her old toys. "I loved Strawberry Shortcake, but my mom never had enough money to buy me the accessories, so I made them." She dumped a few yarn-haired dolls onto the bed. I recognized their faces—my sister Megan had loved Strawberry Shortcake. Someone had obviously made them new clothes. And each doll wore a backpack. "That's not even the best part," said Janette. "Open their backpacks."
Each backpack contained three books made of construction paper, bound with tiny stitches. "Open the books," she said. I opened one. My hands jerked. I let the book drop.
"It's okay," she said.
"I don't want to tear it," I said.
"You won't."
Every half-inch page, of which there were probably ten, had tiny scribbled lines on it. "I didn't want them to get bored," she said.
"Okay seriously, this is the greatest thing I've ever seen. _Moby-Dick_?"
"I know, I've never even read it. They have, though."
That Janette had spent her childhood sewing books so that her dolls could be literate was too perfect.
If we weren't meant for each other, nobody was.
I woke to the sound of the lawnmower. The clock said six A.M. After breakfast, John and Linda piled into their camper while we followed in the Buick. Janette looked at me and lifted her eyebrows.
"He's not bad at all," I said.
"Oh, I'm so glad. He did mow the lawn really early though."
The campsite was already full when we got there. I met Janette's brother, Jeff. Jeff's wife pulled me aside. "So you're going to marry my sister-in-law! What's going on?"
How in the world had she gotten that idea? Did Janette say that? Is that what Janette wanted? Was that what was happening?
"Uh," I said.
John appeared before I could answer and handed me a long, thick needle. "Help me sew up the cover on the camper." I stitched away while kids I didn't know yet laughed and ran through the trees.
I thought about what Jeff's wife had said. I didn't feel pressured by this intrusion from someone I'd just met. But now I _was_ thinking about marrying Janette, which was wonderful and terrifying.
Throughout the day I shook a lot of hands and immediately forgot everyone's name. Everyone was welcoming and kind.
That night Janette came into my tent and laid down, her head on my chest. My chest immediately lurched and bounced her head off for an instant. She laughed. "You're not a great pillow."
"I love you," I told her for the first time. I'd met her only a few weeks earlier. And now I knew I loved her. How humbling to think that mere weeks before I'd been alone and unhappy, and now I was happier than I'd ever been, because of her.
"I love you too." She felt my face in the dark. She had to know I had the biggest, dopiest grin on my face. And now I was even happier. That night, alone in my tent, I listened. I listened to my body; it clanged with desire, but it hummed with love. I listened to my mind—I'd often been forced to fight for the privilege of introspection by the blaring coming out of my mouth. For once, silence was more galvanizing than noise. Maybe our Plans of Salvation were aligning.
The next day we went to Bear Lake. I found myself next to John, ankle-deep in muddy water, moss trying to pin our toes to the earth. "This lake's pretty nice," he said. "We like it."
"I like it too."
"I'm glad. You know, Janette's a good woman." He stopped, looked like he had more to say, then jumped in the air. "I think a fish just bit my toes!"
Now was the time to ask him if I could marry her. We were alone. Now was the time.
But I didn't. Then the fish bit my toes too and I screamed and we laughed and headed in to shore.
After lunch Janette and I went for a walk. Eventually we tired and sat on a half-rotten log.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," I said. "Well, that's not true. I'm sure. I guess I'm thinking we just need to make it official, right?"
She smiled. "Make what official?"
I started to get down on one knee, almost slipped, but caught the log and saved myself before falling over. I yelled when a beetle ran out of the log over my hand. After making sure the log was now empty, I took her hand in both of mine, kissed it, and said, "Will you marry me?"
The word "yes" is just a sound. It's nothing without context. It can signal the end of a life, an exultation after a scored basket or a vanquished foe; it can answer questions or refute them; it's an affirmation. Under the trees, leaning against a decaying piece of wood with the warm June sunlight filtering through the branches above, Janette's "yes" was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. If there was a more exhilarating feeling, I didn't think I could have survived it. There was a woman sitting in the forest with me, agreeing to share our lives. We would bear each other's burdens. She would have our children and we would raise them together. Maybe we'd save each other's souls if the church turned out to be the one true way. There was a woman whom I loved deeply and profoundly, and with one syllable she'd changed our lives forever.
At dinner Janette said, "I have an announcement. Josh and I would like to invite all of you to come visit us in Salt Lake at the end of the summer because...." Her voice broke. She took a deep breath. "We're getting married!" Cheers from the crowd! Slapped backs! Handshakes! I accepted them all and realized that my face was starting to hurt. I obviously didn't spend enough time smiling. When the furor died down John hugged me. "Janette is a wonderful woman. She'll be a wonderful wife." I realized that I never asked him for her hand. And I'd meant to! Why hadn't I done it?
We went home the next day. Outside my parent's house, Janette squeezed my hand. "Ready?" I was. My dad suddenly opened the door, took one look, and asked, "What's going on?"
Cheers! Hugs! Slapped backs!
That night we all went to dinner at Elko's one decent Mexican restaurant. How wondrous and unexpected to have something this special to celebrate after the previous year of such darkness.
At home, my mom came into the living room where I was reading _A Confederacy of Dunces_ , which somehow I didn't hear of until 2001. "Sit with me." We sat on the couch. She said she was proud of me. That she couldn't be happier.
"I know, Mom. Me too. I can't believe this has happened."
"I knew it would. I always knew it would. You've got to start listening to your old mother."
"It's my New Year's resolution."
"Good."
"For 2002."
I didn't tell her that, happy as I was, I was scared. How could I say that I wasn't sure I'd be able to support Janette, or our family? How could I tell her that, although I felt like I was now strong enough to grit my teeth and move forward, all on behalf of Janette's love and support, that I still wondered if it would be enough?
Later, I did tell her about the 401(k) story. "Oh yeah. It's all we girls ever think about. Modest 401(k)s."
Janette was cooking dinner for us. This was a dangerous proposition; Janette cooks and bakes as if she's trying to fatten you up before eating you. It was two weeks before our wedding.
"There's a good chance that our kids would have it," I said. "You know that." Janette had a niece and a nephew with Tourette's. Having the disorder on her side of the family increased the chances that we'd pass it on.
"You don't understand how it can be," I said. "When it's really bad. I've had friends that just weren't able to be around me anymore. I lost my best friend. A girl I planned on marrying. They couldn't take it. You haven't seen it like that yet."
Janette smiled. "I'll understand once it happens. Then we'll deal with it. Now shut up about it."
"Are you sure you can do it? What if you can't? I don't want this to happen and then just be alone again."
"No, I'm not. How could I be sure?" she said. "But I believe in you. How can I be sure about any of that tonight? It hasn't happened yet. I don't think it will."
"But doesn't that scare you?" I jerked my head back and whipped it forward.
When I stopped, Janette touched my face. She looked at me just the way Fern looked down at Wilbur the pig when he was in the stroller in _Charlotte's Web_. "Committing to spending the rest of my life and more with someone is scary enough without guessing at all the things that might happen. So stop."
"But don't you—"
"If I did, I'd say so. Here's what I'm sure of: When I'm with you—when I'm with you and things are bad with your tics—it's hard. It hurts because I love you and I don't like to see your pain. But it's not nearly as bad as not being with you. I've spent most of my life without you and I know what I'm talking about. Now be quiet. I'm done with this conversation, which means don't bring it up tomorrow. We're getting married two weeks from now, so smile and deal with it. You proposed to _me_ , remember?"
I remembered.
On the morning of our wedding I met Janette at her parent's house. Despite all of the doctrine that gets filed under weird and superstitious, nobody ever told me that I shouldn't see Janette before the service. We drove to the city of Bountiful. Janette grew up in the Ogden temple district, but it was closed for cleaning, so she chose Bountiful. I'd predict that even if you think the religion is the height of absurdity, you'd still find something to admire about Mormon temples. The Bountiful temple is a pristine white, with light shades of gray being the only other colors on the walls, both inside and out. It rests at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains. Gorgeous flower beds line the walkways to the doors, and the whole place is even cleaner than Disneyland. From the center of the towering building, a spire reaches upward, topped with the angel Moroni, blowing his horn to announce that we're in a sacred place.
Inside, we each went to our own changing rooms. We donned the traditional white robes of the faith, which are only worn in the temple. Soon we were seated next to each other in one of the eight "sealing rooms." These are rooms where couples are "sealed" together for time and all eternity. If you're sealed to your family, you've effectively achieved the pinnacle of what we're here to accomplish on earth. If you're sealed and then you both live righteously until you die, you'll be together after death. If not, well...that's more complicated.
Janette and I knelt on opposite sides of an altar and held hands. Behind each of us was a wall covered by an enormous mirror. Over each other's shoulder we could see endless reflections of ourselves, drifting out into eternity together. The officiator turned to me.
"Will you take Janette as your companion, for time and all eternity?"
"Yes," I said. There was that word again. That simple sound. It sounded like nothing and meant everything.
He turned to Janette. "Will you take Josh as your companion, for time and all eternity?" There was an endless pause. Janette was crying. "Yes," she said at last. I'm sure that people also get left at the altar at Mormon temples, but it's hard for me to picture.
The officiator smiled. "In the name of Jesus Christ, in the presence of these witnesses and the families who love you so dearly, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."
"Are you okay?" I whispered to Janette after the kiss.
"Yes," she said. "I never thought it would be my turn," she said. "I love you."
In many ways, a Mormon ceremony isn't that different from a traditional wedding. The major differences are that we wed in the temple, wear peculiar clothes, and there's no "until death do you part." Janette changed into her wedding dress and I got into my tuxedo. A photographer took way too many pictures over the next ninety minutes. Oh, and of course, the luncheon afterward wasn't exactly a bacchanalia. As revels go, it was about as thrilling as eating a box of Wheat Thins with a glass of water. But Janette and I weren't there for the party.
We were there because now there was such a thing as We.
After ninety minutes of eating and laughing and reminiscing about That Time When Someone Did Something Funny, we got in the car and pointed it toward Moab, where we'd spend our honeymoon. I quickly pulled in to a car wash. We'd requested that our families not toilet paper our car, or write on the windows with soap, or tie cans to the bumper. They had mostly complied, but there were some balloons glued to the windows, and well wishes soaped on the windshield. As the car was pulled along the conveyor belt and under cover of soapsuds, we started pawing at each other as the brushes scrubbed the windows and doors. "Do you want to go check into a hotel for an hour before we go?" I asked hopefully. "Or do you think you can make it to Moab?"
"Let's drive," she said. "Every mile can be like a countdown."
"I want another car wash," I said.
"No, let's go."
When we got to the Archway Inn in Moab we learned that my grandpa had paid for our room. It turned out to be the handicapped suite. None of it mattered. We shut the door and flew at each other. After that first energetic night I declared that the theme of our honeymoon would be "For the strength of youth." This was also the name of the church's youth progress program. I thought this was hilarious. Janette didn't laugh quite as much, although that night she proved herself to be a quick study in extreme irreverence.
Over the next two days the seasons could have changed and we wouldn't have noticed. We only left the hotel twice. Once was to eat and then to buy food to take back to our room. The other time was to recharge during a viewing of Tim Burton's _Planet of the Apes_. We were so goofy and delirious and happy that the movie actually seemed good. That's how perfect it was.
That's how perfect We were.
* Hunter S. Thompson's mom was a librarian.
# **CHAPTER 8**
# 153.6—Truthfulness and Falsehood
616.692—Infertility—Popular Works
636—Dogs
021.65—Library Science
We were at my family's house in Nevada. We'd gathered there for Christmas and were still there on December 31 for Janette's birthday. We'd spent the day trying to see who could eat the most junk and introducing Janette to "the Food Game," a childhood favorite. You blindfold someone and then feed him the most disgusting concoction possible. Anything in the kitchen was fair game, if it fit on a spoon. Janette refused to play, but laughed dutifully when my sister Lindsey bested a mouthful of peanut butter, clam juice, thyme, two jalapeño seeds, and the fat from a strip of bacon.
Later, I gave Janette her birthday present. She could tell it was, obviously, a book. She hid her disappointment well and chirped, in a bright voice a full register higher than usual, "I know what _this_ is!" She tore the wrapping paper off and said, "Oh." I wondered if she was taken aback, but, no, she was smiling. On the cover of the blue paperback, two chubby babies sat on two blocks. She held it up for my family to see. _One Thousand and One Baby Names!_
"We're going to start trying," I told everyone.
"Name it Frank whether it's a boy or a girl," said my dad.
We were two years into our marriage. The first few months had been about as storybook as it gets. We'd wake up and smile at each other. She'd go to work and I'd go to school. When she came home we'd make dinner or go out, and smile at each other some more. We had weird upstairs neighbors: One, Ollie, spent his days in the shared basement laundry room, making wooden gargoyles. We enjoyed wondering when he would murder us. We'd go to the grocery store and buy trashy romances and read them to each other, trying to distinguish "anguished groans" from "urgent gasps." _Her Texas Ranger_ was the first. I wasn't able to work much because of Misty, and my first semester of post-wedding school was unsuccessful—ultimately the tics were too challenging for me in the classroom. But for that first year being together was enough.
And I could talk! I decided to stop getting the Botox injections after we'd been married for eight months. I wasn't having verbal tics, but the physical tics were getting worse. I'd traded the obnoxious but painless noises for scratching my face and chest, slapping and punching myself more often, biting my tongue more severely, etc. I'd have chosen another hernia from screaming over hitting myself one more time. I hoped that if the milder vocal tics returned they would vent some of the pressure in a less destructive way. It was a thrill to talk to Janette with as many words as I wanted.
On Sundays we went to church. When I was voiceless, I couldn't use noisy tics as an excuse to stay home. But I found that worshipping with Janette made worshipping easier. I could pray when I prayed with her. I felt more sincere because she was _completely_ sincere.
When my voice returned, it wasn't long before I was called to teach lessons in elder's quorum. Two Sundays each month, I taught the doctrines of the church. My lessons always ended with my testimony: variations on "I know the church is true." And the more I said it, the truer it became. Any concerns I had about the differences between knowledge and belief faded. When I lived as if I believed, belief was easier to come by.
It gave me peace.
At the end of that year we started trying to get pregnant. We weren't honeymooning anymore, but we were still getting after it with a wonderfully taxing frequency. We designed a fertility schedule that looked fun on paper. Once we were a few months into the experiment, it was still fun, but the best part of sex is the spontaneity. It was never better than when we were overcome and just had to have at it. But we had to plan the pregnancy attempts. Nothing was less arousing than an X on the calendar; during that first year of trying we lived in a state of constant "counting down" according to a menstrual cycle. Always waiting. Always wondering. Now we had an unwelcome bedroom companion: trepidation.
A year of unsuccessful trying later Janette said, "If we ever have a daughter, I really hope she gets your calves and my personality." We'd moved from the sure thing to the distant and hypothetical: _If we ever..._
When I bought that baby-name book I thought the process was buy a baby-name book, have sex, baby wearing an adorable bonnet appears. But no.
"Your chances of conceiving a child are less than four percent," said the fertility specialist.
Janette sighed. "Four percent?"
"Yes," he said, "but there are options. I would propose starting you on a regimen of..." He talked, far away in Doctorland. I held the test results, which said that my sperm spent their time cavorting, swimming in circles, bumping into one another, guffawing with self-effacement every time they lost their way and found themselves at another dead end.
Part of me was relieved. I hated that part of me.
If you're married, or you've ever been married, and you went into it with the hope that it would somehow fix your problems or bridge the gaps in your personal failings, you're a sucker. I suspect that you know it. All honeymoons, literal or metaphorical, end. After Janette and I got married, we moved to Salt Lake so I could finish school at the University of Utah. That semester I was a classics major for some reason. Within a month I told my Greek professor that I wasn't sure I could complete the semester. That morning I was fine in class, but I struggled in the hallways. Too many bodies. My arms flailed over my own head, to keep everyone else safe. I shouted my repertoire of nonsense syllables. I avoided eye contact as my right shoulder jerked up over and over with such force that I fell against someone.
I told the humanities advisor I doubted that I could finish the semester.
"Do you think it will get easier?" she asked.
"No. I'm not sure why it would." She helped me with a medical withdrawal, filing a form with the head of the College of Humanities and getting it approved. So I terminated my semester without receiving failing grades.
I wanted to work while I regrouped. Janette was working in the church office building downtown. It's a tall building where administrative church stuff happens and men grow rotund bellies. She was a secretary, and then became an editor. I looked for graveyard shifts at gas stations, or jobs at bookstores.
I entered a Barnes and Noble while someone was putting up a "now hiring" sign. They interviewed me and I started a week later.
I thought that working in a retail store would be thrilling, amazing somehow, as long as the product was a book. I'd walk in, shelve a few volumes, and then sit around sipping a hot chocolate from the café while talking about books with my coworkers.
The reality, though...I arrived at 6:50, clocked in, and shelved books for four hours while musical abominations blasted from the store's speakers. If you've never heard the Beach Boys singing "Be True to Your School" at an unholy decibel level at 7:00 in the morning, I envy you.
On my first day I shelved for an hour before the morning briefing. We gathered around the information desk while our managers outlined the day. What was corporate pushing? What were the new releases? Yes, James Patterson really had another book out. And then our manager introduced me.
"Hi!" I said.
"Welcome, Josh," said our manager. "What do you like to do for fun? Tell us something about yourself."
"Well, I just got a literary agent," I said. _WHAT! No, I didn't!_ What was I _saying_?
It seemed that some of the other employees' eyes widened. Others narrowed. What had possessed me? I wasn't above the occasional embellishment to tell a better story, but this was an absolute lie. Years later I would read Patricia Highsmith's _The Talented Mr. Ripley._ "Better an important fake than a real nobody," said Ripley, who was also a sociopath and eventually a murderer. It was like the scene in _The Karate Kid_ where Daniel Larusso, the insecure new kid in town, lies about knowing karate to impress someone. Well, it starts innocently enough, but it's not long before he's getting his face kicked off by a dojo full of hooligans. But I wasn't some kid, I was a grown man! Except I wasn't, obviously.
Soon I was telling other would-be writers how to go about getting an agent. I received an imaginary offer and then flew on an imaginary plane out to New York for an imaginary meeting with imaginary publishers. Upon returning I announced an imaginary two-book deal with Viking. I can't remember why I chose Viking. At least it was a real company. As opposed to imaginary, like everything else about me. Every time I opened my mouth it got worse, because it was usually to answer a question about how great things were going for me and "how excited I must be." Each new lie was a bar in the cell I was forging for myself, and I didn't know how to let myself out of the cage. And I had no idea why I'd started building such a stupid cage. Soon, I'd repeated my publishing fable so often that I was barely aware that there was a cage at all. "You're living my dream!" said one teenage girl who worked in the café.
I returned from my imaginary New York trip to see an all-too-real banner stretched across the second-floor balcony. "Congratulations to our new author and bookseller, Josh Hanagarne!" I gladly/horrifiedly accepted congratulations from patrons and coworkers that day. It was only a matter of time before Janette came in and saw it. It might be an hour, or a month, but she'd see it. So I did the only thing I could think of.
"I've got some great news!" I said over dinner.
In the store, she looked at the banner. "Wow!" she said. Then, more quietly, "Wow." I didn't know how to interpret these "wows." She was either happy and awestruck, or she was onto me and couldn't figure out who she was with. I made it through one more day before breaking down.
"There's no book deal," I said. "I have no idea why I said it but now they all think this is happening and I don't know what to do!"
"What do you mean, you don't know what to do? You've got to tell them! Why would you do this?" She was angry, which was a relief. Better that than pity. "What's the matter with you? You've got to tell them!" More than anything, she sounded tired.
"But I'll get fired!"
She was quiet for a long time. "Josh, do you love me?"
"Of course!"
"How can I believe you if you can just lie like that?"
Ouch. "Okay," I said. "I deserved that. But I do. You have to know I do."
"Look," she said, "so what, your career as a bookstore shelver is over? So what! Go tell them, let's figure out how to get you back into school, and you can work on something you actually want to do."
"Okay." It made sense. The next day I went into work prepared to tell my boss the whole story. I wimped out. "Janette is really sick," I said instead. "I can't get into it but I need to quit. I paid back the book advance and called off the deal so I can spend more time with her." That was my last shift. As I watched my manager's face, it seemed like she wasn't quite as upset by the news of Janette's devastating illness, or my departure, as she should have been. Did she know? Was it that obvious?
"I'll find another job," I told Janette. I elided the conversation about her imaginary illness. There were still new lows for me. I decided that if I ever published a book it would be called _How a Despicable Person Became Slightly Less So._
The next three years passed in a similar pattern. I'd enroll in school, then withdraw for medical reasons. Occasionally I'd complete a class and get a couple of credits. I'd get hired at menial jobs, then quit shortly thereafter. I told Janette that things would be okay, but they never were. And she continued to be patient and generous and kind and wonderful, although I think she'd tell you that if she didn't struggle with codependency issues she might have been brave enough to cut me loose.
Through it all, we kept trying to get pregnant.
One morning Janette woke me while it was still dark.
"Is everything all right?"
"Josh, I'm pregnant." It was the first week of October.
"What!" That afternoon I called my mom. She screamed! I called everyone in my family. They screamed! I told the few friends I had in our ward. They were thrilled! Janette did the same with everyone she could think of, everyone who knew that we'd been trying for so long.
It had been four years. Four years of trying. Now sex itself was almost odious. Sex on a schedule bordered on tedium. I'll never forget the non-afterglow of one uninspired bout when I realized that Janette was crying. _I wonder if it worked..._
But now! We couldn't look at each other without laughing. We threw out nonsense baby names all day. "We'll name it Headlock!" I said. "Headlock Hanagarne!"
"No," she said. "How about Hoth? Or Darth?" Janette's a _Star Wars_ fan. "We'll ask Jim and Amy for suggestions tonight." We went to dinner to celebrate with our friends.
Janette had been in the restroom for several minutes by the time we ordered dessert. "There's blood," she said as we walked to our car. She called her gynecologist, who prescribed some pills, which I picked up that night at a gruesomely lit Walgreen's.
Janette bled all night.
The next morning we sat in the waiting room of her doctor's office. We didn't talk.
Janette's pregnancy officially ended that night. I lay on our bed for hours and held her. She shook with sobs. I cried, but it was nothing like what she was experiencing. I pictured oceans of tears filling up, overflowing the shores of Bleakland, and drowning unsuspecting peasants. When she had cried herself out and her breathing had steadied, we fell asleep.
We didn't talk the next morning. I tried to read. She stayed in bed. In the afternoon I went for a walk. Our apartment was a block away from a park. The sounds of a kids' soccer game reached me before I saw it. At one time, each of the children in the bright jerseys had been a mere idea. Someone's dream. Someone's accident. Planned or unplanned, it didn't matter: They were here in this world. More than anything Janette wanted to bring a child here to earth to play on a soccer field, or learn the piano, or get good grades, or wrap its little fingers around her own and squeeze.
I wanted Janette to have what _she_ wanted but the responsibility of a child felt unreal. I hadn't made my peace with being an unreliable, unequal partner in my marriage and hoped I never would. Feeling like a sponge was bad enough. But worse was the fear that Janette would be so long-suffering that I'd never have to change. Staying the same would be easiest, though I wouldn't be happy about it and it wouldn't be fair to her. But the thought of disappointing a child...of being a bad or inept or reckless father...that was unthinkable. But I wanted a child. I wanted to have it both ways. I'd always loved babies. I'd always wanted a little boy. But there were always qualifiers. I was in the thick of my fight with Misty. A child would just give her a new plaything. I wanted a child; I didn't want a child with Tourette's. I wanted a child who could have all the chances that other "normal" kids had; I didn't want a child who would need to live with his mom forever or sponge off his future wife. I wanted a child I could be proud of; I didn't want a child whose love affair with couches would rival my own.
A boy scored a goal. Cheers erupted. I screamed and slammed my heels together hard enough to trip myself. I'd been walking in a circle around the soccer field, head down, and fast enough to make me pant.
A slobbery, rolling tennis ball stopped by my shoe. A long-haired red dog appeared and looked up at me. "Hi," I said. " _Woo!"_
The dog barked.
Janette and I spent the months after the miscarriage avoiding each other's eyes most of the time, offering small, pinched smiles when we did. All of our talk had the forced, false chirpiness of a sitcom. Without talking about it, we skipped church on Mother's Day, then again on Father's Day. But little by little, small talk, all talk, became possible again.
Janette never seemed angry, just sad. Church continued to give her the comfort it always had, but it wasn't helping me. I was angry, although I knew that whether God existed or not, being angry with Him wouldn't change things. Janette didn't deserve any of this. There was a clear difference between us: Janette was more likely to ask, "I wonder why God let this happen?" or "What is he trying to teach me through this experience?" while I had thoughts like "Hey! Are You up there? _Leave her alone!_ "
Another year passed. I enrolled in school, then withdrew. I sold women's shoes at Dillard's during the Christmas season. It was as horrible as you think it was. I got a job at Salt Lake City's first Best Buy, worked for a few months, then quit when the tics were too much. I loaded a truck at UPS for four hours each night, frantically scanning and stacking boxes into a wall that grew endlessly. I reveled in the exertion of it. I quit the job at UPS so I could spend more time in yet another school. Then I withdrew from school and was back to having no job again. Back on the couch. Janette no longer tried to hide her frustration. But she managed to be more frustrated by the situation than with me. When I pressed her to tell me how she was feeling about everything, she would always say, "I know who you'll be. I'm just not sure when. We'll get there."
But if I couldn't go to school and I couldn't work, what was I going to do? Where were we going?
My dad once told me about a guy who said there were finite amounts of misery and happiness in the world. Meaning there was only so much of each to go around, so if you were happy it meant someone was sad. "Dumbest thing I ever heard," said my dad. "The easiest way to forget yourself is to help someone. Your mom said that to me once. I don't always do it but I believe it. And if it's true then there's no reason to think that any of us should be sad forever, unless everyone gets everything they want and there's nobody left to help."
I remembered that discussion during a long, sleepless night. Helping other people was something I hadn't tried yet. But who? Janette was the obvious answer, but helping her meant school and/or work, and I wasn't ready for another try yet.
Janette left for work.
That was when I heard the children across the street and, before I could second-guess myself, I put on my clothes, went outside, and walked across the street to the brick building. The building spanned the block and at certain times of day it sounded like a wild puppy pen: the joyful sounds of recess. It was a special-needs school. I never really thought about these challenged kids in terms of their disabilities when I'd see them on the street, but having so many kids around did keep our struggles with infertility fresh in my mind.
"I'd like to volunteer," I told the woman at the desk.
"Oh, honey," she said slowly, "if you're going to be here, you'll want to get paid. I'll take you on a tour. We could use someone with the older kids' program."
During the tour, I saw kids in wheelchairs. Kids rocking back and forth to silent music. Kids playing basketball. Kids speaking English and kids jabbering away in what may not have been any recorded language. Kids smiling, laughing, crying, and playing tag. A boy hugged me around the waist, then ran away before I could say anything.
Two weeks later I'd been fingerprinted, background-checked, and was an assistant in the class with students in the nineteen-to-twenty-two-year range. The goal was to help them acquire "life skills." My first week we took them to the state fair. I was in charge of eight kids with eight different disabilities. As soon as we got off the bus at the crowded fair park they all ran in different directions. I rounded them up by the time we had to go back to school, but just barely. What "life skills" had they learned at the fair? I don't know. We bought elephant ears, and posed for sepia photographs that were then plastered onto a giant novelty button that I wore on my shirt for the rest of the day. One young man asked if he could ride the Zipper, but I said no when he threw up halfway through his elephant ear. But most of the day I felt like I was chasing kids around, hoping they wouldn't get hurt or lost. It was fun, in a nerve-wracking type of way.
During my first week we had an assembly. Suddenly the Jazz bear—the mascot from the Utah Jazz, Salt Lake's NBA team—ran into the room. It was like someone had detonated a bomb of distilled joy on the students. I have never seen such unrestrained happiness. Everyone was screaming and laughing and trying to get close enough to hug the bear. As usually happens in noisy places, my tics were intense. I shouted and jerked, but nobody noticed! Or if they did, it just didn't matter. There were so many symptoms and conditions in that place that nobody would ever look in my direction twice no matter what Misty compelled me to do. This realization gave me goose bumps. I could stay here forever and be at ease.
I was patient enough for the work. I was capable of changing adult diapers. I played games, led field trips, took the students to a vocational training center once a week, and did more puzzles than you can imagine. One day I was invited to play a game with "the King of Games." The boy who asked was nearly as tall as I was, with dark hair and darker eyes. He was very serious. He would draw game boards on construction paper. We would roll dice and advance around the board. Each square had a command written in it.
"Do it," he said as I landed on a space that said, simply, "Sharp your foot."
"What does sharp your foot mean?" I asked.
"Do it. Sharp your foot."
I tried but, unsurprisingly, couldn't get it right. "When I landed on "Dance like a jackass," he was more accepting of my efforts. I got it right on the first try.
Then it was October again. Another normal morning interrupted by a positive sign on a pregnancy test. Once again we were elated and terrified, but this time the celebration was muted and tentative. "We'll tell everyone in three months," said Janette. She visited her gynecologist who said that everything looked great. Two weeks later we were in a room with a doctor who looked like Gene Wilder. He manipulated the sonogram equipment and squinted. "Can you tell what we're looking at here?" he asked.
I looked at the gray blobs in that alien environment. It looked like the negative of a bowl of Rice Krispies and sea monkeys. "No," I said, sure that he was about to say, "I'm sorry, but it's happened again. October is simply not your month."
"Right"—he tapped the screen—"here. That's a heartbeat. It's as healthy a heartbeat as I've ever seen at this stage."
Janette made a noise between a laugh and a sob. I leaned closer. A tiny beacon of life blipped and flickered on the screen, a pulsing bit of darkness in the graphic tumult of the womb. And it was everything.
"It's going to be okay?" I said. "It's okay?"
Janette grabbed my hand. "Oh, wow," she said. "Oh, wow. _Josh._ "
We shook hands with Gene Wilder and went out to lunch. "Maybe it's just time," she said. "Maybe...maybe we're just better this time and it'll work."
I kissed her across the table. "I'll do anything to help you with this. I'll do everything." I meant it. It was true. My job was going well and I was considering a career in special education. We had more money. I had more confidence. It was time. It had to be.
The next two weeks passed in a tentative euphoria. We were happy but we tried to be cautious and humble; what if we celebrated too hard and wrecked everything?
Another quiet morning. "Josh, I need you to drive me to the doctor." Janette sounded like she was choking. The drive was only fifteen minutes away, but it felt like it took years. We didn't talk. She shook in the passenger seat of my truck. I yawned and realized how tightly my jaw was clenched when the effort of opening my mouth actually hurt.
We sat in the same waiting room.
No Gene Wilder this time. We were taken into a dim room where Janette, quietly crying, removed her clothes and slipped into a dressing gown. She lay on the table and stared at the ceiling. A young female sonogram technician entered the room and began applying the cold clear jelly to Janette's stomach. I couldn't organize my thoughts, but one surfaced, cutting through the chaos. _They're going to give her another ultrasound and we are going to have to sit here and look at the screen and try to see if there's still a heartbeat and if there's no heartbeat then that means it happened again._ I wanted to lift Janette in my arms and carry her out to the truck. If I could just get her out of here before they started the procedure, we could escape the result. We could return to the book of baby names and laugh, and the next year wouldn't have to pass with me blaming myself for my wretched, insubstantial seed and she wouldn't have to lash herself with the guilt that her body was an inadequate vessel. If we could just—
"Hmm...," said the technician. "Maybe I'll—let me try a few more angles." I stared at the screen. Where was it? Where was the small dark disturbance in the fluid? The pulse that had made the past two weeks a joyous dream? Where was the life we had made? Janette looked, then turned her head back to the ceiling. She closed her eyes.
"Janette, it's going to be okay," I said. "She just has to try another—"
"I'm so sorry," said the technician. "I can't see a heartbeat." She left us alone. Alone with this terrible silence and this blank screen. A pin-sized change.
I watched my stricken wife remove her dressing gown and dress herself. Things can change so quickly. As we left, we passed a young couple and their daughter, a girl who couldn't have been more than three years old. "See!" said the mother, pointing at their hot-off-the-press sonogram. "That's your little brother!"
We walked by and scheduled Janette's D and C surgery.
A week later, my brother, Kyle, sat with me. Minutes earlier Janette had been wheeled into surgery. I hadn't eaten all day so we walked to a Subway across the street. "I know that I haven't always been able to get things done, and that I break down, but this is something different," I said. "This isn't part of that. This actually _is_ this hard, it's not just me."
Kyle nodded. "I know, Josh. We all know. Want me to cheer you up?"
"Yes. Please."
He drew back his arm and held his hoagie like a football. "See that old lady over there? I'm going to throw this right into her mouth."
I laughed. I had to. I was cried out.
Janette recovered slowly. We were heavy and dull and the world was cobwebs and leaden air. Her emotional state, her entire psyche, became its own delicate fontanelle. Every happy word within earshot, every laughing child, every piece of evidence that someone else's life was going how that person wanted it to...it was unwelcome, destructive pressure. We were walking emptiness, a patchwork of living voids stitched together from fissures and rifts.
Three weeks later I was on the couch. Our apartment was empty, but the building wasn't. I heard a baby crying through the floor. Two sisters and their mother lived below us. One of them had a two-year-old and was pregnant. The other talked constantly about getting pregnant and spoke of a child that no longer lived with her. They each said they were battling meth addictions. They often knocked on our door with no particular goal in mind. "Hi," they'd say. "Hi," I would say. Then we'd stand there and blink and after a while I'd close the door.
We couldn't have what they had—children—and what they had, they dishonored with recklessness and drug use. Maddening.
I fled outside. The sun made me self-conscious, as did the sound of my footfalls and the fresh air. And of course, the tics. As I walked, the noises ripped out of me as I flailed like a puppet.
People stared. Even holding the gaze of another person was too heavy. I screamed. I walked. I screamed. I scratched myself. My arms waved about, striking at invisible swarms of bees. _Tic tic tic tic tic_. I slapped my face and chewed my lips until my eyes watered. I could barely remember where my house was. The cold air hit the heat of my face and seemed to create its own wind. I was crying in frustration. I walked faster and watched my feet, dragging them over another crack in the sidewalk, then another. I found myself alone on the corner of an intersection. Over the sound of my ragged breathing and my convulsing body I reached out and tried to find something still. Something calm.
Across the street, two golden retrievers ran back and forth behind a chain-link fence, barking at me. They weren't the only ones. Every single dog for what sounded like a square mile was barking its fool head off. _They think I'm some big weird dog._ I felt exactly like one of Kafka's hapless characters, stumbling onto a new path and realizing that I'd lost my way. The dogs were barking at me.
Dogs always look so happy. So pleased with themselves. "Huh!" I shouted. "Huh huh!"
They barked and jumped and one of them spun in a tight circle.
I started to laugh on the street as everyone else hurried by, bent into the wind, grim-faced and lashed. I went to the nearest convenience store and bought the biggest bag of dog treats I could find and walked around the neighborhood, doling out those treats to every dog I saw. By the time I passed the school where I worked, the bag was empty.
"Janette," I said when I walked in, "I'm going to go to the gym.
She stuck her head out of the bedroom. "Is our membership still good?"
"I don't know. I'll find out."
The membership had expired. The last thing Janette had wanted to do after the miscarriages was exercise, and I'd stopped going too. I signed us up again and went into the weight room.
I had a decision to make. My suspicion that I could stay at the school and be totally at ease, hidden among the other noisy kids, had been right. It was easy to be there, but it wasn't challenging in the way I needed it to be.
"Janette," I said that night, "I want to find another job."
"Why?"
I explained that I felt like I was hiding out in the school, and that even though I enjoyed it, I wasn't ready to commit to decades of work in special education. I needed a job that would keep me honest. A job that would prove that I had toughened up and could handle more stress. And of course, I wanted a job that I'd love. What sort of test would be ideal for a man with noisy, disruptive Tourette Syndrome?
"A convent?" said Janette. "A monastery? I don't know, why don't you just find a job that you like and not worry about whether it will be hard enough to make you miserable?"
The next day I walked into the quietest building I knew of. A building that, incidentally, I visited almost every day: the public library. I dropped off my books. The silence was heavy and thick. Someone cleared his throat. It sounded like a shotgun blast in the stillness. My mouth went dry and my heart started its familiar pattern: What _if_? What _if_? What _if_?
"Woo!" Whoops. Sure enough, everyone looked at me, including the staff members.
"Can I have a job application?" I said.
I got hired. I wasn't doing anything super-important. I checked in the books that people returned. When someone wanted to borrow books, I ran their items under a scanner and got them a bag if they wanted one. If they wanted to chat about books, I'd chat. It was a tough, tic-filled four hours, but I did it. There was one moment of absolute panic when a woman approached the desk carrying an infant in a car seat. The baby's neck was crooked at such an impossible angle that I thought, _It's dead. She has no idea that the baby she thinks is only asleep is dead!_ This was followed by an even worse thought: _It's dead and SHE KNOWS and she's in here smiling and checking out Nora Roberts books!_
The baby opened its eyes and saw the horror on my face.
That night Janette and I went out for dinner and celebrated. I had to laugh. "Some celebration, huh?" I said. "Another first day at work."
"Don't think like that," Janette said.
"I'm trying."
"Good. What else was on your mind as you served the needy public today?"
"Honestly?"
"Of course."
"I think we should start our adoption paperwork."
# **CHAPTER 9**
# 613.7—Kettlebells
362.734—Adoption
306.874—Fathers and Sons
291.13—Greek Mythology
The young mother stares at a computer screen. Her infant girl in a car seat screeches while her little boy plays on the floor nearby. Other patrons are staring, frowning, shaking their heads. I kneel by the mother.
"Could you please keep your children more quiet?" I whisper. "I think they might be bothering other people. Can I help?"
She begins sobbing. "Do you have kids?" She wipes her nose on her sleeve. "These are my kids. I have no idea where their dad is. I haven't known for about two years. I have to give them up for adoption. They..." Her shoulders shake and she folds forward, crying into her lap. The boy toddles over and pats her on the back, concern on his little face.
She sits up and whispers, "They don't know. I don't know how to tell them. I don't know if I can tell them."
I hug her and now I'm sniffling and I can't imagine what anyone must think we're carrying on about. I think about that woman a lot. I never saw her or the kids again.
LDS Family Services didn't look like a place where dreams came true. It just looked like a building. I don't know what I'd expected; maybe that we'd be meeting in a giant crib, or that the employees would all be wearing baby bonnets. Or that they'd pass out babies as party favors. Janette and I were there because as members of the LDS Church, we could take advantage of what we called afford-a-baby. This meant we'd only shell out four thousand dollars or so for our adoption, versus the ten to twenty thousand that other agencies might charge. And of course, it being a church-led agency, God himself was at the helm. If creating perfect families was the goal, surely He'd know how to handle things.
During our intake session Janette and I sank into a plump leather couch as a pleasant, slender, white-haired woman explained the process. She spoke so quietly that we almost invited her to sit on our laps so we could hear her. The breakdown: We'd attend six weeks of adoption classes. We'd prepare a mountain of paperwork that, while she avoided calling it our "sales package," was exactly that. An employee would visit our house and make sure it wasn't a meth lab. We'd write a personal statement to whoever would birth our child. We'd participate in interviews, both jointly and alone.
"Isn't this exciting?" whispered the woman before embracing us. It was like hugging a sweater full of twigs.
"This is going to be a lot of work," said Janette afterward. "I don't even know how to start."
"Let's talk to Shaun and Maryanne." They were two friends from the ward who had recently adopted a child from this office. I arranged a dinner date for that weekend. After dinner Janette went upstairs to talk with Maryanne while I stayed with Shaun.
"So how were the classes?" I asked. "What were they like?"
He moaned. "Worse than church. You sit around and everyone sniffles while they tell you how lucky you are to be adopting. There were people in our classes who'd been coming for years and still hadn't filled out their paperwork. That was actually one of the only reasons I got our papers done so quick—I didn't want to do another round of classes."
"What do they ask in the interviews? How should we handle that?" I asked.
"I'm not kidding: Lie through your teeth. Say whatever you have to to look like the ideal candidate." Shaun looked at something I couldn't see and frowned. "When we got John, I hadn't believed in the church in years. I was unemployed. We didn't have health insurance. Our marriage wasn't going that well, either."
"So why'd they give you a kid?"
"Because I said the opposite of everything I just told you. I lied like crazy. I had a job. I had insurance. I had faith. All that. You don't want to get into an argument with these people that you can't win. Say whatever you have to."
"Oh."
"Well, that was encouraging," Janette said when we were alone. "Maryanne felt like it couldn't have gone better. She loved every step of it, apparently."
"Well, here's what Shaun said." I couldn't get through it without laughing.
"Oh. Well. But Maryanne said...Well."
"Let's just start the classes and see."
Classes took place upstairs in the agency. Maybe eight rows of beige chairs, the kind you instantly know will be the inverse of agreeable, lined an aisle that led to a pulpit and microphone. Maybe eight people, the kind you instantly know are not your kindred spirits, rose to meet us. We shook hands. We smiled. They smiled.
"So what are you guys here for?" said a ruddy man whose white shirt and tie made me feel like a mucky hog in jeans. I thought this was a dumb question—what else would we be there for? But I found that many of the couples were there to learn about the process, or to support loved ones going through the process, and, yes, there was one couple who'd attended the classes for three years without completing their paperwork, and that I couldn't process at all.
"We want to adopt," I said.
In chorus: "Congratulations!" Everyone wanted to hear our story, which was this: Our bodies won't do what they're supposed to so we can't have our own damned kids.
"Tell us something about yourselves!"
As always, I couldn't manage to introduce myself without talking about books. This time out I mentioned my man-love for Mark Twain. You could feel the room deflate. Twain had famously called the Book of Mormon "chloroform in print" and in _Roughing It_ he referred to Mormon women thusly:
Our stay in Salt Lake City amounted to only two days, and therefore we had no time to make the customary inquisition into the workings of polygamy and get up the usual statistics and deductions preparatory to calling the attention of the nation at large once more to the matter. I had the will to do it. With the gushing self-sufficiency of youth I was feverish to plunge headlong and achieve a great reform here—until I saw the Mormon women. Then I was touched. My heart was wiser than my head. It warmed toward these poor, ungainly, and pathetically "homely" creatures, and as I turned to hide the generous moisture in my eyes, I said, "No—the man that married one of them has done an act of Christian charity which entitles him to the kindly applause of mankind, not their harsh censure—and the man that married sixty of them has done a deed of open-handed generosity so sublime that the nations should stand uncovered in his presence and worship in silence."
Twain wasn't a fan of organized religion and I'd brought him to LDS adoption class. Oh well, he could keep me company while Janette paid attention.
And so began our night of extreme tongue-biting. Our instructor spent the next ninety minutes talking about how grateful we should be that we were adopting. It's not that I wasn't grateful that we could adopt, but by the end I felt like anyone who wanted their own biological kid was a sucker. The others in the class, beaming faces every one, whooped and clapped and teared up here and there. Someone made a _Family Circus_ reference and everyone in the room laughed. When someone makes a _Family Circus_ reference and everyone in the room laughs, I'm in the wrong room.
"Look around you," said the instructor. "These are your peers. Spend as much time together as possible. Picnics. Holidays. Go to the temple together. Get to know each other. These are your friends. This can be another family."
What did we all have in common? Our bodies didn't work together with our spouses' bodies the way we'd assumed when we yoked ourselves together. But that was, of course, part of the Plan of Salvation. We had purpose. Our path involved adopting, along with all the heartbreaking epiphanies that paved the road to this classroom. The whole point of polygamy back in the day was that Mormon families could bring forth _more_ kids than anyone else and play theological strength in numbers. I talked to one guy who literally had tears in his eyes as he said he "just felt so guilty" because his desiccated loins weren't helping "build the kingdom." What was I supposed to say to _that_? He really felt guilty and I didn't know any _Family Circus_ jokes to perk him up.
Peers? Just because?
"How do you feel?" asked Janette in the parking lot.
"Like an asshole," I said. "Seriously. I was annoyed by everyone. By nice, sad people. Did you ever read _No Exit_ in school?"
"No."
"Well, the short version is that three people are in a room and it turns out that they're in Hell. One's a lesbian postmaster or something, one guy is a war deserter and cheated on his wife, and I can't remember what the other woman's deal was. They're in this room expecting to be tortured, but nobody comes, and they finally realize that they are one another's punishments. If you've ever heard the quote 'Hell is other people,' it's from that play."
"Okay."
"Well, tonight was like being trapped in _No Exit_ , except that 'Hell is other people' was 'Hell is other people who are probably very nice and are just here trying to be brave and reassure one another.' They wouldn't have chosen this. Nobody did anything wrong. I don't know. Just the situation, maybe. I'm just annoyed that we have to be here at all."
"I get it."
"Do you care if I go to the gym? I know it's late."
"Go ahead. Take your time."
The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you're a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs. Friends may come and go. But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds.
This was the final paragraph of Henry Rollins's essay "The Iron." Rollins had been the singer of the punk band Black Flag, an equally reviled and adored spoken-word performer, an author, an actor in several movies that required a man with a fierce scowl and a thigh-sized neck, and obviously, a man to whom lifting weights was a transcendent experience.
For the past year I'd gone to the gym, or trained in my home, nearly every day. It was 2006. When I wasn't training, I was often thinking about it. When I wasn't thinking about it, I was probably reading about it.
When I descended the steps at the gym in Sugar House, my hair stood on end. When I heard the clink of the weights, my skin warmed. Despite being in a basement, this gym was no dungeon. It made an extreme effort to be trendy and inviting.
I didn't yell, grunt, or swagger. I didn't slap backs. I didn't give advice. I didn't know enough.
Few people spoke to me, probably because I didn't spend any time in front of the mirrors, grimacing as I searched for veins in my forearms and amplified my exertions to the point where nobody could ignore them. I didn't have an exercise "outfit." I wore a sweat suit with a hood. I walked down the stairs, put on my headphones, went to a corner, and tried anything I could think of to get stronger. I might be the only person whose first three-hundred-pound bench press was accompanied by the Recorded Books production of _Don Quixote._
Henry Rollins said that half of life is fucking up. The other half is dealing with it. Like Rollins, I was no gym bunny socialite. I was there to smother the parasite inside of me. To deal with the other half of my life. I didn't work out. I _trained._ I wasn't a bodybuilder. I was building an obelisk that would commemorate the end of Misty's dominion. I didn't want muscles—at least, that wasn't the priority. I wanted exertion. I wanted to pant and tremble with the strain because if I couldn't breathe, then Misty couldn't breathe. If she insisted on living inside me, I'd make her regret it. If, after a session of heavy squats, five minutes passed before my legs could climb the stairs, she had to wait with me. If I burned, it seared her.
Within months I was stronger than many of the regulars. Training was hard. Because of that—or at least that's how it felt—everything else became easier, including school.
After attending many colleges over the previous decade I needed four more semesters at the University of Utah. I'd decided on an English degree. I was impatient in my classes. I didn't want to sit around and theorize. The action and results-oriented mania of my gym life didn't fit with the philosophical meanderings of academia.
I didn't enjoy my studies but every class period behind me was a step toward a goal. Wanking around about Hegel and Louis Zukofsky's _"A"_ and seeing affable young men who looked like hobos nearly come to blows over the implications of a semicolon in George Oppen's _Discrete Series_ felt wasteful. It led nowhere. It produced nothing. I couldn't measure my progress beyond my grades, which were always good.
I was in a class once where, after discussing, if I recall, a cyborg opera, a man with fingerless gloves (in July) somehow turned the conversation to George Romero's zombie films.
"Because when you really think about it," he said, stroking beard stubble that he seemed to wish he had, "zombies are essentially just vegetative nonlife commodities."
Yes. When you really think about it...
Graduation crept closer.
One of the adoption classes was about foster care. This was essentially a crash course in "fast-track adoption." In cases where a foster child's biological parents have vanished or died or couldn't get it together, the foster parents often receive first crack at the adoption. "This will be the hardest thing you'll ever do," said the leader after relating yet another case of a broken child who nearly broke his new home as well.
I couldn't imagine nobler work than foster care. It also seemed too hard. We left feeling like hypocrites. We wanted a child "more than anything," but not enough to invite a potentially damaged child into our home.
Shortly after that we had our joint interview with a twenty-three-year-old, giggly blond intern from Brigham Young University. "It is _so awesome_ to meet you both!" she trilled.
There's nothing wrong with being twenty-three, or blond, or giggly, but we were uncertain about her qualifications in representing us to prospective mothers. _They're_ so _awesome_ you've _totally_ got _to give them your baby!_
"So how would you describe your parenting style?" asked the intern.
"We don't have kids," said Janette.
"Kind and supportive," I said.
"Right, right," she said, making marks on her clipboard. "That is totally why I love doing this work. You've really got to see it to believe it."
"See what?" I said.
"How would you describe your marriage?" She stared into my eyes.
"Good. Good?" I looked at Janette. "It's good. It's not always perfect. It's—we're trying, just like everyone else. Ha-ha. We."
"It's good," said Janette, patting my leg. "It's the smartest choice he ever made."
"Janette, what is your dream job?" This felt like a trick, but Janette aced it.
"To be a stay-at-home mom," she said. Luckily she could say this and mean it.
"Josh, what can you tell me about the Tourette's?" As I stumbled through a lengthy answer, I could tell I was nervous: I made too many jokes about it. But even though the Tourette's was horrible, I didn't want to scare the intern away. Surely it was better to make light of it than to frighten off the mothers.
After each answer she'd nod as if she'd heard something of great significance. Scratch went the pencil. At the end of the "awesome" meeting we went out to eat.
"How do you think that went?" I asked.
"I liked her boots," said Janette. "Other than that, I have no idea."
An odd book crossed my desk at work: _The Naked Warrior_ by Pavel Tsatsouline. Pavel, aka the "Evil Russian," was allegedly a trainer for the Spetsnaz, a Russian special forces unit. The cover showed a contemplative, muscle-bound Greek warrior in bronze. The subtitle trumpeted, _"Master the Secrets of the Super-Strong—Using Bodyweight Exercises Only._ "
_The Naked Warrior_ was about dominating your body and achieving maximum strength. It also contained an ad for kettlebells, and the challenge: "Try it if you think you're so tough. You'll wish you were dead."
I was conditioned and strong, but my first session with the kettlebell—essentially a cannonball with a handle—drove me into the ground. Kettlebell marketing has some of the shrillest, shriekiest ad copy you'll ever see, and much of it focuses on "gaining strength without size." Meaning, use kettlebells and you'll never get that grotesque bodybuilder look. Never mind that nobody is capable of That Bodybuilder Look without drugs—these ads were TYPED IN ALL CAPS! They were full of SOVIET STRENGTH-TRAINING SECRETS!! You could now LOSE FAT WITHOUT THE DISHONOR OF DIETING!!!
The kettlebell world is an incestuous realm of back-slapping and defensiveness, but it was free of the grunting, glaring, overly tanned bros filling most of the gyms I'd used. I aligned myself with fitness zealots who were every bit as dogmatic as the priests of any religion. We were the anti-bodybuilders. We were the hard-living comrades. Nobody cared, but so what? "Kettleballs? What are those?"
"Oh, well, all you really need to know is that they're so much better than ____________________" and here you'd insert dumbbells, barbells, sandbags, Atlas Stones, and anything else not sold by the kettlebell companies. What was lost in this evangelizing was the fact that most people don't care about exercise. You could argue with a bodybuilder about your superior method, but someone who just wanted to watch _Mad Men_ and eat Cheetos wouldn't care.
I trained obsessively with the kettlebell for the next five months. It didn't help with my tics. Actually, it made them more frequent, louder, and the physical tics had greater force behind them. Kettlebell movements are big and fast, and often done for high numbers of repetitions. Performing three hundred snatches in a session was common. The snatch is a movement where you swing the kettlebell back through the legs, then propel it overhead by snapping your hips forward and guiding the bell to a locked-out position overhead. I'd never panted like this or trained this hard. When my breathing got erratic, my tics worsened and persisted with a duration determined by how hard I trained. I knew it made Misty miserable because it was killing me.
These workouts hurt worse than any Tourette's symptoms and made me feel like a very sassy comrade. And I was proving to all those "wish you were dead" guys that I could WORK OUT IN ALL CAPS!!!
Also, kettlebells were portable. I let my gym membership expire and trained at home. When I needed advice, I'd buy another of Pavel's books, watch someone on YouTube, or jump into Dragon Door's online forum, where it felt like every single person who used kettlebells was. Many of the posts were either people telling one another, "Good job, comrade!" or mocking other training systems. There were lots of questions like:
"I'm doing Pavel's Enter the Kettlebell program. Can I substitute...?" And then they'd ask whether they could do push-ups instead of kettlebell presses, or something like that. And then everyone in this crowd of user names would jump in and say, "Comrade! The party is always right Yes, you can substitute, but then it would no longer be the program!" Or some outlander would say, "Kettlebells are for pussies, lift some real weights."
But even in this largely anonymous group of cyber-comrades, there were some standout personalities. I quickly got bored with most of them, but I read every post by a guy named "Unbreakable" Adam T. Glass. It seemed important to him to always have that T. in his name, because he never left it out when referring to himself.
Adam usually logged in to post videos of his latest strength feat, offer advice to anyone asking for it, and excoriate anyone who claimed magical levels of strength but never offered proof. He was, in his words, "brusque as fuck" with people whom he felt were wasting his time and asking questions just for attention.
I started following his blog, "Walk the Road Less Travelled," despite the fact that he had spelled "Travelled" with two _l_ s. I learned that he was a tech sergeant in the air force, stationed in Minot, North Dakota.
He said things like, "If a bully approaches you, do not rob him with words. Do not bow to the rude and insane. Reward him with the face he deserves."
And, "No, I don't hunt, but if I did, I'd hunt mountain lions with a pistol. I won't hunt anything that can't hunt me."
And, "If you're claiming to be a fat-loss expert, don't point at me with a finger that's dripping with cake batter."
And, "If your boot camp didn't involve combatives training, you might consider taking it off your gym's promotional material. Exercise does not give you PTSD. Perhaps some respect is in order?"
And, "I'm a real fucking handful if you fuck with me. Ponder that before continuing this line of questions."
He was into some weird strength stuff he referred to as "old-time strongman." Think of the vaudeville guy in a leopard-skin suit, but substitute a massive guy in karate pants and a T-shirt with a shaved head and an eternal scowl. Adam bent wrenches with his hands. He bent railroad spikes. He pulled chains apart. He could lift four hundred pounds with one finger. He tore phone books in half. He could take a deck of playing cards and tear them into four pieces, sometimes without even opening the box first. He bent horseshoes into the shape of hearts. He could take kettlebells that most people couldn't even press, turn them upside down, and press them like that. He had a heavy, stupid sledgehammer with spikes on the end that he called "Big Danger." He would hold the hammer at arm's length, then let the spikes drift back toward his face, supporting it with his wrist strength. He was also an expert in hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship.
The feats of strength were strange, but they looked fun, minus the spiked hammer. The problem was, seeing the finished feat of strength gave few clues about how to work up to it. If you see someone bench five hundred pounds, you know that he got there with a lot of benching. But if you see someone roll up a frying pan like a tortilla, all you can do is try to mimic the feat itself. When that didn't work, I didn't know how to start developing that kind of strength, because I had no idea what kind of strength it really was. Wrists? Hands? Fingers? Pain tolerance?
After I'd read all of Adam's forum posts, I reached out, very, very tentatively with a private forum message that was the equivalent of "Gee, mister, you're super cool, can I ask you some questions about how to get big and stwong like you?"
He replied by saying, "Yes, do this, this, and this, and don't ask again until you can show me that you actually did what I said."
And so I started doing this, this, and this, and working on my hand and wrist strength. It would be a while before we'd interact again.
"So today I'm just going to ask you some questions, kind of like the interview when you and Janette were both here, okay?" The intern looked serious.
"Okay," I said.
Janette was right: The intern's boots were impressive. Black, shiny, almost knee-length, with a heel of such slight diameter that it could have punctured concrete.
First, she asked me the identical questions that she had asked the two of us. Then it changed.
"How do you and Janette resolve arguments?"
"Well, we don't argue a lot," I said. "But sometimes I think that might be part of the problem." I heard myself thinking aloud but couldn't seize my attention. "What I mean is, I don't love any sort of conflict, but Janette absolutely hates it. She's more like my mom. She'd rather lose an argument than argue, if only to make it stop. So I wonder if sometimes I get my own way without realizing that we've actually been having an argument and she's just shut it down early...but again, we don't argue much. We're at a good enough place that we can actually have discussions like this without hurting each other's feelings. That's taken some work and we're proud of it."
"Mmm-hmm." She wrote something. "What do you guys do for fun?"
"I love to write. And read, of course. I've been working at the library for about a year now, so yeah, I love to read. And I like to lift weights, but I don't really work out. I train."
If she cared about the difference, she didn't ask for clarification. "What are you reading?"
Oh no! I tested various truths in my head. This was my favorite question, but it tended to prompt only one follow-up: What's that book about?
_I'm reading_ Blood Meridian _by Cormac McCarthy. It's about this band of scalp hunters and there's this giant hairless albino named the judge. He might be Satan. Or War. It's hard to tell, but he and his gang just go out and slaughter everyone. And there's this great scene where they make their own gunpowder out of bat guano and urine, and then they kill all of these Apaches who thought they didn't have any ammunition, and—_
Wait, can I start again? _Actually, heh-heh, I'm reading_ The Day of the Locust. _It's about Hollywood, sort of. West wrote the bleakest stuff. He said, "Not only is there no one to root for in my work, there aren't any rooters." This girl writes this letter to an advice columnist about how everyone makes fun of her for not having a nose and it's really funny, but—_
Okay, I can do better. _I'm rereading_ Choke _by Chuck Palahniuk. It's about this sex addict who goes to sex addiction support groups to meet women. By the end he has started to think he's the second coming of Christ, but then his friend, a compulsive masturbatorwho has to keep stacking all these rocks up so that he can keep his mind off his—well, it turns out that he's not actually Jesus, but—_
There was only one way out: "Stephen King."
"Oh? Which one?" Damnation! One hundred out of one hundred Mormon moms hate Stephen King.
" _Cell._ " I shut up. I waited.
"What's it about?"
"Well, it's kind of silly, not his best, but you've got to understand how long I've been reading his books. But if you read Stephen King looking for realism you're probably just—well, it's about this event called The Pulse, and when The Pulse happens, everyone who's on a cell phone at that moment turns into a crazy zombie. There's a great opening—maybe the most frantic forty pages King has done—and right up there with the opening of the final _Dark Tower_ book for sheer craziness and pace. Or even _It_ , which is the book about the clown that kills all the kids. So this guy in the city is just walking around and suddenly everyone around him starts attacking one another. This woman attacks a dog! And he starts hearing cars crashing and then a plane crashes somewhere else in the city. Then of course he has to meet up with a few other people and they get the group together, which is something King always does really well. And later there's some bad guy called the Raggedy Man who might be killing people in a stadium but I'm not sure what to make of him yet. But the beginning, it's just—" I stopped.
I don't remember the rest of my interview. My love affair with Stephen King had potentially undone me again.
"How did it go?" Janette asked.
"Great!" I said. I did think it went well, other than the King fan letter I'd improvised. I'd been honest. I thought I'd been charming. I'd sold our strong points without shying away from the challenges we'd faced.
"Okay, so the director of LDS Family Services just called and they want to meet with us next week! I guess our interviews went okay!" Janette said.
"Oh, that's great!" The paperwork was done. The home visit had gone well. Our interviews and classes were over. We had apparently prayed enough. We would be "in the system," meaning that our profile would be available for pregnant mothers to pore over before bestowing their precious gift on us.
Now we'd wait. Who knew how long? But waiting would be easier than selling ourselves. Waiting isn't humiliating.
LDS Family Services felt different on the day of our meeting. Shiny and new and full of hope. The receptionist smiled, asked us to have a seat, and eventually ushered us down a hallway. At the end of that hall I shook hands with a plump, middle-aged man in a white shirt and dark tie. The director. I smiled my most winning smile at him. It seemed like he flinched, but that was surely my imagination.
"So you'll finally be graduating next week?" he asked.
"Yes! I'm so excited! It's taken ten years but it's finally done!" It was true! A decade of pecking at classes had gotten me my relatively useless English degree, but I'd finished what I'd started.
"Yes," the director said. He ushered us into an office. An unfamiliar woman with white hair and a fat Cosby sweater—despite it being June—sat inside. She rose, shook our hands, and we sat.
The director cleared his throat and took out a familiar-sized piece of paper. "I'm sorry," he said, "but at this time we cannot endorse you as candidates for adoption. We will of course refund the thousand dollars that you paid at the beginning of the process." The check stretched toward me.
Janette issued a harsh bark of a sob.
"What are you talking about?" I said.
He shifted in his chair. "There were some red flags in your conversations. Your interviews with our staff."
_Stephen King, you mean._ "You mean the intern that we each spent thirty minutes with?" I said.
"Yes, that's correct."
I tried to unclench my fists. I couldn't. I actually couldn't. Shaun and Maryanne had told us that in the six months before their adoption, they'd had two visits per month with various workers. More or less constant contact. I have no idea if that was true, but that's what they told us. Beyond our joint interviews, our solo interviews, and the time when someone visited our apartment to make sure that it wasn't an S and M dungeon, nobody had visited us. Maybe we should have reached out, but we'd had the impression that the process couldn't be forced. That _they_ initiated the proceedings and we waited at their pleasure.
I gestured at Janette, who was shaking her head and examining the ceiling. I wondered if anyone had ever grabbed a worker in this nice little office and dashed his brains all over the walls. Things were happening fast, but not so fast that I couldn't feel _afraid_ of how intense the emotions were. "Can't you give us an example of these red flags?"
"I think...that if you're both honest with yourselves...you'll admit that you have some work to do. Before we can consider you suitable candidates."
"But we did everything right! I finished school! I'm working! I've never gotten this much done! I'm starting grad school next week!"
"Yes, about that," he said. "Do you really think that's fair? After all the time Janette has spent supporting you. Now you're going to do _more_ school?"
"That isn't any of your business," said Janette. She was pointing at him! She sounded pissed. I loved it. Maybe she'd be the one to murder them. They were, after all, standing between her and her child.
"That's right," I said. "And we've explained my health to you. If I could've done it quicker, I would have."
"Josh, you can't have it both ways," he said. "You don't get to joke constantly about Tourette's—as indicated by our assessments— _and_ claim that it is the source of all your troubles." He leaned in front of me and placed the check in Janette's lap. "I understand that you handle the finances," he said, "so I'll give this to you." It was as if he'd planned on being as emasculating as possible.
"Can't you...can't you at _least_ tell us something we could do better?" I asked. I was close to tears. The anger was receding.
"We just don't feel that you're right. Not right now. And if you're both honest with yourselves, we think—"
_We don't feel._ There it was again. That word. "Feel." There was subtext here, but given the pristine and pure location, it was pretty much all just text. _We've prayed about this and received confirmation that meth heads and your insurance-less, lying friends who we gave a baby to, and all the other broken, reckless, irresponsible people who don't even always_ want _to have kids but get pregnant anyway—they're all more deserving of this than you._ It said that if we had a problem with their decision, we had a problem with God. They worked for God. They received inspiration from God. Were we going to argue with God if God said that we weren't fit parents?
I remembered the photo collage we'd made as part of our "sales package." One picture haunted me: Janette, smiling as I tried to hold the camera still. _Does it look like a fake smile?_ she'd asked. In the picture she's wearing oven mitts, taking cookies out of the oven, offering a cookie sheet to whoever looks at the picture. _See how many cookies your baby will get to eat!_ "I feel stupid," Janette had said. "It feels fake."
We ate the entire sheet of cookies that night.
The hoary vassal in the sweater spoke for the first time. She patted Janette's knee. "Janette, you don't seem comfortable. You haven't said anything and it feels like you're not comfortable talking in front of Josh. We'd love to have you come back and tell your side of the story. Alone."
Janette—Janette, I love you more every time I remember this—took the woman's hand and tossed it aside. "What are you talking about? We're here _together._ I'm not talking because I can't. Stop. Crying. Because you won't explain!" She handed the check to me and we stood. The man offered his hand. I don't know why I shook it, but I did.
"Feel free to try again when your situation is better, Josh," he said.
"Our situation has never _been_ better. Get out of my way."
In the parking garage Janette put her arms around my neck. "I'm so sorry," she said. "It's my fault." She was shaking.
"Why would you say that? What could possibly even make you think that?"
"I messed up in my interview. I told them that sometimes our marriage wasn't perfect. I told them that it's been hard sometimes."
"So did I. That's the truth and that's why we said it."
"We should have lied."
"No. Not you. Never you."
I called my mom. She cried. "That is huge news, I'm so sorry," she said. She didn't ask what had gone wrong, or how we (I) had slipped up. She just listened and offered condolences. I didn't tell her about Stephen King.
I called my dad. "WHAT! I'm going to go punch my bishop in his fat face and tear up my temple recommend! Call me back later. I'll—"
"Dad! Calm down." My dad was living in Canada that year after taking a short contract with a mine. I can only guess what his bishop would've thought when he roared into the room and knocked him about, raving about babies and grandchildren.
Janette smiled when I told her. By the next evening we were talking about it rationally. I think. We justified our rage and despair. We mocked them and their office. We imitated the intern. But it was all superficial and obviously so. It wasn't even sour grapes. It just felt like we were at the mercy of a process breakdown. They just hadn't asked us enough questions or spent enough time with us.
It didn't matter. Nothing changed the fact that we couldn't have our own baby. Our last option—a service that provides better lives for unwanted children—had rejected us. We wouldn't be a better option for a child. We would ostensibly make a child's life worse. Or so God thought, maybe.
The day of my graduation was sunny and traffic was hellacious. I rode the bus to the university with Janette, my mom, and my sister Lindsey. After ten years, I was done.
"I knew you could do it," said my mom when we arrived.
I almost said, _It didn't impress them at the adoption agency_ , but I stayed cheery. After all, I had a mortarboard on my head. My dad said once that it's impossible to be pessimistic with a breast in your hand. The mortarboard wasn't as good, but it helped.
After a speech by a former mayor that was too long, and after the presentation of some awards that went on for too long, and after the applause that went on for too long, I walked down the steps in a line that was too long.
Someone with gray hair put a diploma in my hand and then I stepped off the stage toward the photographer. Jeff Metcalf, my favorite professor, appeared at my elbow. We'd spent his Young Adult Literature class reading the _Alice_ books and _TheWhite Boy Shuffle_. "Smile, Josh!" he yelled. "This took you ten damn years!"
I broke out of the line and hugged him. Then I elbowed my way back into line and stood before an American flag to have my picture taken.
"Uh...," said the photographer. "Can you maybe kneel?" Apparently my head, far above the madding crowd of fellow graduates, was out of the frame. You can't tell in the picture that now sits on my mom's hearth, but I'm on my knees in the photo.
I found my family. I hugged my mom, took off the red sash I'd bought at the bookstore, and put it around her neck. Then I grabbed it back and said, "Oh, wait, you have to read it."
In black magic marker: _To my parents, who held me up when I couldn't hold on. I wish I knew how to say how much I love you._
That was in June. During the next year I finished a master's degree in library science through the University of North Texas. We made our peace with the fact that we couldn't have kids and we couldn't adopt.
"We can travel anytime we want," I said.
"We can go to the movies without trying to find a sitter," she said.
"I'll never have to get a vasectomy."
"I'll never lose my figure."
And so on, until July 4. "I'm late," Janette told me that morning. I'd been joking for a year, or trying to joke, that I should write a bestselling book called _What to Expect When You're Expecting a Miscarriage._ But I didn't joke now. We went to a barbecue at her parent's house and, strangely, we didn't talk about it again until that evening when we were deciding whether to go see the fireworks.
"Let's go to Walgreen's instead and get a test," she said. By eleven P.M., we knew that she was pregnant. I laughed. She laughed. We stopped laughing and practiced looking worried. The next day her doctor confirmed what that portentous pink cross on the test had said: Here we went again. Janette was seven weeks along.
"You know," I said, "we went on a roller coaster a couple of weeks ago, so the baby would have been five weeks old at that point. That means if it's still in there, it's tough."
"I don't know about that, but it's not like it's October, so I guess that's something. I only miscarry in October."
"I get it."
"I'm just joking."
"Okay. My turn. Whose kid is it?"
In October we were back in the ultrasound room with Gene Wilder. He got out the gel, the wand, and fired up the monitor as we stared at the screen. "Do you want to know?"
"Josh? Do you want to know?" asked Janette.
"Seriously? You know I want to know, but it's up to you."
"Okay, tell us."
The doctor squinted, moved the wand around, and set the alien gray landscape of the womb a-churning. He'd performed all of the ultrasounds for us except for the one where the heartbeat had stopped. Maybe that was that poor technician's only job: telling people it was over. "Give me a second. Okay, do you see that? Can you tell what you're looking at?"
"No," I said. "It all just looks like...wait." There, relaxing as if it hadn't a care in the world, was a tiny body. Now that I'd seen it, I didn't know how I'd missed it. It wasn't a blip or a blob. Not a gray speck or the absence of a heartbeat. It was a tiny body, with a head, two legs, two arms—well, one arm that I could see—and—
"It's a boy," said the doctor.
"Ow!" Janette was pinching the fleshy part of my thumb between her own thumb and forefinger. I yanked my hand away, then gave it back to her. "It's a boy! We've got a boy!" I yelled. We laughed like idiots and she cried and I shook the doctor's hand harder than he liked and then he said, to distract me, "Did you see that?"
"What?"
He tapped the screen. "He moved."
_He!_
Then I saw it. The little body curled up its legs and turned its head slightly, abruptly. "That was a tic," I said without thinking.
"Josh," Janette said.
I looked at her. "I just...he might— We don't know."
"Josh, it's a boy! That's your _son_."
"He looks like a strong one," said the doctor.
I wanted to name him Ajax, but I couldn't tell Janette why. She knew Ajax Hanagarne was badass, but she wouldn't have wanted to hear me say, "Ajax was the only one in the war who didn't need the help of the Greek gods."
This was the weird thing: I was grateful that a pregnancy had finally taken, but I didn't know whom to thank. I think my sporadic church attendance and apathetic attempts at prayer over the last year had more of an effect than I'd realized. Sometimes I felt that this pregnancy had worked because I _hadn't_ prayed for help. That didn't make sense, but I couldn't keep it out of my head.
About the labor itself I'll say only this: That is serious business. I'm glad I was there but I don't know how women can handle it. The nurses kept watching me as if I was going to faint or something, but I was fine. I just held Janette's leg up in the air, did what they told me to do, and marveled at how much she was sweating.
And there he was, being placed on Janette's chest.
Max had only been out for about five minutes before I couldn't imagine life without him. Nothing before that moment when the nurse placed that pointy-headed little boy in my arms felt real.
"I'm your dad," I said.
Everything before that moment felt like another person's memories.
"I love you, Max." There was something in my life that I knew I would die and kill for without hesitation. It was empowering and terrifying and humbling.
"Thank you for this," Janette said to me.
Four weeks later we took Max to church for the first time so I could give him a blessing. This involves male friends or family members—at the proud new father's invitation—standing in a circle as the father holds the child and ad libs a map of the child's life. Between me, my dad, a couple of uncles, and my brother, it was a huge circle of massive men.
"Max Lewis Hanagarne," I said, "in the name of Jesus Christ, I hold you in my arms to give you a blessing." I said a bunch of things, but only remember this:
"I bless you with a mind more agile than mine. I bless you with the courage to be whoever you want to be, and to do whatever you want to do, and know you'll have our support. When you need guidance, I bless you with the ability to look to the women in your family, not the men. We love you more than we can say"—now my voice was shaking—"and we're so happy you're here."
I noticed that my dad smiled. He knew I was right. There are good men in my family, but we're more erratic and impulsive and unreliable than the women.
Back home, in my armchair, holding my tiny boy, I realized that I was sitting completely still so that he wouldn't wake up. I knew that I could sit still for hours without twitching just to watch him sleep.
Max was another place of sanctuary. Misty couldn't come near him.
* In 2012, citing "differences of vision" with Dragon Door's CEO, Pavel abruptly left the Russian Kettlebell Challenge. From the resulting online hysteria, you'd have thought this was an event akin to Martin Luther nailing his ninety-five theses to the door of that church. The great schism of our time!
# **CHAPTER 10**
# 027.8—Libraries and Education
92—Strong Men—United States—Biography
006.7—Blogs
828—George Orwell
Now that I was assistant manager at the Day-Riverside branch of the Salt Lake City Public Library, I'd attend two community council meetings each month. I didn't know what community councils did, but my boss said that I'd love the meetings. He was positively gleeful about it. My only hint of what might lie in store was a rumor: _And the manager didn't set the chairs up right for community council and the Council Chair, a nice little old lady, slapped her good._
The first meeting I attended was in the art room of a local high school. The chairperson, an elderly, energetic woman, stood and read the agenda. She spoke so enthusiastically that the enormous cross dangling from the chain around her neck disrupted her balance as she emoted. "Now, if we can please have the crime bulletin."
A policeman in uniform stood and introduced himself. He handed out a sheaf of papers that we passed amongst ourselves. Each district in the city was broken down on a spreadsheet by various crimes committed the previous month.
"Something I know that you've all been concerned about," the officer said, "is that we've finally stopped the old woman who's been selling corn out of her cart."
A cheer from the crowd. His other reports were less interesting but more practical: Carjackings were down, but keep locking your vehicles. Graffiti was up, so call the hotline. And once again, if you saw the old lady selling corn, let him know and he'd assemble a team to vanquish her.
"Okay then," said the chair. "Is there any business from the previous meeting to revisit?" An elderly gentleman in green pants raised his hand, stood, and offered a ten-minute disquisition on event-controlled versus time-controlled traffic lights, and could we please get event-controlled lights because the traffic on North Temple during the morning commute was horrendous, just horrendous.
More people drifted into the room. Most had a story to tell. It was like they'd wandered into an amateur storytelling festival and realized they'd also get a chance to heckle a city council member. "I used to live in Idaho. A one-light town. But that light was _event_ controlled, not time controlled! Are you telling me that we can't get _event-_ controlled lights out on North Temple Street while I'm going to work? It's taken _way_ too long. A one-light town! One light!"
Or: "I knew a man in Springville, Illinois. Jared Ellenberger. He was a fine citizen and never really got his due. I was proud to know him. Have any of you ever heard of Jared?"
"Where would we have heard of him?" asked the chair.
"In Springville."
Or: "I've been hearing that the lights from the soccer field are making it harder for some people in that neighborhood to get to sleep at night. Can't we turn them off earlier? I don't even live in that neighborhood, but I'm getting tired of hearing about it. Thank you."
By the time the chair announced me, several people were dozing off. My manager wanted me to report on the exciting things we were working on at the library. Because there weren't any, I said:
"Can I ask you all a question?" I took their stares as a yes. "One thing I've never seen at the library is all of you. I might have seen your kids, but I never see you. Why is that? What could we do better?"
"It doesn't even feel like a library in there." "The computers are too old." "I'm scared to walk through the parking lot at night." "I saw someone with a gun in the garden."
The chairperson raised her hand. "Are you aware that there is a soccer field behind the library?" I was. And it was too brightly lit, all night long. "That soccer field gets used all the time by people who don't even live in this county."
"Or even this country!" I couldn't tell who said it. "They come over from other areas just to mess up that field. They don't come to clean up their own garbage, that's for sure. But I understand why they don't get it. Why, I saw a kid the other day just pull down his pants and pee right on the ground. That's how they do it in their country, anyways. Right there on the ground."
I sat down.
The next morning I was on desk when a wrinkled hand skittered over my own. "I'm sorry if I rattled you last night," said the chairperson, "but I'm here to talk about something else right now. Those restrooms you've got are absolutely atrocious. I mean there's just a mess _every_ where you look."
That was true. We had some messy patrons.
"But I've got a solution for you," she said. "I'm not just some complainer. It's because of the Mexicans. They don't have to clean up after themselves back home, so we can't really blame them for not doing it here. So what I did is, I went and made a big sign and put it in the ladies' room. It says, 'Please clean up after yourselves.'"
"Ma'am, we can't put that sign up just like—"
"Oh, I know, don't worry, I made one in Spanish too." She was gone as soon as she had come, rustling out the door. I went to the ladies' room and knocked. When nobody answered, I went inside.
There was no sign in English or Spanish.
Library school was uninspiring. I spent the first twelve days of it in Denton, Texas. The rest was online.
The professor arrived late to the first class. She looked like she'd spent the entire night rolling downhill in a car, after which someone had pushed her out onto the steps of the school and said, "Now, get in there. You've got a lecture to teach. Braless. In a green crocheted sleeveless top that can only just encompass your fulsome gifts. And keep your energy up."
To stay stoked and regather her wits, she swigged from a one-liter bottle of Dr Pepper while lecturing about how neat databases were. She interrupted herself periodically to eat a Pop-Tart straight from the box.
I didn't sleep well in Denton. My pillow was stiff and it smelled rubbery. I stripped the pillowcase. The blue rubber underneath was stamped with the words "Texas Correctional Institute."
Oh, and I read _Maus_ by Art Spiegelman in a Graphic Novels class during my library school studies through the University of North Texas. Besides a great hamburger place I found in Denton, it was the most worthwhile part of that expensive program.
If you don't look up when you enter the Main Library in Salt Lake City, it's easy to miss the enormous hanging sculpture dangling between floors 3 and 2. The many thin black wires hanging from the ceiling form the shape of a large head. This is the sculpture _Psyche_ , a creation of two Boston artists: Ralph Helmick and Stu Schechter. "Psyche" is the Greek word for "butterfly"; it literally means "spirit, breath, life, or animating force."
Each wire terminates in a small sculpture: nearly fifteen hundred butterflies and books. Some of the butterflies actually flutter their wings, prompted by a mild electrical current. Many have writing on their wings, in twenty different languages, quoting phrases from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
Article 18: Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.
Article 19: Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.
From Article 26: Everyone has the right to education.
Article 27: Everyone has the right freely to participate in the cultural life of the community, to enjoy the arts and to share in scientific advancement and its benefits.
If your Greek mythology is rusty, here's the least you need to know about Psyche: She was the Greek goddess of the soul. Eros, at the behest of his lovely but insecure mother, Aphrodite, snuck into Psyche's bedchamber one night, intending to shoot her with one of his amorous arrows. When she woke, she'd fall in love with the first thing she saw: a hideous creature that Aphrodite would place in her room. But Eros accidentally scratched himself with the arrow and fell in love with her instead.
Eros had entered Psyche's room with a vengeful mission, but exited with a soul. An appropriate starting point when walking through these doors.
The Main Library owns over one million items. At any time half of those are on the shelves, and half are checked out. If patrons returned every item at once, we'd be in trouble. But that won't happen: The Main Library circulated over four million items in 2011—books, CDs, DVDs, VHS tapes, and art prints.
One million is a number so big I can't visualize it. And I know what five hundred thousand items looks like, because that's how many are here with me at work. Among the books, movies, and CDs, let's imagine that every item takes up, on average, half an inch of space on the shelves. The Empire State Building is 1,250 feet tall. That's only thirty thousand items from the library stacked on top of each other. That means that if you stacked everything this library owns, you'd have a stack the height of approximately thirty-three Empire State Buildings.
I love to tell kids that everything in the library is theirs. "We just keep it here for you." One million items that you can have for free! A collection that represents an answer to just about any question we could ask. A bottomless source of stories and entertainments and scholarly works and works of art. Escapist, fun trash and the pinnacles of the high literary style. _Beavis and Butt-Head_ DVDs and Tchaikovsky's entire oeuvre within ten feet of each other. Every Pulitzer Prize–winning book and National Book Award winner. Picture books for children. An enormous ESL collection for learning English as a second language. Art prints you can borrow and put on your wall for a month. A special-collections area of rare books. Full runs of ephemera from _The_ _New York Times_ to the original Black Panther newsletters.
If I could bring my bed, expand the fitness room, and kick everyone out, I wouldn't need to pursue Heaven in the next world. I'd be there. But since the circulation statistics keep rising, our patrons are probably here to stay.
Not everyone who visits borrows something. We try to hook them with programs and classes instead. In July 2011, the six Salt Lake City libraries put on 138 programs. In June, it was 162. Three hundred programs in two months. Our publicity department says the library system has approximately twenty-two hundred programs a year, from tango lessons to computer mouse usage to a travel lecture by Rick Steves or a program about Tourette Syndrome (I'll give you one guess who hosted it). The staff of three hundred creates these programs with the community in mind. What do they want? What do they need? What would they want to learn? What would they enjoy that they may never have heard of? What would just be fun?
And once you're here, if you start asking questions, you'll probably find a librarian you'll bond with. The employees are too smart, strange, and interesting to resist.
Those four million circulations represent people taking action. Four million acts. Four million times that someone got something from the library. Even if the circulation simply means that someone requested something on her computer, came in and picked it up, then left right away, she still came. She still used the service. She still took a chance on getting distracted by something else in the building.
The four million small acts lead to members of the community gathering in the same place. People who might never lay eyes on one another elsewhere. In this digital era when human contact sometimes feels quaint to me, this is significant. If libraries themselves become quaint because they house physical objects and require personal interaction at times, so be it. For that reason, I believe physical libraries always need to exist in some form.
Recently a man approached the desk. He dragged a dolly behind him, his possessions fixed to it with bungee cords. His gray beard was a mad tangle. He reminded me of one of the ancient, shambling seers prognosticating on so many pages of Cormac McCarthy's novels. He wore a look that I didn't recognize as wonder until he said, "I never could have imagined a place like this in Nicaragua. I've been traveling for a long time, to this country. I hope you know what you have. In my towns, we had nothing like this. And if we did, we had to pay for any information. And just because we were willing to pay for it didn't mean there was anything there worth reading. It just wasn't allowed. It took me a long time. It was worth it."
I shook his hand. "That'll certainly be the best thing I'll hear today."
He smiled. "I hope you know what you have here. It's a miracle."
In _A Prayer for Owen Meany_ , the hapless, doubt-plagued, stuttering Pastor Merrill tells the narrator, John Wheelwright, "But miracles don't c-c-c-cause belief—real miracles don't m-m-m-make faith out of thin air; you have to already have faith in order to believe in real miracles." The man from Nicaragua was right. I had faith in the library long before he walked in and told me what I already knew: A library is a miracle. A place where you can learn just about anything, for free. A place where your mind can come alive.
In George Orwell's essay "A Hanging," he describes his experience as an imperial policeman in Burma, walking a prisoner to his execution. As they approach the gallows, the prisoner, a small brown Hindu, sidesteps to avoid a puddle.
When I saw the prisoner step aside to avoid the puddle, I saw the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide.
This was a man, like him. A man of tissue, organs, bones, muscle and, one would hope, a man who had dreams of something better for himself. Then comes the line I can't forget:
He and we were a party of men walking together, seeing, hearing, feeling, understanding the same world; and in two minutes, with a sudden snap, one of us would be gone— _one mind less, one world less_.
For Orwell, the loss of a life was the loss of a mind was the loss of a world, and the world we inhabit is poorer for each loss, for the contributions that mind could have made.
As a librarian, saving lives and worlds isn't in my purview, although if I could put those on my résumé with a straight face, I would. Saving minds, however...perhaps it's not as farfetched. A mind can be lost without its owner's death. A mind that no longer questions only fulfills the rudimentary aspects of its function. A mind without wonder is a mere engine, a walking parasympathetic nervous system, seeing without observing, reacting without thinking, a forgotten ghost in a passive machine.
The mind that asks and experiments and evaluates will die one day, but will provide a richer life for its owner. The mind that does nothing but rest inside the brain doesn't sidestep the puddle. It's sitting in it.
I inhabit my own world. You inhabit yours. We still share space on earth and so, in some small fashion, have the potential to alter one another. To better one another's lives. At its loftiest, a library's goal is to keep as many minds as possible in the game, past and present, playful and in play.
But the road to that happy thought is blighted with ruts and twists. Most reality is harsh; it's easy to lose sight of the Big Picture nobility of libraries in light of the small picture.
I loved my job from the beginning, although any romantic notions of being a purveyor of knowledge were soon interred beneath the duties of community council meetings, monitoring of the mentally ill, surrogate parenting, gang and drug activity tracking, and the myriad other realities of being a librarian (at least in this library) today.
The surrogate parenting scares me. When I was managing the Day-Riverside branch I had several parents who worked two jobs ask if they could leave their kids there for "seven or eight hours." These were generally eight-year-old kids or older but too young to be dropped off during a work shift. And sometimes these poor kids had toddler siblings with them.
"I'd prefer you didn't," I'd tell the parents. "This isn't a safe place."
"What! What do you mean?"
"I mean it's for the public, and that means everyone. We're not cops or babysitters and sometimes there are going to be people in here that you might not want your kids hanging out with. But it's up to you. I'm not telling you what to do. I just want to make sure you know how it is. We can't watch your kids."
Reactions vary. "But I have to work, what am I supposed to do?" "Oh, you just don't want to help us." "I'm not _asking_ you to babysit, just help them find some books today while they're here..." (For an entire day?) If the parents insist, there's nothing we can do, unless the child's behavior becomes an issue, which can happen when the poor kid doesn't eat anything for seven or eight hours.
As far as gangs, it's been hard for me to know what we should be concerned about. I don't know who's in a gang and who's not. Between patrons whose equanimity deserts them when it's time to talk about race and talkative security guards who love inserting themselves into tales of heroism, it's easy to think that I work in a city-funded version of Don Pendleton's action-packed Executioner novels. From my extensive experience watching _The Wire_ , I suspect that the real gangsters are probably out on corners somewhere, or asleep while I'm working...not in the library watering their Farmville crops.
But then a patron will say, "There's a guy in a red bandanna over there and he said he's going to stab me—oh please where can I hide?" and then a guy in a red bandanna appears and stalks around looking angry, and I'm wondering if I should err on the side of caution or outright paranoia. (That time, I did what we always do: called security. I don't know what else happened). We aren't trained to deal with those situations; the guards are. Unfortunately, with the five floors, hordes of patrons, and two security guards, they're harried and hectored and overworked. I'm sure they're also underpaid. They should make twice what librarians make. I recently talked to a guard who was bitten on the thigh by a patron we all thought was very sweet. This was a week after that same guard had asked a man to stop talking so loudly on a pay phone. The guy threw scalding coffee at his crotch. It took both officers to get him into cuffs. His pockets were full of drugs. And so on. Most of the libraries' training programs involve things like "smiling warmly," "going the extra mile," "being approachable," and "oh no, call the guards!" There's nothing about knowing where to get an AIDS test after a soft-spoken patron bites your thigh so hard that your fluids mingle.
We deal with these situations—which are rare, but too disturbing to forget—by wrapping ourselves in the mantle of the "public" part of "public library." It's for everyone. And all of their multiple personalities. There's nothing funny about mental illness but being scared by disturbing behavior doesn't make me insensitive, either. Until a behavior escalates to the abusive or biting or scalding-coffee level, we have little actionable information in terms of getting people that scare us out of the building. The guy who has now called me a "tall bigot" or "fucking Jew" twice in the last two years still comes in every day and asks me to find books for him.
I don't know if people realize that it's nearly impossible for librarians to avoid looking at the books they check out. I was in a training session once where the instructor encouraged me to unfocus my eyes when dealing with patron's items.
If I started unfocusing my eyes to avoid everything I shouldn't see here, I'd never get a clear look at anything.
Part of my job is watching the computers, all twenty of them within thirty feet of me. I make the rounds, glancing at every screen to see if anyone is viewing something illegal. It's against the law to view pornography—we're not allowed to call it porn, since the Supreme Court can't define it—in the presence of children, so you can't be looking at gyrating nude people on the public computers. We all still call it porn. Nobody's going to accuse someone of "viewing objectionable material" and expect to be taken seriously. This conversation is not fun. Picture yourself at your desk. A patron approaches and says, "I'm sorry, but you need to see what that guy is looking at." So you look. Sure enough, there he is—I've never had to talk to a woman about her porn in the library—leaning toward his monitor. Maybe his hands are playing nice. But maybe you can't see where they are. All you know is that your mission is to startle him out of his sexual reverie and hope that when he looks up at you with eyes that haven't blinked in far too long, his pants will be buttoned. Then you have to get close enough to whisper—for his privacy— _There's been a complaint about what you're looking at. No, I'm sorry, I'm not going to weigh in onhow attractive she is. You need to get her off your screen._ This is what you say even if your gut wants you to whisper, "Seriously, man, you're in a library—put your cock away."
The first time I catch him, it's a warning. He can stay on the computer and do whatever he wants, unless he was looking at something illegal like child pornography. In that case we call the police.
As strange as the porn discussion is, it's equally surreal to wake someone up who fell asleep in the middle of an _Andy Griffith_ episode on YouTube and is snoring in the midst of twenty other people.
How do we deal with _that_ situation? Oh, we tip their chairs backward and blame it on someone else as they topple to the floor.
Just kidding. We tap on their table or chair and say, "You're not allowed to sleep in here. Please stay awake." But I won't stop dreaming about tipped chairs and smelling salts. But these are usually adult problems.
I'd estimate that 80 percent of the library patrons at my branch were under sixteen years old. Of those, the majority was Hispanic, but there were several ethnicities: Vietnamese, Polynesian, Somali, Sudanese. This also makes it so hard to figure out the gang situations. There _are_ gangs. But it's not always obvious, like, "Oh, they have blue clothes and the others have red clothes, so they're enemies." And it's not as simple as white skin versus black, or brown versus black, or whatever. I had a man run up and throw a wallet into my lap because he claimed, "That Arab bastard over there is trying to steal someone's wallet, but I grabbed it from him!" The "Arab" was a refugee from Ethiopia who was there to attend a job-search class with the International Rescue Committee. He was done using the computer and had picked up his own wallet, which he had set on the desk while he worked.
One day I spoke at a local elementary school. I was there to get those kids into the library. Three times I stood in a circle of fifty kids and asked them what their favorite part of the library was. Computers and comics, every time. When I gave my standard "books aren't boring, you've just been reading boring books" line, many rolled their eyes.
"Do you guys have a favorite TV show? We've got DVDs of TV too."
_Jersey Shore_ was the clear favorite.
"How many of you speak a language other than English?" I said. Nearly everyone raised a hand. "How many of you speak Spanish?" Lots of hands. "How many of you speak Vietnamese?" Lots of hands. "What other languages do you all speak?" The only kids who didn't answer spoke no English, and even they perked up when I mentioned _Jersey Shore._
Several times, a white woman asked me to walk her to her car because she was scared of the brown kids outside, harmless thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds that I knew well. "I always feel like they're about to start fighting," she said. How do we solve this conundrum?
The short answer is: I don't know. But while we may never find specific, actionable solutions, a good library's existence is a potential step forward for a community. If hate and fear have ignorance at their core, maybe the library can curb their effects, if only by offering ideas and neutrality. It's a safe place to explore, to meet with other minds, to touch other centuries, religions, races, and learn what you truly think about the world.
One of the profession's buzzwords is "relevant." Libraries must stay "relevant." I disagree. There's nothing relevant about this place. It's so much more. A community that doesn't think it needs a library isn't a community for whom a library is irrelevant. It's a community that's _ill._ It doesn't know what it needs. Maybe that's the librarians' fault for not proving their worth, or maybe it's a proverbial sign of the times in the Internet age.
Libraries can't be all things to all people. At the Internet Librarian Conference in 2009, I spent three days sitting in rooms of "innovative" librarians and heard only one thing that made any sense to me. Stephen Abram, past president of the Special Library Association, said, "You're making a mistake if you're trying to give people things that they can get somewhere else. We can't innovate through being derivative—that's just trying to be relevant." I remember this when I see librarians deciding whether we need to have teen video game night. Or more public PCs. Or fewer books. A truly bizarre former director once told me, "People no longer want information from libraries. They want...transformation." This inane homily would eventually appear on a PowerPoint slide that the entire staff sneered at. The text captioned a slide of a butterfly on a dewy leaf. The next slide was of a woman's glaring eyes as they stabbed out through the slit of a burka. I can't remember the caption for that one. Or the point.
Many librarians—I've done this myself—lament the idea that we might simply be competitors for Netflix or iTunes. I'm past caring about that. I want people walking through the doors. I don't care what their reasons are. That kind of makes me feel like a carnival barker*—that my job might just be to get people in a building—but I still think it's worth it. Once they're here, we'll work on why they return. Once they're here they've entered an institution dedicated to fighting ignorance and providing a space without ideology. Is it too lofty to hope that a library could curb the poison of racism? That it could create a reality usually expressed by treacly expressions like "a sense of community"? Even if someone believes that the library's primary function is as an expensive homeless shelter or as a place to rent free movies, even if they believe it's a waste of taxpayers' money, even if they think that all of the goofy stories I'm telling in this book are the norm...well...what patrons use the library for doesn't change what it offers. Anyone could enrich their life by spending some time here, if only they were willing to look around.
Nothing rivals this library for its sheer variety of humanity. During one forty-eight-hour period:
I counseled several homeless people who were fighting a bedbug outbreak at their shelter. While being solicitous and keeping my distance, I found some articles about bedbugs and how to recognize their bites.
I watched a man chew on his own ponytail with such boyish exuberance that it gagged him. Then he asked me if we had any tissue paper. Then he wiped his mouth and walked away, presumably to wring out his hair.
I shepherded a dozen kids through their homework assignments. If they're writing papers, homework help usually means helping them find books or other sources, but these kids wanted me to do their problems for them with a calculator on the Internet. I didn't.
The next morning I witnessed the immediate aftermath of a bloody suicide. Someone screamed as I walked past the phone books. More screams followed. I heard something break. From the balcony I saw a broken body, far below. I ran downstairs to see if I could help, exited the wrong door in the basement where she had landed, and nearly tripped over the first dead body I'd ever seen outside of a viewing. I went home haunted by the questions: _Why at the library? How could this have been her best option?_
The next day a blond woman in her late thirties said, "Yes, can you make me a computer reservation?"
"Sure."
"Good, because the computers are picking on me. They know me."
_Ah, trapped in a Philip K. Dick novel, huh?_ "I'm happy to make the reservation," I told her. "Did you have trouble getting on before? Sometimes the PCs make—"
"Whoa! Get your director down here right now." She scowled at me.
"Okay...what should I tell her?"
"Young man, I'm not sure if you're aware of how often you use the _m_ sound, but it sounds highly sexual to me and I don't come here to be sexually harassed by you."
I was flabbergasted. "By the letter _m_?" It's not like I'd said, "While we're at it, might I massage your mammaries, ma'ammmmm?"
"Or by anyone else, no offense. Actually, you know what? Just make the reservation, but maybe this is a good time to get rid of Computer M over there as well..." Her voice dropped to a whisper: " _For the same reason._ "
She fled into the stacks before I could apologize for coming on too strong with such a lurid consonant. The letter _m_ came from a hieroglyph used to represent the word "water." Perhaps it was the ancient etymological wetness of it that sent her pulse a-racing.
Librarians are required to be social workers, janitors, babysitters, researchers, e-mail-account-setter-uppers, and more. We make ourselves feel better by saying that we provide an "essential service." If we were as essential as the police or fire department, then we wouldn't always be first up for budget cuts. Libraries are essential to people like me, but that's my parents' doing. And in my opinion, we _deserve_ to be first up for budget cuts, unless we start putting out fires or arresting criminals.
When I started taking Max to the library, he was too young to want to do anything but jump on the couches. But I'll never forget the first time I took him in and he said, "And I can take any book, Daddy!" He _quivers_ when we walk into the library. I was that kid. I'm still that kid at heart. That's a definition of "essential" that works for me.
I want people to agree with Luis Borges, who said, "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." Or Thomas Jefferson, who said, "I cannot live without books." Tom Clancy, a writer who has made millions writing sentences like, "But a man had to hold his woman at a time like this," still wins my heart by making statements like "The only way to do all the things you'd like is to read." In _Something Wicked This Way Comes_ , when the kids were investigating the unholy provenance of Dark's carnival, who found the origin story? Charles Halloway, the librarian!
Bill Gates said, "I'd be happy if I could think that the role of the library was sustained and even enhanced in the age of the computer."
And here's Warren Buffett: "If past history was all there was to the game, the richest people would be librarians."
I think I've read every movie review Roger Ebert has ever written. My favorite thing he's ever said is that "doing research on the web is like using a library assembled piecemeal by pack rats and vandalized nightly."
To see the value of a library, ignore the adults. Find an inquisitive child who doesn't have an iPhone yet, take them to the library, and tell them that they can learn anything they want there.
One Saturday when Max was about two, I awoke to see him by my bed. His hair is still blond, like mine used to be. His eyes are deep blue. He's as skinny as Gollum from the _Lord of the Rings_ films, has the same wiry strength, but is adorable and has healthier obsessions: puppies and kittens and mud and climbing. He held a calculator to his left ear. "Yeah, Daddy, I'm just calling to let you know that I need a graham cracker."
I nodded.
He cocked his head, listening. "Oh yeah, okay, I'll tell him." He patted my head. "And then we're supposed to go get some stories at the library."
"Says who? Who called you?"
"Adonis." Adonis is a dog that lives across the street.
At least twice a week I take Max to our neighborhood library. Sometimes he wants books. I give him a basket and let him wander. Sometimes he wants books from the kids' section. Sometimes he seems more interested in dense books on socialism. Sometimes he just wants to put the library's chinchilla in the basket, but he's finally getting that we can't take it out of its cage.
We play a game to teach him words. I point to a book's cover: "What's that?" _It's a horse._ _An airplane. A shark. That's Snooki. It's a truck. That's a lady crying. I don't know why she's sad, but that book's probably too big for you._ Once when I asked if he was ready to go, Max gestured at his stack of books and said, "No, I have too much work to do." One minute later, he put a book down and did a somersault on the carpet. Then he got back on his chair as if nothing had happened and kept reading, holding the book over his face. I couldn't see his expression, but I knew from his quaking shoulders that he was laughing, wondering what I'd made of his somersault.
My time with him has been the happiest of my life.
Misty has been content to watch him from a distance, but she still jolts me constantly. Max has noticed.
I inhaled, bent, and lifted the heaviest stone in our garden, a three-hundred-pound behemoth with jagged edges. I crushed it to my chest and walked. At the other end of the grass I dropped the stone and tried to catch my breath. I turned to find Max standing next to me, clutching a small stone to his chest. He looked very serious. I don't think I've ever simultaneously been so moved and laughed so hard. How surreal, this little person in my backyard who was learning how to be a person by watching me.* "Okay buddy, set it down," I said between breaths. I stopped laughing when my hand crashed into the side of my head. Misty. It didn't knock me down, but I lost my balance and stumbled. I caught myself with one hand and lowered myself to the ground. Max was still holding the stone. He put it down. Then he put his arms around my neck and squeezed.
"You okay, Daddy?"
"I'm okay," I said. "Thanks."
"What happened?"
"I just fell."
I was chilled. _Will this be his story?_
Shortly after Max's birth, Janette asked me what I wanted for my son. The Hopes and Dreams discussion. I knew what I did not want.
Max has my eyes. Will he inherit the broken teeth?
He has my long fingers and toes. Will the joints hold?
He has his entire life ahead. Will he experience his own share of squandered years? His narrow torso is barely wider than my hand. Will a hernia break it?
He chatters and sings constantly. Will he ever submit to voicelessness so he can be out in public?
During my lunch breaks at the library, I trained desperately in the small fitness room downstairs. I'd pound away at the weights until I was on my knees. As my breath returned, I'd try to figure out where Misty was. If she'd had enough. In the evenings, I trained in our backyard. Because it took enormous effort, I'd put Max in the back of the truck and literally push it around our cul-de-sac while Janette steered. Anything and everything to keep Misty at bay. I collapsed into bed at night, hoping that I'd exhausted myself enough to banish her.
I continued with my kettlebell obsession, collecting a nice little family of them in our backyard. The largest weighs 106 pounds. The smallest belongs to Max. It weighs two pounds. It could've been the prize in a box of cereal.
In 2009, in a fit of madness, I sold my set of the Oxford Mark Twain to defray the cost of attending the Russian Kettlebell Challenge, aka the RKC, a three-day certification for instructors. It was put on by Dragon Door, the publisher of Pavel Tsatsouline's book _The Naked Warrior._
Twenty-nine volumes of Mark Twain. My favorite author. More than fourteen thousand pages, not all of it great, but great enough. Each volume contained an introduction by a noted author. Kurt Vonnegut wrote the introduction to _Connecticut Yankee._ That intro alone was almost worth the price of the books. My mom got them for my college graduation present for three hundred dollars on eBay, but I would've paid more. I smiled at those books every time I saw them on my shelves. In many ways I still felt like an incomplete person, but at least I had those books; I was more complete than anyone unlucky enough _not_ to have them.
So, yeah, it was madness to sell them. Why did I want to go to the RKC? As I've said, I'm susceptible to both advertising and challenges to my ego, so there was that. But also, I was enjoying the online kettlebell community. I went to the Dragon Door forum every day and wrote and read about training with kettlebells with other people doing the same thing. It was fun to belong. It also gave me a chance to get friendlier with Adam T. Glass, an ever-present and domineering force on the message boards.
I wasn't interested in being a kettlebell instructor, but didn't think the certification would hurt. People often asked if I would train them with kettlebells, but I didn't feel qualified without certification. Before that, training someone would be irresponsible. This was, of course, false—any worthwhile certification will be the _beginning_ of your qualifications—but the fitness industry's driven by our convictions that we can't train ourselves. Like most people I know who exercise, I went through a phase where I thought that unless I did exactly what "professionals" said I should be doing, I would exercise myself right into a wheelchair or decapitate myself somehow.
A few months and two thousand dollars later, I was sharing a hardwood basketball court in Minneapolis with martial artists, a Hollywood fight choreographer, personal trainers, high school strength coaches, and more. Some of the brightest strength minds in the world—or so the legend went—were there, including Pavel, the Evil Russian, who had introduced me to kettlebells. The marketing goes like this: In 2001, Pavel swam the ocean with a kettlebell in his mouth, arriving in America to declare war on weakness. He had one goal: to help Americans train with honor, using super-duper secret Russian strength techniques and tools. And quotes:
"Just do it. The party is always right!"
"Power to you, naked warrior!"
"Strength is a skill."
Applied to various concepts: "If you have a hard time remembering this...get it tattooed on your arm!"
Everything was done the "Evil Russian way."
This was all shtick. Some of the marketing had to be hyperbole. On the other hand, I'd read many blog posts and articles about how kind and generous and intelligent Pavel was. Those would all prove to be true.
Pavel isn't a large man. About six feet tall, maybe 180 pounds. He has thinning hair and a fierce scowl when he wants it. Nobody says, "I want to be built just like Pavel." But I didn't care. I wanted in.
I ate in the hotel's restaurant on the morning of the certification. Pavel sat nearby, reading a newspaper. Everyone snuck glances at him and worried about how hard the next three days would be. "I actually don't think it'll be that bad," said a big guy who talked nonstop about being in the Marines.
"Be afraid," said a deep voice. Pavel, despite his mere seventy-two inches, loomed over us. He walked away. We were afraid. We'd paid to be afraid.
A bus took most of the candidates to the gym. I was stupid enough to walk the two miles prior to a ten-hour day of brutal workouts.
Most of the people at the certification were fit. Tank tops must have been on sale somewhere, but I wore a white T-shirt and black sweatpants. We stood in a circle and passed a microphone around as we each introduced ourselves and gave our reasons for attending.
"My name is Josh Hanagarne...I'm a librarian in Salt Lake City." There was some laughter, and I laughed too. "I've got Tourette Syndrome, and I've let it cripple me for the last ten years. I'm here to celebrate getting control of my life. Dragon Door's been a huge part of that." My voice shook and everyone clapped. I nearly added, "And I sold my Mark Twain books to get here."
The next three days were among the silliest of my life, but I was too much of a zealot to know it. The RKC certification is like fantasy camp for personal trainers. There's no getting around it: You paid upward of two thousand dollars to learn how to do (and teach) six exercises. You paid to be beaten into the ground with excruciating workouts by enthusiastic instructors who'd forgotten that they're part of an absurd quasi-militaristic fitness academy. On Day One we were told that we would be "bonding with our kettlebells." You took a kettlebell everywhere! To the field. To the lunchroom. To the restroom. Failure to comply resulted in punishment for the entire squad: extra swings or burpees, aka squat thrusts. When it was time to listen, an instructor would scream, "Down!" If someone dropped to their belly with insufficient haste...swings or burpees. To teach us to brace or flex our abs, we "comrades" would drop into a plank position (picture a push-up held halfway down) while instructors in khaki pants and black shirts and black shades got to pretend they had evil black hearts while they lightly kicked us in the ribs.
We poured onto the large grass field for our five-minute snatch test. My comrades were consumed by self-doubt. People seemed to think that they'd fail the snatch test, despite their own admissions that they'd trained for months specifically for said test. A refresher: snatching a weight is moving the weight from the ground to an overhead lockout (meaning you lock it out overhead with your arms straightened) without pressing it. Think about grabbing a dumbbell, swinging it back between your legs, then swinging it forward and up your torso until your arm is straight overhead. That's a snatch. I had to do one hundred snatches in five minutes with a fifty-three-pound kettlebell. I passed easily, but was surprised to see several people fail the test, including the loud-mouthed Marine. I couldn't imagine shelling out the money and then coming unprepared. They could send in videos of their passed tests later, but they wouldn't be certified that weekend.
People's hands were shredded into hamburger by one P.M. This was held up as a glorious exhibit of "getting our money's worth." After the instruction portion for each exercise, an instructor led us in a brutal workout. These were unnecessarily difficult and arbitrary. For instance, after learning how to squat, we were ordered into the bottom of a squat by an instructor. "Ten!" he shouted. We had to squat at rock bottom, holding a kettlebell to our chests, until the instructor yelled, "Up!" After the tenth squat we did ten kettlebell swings—swinging the weight between our legs, then popping it out in front by snapping our hips. Then: "Nine!" We started over with nine squats and nine swings, and so on. By the end we were screaming our fool heads off. It hurt! I couldn't decide if I'd gotten any quality practice or not. But as we collapsed on the grass we were delirious with happiness over how much we were "learning."
As we practiced, the instructors stalked about, hands clasped behind their backs, eyes invisible behind their shades. "Do it again! Focus!" My team leader was a police officer. Another was a massage therapist. Some of them had their own gyms or worked as personal trainers, but many of them had other jobs. They were there because...well, you'd have to ask them why.
The night before the third day, Adam T. Glass called me. He was, to put it lightly, a disillusioned RKC instructor, well on his way to total apostasy. "Have you figured out that you could have just watched kettlebell videos on YouTube for ten minutes yet?" he said. When I didn't say anything, he said, "That doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy it. But do it for fun. Don't listen when they say you're going to get strong doing this. It's fun, and it kind of feels like family when you're there, but it's not useful."
I passed the course. After the final workout everyone ran around and screamed and hugged. I was as excited as anyone and it was easy to lose sight of the fact that we had all just paid big money for the privilege of having someone blow a whistle and give us light kicks in the ribs so that we could feel like we were preparing for war. Or that we had _been_ to war. Or that we were now martial artists, or ninjas, or black ops specialists. Big dreams. Big nonsense. And yet, I felt as if they'd done me a huge favor, that I owed them some unpayable debt. So I evangelized for them, spreading the good word.
But I kept studying various systems of strength training. I had to. Progress in strength training gave me control over the rest of my life. More progress meant more control, but I couldn't spend much time on Dragon Door's forum without noticing that most comrades weren't making great progress. To have more control, I needed to follow the people who were the strongest, not those who were simply friendly and willing to discuss strength training.
"Yes," said a harsh voice on the phone. There was yelling in the background. Lots of it.
"Hi, Adam," I said. "It's Josh. Josh Hanagarne."
No answer.
"Josh from the librarian blog," I said. "You called me at the RKC."
As enriching as the strength progress was, I couldn't keep track of it; I'd write down a week's worth of training and then lose the notebook. After complaining to a friend, he suggested that I "start a free blogger blog" to record my training. I can't remember why I chose to name the blog World's Strongest Librarian beyond the fact that it made me smile.
"I know," said Adam. "What do you want?"
"Oh, sorry," I said. "I thought we'd agreed to talk tonight."
"We did," he said. "And now we're on the phone. I'm out on maneuvers tonight. I don't have much time. What do you want to talk about?"
"Uh, okay," I said. "I guess we'll just get right to it?"
He said nothing. Then, to someone in the background: "Hey, asshole! If I have to tell you one more time to—hold on, buddy," he said to me. Incomprehensible yelling in the background.
"Okay, it's sorted," he said. "Go on."
"What happened?" I said. "Is everything okay?"
"Someone owed me an apology," he said.
"Okay," I said. "I'll just get to it."
"Yes, so you said."
Good grief, he was weird. "Okay, so I'll—well, look, with the Tourette's, I just, it's better if I'm stronger, so I'm saying that—well, I'd like to be able to do some of the strength stuff. Perform. I don't just want to be strong. I want to be as strong as I can possibly be."
Silence.
"You know, like the stuff you do," I said.
"What are you proposing?"
Before I could backtrack, I said, "Could I come up to Minot and train with you for a week? Have you show me some stuff?"
I flinched away from the phone, waiting for a bullet to fly through and strike me dead.
"Yes," he said. "That would be useful for you. I have some vacation coming up. Book your tickets and I'll take the time off in September. I've got to go. And by the way, good job on your blog. Those Tourette's people need you. I have some ideas. Your life can change."
"Thanks! I—wow, thanks! I—man, you're not going to be sorry. I'll work hard, I promise. I'm not one of those guys who asks just so they—"
I'm not sure when he hung up, but he wasn't there when I finished thanking him.
At this point the blog was about five months old. I found that I couldn't _just_ write my training numbers without putting some commentary in. Soon I was finding reasons to mention H. P. Lovecraft after recording my training. I started writing book reviews and enjoying the resulting conversations with readers. Soon I was writing about anything that interested me because I knew that I'd be able to discuss it with people who were actually reading what I wrote. And that was really the key to it all: the social aspect.
Misty no longer kept me home from work. I met my obligations, but didn't have the energy for much socializing after a day of trying to stifle the tics. Being in public was still hard, whether it was on the reference desk or at a friend's dinner table. The people I was "meeting" online through my blog were becoming my friends. They wanted to discuss ideas and books and questions. I chatted with them way more often than with pals I'd grown up with. I looked forward to the online group every day; I wasn't lonely.
Eventually I started writing about Tourette's. That's when the comments and e-mails really increased. There were apparently a lot of people out there with Tourette's, or with Tourette's in their families.
_We don't know what to do._
_We don't know how to help our son or daughter._
_How worried should we be?_
_How did your parents handle you? How did they help you?_
_I'm afraid my boy will kill himself._
_My daughter keeps running into the restroom to scratch herself. Please help._
_Nobody understands me._
_I hate myself._
_I'm smart and funny but I feel like everyone gets to enjoy my good qualities_ _except me._
_It's all a show. I'm a lie._
_Do you ever feel like you're a waste of space?_
_I am going to hook my daughter up with you. Thanks for sharing._
_I am excited to learn from you. What can you teach me?_
_I want to die._
_Josh, life is easier when you don't care if people look at you weird. I believe that, even though I can't make it feel real. This sucks._
I had no answers. My responses usually included something trite like "Hang in there. Let me know if you'd like to talk."
I didn't even know where to look or what questions to ask. My brain didn't know what to think.
But someone else's brain did. Someone whose brain _couldn't_ think like anyone else's. That brain was being carted around inside of a damaged skull on an air force base in Minot, North Dakota.
* Thanks to the sublime Annoyed Librarian for the analogy: blog.libraryjournal.com/annoyedlibrarian.
* In 2012, I would speak at a camp for kids with Tourette's in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. You could literally watch the tics jump from kid to kid. Really weird. This is one reason I try to keep my tics from Max: I have a fear that he'll start having tics _just_ because he sees me having them, and then suddenly he'll have Tourette's too.
# **CHAPTER 11**
# 612.82—Neuroplasticity
306—Peace—Psychological Aspects
616—Pain
"Sir, can I ask you something?"
It's closing time. Hopefully this won't take long. "Of course. Please, call me Josh."
The man drags a massive green duffel bag. His beard is chest length, red and gray. "Thank you," he says. "I know how this looks. I'm homeless. I won't deny it." His speech is slurred. Alcohol on his breath. But he's nice and I hope he'll ask for something that I can help with. "I've got to ask you...are you looking for a training partner? I mean, I can tell you work out. I was in a wreck a couple of years ago and I've got terrible pain. I'm losing my strength. Hurts to move. I could work out with you two or three times a week, as long as it could be at your house. I don't have the money for a membership." Then he stumbled forward and hugged me. Then he wouldn't let go. I patted his back. He patted my back.
"I usually train alone," I say. "And I live in West Valley. But we can talk whenever you want. Just come see me and I'll always give you as long as I can."
We close at six o'clock. I am still trying to get out of the hug at six oh five.
I waited on the curb outside the Bismarck airport, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Despite our many phone conversations and online interactions, I didn't know Adam. And our conversations were so abrupt and odd that I was nervous.
A Chrysler Magnum pulled up. A massive forearm beckoned from within. I stowed my bag in the now-open trunk and hurried into the passenger seat.
Adam didn't look at me. Or at least, he didn't turn his head. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi."
We left Bismarck. He didn't say anything else.
I'm not used to feeling small around people, but Adam had a presence that felt _heavy._ Like if you knew how to look, you'd see space bending around him. He's not tall compared to me, maybe six-two, but he was thick and broad. His arms stretched out a blue T-shirt that would have billowed off me like a windsock. His hair was clipped short. He was pale. I surreptitiously studied his tattoos. Either flames or thorny vines crept out of his left sleeve.
I'd never paid attention to anyone's forearms before. Probably because most people's forearms just look like the typical real estate between the elbow and hand, just holding things together. Adam's forearms were about _all_ I could see. They were as big as my biceps.
If you hired a master sculptor to create a statue of the most intense face imaginable, when the dust settled, you'd be looking at Adam. When he stares through a windshield, you think it's going to shatter. I held him responsible for every pothole on the road.
I've seen a lot of serial killer movies where the initially friendly killer offers the hapless victim a ride. After ten or fifteen silent minutes, when we reached the grassy plains, the city behind us, I felt like we were at the point where the victim would say, "Hey, you just passed my turn." But he'd get no response and then he'd get massacred with a claw hammer.
At last Adam spoke. "There are more nuclear weapons under these innocent little acres than just about anywhere else in the world," he said. "What do you think when you think about North Dakota?"
"I don't really think about it," I said.
"Exactly," he said. A small airplane zipped by and dwindled ahead of us. "You know where that plane's going?"
"Back to the base?" I said. "Isn't your base out past Minot?"
"Afghanistan," he said. "With a load of bombs. He'll be back later tomorrow. They're fast."
There was nothing left of the plane but the vapor trail.
"So tell me about your Tourette's," he said.
As I recapped my life with Misty, he interrupted: "No, we'll fix this. You're not seeing it. Let me guess, your doctors are all about managing it, right? I suppose nobody's ever suggested that you could reverse it?"
"No."
"We will discuss it," he said, before lapsing into another lengthy silence.
We eventually pulled into the driveway of a small gray house. The house next door was bright pink. "Ha! Too bad you don't live in the pink one!" I said.
"Why is that too bad?" he asked.
"No reason," I said.
He stared at me. "I'm going to change, we'll grab Casey, and then we'll go eat," he said.
Dinner with Adam and Casey, his tiny blond wife, was a nightmare. Every time I touched my fork my hand got squirrelly with tics. I'd stick the fork into my food and then have to psyche myself up for the brief trip up to my mouth as my fist gripped the fork tighter and tighter until my whole forearm shook and the fork tried to dart around. When the fork was two inches from my mouth, I'd have to either rush it into my mouth, trusting that it wouldn't accelerate too much, smashing into my mouth or cheek, or I'd set it down and regroup for another bite.
"This is the weirdest thing I've ever seen," Adam said. "And I've seen some shit." He stared without incredulity or pity. He didn't grimace when I told him about the worst of it. I wouldn't even have thought he was curious about it except for his questions.
"What makes it worse?"
"What makes it better?"
"What do you think causes it?"
"What do doctors think causes it?"
"How the fuck have you not gone insane?"
After a couple of drinks, Casey started bragging about how good she was with a shotgun—she'd also served in the air force. As they debated who was more lethal with a scattergun, I was suddenly able to eat without any trouble.
"Hey!" said Adam, after seeing me take an uneventful bite. "What just happened? What was different about that time?"
"You weren't looking at me."
He stared. "I see. Very interesting." Then he stared some more.
_Hey, you just passed my turn..._
Maybe this had been a mistake.
Back at his house, Adam showed me to my room. "I tried to put you in the room with the most books, but Casey said you couldn't sleep down in the basement, so this is the room with the second most books," he said. The bookshelf also held scrapbooks with newspaper articles about Adam's strongman performances. "Glass bends steel," read one headline. Adam showed me his military ribbons and awards, telling me what each stood for.
Two fat brown-and-white bulldogs waddled in, then flopped onto their bellies.
"This is Brutus and Julie," Adam said. He got down on the floor and stared at each of them in turn. He tickled the dogs behind their ears and growled playfully. "What did you goofs do today?" It was like he forgot I was in the room. He might have stayed there all night if I hadn't whooped and startled him.
There were pictures of the dogs everywhere, far more than of Adam or Casey.
"I'll show you something," he said, leaving the room. I sat for a few moments before realizing I was supposed to follow him. In the kitchen, he stood at attention next to a counter on which bottles of supplements stood in a row. Fish oil. Calcium. Flaxseed.
"Okay, here's what I would like you to do," he said. "Touch your toes."
Was this a trick? If I started leaning forward, would he club me over the head?
"Lean forward," he said, "but don't stretch. Just let your arms drop and hinge at the waist. Stop just _before_ you start to feel the stretch. Stop at the point when going farther would mean you were stretching."
I did it. My fingertips dangled just below my kneecaps. "Like this?"
"Now tap your shins with your fingers. Just to remember how far down you went. It doesn't have to be exact." I tapped at mid-shin and stood.
"Now pick one," he said.
"One what?"
He pointed at the bottles. "A bottle."
"Based on what?"
"Based on whether it's one bottle. Just grab one, not three."
I grabbed the zinc pills. "Okay?"
"Now do the toe-touch again, same as before, while holding the bottle."
"Why?"
"Because."
I did it, feeling stupid. But this time my knuckles scraped the floor. I'd either gotten more flexible in the past ten seconds or I'd stretched with too much effort. But I hadn't stretched at all—hadn't felt any tightness in my hamstrings or calves.
"So," he said. "What did you notice?"
"I went down farther?"
"It didn't resist you as much, did it? Not while you were holding the bottle. The brakes are off." I thought of Dr. H and those stupid bottles of water and minerals in Elko, Nevada. "Resist me!" he had said.
"No," I admitted. "I don't think so."
"Try it again. See if anything changes."
I did, with the same result. My knuckles hit the floor. "But I'm sure it's just because I'm getting more warmed up each time I do the toe-touch."
"Then drop the bottle and do it again."
"Okay." This time I tightened up at mid-shin, just like the baseline test. "What's this all about?" I asked, intrigued and weirded out.
"Would you say that an increase in range of motion is a good thing, generally speaking?"
"Sure."
"So, a couple of things. More mobility is a good thing. Why wouldn't you take every chance to gain mobility?"
"Okay."
"If you can tell if a food increases your range of motion with this test, would it make sense to say that food is good for you?"
"I have no idea."
"We'll talk about it more later. Get ready for tomorrow. Go rack out."
"What does that mean?"
"Sleep." Adam went into his room and closed the door.
We drove to the gym in the morning. Eyes boring straight ahead, Adam said, "What's the worst thing one person can do to another person?"
"Uh. Kill them?"
"No." He ran a hand over his scalp. "I've got a big dent up here from where my head got crushed in a riot with a tent stake. Big gash somewhere else too, somewhere I won't show you. Now I get migraines. Constantly, acutely, ninety-plus-hour migraines where my eyes fill up with blood, and it's the least convenient thing in the world. And people say, 'Wow, you're tough.' And I want to say, 'Yeah, okay, so what?' I don't want to be tough. I want my head to stop hurting, that's what I want. Toughness is severely overrated."
"So that's the worst thing someone can do to you?" I said, pointing to his head.
"This happened because people weren't where they were supposed to be and I had to fight my way out of an unnecessarily bad situation. The fact that I literally can't elaborate on the particulars—I'm not allowed to and I don't want the DOD breathing down my neck—is bad, but it's not the worst thing. The worst thing is that I got let down and part of me is still stuck on that day. I can't let go. I can't let it go." His voice was a mixture of pleading and fury and what sounded like a great loneliness.
We passed a store called Sophisticated Man of Minot. "Hey, do you ever shop there?" I asked.
"Oh, you know it," he said. "I'm nothing without my bowler hat. But listen, take some of the so-called 'friends' in my life. Facebook friends, military acquaintances, fitness industry punks who want me to mail for their products...they're part of the problem, they're why I have a hard time making it back from that day. Stuck. They want me to do shit for them, but do they ever return my e-mails? Phone calls? Let me tell you something, the people who tell me they'll e-mail and then they don't, well, that matters. The people who abandoned me in that riot probably started their career in not following through by not returning e-mails and phone calls like they said they would. But I knew you were different." Suddenly he laughed and pointed out the window. A tall thin dog was walking down the street. "Look at that dog walk! My dogs can't even walk two feet without needing a nap. Those goofy fuckers. Eighteen hours of sleep every day. You think you'd feel better if you had eighteen daily hours of rack time?"
"I'd have fewer tics."
"Yes. But it's not time to sleep." We were at the gym.
Mirrors lined one wall. On the mirrors were written, in marker, various poses and forms of knife combat that Adam drilled on his own. Black rubber mats lined the floor, and bent horseshoes—part of Adam's strength-building protocol—hung from pegs. A banner on one wall showed a silhouette of a man's face and the words "POW/MIA: Gone but not forgotten." Upstairs, a children's karate class was in full swing. Grunts and "hi-yahs!" and the sounds of stomping feet drifted through the floor. I glanced at a stainless steel rack of tools that I knew were for strengthening the grip and my hair stood on end. I was itching to lay into everything around me.
"Today you're going to press that bell. With your right arm."
He pointed at one of the many kettlebells lined up like prisoners against another wall of his gym, Unbreakable Fitness.
I looked at the kettlebell and laughed. Press ninety-seven pounds? That weight was four pounds heavier than my best press. For months, nagging shoulder pain had kept me from pressing more than thirty-five pounds.
"Maybe with both hands," I said. A year of on-and-off physical therapy, Ibuprofen, ice, enthusiastic cursing, and rest hadn't alleviated the pain in my right shoulder. I had all but stopped using it.
"We'll fix it when you come up," Adam had said on the phone. "Just don't make it worse until I can deal with it." Like Mulder, I wanted to believe. I was sick of the pain.
Adam scowled. He had many scowls. I classified this one as mildly affectionate. "You'll do it in five minutes. Get on the stairs. Let's fix your shoulder."
I'd been to two doctors and an osteopath. Each had sent me home with a pamphlet and a large rubber band. I'd tie a knot in the band, slam it in the door, then waggle my arm back and forth. This never helped. "Of course it didn't help!" Adam said when I told him. "Doing those fucking rotations only makes you better at doing those rotations. The goal isn't to do those rotations. The goal is to press something overhead."
"The doc said I shouldn't do that."
"A doc told me that once. You know what I told him? I said, 'I _want_ to do it, so give me the right answer or _imshi._ '"
"What's _imshi_?"
"Don't worry about it." (I looked it up later. It meant "go away" in Arabic.)
Adam had me stand sideways on the bottom stair and dangle one foot over the edge. "Push your heel at the floor like there's a pencil on the bottom. You're trying to draw a perfect circle. Keep your chin level. Don't look down. Relax." Echoes of Dr. H. _A perfect, perfect circle._ I followed these instructions and would have rolled my eyes if he hadn't been so close, glaring.
After some reps, he had me wiggle my jaw, open my mouth as wide as I could, and walk around on the balls of my feet for thirty seconds. What did this have to do with my injured shoulder? Adam pointed to the ninety-seven-pound kettlebell. "Now press it." When I stalled, he said, "Go do it. Quit thinking. You won't die, I promise."
I walked over to the kettlebell, grasped it in my right hand, cleaned it to my chest, and pressed it with less effort than any press I'd ever done. It fell out of my hand from the top position and hit the ground with a thud.
"Yes!" he said. "Damn, I'm good!"
"What just happened?" I said. Adam opened his training log and ignored me. "What just happened?" I repeated. I was ecstatic, confused, curious, pain-free, and slightly freaked out.
"The same thing that will happen with your tics," he said without looking up. "It's fun to be smart. You're lucky you've got me."
Ninety grueling minutes of kettlebell training later, Adam said, "I want chicken wings." We passed a young woman walking on the side of the road. Her hair was blond, with black roots. "What is she, a bumblebee?" he said. "I'll tell you what you just saw, Josh. A lack of personal excellence. You know who could use a good old-fashioned public shaming? Just about everyone, including you and me sometimes. Ponder that."
We talked about Tourette's over lunch. "Honestly, I don't know how you do it," he said. "Having control of my body is one of the only things that keeps me this sane, and I'm pretty wrecked."
"It is what it is," I said.
"Look me in the eyes," he said. "Men look each other in the eyes."
"It is what it is," I repeated, looking him in the eyes.
"No. It isn't. That's stupidity right up there with 'failure is not an option.' Of course it's an option or there wouldn't be any sort of adventure to it, would there? The word 'adventure' means undetermined outcome, did you know that? So failure would have to be an option, right? I've seen people blown up right next to me. I've watched people hop around after losing their limbs, and this shit you deal with is just as bad as any of it."
"No, it isn't!" I said.
"I saw a kid with rebar sticking out of him after a bomb. He had it worse than you, definitely. But this is as bad as some things we went through. Maybe worse, because you don't understand it. Someone whose arm gets blown off by a bomb knows why his arm is gone. Someone who hits himself in the face without warning—"
"There's kind of a warning," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I usually know that something's coming."
"How?"
I think this was the first time that someone actually asked me to think about what was happening to me. My doctors, as knowledgeable as they were, never asked how I felt. They treated symptoms. Well, they tried.
"Okay, if I have a tic where my shoulder jerks up toward my ear, there's a sensation in my shoulder before it happens. I know my shoulder wants to move. It's like the buildup to a sneeze, it just happens faster and the urge doesn't really leave once I have the tic. It starts building again."
"Okay, here's the mind-set I need you to be in so we can cure you," Adam said.
I didn't roll my eyes, because now that we were making eye contact he'd have seen it.
"Change gears," he said. "What makes a good trainer? Someone who gets results _and_ shows clients how to figure something out for themselves. I'll give you an example of a bad teacher." He mentioned a kettlebell instructor who uploaded technique videos to Facebook and YouTube. "This guy, and I'm not saying he's a bad guy, but he's a terrible trainer. Terrible presentation. He's got these dead eyes and this dead voice. Here's how uncomfortable watching his videos makes me. Picture an endless row of urinals in a public restroom. You come in and see me urinating at one of them. I'm the only one there. You have your pick of the place. But you choose a toilet next to me. Then, as we relieve ourselves, you lean over and softly start batting at my penis."
I started to choke on the celery I'd been chewing. When he saw that I would live, he said, "Watching his videos makes me more uncomfortable than that scenario would. The only ethical way to train people is to help them understand how their bodies can teach them."
When we finished eating, he drove to Best Buy. A couple of helpful workers approached him while he was browsing the CDs. Each time he looked up and smiled before they opened their mouths. Each time, they smiled and walked away without saying anything. In _War and Peace_ , during one of the many drawing room scenes that open the novel, Tolstoy describes Sonya Rostova as wearing a "company smile." I'd made ten runs at _War and Peace_ before finishing it, and each time I noticed this phrase. And in _American Gods_ Neil Gaiman describes the enigmatic Mr. Wednesday as smiling "as if he learned to smile from a manual." Adam didn't remind me of Sonya or glass-eyed Mr. Wednesday, but his smile did. Being smiled at by Adam feels more like being smiled at by a predator than welcomed by a friend.
Adam picked a CD and walked toward the cashiers. My right hand smacked my cheek with that familiar, hideous thwack. Adam turned and saw me shaking my fist out. "Now _that's_ a sound I'd know anywhere. Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" I felt like I was in a zoo. But he nodded slowly, a smile creeping onto his face. "I see it."
"You see what?"
"Not yet. We'll talk about it later."
"You know what?" he said as we got into the car. "I like you. I do. So I'm going to tell you a story. Someone was giving me the eye in a bar once. Alcohol is fucking phenomenal when it comes to creating stupidity. If you were going to start shit with someone, would it be with me, I mean, based on looks?" He laughed. "I'm amazed that there's enough alcohol in the world so that _I_ start to look like someone who's going to put up with your eye, or your finger in my chest. Anyway, I stood up, I walked over, and I sniffed, real obvious and slow. 'I don't like that aftershave,' I told him, and then I gave him the eyes. You've seen me do it, right?"
"Yeah."
"'I'm not wearing aftershave,' he says, and his voice doesn't sound as tough as he wants it to."
"'Wipe it off anyway,' I say, 'because I don't like bullies and I feel like you were trying to bully me. That was a poor decision.'"
Adam really started to laugh now. "And so he says, 'I'm not sure what I was thinking.' And I say, 'We can start over, but first wipe off the aftershave you're not wearing.' And he _did_ it!"
"Wouldn't you have done it too?" I asked. "If you'd been in his position?"
"Well _yeah_ , but if I'd been in his position I wouldn't be giving the troops the crazy eye, but what do I know about what I'd do? It obviously made sense to him. For about ten seconds." Adam paused. "But let's get back at it. So how do you know if a movement is good for you?"
"I'm not sure. If it doesn't hurt?"
"Let's consider something. A man lifts weights on Monday. What does he do?"
"Bench."
"Correct. Most programs dictate that you will bench press on Monday. Who knows why? Now, would you consider the bench press a good movement or a bad movement?"
"Well, wouldn't it depend on your goals? I'd ask why you thought bench was the right—"
"Wrong starting point. Lifting weights is an activity. Forget about right and wrong here. This isn't church. It's pushing a weight off your chest. So—good or bad?"
"Okay, I'd say it's good if a heavier bench press is your goal."
"Yes. Specifics. But what if benching hurts your shoulders?"
"Well, I can't think of a good reason to do it if it hurts you."
"It doesn't always feel good, does it?"
"No, some days feel better than others as far as that movement."
"Why?"
"I don't know. A lot of things can change the way a workout feels."
"Such as?"
"Sleep. Injuries. Food. Time of day. Is why even the right question? It seems like you want me to ask something else."
"Let's say that I can demonstrate exactly how you could know whether bench pressing today—no, let's get even more specific—what if I could show you whether benching in the next _hour_ would be positive or negative for you? Would you try it?"
"You mean a way to learn whether it's right or wrong?"
"Those terms don't apply. Just treat it in terms of better or worse in terms of the associations it causes in your body. Worse means it puts you in distress."
I wasn't sure what we were talking about, but I wasn't bored.
"What should the purpose of a movement be?" he asked. "Now I want you to really think about this. 'Should' isn't a word I use often, but it applies here."
"I'm not sure."
"You think you're not, but you know this. How would you define fitness? Start there."
"Being in shape?"
"Meaning?"
"Well, it means you don't get out of breath when you run, or that you can lift without it killing you, or—"
"There's more to movement and sport than running or lifting or being in shape. What's a better question? About being in shape, what's a better question?"
"I don't know."
"Look, being in shape to do what? That's what I want you to think about. Fitness has lost all meaning in this industry. Nobody asks, what is fitness? Fitness is the ability to perform a task. If someone is 'unfit for duty' in military terms, what does that mean to you?"
"Unqualified to lead, or perform the task that's required by the office or the job, I'd guess. A guy in basic training wouldn't be ready for Colin Powell's job. Like that."
"What made you think of Colin Powell? He's not in combat, but correct. So why would physical fitness be any different?"
"I'm still not sure what you mean."
"Fitness is the ability to perform a task. If you can do the task, you're fit to perform the task. Does that make sense?"
"Yes."
"So how do we decide which brand of fitness to pursue? Which is superior? If fitness is task specific, is it logical for an organization like the RKC to say that they will take care of all of your fitness needs?"
"No, probably not."
"Using kettlebells makes you better at using kettlebells. It doesn't make you fit enough to paddle a surfboard against the current for ten minutes. Or to swim. It doesn't mean you can bench heavy weight or that your tennis serve is more explosive. It means that you're fit—that you have the requisite fitness to perform that movement."
"Okay."
"So, again, how will a person generally choose the sport or fitness activity that they perform?"
"Well, I think they'd listen to what someone else says they should be doing, like a magazine, or do something that they like. Or maybe they're required to do it, I mean to improve at it, for some reason, like being on a sports team."
"Exactly. Remember what I said about movements making you better or worse at any given time?"
"Yes."
"Would you predict that a movement you enjoy makes you better, or worse?"
"Better. Anything I enjoy makes me feel better when I'm done."
"Well, that depends. Doing a bunch of heroin might make you feel great short term, but it's inferior in terms of its benefit to you. Okay. Let's consider that a clue as to how one could or should choose an exercise. The enjoyment they get from it."
"Okay."
"How can you make a movement more enjoyable?"
"I'm not sure. Uh...I like it when I can lift heavier. Are you talking about adding weight?"
"No. I'm talking about movements that make you better. More mobile. It starts with a movement that _makes you_ _move better._ Now, once you know what movement that is, how can you improve the movement that's already doing something good for you?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I really don't, and I don't do well when I'm put on the spot like this. I'll keep giving you answers just to be saying something, but that means I'll be saying things I haven't thought through that really won't tell you anything. This really isn't how I think. I usually have to write something down before I really know what I think about it."
"Fair enough. But you do know. So here's what you already know. Increasing fitness—one's fitness to perform a task—means making the movement, or movements, involved, more efficient. Let's say that efficiency means the quickest, smoothest way to pass between two points—point A and point B. Consider the bench press. Think about a military campaign, like Hannibal leading those elephants from start to finish. Or someone playing a piece of music on the piano. What do all of those things have in common?"
"I can't think of _anything_ they have in common."
"They're all just movements," he said. "It's all just movement. Lifting, thinking, running, swimming, having a go with the wife, breathing, swallowing. It's all just movement. And the big movements are made of small movements. Anything that is a movement can be made more skillful. What do I mean by skillful?"
"That you're good at it?"
"Not just that. Would you go see a concert pianist who made every song look like it was really difficult to play? Like she was just barely holding it together?"
"I guess not." I'd seen Tori Amos live. She made it look pretty easy, even when playing two pianos at the same time.
"No, because you don't have money to waste on things that aren't worth seeing, and you don't pay to see someone make a difficult task look difficult. Anyone can make hard things look hard. We pay to see mastery. To see people doing what looks impossible, and it's impressive when they make it look easy. So tell me how this could apply to Tourette's."
I opened my mouth, closed it, then sort of waggled my fingers in the air as if doing the hula while sitting down.
"Haven't you been listening?" he asked. "I'll tell you something Frankie Faires said. He said, 'There's no off switch to adaptation. Everything you do catches up to you. We get better at what we do. If your body is your biography, then you are, at any given time, a perfect representation of all of your resolved and unresolved stresses. _You're_ always getting better at having tics. It's not your fault, but that's what's happening, in my opinion."
"Who's Frankie Faires?"
Frankie was a Texas-based martial artist who had apparently taught Adam about the things we were discussing.* Testing weights, testing foods, testing movements. "So, when you started moving away from the RKC stuff, was Frankie telling you to?" I asked.
"Nobody tells me to do anything, but he helped me ask some different questions and decouple from some poor assumptions. But enough about him for now. You've got the pieces to start with."
We went to a grocery store. In the nutrition aisle I tested various supplements, trying to ignore the people watching me touch my toes while holding a bottle of zinc. Some of the bottles definitely seemed to change the toe-touch test. But when I tested a bottle of pills that promised to increase my estrogen naturally, and my range of motion greatly increased, I decided that I wouldn't test any more supplements. It made me feel stupid and I wasn't interested in taking estrogen or birth control because of a toe touch.
"But how do you know the test works?" I said. "The toe touch?"
"I could ask you the same thing about religion," he said. "I just don't get how anyone could believe in a church," he said. "You can't test it."
"What, you mean like with a toe touch? What, would you pray and then see if it increased your range of motion?"
He snorted. "You say that like it's a stupid idea. I can believe in the test because my results strongly suggest that it works. I've got the numbers to back it up and you know it. What results can you show me that are going to convince me that any church is worth going to? Results that you couldn't get in any other way? I mean, do you still go to your meetings?"
"I go for an hour each week, mainly to help Janette with Max. He gets fussy."
"I'd get fussy too. So that's the only reason you're going? Someone else's convenience?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"But what do you get out of it?"
"Not much anymore. I don't hate it, though. And honestly, it's not worth the heartache it would cause the rest of my family. It's not a bad thing for me to be there. They're good people."
"But doesn't your family know how you feel?"
"You know, I'm actually not sure. I haven't really talked about it, except for with Janette, so unless they have put it together on their own—no, they probably don't know. But again, I don't hate going."
"That's like praising something because it could have been worse. Like saying, 'I went to the zoo and the monkey only hit me with one piece of shit.' That's not a win."
"You asked! Settle down."
"But it's all based on feelings, right?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"And that's supposed to convince me?"
"It's not supposed to do anything to you. You asked."
"But if it's not doing anything for you, why are you doing it? That's all I want you to think about. What you believe makes no difference to me, but don't you think your faith should make a difference to you, if you really have it?"
"Honestly, it's just easier not to talk about it. If it ever comes out, it's going to break my mom's heart."
"Why? I don't get why it would be such a big deal."
"Well, because for her, me not believing in the church doesn't just mean I'm not there on Sunday, it means that when we die, I won't be with them. I don't know if she'd ever say it to me that bluntly, but that's how people who really believe see it. And I can't fault her for that. I love her as much as she loves me. If it turns out that she's right about the church, believe me, not being with them in the afterlife would break my heart too."
Adam stared at me. "See, this is why I like dogs. They don't make things more complicated than they are."
I spent five days in Minot. I listened more than I talked. Adam asked questions. We trained at the gym once or twice each day. Then it was time to go home. We ate a final dinner at Red Lobster.
Adam stared at his plate.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He looked up. "I—" he said, staring with his eyes wide open, all lit up and alert. Based on the look on his face he was about to say:
"—am going to kill you, I hope you're ready to die!" as he placed a forearm over my throat.
"—am so disappointed."
"—surprised."
"—hungry."
But what he said was "I'm proud of you." If this were a Bette Midler song, this is where the strings would swell. But even though Adam was complimenting me, it was unnerving. I felt like I'd been lined up in the sights of a rifle. His eyes were _piercing._ You'd understand if he was complimenting you with all the intensity of a mean dog who hopes you're about to run.
Praise, threats, lifting weights, or drinking—the guy commits. Maybe that's what was so unusual about Adam; he spoke with total conviction. With eyes that made me think I'd wandered inside an unseen blast radius. As David Foster Wallace said, "Psychotics, say what you want about them, tend to make the first move."
"Why?"
"Because you could have offed yourself a long time ago. I've seen guys turn out the light for less than you're dealing with."
"Well, I don't know about that," I said. "I—"
"Stop," he said. "Learn how to take a compliment, Josh. Don't argue, don't joke at your own expense, and don't tell me I'm wrong. One of the problems I see with civilians is that they've never been forced to rely on themselves. I'm not saying you've got to go to war to know what's up, but you learn things about yourself. You _really_ know what you're made of. You _really_ learn whether you believe in yourself. I don't think you're half as confident as you act like you are. So you know what I think you should do about that?"
"No," I said.
"Forget about what you think about you. You just take action and let someone else be right about you. Me, your parents, your wife, I don't know, my dogs. They like you. Let someone else be right."
"Okay," I said. "Okay, I will."
Then he rhapsodized about a helicopter whose guns fired bullets the size of Red Bull cans.
On the way to the airport Adam asked, "What did you learn this week?"
"I learned that there is a store called Sophisticated Man of Minot by your gym. And that's where you can buy bowler hats."
"Anything else?"
"Well, okay, if I remembered one thing you've said, what would you want it to be?"
"Two things. Remember how bad that woman's haircut was, and don't let that happen to you. Second: Test everything that can be tested. As soon as you think you know something, that's when you stop questioning it. Understanding kills curiosity. It's—I won't say it's a problem—but it's common with religions. Understanding kills progress. That's not ideal. Here's your mission. Pick a movement, preferably one that you do constantly—I'm not going to give you more clues—and improve it. Make it easier. Make it more efficient. Test it out often. See what happens with your tics. Then report in in a couple of months."
"Why do I have to remember her haircut?"
"Are you serious? Because that shit was comedy gold, that's why."
I got out of the car at the airport, took my bags out of the trunk, and nearly screamed when I turned around. Adam was right behind me. Somehow he'd left the car and snuck up on me in complete silence. I put out my hand. He shook it and pulled me in close, delivering two emphatic whacks to my back. "You did good, buddy. Keep going. This is about one thing: How many questions you're willing to ask."
Then he got in his car and drove away.
"Good-bye," I said to the car.
"So how was it?" said Janette when I got home.
"I'm not sure."
_Pick a movement and improve it._ I wanted to improve my dead lift. A dead lift is simply picking something up off the ground. But I couldn't deadlift constantly without paying a price, not if the weights were heavy. My back would give out, or I'd burn myself out with fatigue, or or or...Adam couldn't have meant dead lifts. I took out a sheet of paper and listed movements that I performed on a daily or near-daily basis.
Kettlebell presses, snatches, and squats.
Dead lifts with a barbell were already ruled out, but anytime you lift anything off the ground it's a dead lift, so I put a question mark by it.
Bench press—no.
Running. No.
Walking? That seemed possible. I walked every day and I knew it could be more efficient. My feet have always everted to ten and two. Not ideal. Maybe I could focus on that while I walked. Was that what he meant?
What else? Sitting, standing, lying down, getting up from various positions.
Eating was a movement. Hands and arms and fingers involved in the manipulations of food and utensils. The mouth, jaw, and tongue involved in chewing. I could probably eat more efficiently, but what would that have to do with my tics?
Breathing.
Swallowing.
Blinking.
Squinting.
Scratching my itches.
Brushing my teeth.
As I wrote, my eyes returned to "breathing" over and over. The pen slowed.
Breathing.
I listed the times when my tics were almost always better. Talking. Playing the guitar. Sleeping. Reading, if I could get absorbed in something. Writing.
What did they have in common? I always assumed that these activities pushed the tics out because they took too much processing power in the brain. They used up my mental resources so there was nothing left for Misty.
But sleeping didn't fit that list. What if it had nothing to do with how complex the tasks were? What else could they all have in common?
And there it was. The breathing. It was the breathing. It had to be. These were the only times where I was completely unaware of my breathing; this was when my breathing was least likely to be interrupted by tics. Did that mean the lack of air caused the tics? I didn't know, but now I could experiment.
Was breathing a movement? Yes. It was lots of movements. More things were involved in one inhalation and exhalation than I knew. Did it have a point A and point B? Yes. If standing at rest was point A, couldn't a full inhalation be point B?
The next day at work, I went into the fitness room at lunch.
What would breathing _better_ mean? If nothing else, I could examine how I breathed. I tried to relax. My arms hung at my sides. My shoulders, neck, and jaw all settled. I tried to focus, to draw my attention to any part of my body that moved with my breath, or that was involved in any way.
_How often do I breathe?_ Well, duh, "constantly" was the answer, but could I change it? It seemed like I was taking a lot of breaths per minute.
_How quickly do I inhale?_ It took less than two seconds. The exhalation was just as brief. This seemed fast.
_How deeply do I breathe?_ I inhaled beyond my usual stopping point and kept expanding my lungs. It felt so good that at some point I started holding the air in. I expelled it with an abrupt cough. Why had it felt so good? As epiphanies go, "breathe more" seemed kind of lame. Too simple.
I had inhaled for four seconds. More than double the length of my typical breaths. I tried again but was interrupted by Misty, who didn't like this. Annoyed, I reset, tried to calm myself for another go, but it was no good. I opened my mouth and snapped my front teeth together. It would be a while before I could attempt another breath in a ticless state.
That one deep breath felt too good to be insignificant.
The next morning, before the library opened, I went into the stacks and tried to prepare, to calm myself, to ask.
One...two...three...four...and done. I managed a four-count exhalation and was still. I listened to what was happening inside me. Had anything changed? I tried three more times that day. One perfect breath, each time. Each time was satisfying, a relief.
I called Adam that night. Before I even told him about the breath he said, "It's too early to talk about it, buddy. You've got a month of experimenting before I'll weigh in."
I had a laboratory now: the restrooms at the library. They have hair-trigger motion sensors for the lights. If you stand perfectly still for about fifteen seconds, the lights go out. But so much as snap your fingers and the lights come back on. My goal was to breathe, focus, and see if I could stay still enough for the lights to go off. Once I could do it, I would see how long I could stay in the dark before triggering the lights.
The next day I managed twenty full breaths, each one delicious.
Physical relief and release soaked me at each attempt. Of course it did! What if all this time I'd simply not been getting enough air?
If you're not getting enough air you're in distress, but perhaps I'd simply adapted to distress. It made sense, the euphoria of oxygenated blood. Every tic, whether motor or vocal, was an interruption, disturbing my thoughts, my speech, my body, my heart rate, and my confidence. Every tic interrupted a breath. Try this: For the next sixty seconds, stop every breath you take at the halfway point of the inhalation. Do it by either tensing up your abdomen or clearing your throat. You'll feel slightly desperate at the end of the minute. But if you did it for the next year, the desperation would become the baseline. Your distress would become normal. You'd forget how good you can feel.
"Janette, this is going to change everything," I said. "I really think this is it."
She was supportive, but tentative. "I think it's great, and I'm glad that you guys are working on this, but I'm not sure I understand everything you've told me."
I'm sure that was true. Adam and I had talked so much, and he was so strange, so unlike anyone else I'd ever met, that it was impossible to re-create our conversations in a way that anyone else could picture.
"I don't either," I said. "I know it sounds confusing, but I'm probably not explaining it well. But at least...doesn't it make sense that if I could practice not having tics, then I could eventually swing things back so that I had fewer tics in a day? I think...I don't know, but if this works at all, I think I could scale it up."
"Okay. Let's see what happens. You know I want that. I just don't want you to work too hard and then be upset if it doesn't pay off."
"But that's the whole point! It's not about effort. Effort is what I've been doing, and it hasn't worked."
"Okay."
"I mean, think about it! If Max starts to have tics, maybe by that time I'll know how to help him! Maybe I'll be able to give him a way out."
And that, above all, was the reason I was so desperate to figure out my own Tourette's. Max had shown no tics, no signs of anything unusual, but the worry consumed me.
There's an idea in the bodybuilding world that to make a muscle grow, you have to torture it, to convince it that it's dying: It swells to protect itself from the onslaught next time. New tissue forms in a million micro-tears. The lifter forces the adaptation. "No pain, no gain."
That had been the equivalent of my attempts to stifle the Tourette's. I would simply bear down and see if I could outlast it through force of will. And it never worked, which made sense to Adam.
"Think about it, man," he said. "Think about the people you work with. You all spend your whole day in a chair, right?"
"Pretty much." This seemed like a very roundabout way to make a point.
"Those people's bodies will adapt to whatever it is they spend their time doing. They'll wind up shaped like chairs. They can't will their bodies back to normal. They can't try harder to have better posture; they just need to sit less, until that becomes normal again. Adaptation never stops. You can't turn it off and you can't turn it on. The best you can hope for is to divert it into paths that reward you instead of punish you."
I worked on my breathing for the next two months. I tried to practice in a totally ticless state. Stopping before the urges to have tics overcame me was a key. Have you ever seen a weightlifting competition? Or watched one of the World's Strongest Man competitions that I always get sucked into when they broadcast fifty episodes every Thanksgiving? Have you ever seen someone in a gym struggling against a weight, freaked out as every single vein in their neck emerges like the arms of an octopus streaking toward the surface?
I'm guessing you have. Maybe you've even _been_ that guy. I have. Let's call that distress training.
Let's say that guy spends most of his time lifting in that state. And let's say he never does anything but biceps curls and bench press. Doesn't it make sense that his body will start associating those movements with that physical state? If every time you bench it feels incredibly difficult, your body and your neurology remember that. But what if you could receive all of the benefits the "no pain, no gainers" are always chasing, and you didn't have to become overly tense to make it happen? Would that interest you? Do you think your body might feel better if you never turned purple and ground your teeth to pulp in the gym?
This is why I didn't want to struggle as I tried not to have tics while practicing my breathing. I wanted the association to be that when I took a full breath, there were _no urges to have tics._ I didn't want to write on the motherboard in a way that signaled that deep breaths were connected to the psychogenic urges. I didn't know if it was possible, but I wanted to find out. The evidence would be anecdotal, but for the person in pain, it would be enough.
In December, two months after my Minot trip, I was ready for the experiment. The goal? Sixty seconds of perfect, beautiful stillness. No gimmicks. No straining. No distracting myself by playing the guitar or doing multiplication tables in my head. I wanted to feel what a minute was worth. What it was like for everyone else. What it felt like to live without feeling as if whatever room you were in was a waiting room where nothing but bad news would be announced, whenever it came.
One of Pavel's maxims that I still love: Strength is a skill. You don't work out. You practice. I'd been practicing for this minute.
It worked! It was the most perfect minute of my life. There are over five hundred and twenty-five million minutes in a year. In 2009, after more than two decades of twitching frustration, I had a minute all to myself.
I paid for it. I spent the rest of that night getting lashed by Misty. But I didn't care because I could do it again. I could turn one minute into two. Maybe two would eventually become five.
I called Adam and reported.
"Sharper than a razor, brother," he said. "Was it the breathing?"
"What! How did you know?"
"I pay attention. Most people don't. It was pretty obvious, but I wanted you to figure it out. I knew you'd get there. Hey, I'm eating dinner, but one more thing before I go: The dogs say hi. They miss you."
I laughed.
"It's not a joke," he said.
Adam would later tell me that he had autism. It had taken someone whose brain didn't work like anyone else's to ask me questions that nobody else had.
* Frankie would eventually compile his ideas into a system called Gym Movement.
# **CHAPTER 12**
# 121—Belief and Doubt
155.432—Mothers and Sons
"Hey, man, there's some psycho back there talking to himself. If you don't deal with it, I will." He points back toward the cookbooks. This guy is big.
I nearly tell him that I've just finished reading Jon Ronson's _The Psychopath Test_ , which led me to read _Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us_ , and that, while it was unlikely that the man talking to himself is actually a psychopath, I'll go check it out anyway.
I ask a coworker to call security and have a guard come find me, in case we have a situation.
Once I start walking, it's easy to find the guy by the sound of his voice. I turn a corner to see a man in the cookbook aisle, gesturing wildly at something in front of him.
"Is everything okay?" I ask.
He startles. "I'm so sorry, I know how loud I'm being, they just won't leave me alone." He's approximately my age, a nice-looking man with curly blond hair and clothes that look new. But his face is gaunt and several scabs dot his forehead. "I don't mean to be loud but they won't..." His head whips to the left. "Did you hear that?"
He turns and hurries to the end of the aisle.
"I don't hear anything," I say, catching up with him. "What are you hearing?"
"There are three women harassing me," he says, talking faster with each word. "They just won't leave me alone, and if you just—ohhhhhh—if you could just _hear_ the things they're telling me, you'd—I don't know, you'd—"
"Can you show them to us?" says the security guard who now stands beside me. "It's helpful to have a description."
"See, the problem is that I've never seen them," says the man. "They've been following me for years, and, the thing is, they're always just ahead of me, around the corner. So I run, and I tell them to stop, and I'm sorry about the noise, but I can't get them to stop, and they're _always just around the next corner._ " He's near tears, desperate.
"You've never seen them?" asks the guard.
"They're real. They are," he says. "They're so close, but I can't show you. I can't catch them. They're laughing. If you could hear them...I'm not just talking to myself. They're real. It's real. You _really_ don't hear that?"
"Have you been drinking tonight, sir?" asks the guard.
"No."
"Any drugs?"
"No."
"Do you take any medication?"
"Yes, but not right now. I don't like it."
The guard encourages the poor guy to come to his office and set up a plan for catching his tormentors.
Before they leave, the man says, "I wasn't always like this. I'm so sorry."
The more I practiced the breathing, the more I examined other things that seemed associated to the tics.
I learned that when I entered a new room, the change in lighting made me want to have tics. But if I walked into a room with my eyes closed, the urges diminished.
I learned that I could alter the speed of certain tics with some success. Especially with the big whiplash tics, this was a revelation. Sometimes having tics at half speed released me from the urges. That would save huge amounts of wear and tear.
It was the basic scientific method. Form a hypothesis, design an experiment, evaluate the result, confirm or refute your hypothesis, and then keep going or perform a new experiment. Whatever movement I wanted to test, I'd perform the baseline toe touch Adam had shown me. If something increased my range of motion, it was a "good movement _right now_." That status could change—in a week, day, or hour—but I could always test it again. I'd practice the movement up until the moment _before_ it felt challenging, because I didn't want my brain to make an association between a good movement and effort; that was a recipe for a tic. If the movement felt noticeably harder than the one before it, if the speed of a rep decreased, if I panted or held my breath while doing it, if I tensed my jaw or any other body part, if I got pulled out of alignment, or if I felt pain—these were signs that I'd gone too far. I had no idea how much tension I carried in my body until it began to let go of me.
Every tic began to feel more like a challenge and an opportunity, rather than a sock in the guts or a kick in the balls or a reinforcement of my flaws. The more I asked, the more I could ask.
That was in January. By March I went for two minutes without tics. Two minutes became five. Then an hour. A day without tics. A month where I didn't notice any tics, although Janette said I was having some mild ones. But she was astonished at the progress. All apparently from the breathing, and from testing out the movements I used when I exercised, avoiding anything that made me more rigid.
I worked at the library.
I loved my wife.
I played with my son.
I read, trained, and wrote.
I loved my life.
"I told you, man," said Adam. "I think you're getting close to actually knowing something about all this. Have some faith." He laughed and hung up.
Faith was about the only thing in my life that _wasn't_ going well. Now, in the midst of my track-and-measure-everything phase, I was more aware than ever that gauging spiritual progress was difficult. _On a scale of one to ten, just how righteous do I feel today? I have no idea. What does righteous mean anyway?_ But I kept my doubts to myself—except for when I was with Janette, who knew I was struggling with faith, but said she'd never force the issue—and things carried on just as they had for the past few years.
Then my mom came to visit us for a week that summer. When Max and I picked her up at the airport, he rushed into her arms and forgot I existed for the next seven days. That night, Janette and I read on our bed while my mom and Max played in the backyard.
The back door opened and footsteps pounded over the floor as Max appeared in our room. "Come watch the show!" he said, before running back outside.
We went to the sandbox, where my mom was sitting in a chair next to several overturned buckets. "Okay, Max," she said, "show them what's under the buckets."
Max lifted the buckets one by one, revealing three goats from a toy farm set, and a grumpy-looking plastic lion. "Dad, are you ready for the show?" he asked.
"I'm ready," I said.
"One day," my mom said, "the three Billy Goats Gruff were hungry. But..." She looked at Max, who was positioning the three goats at the foot of a bridge. The bridge was made of a large stick and spanned the gap between two mounds of sand.
"But they ate all their grass," he said. "And the bridge—"
She leaned down and stage-whispered, "The bridge comes later, remember?"
"The bridge comes later," Max told me.
"So they'd eaten all their grass," she continued. "And so they looked on the other side of the bridge and...what did they see? A green field of delicious grass! So the first, smallest Billy Goat Gruff went to the bridge, but when he walked out— _pitter patter pitter patter_ " _—_ Max made the goat dance onto the bridge—"a mean old troll came up from under the bridge and said..."
Max put the lion—standing in for the troll—under the bridge quickly, then pulled it out and set it before the startled goat. "You can't have my grass!"
Janette laughed.
"Well, no, he didn't want the grass," said my mom. "He said, 'I'm going to eat you!' So what did the goat say, Max?"
"He jumped over his head!" And sure enough, the plastic goat jumped over the troll's head and landed on the other side of the bridge.
"Well," said my mom. "That's not exactly—"
Max was spinning the goat around on the other side of the bridge, drunk on delicious grass. "And he ate it all and got so fat that he never moved again!"
My mom persuaded Max to help the other two goats across the bridge like they had practiced. If you don't know the story, when the biggest goat comes to the bridge, he throws the troll off the bridge, into the water, and, if memory serves, the troll is never heard from again. Max put the troll under the bridge.
My mom said, "Okay, do it!"
Max ran behind a nearby stone and returned with a bucket that brimmed with water. He poured it onto the ground, at the mouth of a channel they had dug in the sand. The water rushed down the furrow and, sure enough, taught the troll a harsh lesson as he drowned in agony.
Janette and I cheered.
My mom stood and took Max's hand. "Remember?"
They bowed deeply.
"Josh, do you remember how we used to do this?" she asked me.
"Of course," I said. "How could I forget?" Her storytelling voice was like a time machine, dropping me right back into our living room, thirty years earlier.
"Okay," my mom said, "now tell Mom and Dad to go inside. Say, 'We're not done playing.'"
"You go inside." Max pointed at us.
I'm never more aware of what a lucky kid I was than when I see my mom playing with Max.
The next day I looked up from a book to see my mom smiling at me. "What?"
"I just can't believe you're able to sit still like that. You haven't had one tic in the last few minutes. It's such a blessing."
I laughed. "If you ever get to meet Adam, I want to be there when you tell him that he's a blessing."
On Sunday, we all went to church. After sacrament, the first hour, she leaned over and said, "Let's take Max home. I don't really care about going to other meetings in a ward with people I don't know." I was delighted to skip out early.
"You didn't fight to stay very hard," she said as we drove home.
"When I go now, I hardly ever stay after the first hour."
"Why?"
I sighed. Maybe it was time. "Mom, I'm just not getting anything out of it anymore. It's not for me. I'm sorry."
"What are you apologizing to me for?"
"I don't know. For keeping it from you, I guess."
"You think this is a surprise to me? I've been watching this happen for years, Josh."
"Well, aren't you mad?"
"It doesn't make me happy, you know that. It breaks my heart. But I'm not mad. You're making me feel like the grandma from _Flowers in the Attic_. What did you think I was going to say? 'Go cut me a switch'?"
I'd pictured a maternal rebuke. Disappointment and tears. "I raised you better than this!" Incredulity. A guilt trip. We'd never be able to have another conversation that wasn't about how concerned she was about me. She'd mobilize my father and siblings and the thought of the imminent, endless, sorrow-soaked interventions had made me squirm.
Instead, she said, "Well, kid, the older I get, the more I see that people just have to live their own lives and make their own choices. I'd be lying if I said I like this. I don't. If you've really lost your testimony, it breaks my heart. But you're my son and whatever happens, we'll all still love you and that won't change."
When you believe in the LDS Church, when you "know it's true," we say you have a testimony of the gospel. When you lapse in your beliefs, you have "lost your testimony." I love this idea; it makes it sound so simple to get it back. That you can retrace your steps and find your faith, or maybe if you close your eyes and concentrate, you'll remember the last time you saw it. Now wheeeeeere did I put that thing?
I don't so much feel that I've lost my testimony as that it's broken and scattered. When I scrutinize my life, turning over the proverbial stones, all I find are pieces of myself. Under one stone is the memory of my dream about Alan walking with Christ. Another stone covers the memory of the boy at the end of a dark road in Idaho, crying out for help, then believing he received it. Here are the people I taught on my mission. Here are the many Sundays spent in church, the countless times I heard someone say, "I know this is true." Here I am, offering the prayers of the past, kneeling, again and again, asking, pleading, and sometimes, feeling as if I'm merely speaking to an empty room. Here are the beliefs of my parents and their parents and theirs...
When I take the pieces of my faith, of the testimony I had, they don't fit together anymore. They don't create the bigger picture I used to fit into. I don't know how to make them _mean_ what they used to mean.
"Max," she said, "did you tell Daddy what I taught you to say?"
Max leaned forward in his car seat and looked at me. "I love you with all my circle!" He made a circle with his hands.
"You too, buddy," I said.
We got back to my house, changed our clothes, got Max some lunch, and continued talking.
"Josh, do you know what my favorite thing is?" she asked. "I mean, my very favorite thing?"
"I'm not sure."
"It's when the whole family comes for a holiday and you kids just sit around and laugh together. You don't have any idea what that feels like for me. There's nothing I look forward to more."
"Yeah. I feel the same way." So did the mother in _The Corrections_ , I thought, but things didn't go that well for her. "But just because I want us all to be together forever doesn't mean it's possible. Believe me, nothing would make me happier, but I just don't think I believe that."
"That's okay. We're not going to change each other's minds today."
"I really thought you'd be more upset."
"Why is it that you think you can't believe?"
"See, that's what I mean. I think I might be able to believe, but you don't say you believe, you say you know. I see it differently. I don't trust my emotions like you do, and so we've got very different ideas about what it means to know something."
"Well, maybe...would you say you love Max?"
"Of course!"
"You know that, right?"
"Yeah."
"And that's based on feelings. No, let me finish. All I'm saying is that there are different ways of knowing things. You know you love Max, but can you prove it? Not unless you make sure everyone has the same definition of love. But you know it. You do. Would you ever say, 'I believe I love my son'?"
"Of course not."
"Well, neither would I. We _know._ And when I say I 'know' the church is true, I'm speaking from a feeling that's as real to me as the way I love you kids, and the way you love Max. I don't go around telling people what they should do with their lives, but I _know_ the truth of this well enough to know how I should live my own life. And you're one of the most important parts of my life, and that's why this matters so much to me."
"I believe you, Mom. I just don't feel what you feel. I'm not even saying I'm right. I'm just saying I'm not sure what it's possible to know. I've never been more uncertain than I am right now, and it scares me if I think about it for too long. It's kind of embarrassing, honestly. I feel like I'm a thirty-five-year-old man learning how to think clearly for the first time."
"Unlike me, right?"
"See, you think this is hard for you, but you have no idea how painful it is for me. It's lonely to be in this position. I can't say things like 'I finally feel like I can think clearly' without implying that, because you still believe, you're _not_ thinking clearly. So it's just easier for me not to talk about it at all, even with you, and that's lonely."
She laughed. "Well, the good news is that you're wrong, so what do you think about that, sonny boy?"
"I think you're old and rickety. And probably senile."
She held up her hands in the familiar karate chop position. The left hand flashed out at me. I ducked.
She faked again and I flinched, which allowed her to rush in and hug me. "Well, if I'm not senile yet, I certainly will be, and I'm depending on you to take care of me. I love you, Josh, and I'll always be proud of you. Whatever happens, we're going to be happy when we're together. There's no sense in letting the Big Picture destroy the small picture. You really don't need to feel defensive about this, although I'm sure that's not as easy as I'm making it sound. It takes guts to take a stand the way you are, so don't think I'm not proud of you doing what you think you have to do."
"I'm not taking a stand, Mom. I'm just saying I don't know. But I love you too. I was the luckiest kid."
"No, Max is the luckiest kid. Now that I'm a rickety, senile old lady I've got enough money to spoil him like I couldn't with you all." She went outside. When I joined them a few minutes later, Max was hanging upside down on the monkey bars while she pretended to shoot lasers at him from her fingers. "Dad!" he screamed. "She's getting me!"
_I am so lucky_ , I thought again. And every time I had this thought, it was so intense and clear that it felt like a revelation, even though I'd always known it.
The problem with epiphanies is that they can't sustain you forever. They are as fragile and ephemeral as the words in Charlotte's webs. After my dream about Alan and after that night spent praying in my car, I know that I felt clarity and assurance, and a sense that things would be all right. I felt loved. I remember that. And if I could snap my fingers and feel that way again five minutes from now, then I would snap my fingers, triple time. But I don't know how to bring those feelings back. And I also believe that I no longer _need_ the comfort those feelings gave me. I get the same reassurance my family, from my friends, from my books, and my training.
That night, after Max was asleep and my mom had gone to bed, Janette asked if my mom and I had talked about anything interesting.
"I told her how I feel about the church right now," I said.
"Good," she said. "I'm sure that wasn't easy."
"It actually wasn't that bad."
She was quiet for a long time. Then: "Josh, would you do something for me?"
"Of course."
"I know it probably won't change anything, but would you be willing to talk to our bishop about how you feel, and just see if he has any suggestions?"
"Suggestions as far as what?"
"Well, I don't know. But I'd appreciate it if you'd be willing to go."
"Sure."
I didn't know our bishop well. I'd only had one other conversation with him, a "getting to know you" chat three or four years ago. This time, he put me right at ease by saying, "If I can help, tell me, but you don't owe me an explanation for anything."
Well, crap...he'd ruined all of the snappy answers I had come up with to refute the accusations and disappointment that he would aim at me. My anxiety and defensiveness fading, we talked.
I told him that my emotions are so chaotic that I can't even begin to trust them enough to draw conclusions about an objective reality, let alone use them to tell anyone else how they should live. I told him that I'm no longer sure of what we can know, but that I can't say I know things I don't anymore. I told him that when I go to church I sometimes envy those who seem so sure about everything, but not often.
I prepared for the castigation. Now he would say, "Hmm...What aren't you telling me?"
Instead, he said, "Josh, there's no magic answer. I can't make you feel anything you don't. Nobody can. I think you should keep trying, if you want to, and be more patient with yourself. We're all doing the best we can. If it's good for you, keep asking your questions, and let me know if I can help. I appreciate your honesty and I'm glad that you feel like you can talk to me about such difficult things. Do you have any other questions?"
"I don't think so. Wait—can I tell you a story?"
"Of course."
"When I was maybe twelve years old, we went to Disneyland. On that trip we went to the beach. I was really excited. So we got there and I ran toward the water, but when I got up to about my ankles, my body just, it's weird, but it just shut down. My heart rate went way up and I was cold and my stomach was flipping out. I backed out of the water and it faded. This happened every time I tried to go in, although I finally got up to my waist. I thought I'd probably just read too many books about sharks, but when I told my parents my dad said that when I was three, he and I had almost drowned in the ocean during another vacation. I was in his arms when he got caught in a tide and pulled out farther and faster than he realized. He said that a lifeguard pulled us out after we'd gone under. I don't remember this at all, but my mom said, 'I bet that's what's happening. You remember it.'"
"That's interesting."
"Yeah. And even though I can't remember it, it's obviously still in my head, although I have no problem going in the ocean now. That's kind of how church feels to me. Despite me telling you I don't know, and even with all of the arguments I could make about faith and reason, the fact is, I've been hearing this stuff every single day for most of my life, including my early years. It's all still in there, so while I can make a plausible case for doubt, I'm not totally free in my head, like there's a physical, gnawing fear of being cut off, or being wrong, or cast out, or whatever. Does that make any sense?"
He nodded. "Yes, and I can't really speak to that. It sounds to me like you're doing what you can do. I'm here to help if I can."
He was so kind and open that all I could do was hug him and say, "This didn't go at all how I pictured it."
Things don't always go this well for skeptics in the church.
There's a story in the Book of Mormon about a man named Korihor. Korihor goes around telling everyone that there's not going to be a Christ or Savior, that there's no such thing as sin, and that they should all start enjoying themselves more. He says that you can't really know things that you can't see. Some people listen to him and get up to all sorts of shenanigans, and others cast him out and ban him from their towns. He has a lengthy debate with a righteous man named Alma in a classic atheist-versus-believer smackdown. Korihor demands a sign. Alma says, "One sign, coming right up!" and Korihor, the poor bastard, is struck deaf and mute. Now he confesses that he always knew there was a God, but a devil had appeared to him and tricked him into doing his bidding.
Well, this contrition doesn't fly. Korihor, cursed and reviled, eventually becomes a beggar, and in a scene of breathtaking vagueness, he is "run down and trodden upon, even until he was dead," while among a group of people called the Zoramites. Holy crap!
I'm no Korihor. In terms of signs, I don't know what I would even ask for. I can't say that there's not a God. I can't say that there is. I can't say that I know the church is true. I can't say that I know it isn't. All I can say is that I don't know. And I don't know if it's possible to really know. Right now I have as little interest in creating skeptics as I do in creating believers. I have even less interest in being so skeptical and sneering that I am "trodden upon, even until I am dead."
That's a joke.
But truly, saying "I don't know" in this church is tricky. This isn't church that you only go to on holidays or weekends. This is all day, every day. It's a culture and a lifestyle. You demonstrate faith and devotion not only through your actions, but also with your thoughts. Sunday meetings are only part of it. Home teachers are supposed to visit families each month to share a message and see how the family's doing. If you're a man and you stop coming to church, you can expect a friendly visit or phone call from the elder's quorum presidency. If you say you don't know, then people _will know_ that you don't know. You're not going to be set adrift while other church members know that you are struggling. That's something I love about the church. When I'm at church, I really feel like we're all in this life together and that we're responsible for helping one another. It's a wonderful reminder each week that there are groups of people out there that really care about one another. I could make one hundred phone calls right now and say, "Hey, I'm moving tonight and I haven't boxed anything up and it's going to be a ton of thankless work," and I'd probably get at least that many people to come help me.
When people tell me—when I'm at work, I have a face, or maybe a voice, that just says "confide"—that the church is a controlling, greedy, sinister monster that's only interested in brainwashing people and subjugating women, I say, "I don't know that church, but I can understand why you'd have a problem with the church's history." I know happy, generous people. I know my compassionate bishop. I don't see rubes and sheep. I'm way too ignorant and fallible and unsure to sneer at other people who are just trying to live the best way they know how. I see people who want the world to be better than it is and who are willing to work for it.
I just can't work at it in the same way they do anymore. I can't trust my emotions as confidently as they trust theirs. It sounds like a cop-out at this point to say, "Well, maybe I don't have the gift of belief," but maybe I don't. Maybe I never did. I can't remember. If there's a personal God, I have to believe that he knows my heart, and why I have to do what I'm doing right now. Why I have to live according to what makes sense to me, and not according to what is sacred to others.
Even though she says she's glad that we're now talking about it openly, my conversations with Janette aren't easy.
After my conversation with the bishop, Janette asked me how it had gone. I gave her the recap and tried again to summarize my doubts. She looked sadder and sadder and then said, "Josh, I won't stop believing for you."
In my mind, I'd said, "This concerns me, and this concerns me, and here's how I think about this, and here's why I'm not sure that this means what I thought it means," and what she heard was my attempt to persuade her to join me in a mad flight from faith. I was thinking out loud, but voicing my concerns was threatening and I've seen this many times: Wondering about the church can make someone feel like she's being attacked or that she's listening to something dangerous.
"I'm not asking you to," I said. "And, you know, I can't believe just to make things easier for you. It's not a choice I can make just like that. When I try to pray, or I try to read the scriptures, I get nothing. I don't feel anything. The things that used to work just aren't working. I don't know what else to say about that."
"Josh," she said. "It's a choice. You choose to believe, or you choose not to."
"But then you could just decide to believe anything and act like it was true."
"Yes. Maybe. But you can choose to believe something that feels right to you."
"That's exactly what I'm doing, because I'd expect you to lose respect for me if I just went through the motions, because that's what I've been doing, and _I've_ lost respect for me. I have to step back for a while and see what I think without being in the middle of it."
"Okay," she said. "I can live with that. But what are we going to tell Max?"
"You know, _how_ people think is so much more important to me than _what_ they think. If you're okay with me telling Max how I think about things, and how I've gotten to the point I'm at now, then I'll feel like he's getting a chance to learn how to think. Once he knows how to think, he can decide what to think. I just want him to be aware that there are choices."
"And what do you expect me to tell him?"
"I just want you to be honest with him. We both just have to be honest with him. Tell him exactly what you feel and what you think. I will too. That kid has to have our support, whether he's faithful or not. I just want it to be his choice."
"So do you feel okay about everything? About us?"
I took her hands. "Yes. That might be the one thing I'm totally sure of. You and me. I'm lucky that I'm in a marriage where we can talk about this. We're both _willing_ to talk about it."
"I feel the same way, and I don't think it needs to be a huge problem."
"Me either."
What I'll tell Max is that I love his mom, his grandparents, and his aunts and uncles and cousins more than anything. I'll tell him that they are my life, and they are a life worth living. When he asks what I believe, I'll tell him that I do believe in many of the tenets of the church:
Be kind and compassionate.
Serve others.
You are responsible for your actions and should be accountable for them, if only to yourself.
Don't be a dick.
Don't lie, kill, steal, or cheat.
Family is the greatest joy on earth.
Study the best books.
Be accountable to yourself.
I'll tell him that, as usual, Kurt Vonnegut said it best:
_Tiger got to hunt,_
_Bird got to fly;_
_Man got to sit and wonder,_
_"Why, why, why?"_
_Tiger got to sleep,_
_Bird got to land;_
_Man got to tell himself he understand._
That's from _Cat's Cradle._
I'll tell him that I was the luckiest, happiest kid in the world. I will tell him that there are no words I can use to describe how much I love my parents, and how grateful I will always be for them.
When he asks Janette what she believes, she will tell him what she believes. Together, we'll try to make sense of our lives and move forward, together.
In the mission field, people who are open to hearing the message are called investigators. I suspect that I'll spend my entire life investigating. I'm open to listening, to reading, to studying the scriptures, and to pondering what is taught by this church, or any other.
Investigator is a title I proudly accept. If it was good enough for Encyclopedia Brown, it's good enough for me.
It's taken thirty-five years, but I feel like I can finally breathe.
# **CHAPTER 13**
# 616.042—Abnormalities, Human
165—Fallacies, Logic
305.891—Highland Games—Social Aspects
One evening Max and I were watching TV. I looked over at him, hoping to catch him smiling, which he does during every second of any episode of _Curious George_. I sneaked out my finger to tickle him, then stopped.
Max saw me watching. "What, Daddy?" he asked. He wore an orange T-shirt that said "Tough Guy" over the number 36. His blond hair was shaggier than I liked because cutting his hair was always a battle. His lips were redder than usual from the ICEE I bought for him on the way home from the library. I would say that he was the skinniest kid I'd ever seen, but that wouldn't be true; I'd seen pictures of myself at his age. We could have been twins.
Max smiled at me, the way I once smiled at my dad as we sat on another forgotten couch in front of an older television. The smile stopped me from saying, "You're blinking your eyes a lot more than you need to be. Why are you doing that?" As I watched, his lip curled a little bit and he did it more and more.
"What's wrong, Daddy?"
_No._
_No, not this._
_Not for him._
_Not for my son._
I kissed his forehead, went to my room, and closed the door. I got on my knees, laced my fingers together, and closed my eyes, but the words wouldn't come.
The door opened. "Josh? Are you okay?" Janette put a hand on the back of my neck.
"He's blinking!" I said, in a hysterical tone that would have been better suited to a phrase like, "He's on fire!" "He's blinking way too much. He's blinking. He's—"
"I know," she said. "I know. But—"
"I can't talk about this right now. I can't."
"Okay," she said. "Okay." She left.
I was still kneeling. I closed my eyes again. I tried to figure out what to say, and who to say it to. I stayed on my knees for a long time.
But nothing came.
There were no words.
When there were no words, I tried listening.
I heard nothing but my own pulse in the stillness.
In the climbing-disaster documentary _Touching the Void_ ,* climber Joe Simpson recounts the thoughts he had while trapped, dangling with a broken leg deep inside a black crevasse within the Peruvian Andes's Siula Grande mountain. He had no reason to think he'd survive:
I was totally convinced that I was on my own, that no one was coming to get me. I was brought up as a devout Catholic. I'd long since stopped believing in God. I always wondered if things really hit the fan, whether I would, under pressure, turn round and say a few Hail Marys and say, "Get me out of here." It never once occurred to me. It meant that I really don't believe and I really do think that when you die, that's it, there's no afterlife.
My situation certainly wasn't as grave as his, but I didn't feel any more capable of asking for help than he had.
The next morning, before the library opened, I was carrying a stack of books to the shelves and enjoying the quiet.
Misty sat on the desk, leaning back, legs crossed, a sharp, cruel-looking shoe dangling from one foot. She startled me so badly that the books fell from my hands, breaking the spine of the largest. I hadn't felt her in months, although I knew she'd been been spying on Max.
If you had stumbled across my story that day while making your rounds, it might have been titled:
_So Your Ex Is Back?_
_How to Feel Desperate and Terrified_
_So You Thought You Were Riding Off Into the Sunset?_
Maybe she hadn't seen me. She couldn't be here. She couldn't. I hurried past her into the staff room and snapped my name tag onto my shirt with as much authority as possible, but it's hard to do it impressively. _Click_. The sound was nothing compared to my teeth as they snapped together, my tongue escaping just in time. My neck knotted. I couldn't catch my breath.
Maybe I'd imagined her. Maybe I was trapped in a dream. Maybe if I stayed in the back and hid under the lunch table she wouldn't find me. Maybe if I just went home. Maybe—
I screamed. The effort grated my throat. Misty had snuck up behind me, slinking in without an access card, somehow slithering beneath the door. I clapped my hands over my mouth and hustled out to the reference desk. The only chance was to stay ahead of her, make her chase me. Maybe I could lead her off a cliff. My shift was about to start. As patrons flowed from the elevators, Misty sat next to me and pinched my cheeks with my own fingers until they were hot and sweat bloomed on my face. She bit the knuckle of my right thumb until it bled. She curled my toes until they ached with hyperflexion and the ends of the toenails began to roll back from the effort. I kept her quiet but couldn't remove the hooks she jabbed into every part of my vulnerable body.
_The Longest Day_
_How to Eat Lunch Without Spilling All Your Food_
I took a long break to lift in the library's fitness room. I locked the door. In the middle of a barbell jerk, my neck tightened as Misty grabbed it. I yelled, my head twisting to the right. I was able to catch the bar and lower it to the ground without falling or breaking the floor. There was no sanctuary here.
_What to Do When the Custodian Appears and Asks You What in the World Is Happening?_ (Spanish Edition)
I had a meeting after lunch. I chewed my mouth to hot, electric ribbons and sweated myself into a disgusting mess.
Five o'clock. Finally. In the underground parking garage Misty's voice echoed in the cavernous room. She darted between the pillars, leaping out to poke and prod me.
_Self-Defense for Dummies_
In my truck I leaned my head on the steering wheel and forced the first full breath of the day through my lungs. It was the worst day I'd had in over a year. But I'd done it. I'd worked my shift with Misty hectoring and abusing me every minute. I'd done my work. I was exhausted and terrified. Misty wanted my son and now I'd revved back up into a wild state.
But I'd defied her. I had survived on pure spite.
That night I took Max to the park. While Janette read on a bench, we flew a beagle-shaped kite as the setting sun glared like the eye of Sauron. I watched him for signs of tics, but there was nothing. If a kite flyer can get "in the zone," Max was in it. Janette came and sat on my lap. I kissed her neck and let my head rest on her shoulder. "Today was awful," I said.
"What happened?"
"Tics."
"Mommy, look!"
She waved at Max. "I see you! There's a lot going on. It's not that surprising, is it?"
"Probably not. But I really thought I was done with this. Maybe it'll just be today."
"Anything I can do?"
"No. Believe me, I'd ask. Hey! Max, no!" He'd seen a moth in the early evening and was chasing it as the kite sailed away on the wind.
One day when I was four years old, I went outside to play with friends who lived down the street. I held a fearsome whip made of rope. My dad made it for me when I told him about the dog at the end of the street that always barked at me from behind its fence. That whip made me feel safe, even though I never hit anything fiercer than a pile of leaves with it.
But before I reached the dog I saw something on the sidewalk. I looked down. My eyes widened. I screamed! Lying there in vivid, moist, grotesque bas-relief, was a moth.
The moth had bright purple wings. The wings had vivid yellow streaks in them, like fingers. Its body was a dark brown, and two dark feelers extended from its head. Nothing too extraordinary about any of that. But I kid you not, from wingtip to wingtip that moth must have been a foot across. It was enormous. It was gorgeous and horrific.
I ran into the house, grabbed my mom's hand, and dragged her outside as I babbled and exclaimed.
I took Mom to the spot, pointed at the ground, and, of course...there was nothing there. I sputtered and protested and told her what had happened, but I couldn't reproduce it. I had no proof for her. No way to show her what I'd seen.
Mom could have reacted in a lot of different ways. She could have said:
"No, you didn't."
"Stop telling stories."
"It's not nice to lie."
"I don't have time for this."
Mom could have said a lot of things. Instead, she looked at the spot where the moth had been, she looked at me, she put her hand on my shoulder, she looked at the sky, and she said, "Hmm...Where do you think it went next?"
It was the right question, at the right time, from the right teacher. There was only one possible result: I couldn't help but wonder.
That's been good and bad. I think just about everything is interesting. However, I've not been able to stop wondering about things even when I want to, or especially when I want to.
Like the night after we flew the kite and Max chased the moth. I thought, _He was perfect, but part of you is in him. You did this to him. Now he's broken. What's going to happen to him? What are you going to do?_
" _Joooo-osh_ ," said Janette as I shifted yet again, causing the mattress liner to slip off the corner with an obnoxious _thwap_. "Calm _down_. It's going to be fine. _He's_ going to be fine and so are you."
"But what if he can't handle school? What if he can't work?"
"What if he can't? Then we'll do what we need to do. It's not happening right now."
"What if he blames me? It's my fault."
"He won't. And even if he does, he'd be wrong. And it would be _our_ fault. But this is totally irrational. You don't know if he's got it. Even if he does, you know it might not be as bad as yours. It could stop when he's five, or ten, or tonight."
I hoped so.
I hope so.
Janette was right; nobody knows better than I that if Max has Tourette's, there's no guarantee that it will be anything like my case. Maybe he'll never do more than blink. Maybe he'll stop blinking when he's five and that will be the end of this piece of his story. Maybe, like my own case, he won't really have trouble until later. Maybe he'll have a case so much worse than mine that they'll rename the disorder after him.
I can't know. But I can't stop wondering, either, especially now that my own tics have erupted again, worse than ever. I have to admit that I don't know as much about Misty as I thought I did.
She came back because of new and potent stresses that overwhelmed my system: first, Max's tics. Then I learned that a dear friend had breast cancer. My sister Megan was having new and horrible health challenges of her own. I thought I'd throttled Misty. Now Misty was back to throttling me.
I did what had worked before. I tested out my exercises. I tried to move better and rid myself of extra tension. Nothing helped. And every time a previous solution failed to bring relief, there was the stress of thinking, "Well, if you can't figure this out, how are you going to help Max?" This fed the stress, and around and around it went.
I didn't know what else to try. When I told Adam, he said, "That sucks, man, I'm sorry. Any idea why it's bad again?"
There was too much to say, and he'd already heard most of it. "I think I'm just too busy. I can't free up any space in my head. I'm a little embarrassed, honestly. I really thought I was cured."
"Yeah, I know, but it's fun to be wrong. It just means you can learn something. Can I help?"
"I don't think so. I'm still doing everything you taught me. It's just not working right now. I'll figure it out." I didn't sound confident.
"All right. Tell me if I can help. Don't be one of these proud douche bags who thinks he has to do everything himself or he's weak."
And he hung up.
What I didn't tell Adam—because I wanted to figure out the problems without his help—was that I was injuring myself constantly and there were few movements I could try without pain. Misty was constantly forcing me to tense my body, contracting the muscles all at once, as hard as I could. Normally this just wore me out, but if it happened when I was in the wrong physical position, it actually damaged me. These new mega-combo tics were showing up more often. For instance, imagine that you're standing on my left and suddenly the back of my left hand slaps your stomach—my arm has rotated out at a right angle. (I wasn't hitting people, that's just the motion.) That wasn't a new tic, but now, once my arm was rotated away from body, my elbow and bicep tendons were in a vulnerable position. And that's when I was contracting the hardest, once it got to that point. The tendons would scream and the muscles would grate over the bones and suddenly I wouldn't be able to do any pushing or pulling for a week.
There were equivalent pains in my legs, hips, neck, ankles, and jaw.
One by one, the movements that had once been beneficial to me were being taken away. Movements didn't test well—increase my range of motion—if they hurt, and now everything hurt.
I had gotten myself up to a 590-pound dead lift, a 375-pound squat, and a 350-pound bench press.* Now I couldn't lift half of those numbers without pain. And the most maddening thing was that it wasn't pain from pulling nearly 600 pounds off the ground! It was pain from stupid tics!
But the numbers were never the point. Progress was the point. Dan John—a legendary track-and-field coach and dear friend—is fond of saying, "The goal is to keep the goal the goal." Meaning, don't get distracted. But Dan was used to having guys tell him, "I want to bench press five hundred pounds," but when he'd tell them to bench more often to improve the bench press, they'd say, "Well, someone on the internet said that the key to benching more is to press light kettlebells really, really fast. Shouldn't I be doing that?"
I just wanted my weightlifting numbers to go up consistently, to be stronger than the day before. I didn't care what the numbers were. And now, because of the pain, my ability to get stronger every day was in jeopardy.
I talked to my dad on the phone a couple of days later. "What does Adam say about it all?" he asked.
"He says don't be a proud douche bag. That's about it."
He laughed. "That's probably always good advice. Do you want to know what I think?"
"Sure."
"Well, let me ask you something first. Are you still lifting?"
"Not like I was. No. I mean, I do a little, I just haven't had the urge. Now that it's not helping as much."
"Yeah, I can see that, but you need to do it. We've all seen it. You've seen it. Now why aren't you doing it?"
"I'm too tired."
"No, you're not. Why aren't you doing it?"
"I'm too busy."
"Ha! Are you going to answer me?"
_Nope._ I really don't know why it was so hard for me to admit that the tics were hurting me, but it was. "Dad, it's not helping like it used to. It's actually making it _worse_. And that's scary because I've got nothing else to try."
"Oh, so you feel _better_ if you don't do it? So you try _nothing_?"
"No. I just...I'm tired of this. I want to know why it's happening again."
"Forget about knowing why and get back at it. If you're tired of what you're doing, do something else, but do something. Hike up your skirt, sonny."
I did it. Literally.
That night I played around online before going to bed. On Facebook, I saw a picture of a man wearing a kilt, mid-spin, preparing to heave a massive weight on a chain.
I Googled "getting started in Highland Games."
The next day I ordered a kilt and sent a check for twenty-five dollars to the liaison for the Highland Games in Payson, Utah. I had two months to prepare and no idea what to do. This is what constitutes due diligence in my decision-making process.
The Highland Games are contests of ancient Scottish athletic events. Most of them involve throwing weights, stones, logs, or sheaves of straw for distance or height. I had no experience with any of them and the techniques I watched online felt impossibly clumsy when I tried them, so I decided to go it alone this first time.
I spent the next two months throwing things in my backyard. Kettlebells, stones, chains, forty-five-pound plates, logs, and whatever else I could find. Throwing was totally different from anything else I had tried. It required fast, explosive movement. And little by little, to my great surprise, the tics began to let go of me again.*
One night when I got home from work I asked Janette to come talk to me in the backyard while I threw. It was dark.
I spun once, released the twenty-five-pound kettlebell, and knew it had gone wrong. It was too dark to see where it was going to land.
It landed on the roof with a fantastic crash. Janette was not pleased. But other than that night she was completely supportive. On the morning of the competition she said:
"Spin around. Let me see how pretty you are."
"No," I said. "Let's just go."
"Come on. Twirl!"
I gave her one small twirl because I knew she'd never stop. The gray-green-and-black kilt that hung to just above my knees flared out, then settled onto my thighs again. It cost seventy dollars from Sportkilt.com.
Janette, Max, and I got in the car and drove sixty miles to the Payson Scottish Festival. A Highland Games is like a combination of a track meet and a fair. When we arrived at the park, we wended our way through a series of booths, vendors, bagpipe bands, and concession stands before finding the grass field where the throwers competed.
Everyone but me seemed to be eating funnel cake, which is kind of like a spongy French fry with powdered sugar.
"Should we get Max a funnel cake?" I said.
Janette snorted. "I'll get you some when you're done."
On the field, a group of men in kilts stretched, warmed up, yelled, and grunted as they threw the odd-shaped weights. I checked in, got my T-shirt (purchased with my registration fee), and tried to look like I knew what I was doing as I walked onto the field and introduced myself. I'd registered for the C class, the lowliest of the three amateur divisions. My goals: to not place last in every event and to find people who could teach me some technique.
The first event for C class was called "weight for height," or "weight over the bar." Here's how it works: The group agrees on what the starting height will be. A bar on a pole-vault-type apparatus is set to that height. Then each competitor, swinging a weight on a handle—forty-two pounds for our division—tries to throw it over the bar with one hand. If you clear the bar, you advance to the next round. If you miss, you get two more attempts at that height. If you miss those attempts, you have to watch everyone else continue while you sit there and wonder what might have been.
I was surprised that I won the event. Thousands of reps swinging a kettlebell and ripping heavy weights off the ground, not to mention my height, had given me an advantage. I faced the cheering crowd—seated on bleachers ten feet away—and took a bow. When I stood, I convulsed briefly, all at once, as if shocked. I clucked my tongue and let out a mild "Woo!" before rejoining my group.
Misty had followed us.
"That's my dad!" shouted Max from the bleachers.
That settled it. I wanted to win.
For the next seven hours, I threw with my group. I'd expected a group of big, strutting Scots with haggis dripping from their beards, everyone hoping the others would mess up, or scratch, or fall down, so that they could win instead. But everyone was encouraging. I was surprised a couple of times when athletes from the top class approached to give pointers to me and the other newbies. One man said that I'd do better if I wore cleats that would dig into the grass, and then insisted that I go get his extra set out of his car.
Everyone cheered. Everyone helped. Everyone improved.
Max and Janette disappeared a few times so that he could go play on the playground. Once when he reappeared he had a plateful of funnel cake for me. I sat on the grass with him during lunch and as we watched a flock of birds eat some spilled popcorn, Max blinked his eyes constantly, rapidly.
"Max, do you have something in your eye?" I asked, annoyed at my accelerating heartbeat.
"No, I'm good," he said.
"He's fine," said Janette. "You heard him."
I threw hammers. I pitched a burlap sack full of straw over a bar. I tried to toss the caber, an eighteen-foot metal pole for our class, and failed miserably. I heaved stones for distance. And finally, at the end of the day, it was time for the weight-for-distance event.
Picture a bowling ball on a twelve-inch length of chain. Your goal is to throw it as far as you can. The problem is that the bowling ball weighs forty-two pounds if you're in the C class, and fifty-six pounds for everyone else. No matter how awkward you think this sounds, it's more awkward than that. All day I'd been watching the other classes attempting this event. I'd seen people fall down and get flat out dragged from the box as the weight threw them, not the other way around. No other event had generated more grunting and screaming from the athletes.
When it was my turn, I looked at the crowd. Max stood on the other side of the yellow "caution" tape, but now he had put on my shoes, Converse Chuck Taylors that were twelve sizes too big for him. "Throw it far!" he yelled.
I tried, but somehow, when the weight spun around me, it tore off my kilt and dragged me three feet outside of the throwing zone. I had shorts on underneath, but still...the goal was not to tear off your kilt and scratch and get a distance of not even one inch. I'd seen guys eighty pounds lighter than I was throwing this weight for incredible distances. How were they doing it?
I wasn't sure I understood the scoring system, but I knew I had more second-place finishes in the events than anyone else in my group. I thought I could still place if I could get at least one substantial throw.
The next time up, I managed to keep my skirt on and get a decent throw in. I focused on being smooth, not trying to horse it up and muscle it out there.
"You made that look easy," one of my group members said. "It's nice to see someone with that much control."
I screamed and bit my tongue.
He stepped back. "What was that? Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine," I said. "And thank you." And that was it.
"So how'd you get into this?" he asked, gesturing at the field.
There was no short explanation for that one, so I just said, "A friend thought I would like it."
"You're a strong guy," he said. "Do you work in construction or something?"
"I'm a librarian."
"Oh. Wait, what—like in a library?"
Then it was my final throw of the day. I blew Max a kiss, walked to the throwing zone, and hefted the weight. The chain clinked as it grew taut. I got low, dropping into a more powerful position. I tried to ignore the noisy crowd, the droning of the bagpipe bands, and to feel nothing but the pressure of the weight in my hand. To feel the brief control I had over my body. Then I realized my lips were moving, that I was actually speaking. I started laughing way harder than made sense to anyone else, stood up straight, set the weight down, and asked, "Am I allowed to reset?"
"Yes," said the judge.
Janette shouted, "What's so funny?"
I raised my palms and shook them at her: _It doesn't matter._
I noticed that Max was holding one of my shoelaces in his hand. He had taken it out of my shoe and Janette had tied it around a rock. He was ready to throw.
Janette never asked me what I'd been laughing about. But if she had, I'd have told her that in the seconds before that throw, I'd caught myself praying.
_Oh please oh please help me help me help me._
It wasn't directed to anyone in particular, but I was pleading for help, praying for a way to win.
I dropped into a crouch, spun, and threw, with a scream that had nothing to do with Misty. The weight soared from my hands, beyond my reach, up and up as the crowd cheered, and as I watched its trajectory, my arms outstretched to the sky, I could only hope that I'd done enough.
* Adapted from a brilliant book by the same name.
* Now, this makes me stronger than people who don't train, and I'm at the high end of the intermediate level, but these numbers would get me laughed out of a powerlifting gym. There are guys in my weight class who can double my numbers, or more.
* My theory is that if I do any lift for too long, the involved musculature gets too rigid, and rigidity is strongly associated to my tics. All of the heavy, slow lifting I'd been doing had tightened me up more than I realized. Moving a weight quickly through a safe range of motion—throwing—was loosening the tissue back up.
# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I finished reading the final version of this book, I thought, "This is a really weird story." The blame must lie with me, but I'd be remiss if I didn't provide a list of the other guilty parties.
First, my wife, Janette. I'll never be able to say what you mean to me well enough, but I'll show you.
My son, Max. Keep asking. I'll do my best to help you find answers.
Mom and Dad. People involved in the editing of this book kept saying, "It's just so refreshing to see someone write _lovingly_ about their parents." What else could I have done? And you're still coming to my games after thirty-five years.
Megan, Kyle, Lindsey, and Sydney. I'm proud to be your big brother and uncle.
My in-laws. I got just as lucky with all of you as I did with my own family.
Spencer Throssell. Thanks for the call. I missed you.
Adam T. Glass, man of one thousand scowls. You gave me my best shot at a normal life, which is all I ever wanted. Keep that claw hammer close.
My agent, Lisa Dimona, who loved the tree that oinks. It took four years, but we got there. I just realized that I still owe you 1,500 bucks.
My deadlifting editor, Megan Newman, who held me to a standard I didn't know I was capable of. And who stopped me from including something highly inappropriate about bonobos. Megan, did you ever suspect that sometimes I wrote crap just to annoy you and get your fiery reaction?
My publisher, William "the Legend" Shinker, who promised that my book cover would incorporate a kettlebell, a temple, and Mitt Romney. And who then backed out like a chicken.
Lisa Johnson, you probably don't know it, but you put me at ease during that first meeting when I was terrified that my tics were going to wreck the book deal.
Gigi Campo, who understands casual references to _Never Give an Inch_.
Beth Parker and Lindsay Gordon, who helped people find this story.
Frankie Faires, who understands pain and desperation. Come down from the mountaintop, you brilliant weirdo—people need to know about you.
All the children with Tourette's who have written to me. You're stronger than you think. Keep marching forward.
For the parents of children with Tourette's. They'll be fine. And if you ever think I can help you with anything, please ask.
The staff and patrons of the Salt Lake City Public Library.
The inimitable editor Betsy Rapoport, who once looked into my eyes and said, "Well, excuse my effrontery, bitch." I love you. No joke.
Readers of my blog.
Seth Godin, who, after seeing one of my tics, said: "Wow! This is like writer's block that you can see!" You were under no obligation to change my life, but I'm glad you did.
Chuck Palahniuk. "Wow, you should write," said your letter. I did. Thanks for the power panda and the switchblade comb.
Every author, reader, and librarian.
And finally, a very special thank-you to Stephen King. Your books gave me some close calls, but I'd read them all again. In fact, I'm going to start right now.
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Monthly Archive for January, 2009
: January, 2009
Premium Auto Show standouts
By Tim Spell on January 31, 2009 at 9:55 PM
See related story in today's InMotion section, and 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– Among the list of premium stand-outs at the 2009 Houston …
New shapes at the show
See 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– Sheet metal can be found sculpted in a variety of new, interesting shapes at the 2009 Houston Auto Show, …
The LaCrosse — Buick's "renaissance car"
By Tim Spell on January 29, 2009 at 11:00 PM
See 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– < 2010 BUICK LACROSSE On display at the 2009 Houston Auto Show is the 2010 LaCrosse — a production …
"Heidi's Pics" from the Auto Show's Classic Corral
By Tim Spell on January 29, 2009 at 7:43 AM
See 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– HEIDI VAN HORNE Heidi Van Horne, author of the Houston Chronicle InMotion section's "Heidi's Pics," made a …
Auto Show gets greener
See 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– No surprise, many of the manufacturers at the 2009 Houston Auto Show are on a mission to show off …
Most important new models at the auto show
See 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– Looking around the Reliant Center, trying to pick out displays to visit, can be a bit overwhelming. …
A new Pontiac coupe and pony-car magic
See 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– 2009 PONTIAC SOLSTICE COUPE 2010 FORD MUSTANG 2010 CHEVROLET CAMARO 2009 DODGE CHALLENGER Sixties pony …
Big 3 pickups haul macho, efficiency
By Tim Spell on January 23, 2009 at 12:08 AM
See related story in today's InMotion section, and 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– 2010 FORD F-150 SVT RAPTOR 2009 DODGE RAM 1500 RAMBOX CHEVY …
Big 3 unleashes '60s pony-car magic at auto show
See related story in today's InMotion section, and 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– 2010 FORD MUSTANG 2010 CHEVROLET CAMARO 2009 DODGE …
HADA chairman upbeat about car-sales future
See related story in today's InMotion section, and 2009 Houston Auto Show highlights at chron.com/houstonautoshow ————————– "Houston auto dealers — and for that matter dealers across …
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{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
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### CINDER
BOOK FOUR OF THE DRAGON APOCALYPSE
#
### Copyright © 2016 by James Maxey
### ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
### Cover art by Giared Terrelli
### First Printing
### Smashwords Edition
### The author may be contacted at
### james@jamesmaxey.net
### For the voices in my head.
### Please stop pestering me.
# CHAPTER ONE
# THE FINAL CHAPTER
Wind lashed the Black Swan as she straddled the massive killer whale that flew through the howling blizzard. The night was utterly dark, the stars lost behind storm clouds, but her gaze extended beyond the material world. In the faint glow of the spiritual realms, she could see the Keep of the Inquisition rising before them.
"We're close enough to land," she shouted above the cry of the wind.
The whale tilted, diving down. With her inhuman eyes, she saw the frozen surface of the sea rushing toward them and wondered if Menagerie was about to crash. At the last second, the whale shifted shape, taking on the form of a polar bear inches above the ice, landing with a jolt. The Black Swan dug her iron fingers into the beast's fur to keep from being thrown.
"Ow," said Menagerie, rising on her hind legs as the Black Swan dropped to the ice. "Pulled fur doesn't feel any better than pulled hair."
"I can't remember what that's like," said the Black Swan. "It's been centuries since I last had hair."
Still standing, the bear sniffed the air. The beast wore a gray silk cape that flapped in the wind, the ends threadbare and tattered. Menagerie's nose twitched as she turned her head first to the left, then the right, before releasing her breath in a great cloud of steam.
"Be ready," said Menagerie, her voice a gruff growl. "Someone's near. I smell them."
"Alive or dead?" asked the Black Swan.
"Alive," said Menagerie. "Whoever it is, they're wearing way too much perfume. Bears have better noses than bloodhounds. This much concentrated lavender is obnoxious."
"I'll take your word for it. I haven't had a working nose in a long time, either," said the Black Swan.
The Black Swan climbed to the peak of a frozen swell, the spikes in her iron feet skittering on the gray ice. Her diamond eyes whirred as she adjusted their focus, until at last she spotted the purple-robed figure standing atop jagged rocks on the nearby shore.
No, not standing. Dancing, arms lifted, toes barely touching as the figure gracefully leapt from rock to rock.
"Zetetic?" Menagerie asked as she climbed up the swell.
The Black Swan shook her head. "Equity Tremblepoint."
"Is she a lunatic? She'll freeze in this wind."
"No one who lives here can be called sane," said the Black Swan, as she slid down the swell and continued toward the Keep.
White flowers of frost crunched beneath the Black Swan's steel toes as she ascended the pebble beach toward the front gate. She glanced back across the trackless ice.
"I hope we've had enough of a head start," she said.
"I didn't mind flying here as Slor Tonn," said the bear. "It helped clear the scent of burning flesh from my lungs."
Hours had passed they fled the Silver City. The last of King Brightmoon's elite guard had tried to push back Tempest's unliving armies by pumping burning oil from massive jets atop the palace walls. The endless hordes of marching corpses had kept advancing as they burned, crushing against the heavy oak of the barred doors until the wood finally gave way. The burning army had surged into the palace, bringing death to the last defenders of civilization.
Reaching the main gate of the Keep of the Inquisition, the Black Swan pounded on the iron bars, hoping her knocking could be heard above the storm. Her hope was rewarded as chains clattered within the walls and the gate rose. Beyond the gate, massive iron doors slowly opened.
After weeks without seeing the sun, she had to raise her hand to block the radiance that flowed from within the castle. She stepped into the great hall, brightly lit with a thousand glory stones floating in silver cages that filled the torch sconces. After the chill of the frozen ocean, the warmth of the hall felt like a furnace.
The bear stood once more on her hind legs, then shrank until it took the form of a woman with gray hair. For an instant, the frost that had tipped the bear's fur glittered like diamonds against her nude skin until her gray cloak fell around her. She took a step forward, stumbling slightly.
"Are you okay?" asked the Black Swan.
"I'm fine," said Menagerie. "A little out of practice. First time I've walked on human legs in weeks."
The Black Swan moved further into the hall, gazing at the paintings and sculptures covering the space. It was difficult to discern a theme among the artwork. Paintings depicting church-like piety hung above marble nudes posed in acts of depravity.
Menagerie paused before a painting of a platinum-haired woman wearing pure white armor. The resemblance between the faces of the viewer and the subject was striking.
"Queen Alabaster Brightmoon," the Black Swan said. "Your current body's distant ancestor."
"With paintings like this around, it's surprising it took us all so long to realize Infidel was a Brightmoon."
The Black Swan shrugged. "I knew it all along. I recognized the value of keeping her secret."
Menagerie shook her head. "Does anything have value now? Both of us spent our lives in pursuit of wealth. My estate on the Silver Isles makes this fortress look like a cottage. You've got enough treasure stashed away to purchase kingdoms if you wished. Now, what's it all worth? Absolutely nothing."
"So I don't need to pay you when this is over?" asked the Black Swan.
"A contract's a contract," said Menagerie.
"Of course," the Black Swan said. "It's good to see that some things remain true even in these—" The Black Swan stopped in mid-thought as a drawing in a glass frame caught her attention. It was a likeness of herself, naked, or at least unclothed. She didn't know if the bareness of her iron shell constituted nudity or not. In any case, she now wore britches and a jacket of leather to conceal her metallic form. A broad-brimmed hat concealed her hairless scalp. Only her iron feet, fingers, and face remained bare.
She picked up the frame, studying the intricate detail of the drawing, carefully inked with crisp black lines. Beside the depiction of her outer form, dozens of gears, pulleys, and braided iron wires were sketched out, along with a pair of bellows. These comprised her internal organs. A human skeleton was drawn next to the objects. The stark depiction of her naked bones felt like the ultimate invasion of privacy.
"When did you pose for that?" asked Menagerie.
"I didn't," she said, the lenses in her eyes clicking into ever sharper focus, until she could be certain that the black lines weren't soaked into the paper as ink, but instead sat slightly raised upon the surface, crafted of pure, rustless iron filaments fine as hair. "Sorrow's been here. She sculpted my current body. These were her final plans, the ones I approved." She shook her head slowly. "The breasts look better on paper."
"Please don't get started on that again," Menagerie said with a sigh.
"Yes," said a faint voice behind the two women. "Please don't start a discussion of breasts until I'm close enough to participate. I've strong opinions on the subject."
They turned and found an ancient man hobbling toward them, supported by a stave decorated with carved serpents. The old man was toothless, his right eye a yellow, sightless moon. His good eye sparkled as he regarded the two women.
"I'm so pleased you're here!" he said, smiling. "I'd given up hope of seeing an actual woman again before the world ended."
"What of the woman dancing outside?" asked Menagerie.
"Equity? She's no woman. At least, I don't think she is. Or he is." He scratched his scaly scalp. "Pronouns get muddled when Equity takes the stage."
"Why's she dancing?" asked the Black Swan.
"To say goodbye to the world, of course," said the old man. "Zetetic tells us it's ending within the hour. If we make haste and disrobe along the way, we can still reach my chambers in time to— "
"If you finish that sentence I'll disembowel you," said Menagerie.
The old man frowned.
"We've no time to waste," said the Black Swan. "We must see Zetetic at once."
"Zetetic isn't taking visitors.
"Tell him the Black Swan must see him."
"And Menagerie. He knows me. We were companions during the quest to slay Greatshadow."
The old man smiled. "As long as we're doing introductions, I'm Vigor."
"I know who you are," said the Black Swan. "You're an authority on reptiles."
"Yes," he said. "Though my specialty is dragons."
"If you know about dragons, do you have any clue how we can stop Tempest?" she asked.
Vigor shook his head. "Tempest is something much worse than a dragon these days. Nothing can save us, I fear."
"I can't accept that," said the Black Swan. "Zetetic's powers are almost without limit. Why hasn't he acted? He has the power to stop this with any of a thousand different lies."
"Zetetic would agree with you," said Vigor. "But he says things will happen as they happen. He says that lies are but shadows cast by truth, and that truth has vanished from the world."
"What does _that_ mean?" asked Menagerie.
Vigor shrugged. "It's been a long time since I had a conversation with Zetetic where I understood a single thing he was talking about."
"Then let us talk to him," said the Black Swan.
"As I said, he's not taking visitors."
The Black Swan's arm sprung out with spring-driven force and clamped iron fingers around Vigor's throat. "Take us to him or I'll throttle you."
Vigor smiled weakly, gasping, "Threats aren't... terribly effective... with the end... so near."
The Black Swan opened her fingers. "There won't be an end if Zetetic acts. With a single utterance, he could undo all of this! He could send Tempest's armies back to Hell. He could free Abyss from Hush's control. He could at least tell us what Tempest did to the sun, and how we might put it back into the sky!"
Vigor rubbed his throat. "I hold out the faint hope that Equity's sense of stagecraft has rubbed off on our host. Perhaps he's waiting for the moment of greatest peril to make a grand entrance and turn back all the horror."
"It's hard to imagine things getting any worse than they are at this exact moment," said Menagerie.
From outside the open gate, above the howl of the wind, came a bone-shivering, high-pitched shriek. The Black Swan cut her eyes toward Menagerie, her iron eyebrows knitting together.
"I regretted saying it before the last word left my lips," said Menagerie.
Equity Tremblepoint stumbled through the open gate into the hall. Her purple robes were torn to tatters. When she spotted Vigor, she raised the back of her hand to her forehead, shuddered, and collapsed against the door, her figure framed by the darkness behind her. She arched her back, extended her hand with its long, red nails, pointing into the darkness, trembling, as she exclaimed, "The damned! They've found us!"
The Black Swan ran to the gate. A trio of dead soldiers stood in the darkness barely a yard away, with shreds of Equity's robes still dangling from their skeletal fingers. One carried a black blade that stank of sulfur as he raised it overhead, preparing to chop the Black Swan in twain.
There was a slight tap on the Black Swan's shoulder as a squirrel used her for a launching pad to fling itself toward the sword-wielding corpse. By the time it reached the warrior, the squirrel had changed into an enormous silverback gorilla. The beast grabbed the lead corpse by the wrist and swiftly disarmed it, in the most literal meaning of the word. Using the dismembered limbs as clubs, the gorilla knocked the skulls free from the shambling forms flanking the first skeleton.
Menagerie turned to the Black Swan. "Find the Deceiver! I'll hold them off!"
The Black Swan peered into the darkness, spotting the ragged forms lurching over the frozen swells. Their numbers were uncountable, as if Hell had thrown up all of its damned souls. Which, of course, was precisely what was happening. The damned had been promised the world once the last of the living perished. As far as the Black Swan knew, the last men still alive were the inhabitants of this small island.
"Why hasn't he stopped this?" whimpered Equity. "I thought he would stop this!"
"Fall back!" the Black Swan shouted to Menagerie. "There's too many of them! Get inside the gate!"
"You've seen how quickly they can penetrate a fortress," Menagerie growled. "I can hold out far longer than iron bars."
"Not alone," said the Black Swan.
"He won't be alone," said Vigor, hobbling forward.
The gorilla's eyebrows shot up. "No offense, but I'm not sure how much help you're going to be."
Vigor began to undress, struggling to pull his robe over his head, revealing his boney, wrinkled body.
Equity's sobbing despair turned into a rueful chuckle. "There was no chance the world could come to an end without Vigor taking one last opportunity to display his genitalia."
But it wasn't Vigor's crotch that caught the Black Swan's attention. An elaborately inked tattoo completely engulfed Vigor's torso, depicting a dragon in minute detail. The dark lines pulsed and glowed as Vigor pulled a small flask of powder from a pocket before he tossed his robe aside.
On wobbly legs thin as sticks, he shouted to Menagerie, "You think you're the only person who ever studied blood magic? For three long years I lived with the scion of Greatshadow. I collected blood frequently while he was under my care. He had no reason to suspect I intended to study draconic biology from a vastly improved perspective."
He popped open the cork on the vial and tilted his head back, shaking the powdery contents into his gaping mouth. The wind snatched away much of the dark powder, giving the air the scent of blood. Vigor coughed as he strained to swallow the dusty mouthful. Red spittle flew from between his lips. He coughed again, more violently, and a jet of flame shot ten feet from his open mouth. The flames melted his face, which grew longer, more narrow, as the heat covered his skin with vivid red blisters, crusted with black. His body bulged as he dropped to all fours. With a horrible rip, his paper-thin skin split along his spine and two long red wings unfolded from between his shoulder blades.
In ten seconds, the transformation was complete, and a dragon larger than a bull with wings the size of mainsails stood facing the armies of the damned. He opened his crocodilian jaws and roared. An inferno billowed over the waves, incinerating the front ranks of the shambling dead.
Menagerie grabbed the Black Swan by the shoulders, refocusing her attention.
"Go!" the gorilla shouted. "Make Zetetic stop this!"
The Black Swan nodded, turning, grabbing Equity by the waist and slinging her over her shoulder as she ran into the hall.
"Where can I find him?" she shouted.
"Put me down before I throw up!" Equity shouted back.
The Black Swan put the aged thespian back on her feet. Equity responded by pointing at a stairway at the back of the hall. "Zetetic dwells in the uppermost chamber of the main tower!"
"You're sure he's there?" asked the Black Swan.
"Of course not. He's probably long gone into an abstract realm. Even if you find his body, I don't know that his mind will be with it. But what choice do you have but to try?"
"I've been asking myself that for over two hundred years," grumbled the Black Swan as she ran toward the stairs, her feet clanging like hammer blows on the marble floor. She took some comfort from her certainty that Equity was wrong. Zetetic hadn't fled to another reality. If a portal to an abstract realm had been opened here on the island, she'd know it. As a traveler of those realms, she could feel a pressure in the roof of her mouth, faint but unmistakable, whenever she was near a dimensional veil that had been breached.
She raced up the steps to the floor above. The light of a great fire flickered through an open window. She glanced out to see Vigor nearly a quarter mile out on the ice, spewing flames, spinning as he blasted the armies massed against him. Unfortunately, from her higher vantage point, the vastness of the army stood revealed. As large as the dragon was, he couldn't protect the Keep from being overrun.
She ran on. Her only hope lay at the top of the stairs. Her tireless legs moved with machine precision to propel her upwards, leaping three steps at a time.
At last she reached a locked door. She hoped beyond this she'd find Zetetic. She pounded on the door with her fist. "Open up! It's the Black Swan! You owe your life to me!"
When no reply came, she threw herself against the door. The thick wood cracked, but held. She threw herself again, then again, until the door came apart and she stumbled into the chamber beyond. Instantly, she felt the familiar sensation in the roof of her mouth. In passing through the door, she'd left the material world behind.
She found herself in a room lined with paper, in large sheets pasted roughly to stone walls. The paper had been painted white, though here and there some faint traces of words seeped through the chalky wash. The edges of the room were difficult to pinpoint, but the space felt cavernous. In the center of the space, dressed in red robes, sat Zetetic, cross-legged, his head in his hands, staring at objects before him.
She stepped closer, and saw a can of white paint before him, a worn and ragged brush balanced on the lip of the open container. Beside this was an inkwell, with a simple goose quill next to it, the tip black as soot. On the paper before Zetetic a few hundred words had been jotted, in a language she couldn't read.
"Zetetic?" she said, softly.
He said nothing.
"Zetetic, it's me. The Black Swan. I paid King Brightmoon to spare your life when you were captured by the Church of the Book all those years ago. I greased the palms required to let the king trust you with teaching Stagger how to guide the sun, and paid the necessary fees to have you take possession of this island. You owe me."
Zetetic didn't even look up.
She moved to a few feet away. She crouched, her iron joints creaking. Studying his face, she confirmed he was awake. He blinked, but never lifted his eyes to acknowledge her.
She reached for the quill, the focus of his attention.
The Deceiver's hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist.
"I owe you nothing," he said in a calm, measured tone.
"Zetetic, listen to me. I know that out here in the Spittles, news may be slow to reach you. The Dragon Apocalypse is upon us."
"It know what lies beyond these walls. Nothing at all, or very nearly nothing. All that remains of our world are echoes and shadows, soon to fade."
"That can't be true!" she said. "Yes, Stagger has vanished, and the sun has been torn from the sky. In the endless night, Tempest has thrown open the gates of Hell and the destruction wrought by his army of the damned is unimaginable in scope. Hush has enslaved Abyss, his mind frozen by her elemental chill, so that nothing prevents her from turning the whole world into a frigid wasteland. But it's not too late! We have to hope that pockets of humanity yet survive. If we stop the dragons, enough remains of the world that we can rebuild!"
"I know all of this," said Zetetic, lifting the quill, running his finger along the edge. "I've known it before it happened, thanks to your careful reporting from the future. Everything is happening, just as you said. You have the ultimate opportunity to say, fully, profoundly, 'Told you so.' This must provide you a great deal of satisfaction.' "
"Don't be absurd!" she cried. "I've devoted numerous lifetimes to preventing this day. You swore you'd help me stop it!"
He smiled, ever so faintly. "Certainly you knew better than to take the word of the Deceiver."
"Why would you lie when it means your own death?"
"Why should I fear death? It's nothing but a door."
"A door I've passed through many times," the Black Swan said. "Trust me, the living world is far better."
"You've traveled to the abstract realms, as have I. They are mere shadows of the living world. When life is gone, and they fade away, what will we discover beyond?"
"What if it's nothing?" she asked. "Certainly it's best to fight to save the world we know."
"I don't believe that at all," said Zetetic. "I'm certain that the reality we know is nothing but a fiction created for the entertainment of beings unfathomable. We're puppets. I would rid myself of strings."
The Black Swan stared into his face, unable to fathom the placidity of his eyes. She whispered, her voice breaking into despair, "You're mad."
"Perhaps." Zetetic focused his gaze on the tip of the quill, as if inspecting its quality as a writing instrument. "But insulting me is a poor strategy for getting me to change my mind."
"What will change your mind?" she asked.
"The more valuable secret for me would be to discover how to stop it from changing."
If she'd still had hair, she'd have torn it out. She'd never enjoyed any of her previous conversations with Zetetic, but she had no patience at all for his babble now. She stretched out her arms, seeing no choice but to take him by the throat and throttle him into obedience.
"That will end very badly for you," he said as her hands approached him. "Besides, you've other concerns at the moment. Stagger's back."
"What?"
"Stagger's back. I know you've been searching for him. He's approaching the Keep even now."
The Black Swan drew her hands back. She knew he was telling the truth, or else had told a lie that had become the truth. The pressure in the roof of her mouth became a stabbing sensation. A being of enormous power had just entered into the real world.
"Stagger?" she whispered, then ran back to the stairway and the nearest tower window.
Walking along the ocean toward the Keep was a flare of light vaguely the size and shape of a man. His radiance disintegrated the undead hordes as he passed.
Pressing a button on the side of her temple, the Black Swan dropped lenses of smoked glass over her eyes. The radiance dimmed, allowing her to see a man at the center of the light, wearing a suit of yellow silk, his long hair tied back neatly into a ponytail.
Bright sunlight lit the frozen waves surrounding the Keep. On the sea below, the dragon gazed up at the light, smoke rising from his nostrils. In a circle several hundred yards around him charred corpses were heaped high.
Menagerie, still in gorilla form, stood atop the wall of corpses, her fur completely matted with dark blood.
Stagger reached the mound of bodies. Extending his arms to his side, he drifted into the air, rising above the corpses, until he was eye level with the gorilla.
"Who are you?" Vigor demanded from inside the circle of bodies, his voice loud enough to be heard from the top of the tower.
"Once I was Abstemious Merchant," said Stagger. "A solar gentleman. Now, I am a loyal servant of Tempest. If you'll please step aside, I'm here to kill Zetetic."
"Kill Zetetic?" asked Menagerie. "I thought the two of you were buddies."
"Menagerie," said Stagger, turning his gaze toward the shapeshifter. "I'm genuinely sorry." A flash followed. The Black Swan blinked to clear her vision. All that remained of Menagerie was a black streak of ash.
Vigor roared, flames belching from his serpentine neck as he blasted Stagger. As the flames died, Stagger proved unharmed. Vigor lunged toward him, his toothy jaws clamping on Stagger's head. Stagger calmly lifted his hands and pried the dragon's jaws open, freeing himself.
"You have the same aura as Brokenwing, but you're obviously not him," said Stagger.
"Urah muh daggoo," answered Vigor, his speech rendered unintelligible by Stagger's grip.
"Whoever you are, farewell," said Stagger. The Black Swan shielded her eyes from the flash she knew was coming. When she lowered her hand, Vigor was gone. His ashes drifted down to the ice like black snow.
Stagger walked closer to the tower, ascending with each step as if he climbed an unseen staircase.
The Black Swan hesitated. Stagger was here to kill Zetetic? Why? Should she go warn the Deceiver? Was it possible that he didn't already know?
As the living embodiment of the sun, there was little hope of stopping Stagger by force. Fortunately, she knew one important thing about the man. He loved to talk.
The Black Swan leaned her iron body against the wall and locked her joints. She loosened her grip on her physical shell, stepping outside its confines, connected only by a slender silver thread. She floated out the window to meet Stagger as he drew closer.
"Stagger," she called out.
"I expected to find you here," he said.
"I most certainly didn't expect to find you here," she said. "Where have you been?"
"In Hell," he said. "Just another damned soul."
"No," she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "Tempest is my master now. He's achieved his dream of total dominion over the world. At least, he will once Zetetic has been vaporized."
"I can't let you do this," said the Black Swan. "Zetetic is our last hope of undoing all the destruction."
"You cannot possibly stop me," said Stagger.
"Return to your bones," said the Black Swan, pointing her wraithlike fingers toward the man.
Stagger smirked. "Necromancy isn't as effective as it once was. Life no longer holds power over death. Now, be a good girl and step aside, won't you? I can vaporize your spirit as well as your body, but we both know I'd rather not harm you."
The Black Swan closed her eyes as the silver thread pulled her back into her iron shell. It was time to leave. She'd again failed to stop the end of the world. It was time to go back and try once more.
She opened her eyes. She frowned. She was still in Zetetic's tower. The winds still howled above the frozen sea outside the window. The toe of Stagger's boot fell upon the window ledge. He stepped down to the floor beside her.
"You won't be going anywhere," he said.
"How?" she asked. "How are you stopping me?"
"The Church of the Book used to draw magical glyphs that protected their holy sanctuaries from assaults from the abstract realm. In coming here, I've traced the outline of one of these glyphs to encompass the island. Tempest doesn't want Zetetic to flee into a different reality."
"I wouldn't dream of it," said Zetetic, his voice coming from the paper-lined room. "We've reached the last words of the last page of the final chapter. We're all precisely where we must be."
Stagger stepped into the room. The Black Swan followed, her mind racing. How could she hope to stop Stagger?
Zetetic no longer held the quill. He now held the paint brush. The words that had filled the paper directly in front of him were mostly gone, lost beneath a sheen of glistening paint. Somehow, in the seconds since the Black Swan had last seen him, he'd worked up a sweat. Huge beads of perspiration stood against the large red "D" tattooed in the center of his brow.
"Goodbye, Zetetic," said Stagger.
Zetetic drew his brush across the words before him. They vanished beneath the white.
Stagger silently faded away. The Black Swan blinked.
"Where?" she whispered.
Zetetic put down the brush and picked up the pen. As he dipped the tip into the inkwell, the inkwell vanished. He frowned as the dry tip of the quill hit the paper. Then, the quill disappeared.
"My calculations were off a few seconds, I see," he said with a heavy sigh, studying his empty fingers.
The Black Swan lifted her own hands, confused as to why she could see through them.
In the roof of her mouth, she felt something pop. She didn't know why, she didn't know how, but she sensed that the glyphs Stagger had drawn around the island were no longer there.
By instinct, the Black Swan leapt, jumping from the world of the living into the nearest adjacent realm. She tumbled into darkness, falling, falling. Since she'd been on an island, she expected to pass through the Sea of Wine, but it was gone. The Realm of Roots had always held a special magnetism for her ethereal self. She could no longer feel its tug. Stagger had arrived from Hell. The dimensional gateway should still be easy to pass through. Yet... nothing. She felt nothing. Hell itself had been swallowed by an all-encompassing vacancy.
She tumbled through the timeless dark, her mind blank, incapable of conscious thought, as a memory, exceedingly faint and long, long lost, crept into her awareness. She'd experienced this void before. When Numinous had read the One True Book, and ended the world. It seemed like the sort of thing that would be impossible to forget. But how can a mind keep a grasp on nothing?
She closed her eyes and stretched out her arms. The sensation of falling, she understood, was merely a remnant of her last physical sensation. It was impossible to fall in a place with no up or down, no side to side, where width and depth and breadth weren't even concepts. She was in a place that was not a place. Which meant she couldn't be here. She had to be somewhere else.
She no longer felt as if she were falling. She opened her eyes, finding impenetrable darkness above. She sat up and discovered herself surrounded by an endless plain of white paper covered in dark scratchings. She'd never been able to understand these symbols before, but realized suddenly that they bore a strong resemblance to the letters Zetetic had scrawled before him.
She stood, gazing over the final realm, the foundation that all of reality rested upon. She'd come once again to the Primordial Pages. Once, the pages had stretched out unblemished for as far as she could see. Now, she saw horrible rips in the paper, long gashes where she'd fallen through on her previous journeys back along the narrative stream of reality. Once, she'd been able to travel back decades with ease. Now, her repeated journeys had left the pages in tatters. Rips had grown and merged, leaving only thin and fragile bridges of intact paper for her to navigate.
Fortunately, she needn't travel back far. A single step across the lines could carry her back days, even weeks. A few hours of careful treading on the fragile pages might yet take her back a few years. The limbo she'd fallen through provided her an important clue. Numinous Pilgrim had somehow survived her ambush on the Sea of Wine. Only the Omega Reader could have destroyed the abstract realms so completely.
Twenty years ago, Infidel had nearly killed Numinous while he was still a child. How difficult would it be to finish the job? With her destination in mind, she stepped forward.
Her body tensed as she heard the ripping caused by the single step.
When she'd traveled to the Keep, to gain traction on the frozen waves, she'd extended the spikes in her feet. She'd never retracted them.
"No," she cried, but denying what was happening didn't stop it. With a loud tearing sound, she plummeted through the page. She grasped at a dangling shard of paper, desperate to climb back. The paper tore from her iron grip and she fell, tumbling toward a recent yesterday.
# CHAPTER TWO
# THE DEAD MAN
"Mother," Cinder said softly as she climbed onto the platform of woven branches. "Mother, wake up."
There was no sound from inside the small thatched hut where her mother slept. Daylight was still an hour away. Most of the pygmies of the Jawa Fruit tribe slept soundly in the closely packed tree houses that filled the upper branches of the village. Save for the warriors who patrolled the territory at night, ever vigilant for attacks from the hated river-pygmies, Cinder was the only member of the tribe awake at this hour. She took care not to raise her voice and earn the wrath of the village elders.
She knelt before her mother's hut and pushed aside the curtain of leaves to peer inside. Her night-acclimated eyes quickly made sense of the darker shadows within the hut. The hammock her mother normally slept in was empty.
Cinder looked out over the moonlit jungle canopy. Her mother had probably gone hunting. The fact that she hadn't invited Cinder along hinted at the territory she'd selected for her hunting grounds.
Grabbing her spear, Cinder leapt from the platform, dropping from branch to branch to reach the ground far below. The pygmies could cover miles in the canopy without ever touching earth, but Cinder had grown too large to travel across the more slender branches. At nineteen, she was twice the height of any of the pygmies, a few inches taller even than her mother, who the pygmies called "Nagana," which meant "the giant."
She ran swiftly through the inky gloom. The thick foliage blotted out the moon and stars, but every rock and root in her path was familiar to her.
The stars reappeared when she reached the eastern slope. Before she was born, a magma flow from the volcano had scoured away the forest, leaving a frozen river of black rock. When she was little, the black rock had been barren, but over the years weeds and vines had found purchase in the cracked surface, and now berry bushes covered the area. As dawn approached, the bushes sang with the music of a million birds gathered for breakfast.
Boars often came to this area to feed, their fat bodies and heavy hooves clearing pathways through the thorns. Cinder raced through the maze of bushes, moving ever further down the slope.
Dawn glowed on the horizon when she reached the cliff. At some point, the importance of finding her mother to tell her about the visitor had faded as a priority and reaching this cliff had become the true reason she'd kept running.
Perched on the high rocks, she studied the rolling hills far below. In the faint light, she saw the long-men had been busy since she'd last spied on them. They'd added a wooden palisade around the village, and she could see several new houses, with many more partially constructed. Five battered ships sat anchored beyond the breaker, joining the small fleet that had brought the previous settlers. As always, there was a flame dancing in mid-air directly above the largest building at the center of town. The wooden structure was taller than the surrounding trees, with a tear-drop shaped roof. Painted in deep reds, warm oranges, and vivid yellows, the building resembled a frozen bonfire. Smoke rose from the tip of the teardrop, and the dancing flame floated several yards above the smoke, its bright light casting a glow over the area. She still couldn't guess what fuel fed the flame. She wondered how the long-men ever got any sleep, when they never allowed their night to be truly dark.
She crouched when she spotted the sentries patrolling the outer walls of the settlement. She doubted they could see her. With her black skin the same color as the volcanic rock, she was well camouflaged, even if the sun had been above the horizon.
She would have liked nothing more than to sit and watch the town of the long-men wake up, to watch them come out of their strange houses and resume the work of building their settlement. She found long-men fascinating, their habits so inexplicable and bizarre, that she imagined she'd never grow bored watching them. Long ago, these had been her mother's people, which meant they were her people despite the difference in their skin tones. She'd grown up among pygmies as a freak, too large and clumsy. Her eyes had also been a source of much teasing when she was younger. Where other people had irises of varying shades, her eyes were a uniform black. The teasing had only stopped when the pygmies realized that her eyes could see far more than their own. Now, most pygmies kept out of her path, and when interactions with her were unavoidable, they never looked directly at her. When they spoke of her behind her back, she could hear the fear in their voices.
When her grandfather, Tenoba, had still lived, the villagers had at least been polite to her, out of respect for the old man. But that was years ago, and now she often went days without speaking to anyone but her mother. By necessity, she'd taught herself to enjoy her solitude, and most of the time she managed not to feel lonely. Still, looking upon the village, she couldn't help but wonder, would the long-men be more accepting of her odd physique? They'd come from over the ocean. Certainly, they'd seen so many different things that she wouldn't be that unusual. She sighed. What a pointless thing to contemplate. Her mother had forbidden her from going near long-men. Even coming to this cliff to study their settlement was breaking her mother's rules.
Cinder turned away and headed back into the maze of brush. Her mother would soon be returning from her hunt. Perhaps Cinder could still catch her before she reached their home village.
By now, the song of the morning birds in the brush was cacophonous as a waterfall. She didn't hear the huge boar rustling along the pathway until she turned a corner and found the beast less than ten feet away. The boar was one of the largest she'd ever seen, six feet long from tusks to tail, its powerful muscles bulging beneath a rust-colored hide. She skittered to a halt, startled. The boar looked as surprised as she was. Half the time, a startled boar would bolt and run. This was not one of those times.
The boar lowered its head, its tusks pointed like twin spears, and lunged. Cinder met its charge by lowering her spear, planting the tip into the beast's shoulder. The spear caught in the mound of thickened skin that protected the creature's neck, failing to hurt it. The boar's momentum ripped the spear from her hands. At the last possible second she leapt, lifting her legs above the slashing tusks, using the creature's back as a springboard. She landed on the path behind it and ran.
Around her, a million birds took to the air as the boar spun in its tracks, let out a bellowing squeal, and raced after her. Its heavy hooves thundered on the volcanic rock.
Cinder was the fastest runner among the Jawa Fruit tribe, but the boar was soon at her heels. She could hear it panting behind her, but dare not look back. She still had a hundred yards to cover before she reached the edge of the forest. There, she could leap for a branch to clamber to safety.
When she felt the boar's hot breath wash over the backs of her legs, she knew she had no choice. Though her mother had forbidden it, she would have to escape to the other place. She leapt, stretching her arms before her. When her feet left the ground, she was in the living world. When she landed, she'd passed through to the Realm of Roots.
She stopped as the now ghostly boar ran through her, its snorting, panting breath muffled and distant. All around her, the berry bushes lay dead and withered, their leaves fallen. The berries still clinging to the thorny branches were shriveled and dry. The sky, pink with morning light only seconds before, was dark and starless. The air stank of dead flesh, and the ground beneath her writhed with worms and beetles.
She could still see into the living world. The shapes there were wraithlike, more shadow than substance. She saw the boar charge on a few more yards before spinning around, rage changing to bewilderment. The shadows of birds flitted into the air to the left of the boar, their cries of alarm muted by the dimensional barrier.
The source of the birds' distress quickly revealed itself as Cinder's mother leapt from the bushes beside the boar. Her mother was the tribe's greatest warrior, a titan five and a half feet tall. At fifty, she was one of the oldest members of the tribe, though her body was still athletic, chiseled by years of constant use. Like other members of the Jawa Fruit tribe, her skin was dyed green, with her hair a lighter shade of lime. Unlike other members of the tribe, she wore more than just a loincloth, concealing her torso with a vest of leather.
She carried a spear like the one still stuck in the boar's shoulder, but her mother had far more expertise with the weapon. With a grunt, her mother drove the obsidian tip between the beast's ribs. With a howl of pain the boar twisted around, its tusks slashing the air, as Cinder's mother leapt from their path. She then calmly reached out and grabbed Cinder's spear, plucking it free. As the boar jabbed its tusks toward her once more, she thrust the spear into the beast's left eye. Bringing all her weight to bear, she drove the tip deep into its skull. The creature's body fell dead.
For half a second the creature's spirit stood before Cinder. The ghost glared at her with its one intact eye, shuddering with fury. Before Cinder could take any action to defend herself, the spirit turned and bolted. Before it had gone even ten yards, it stumbled on a root, crashing heavy to the ground. Its tusks became stuck under a low root. It shook, trying to pull free, but only succeeded in ripping more of the roots from the ground. The roots fell across the writhing beast like heavy ropes. The boar's breathing grew more labored as it sank deeper into the earth. It let out a squeal, short and sharp, then fell silent, growing still, as if understanding its final fate. In the end, all things surrendered to the roots.
"Until now, I never knew pigs had a hell of their own," said a voice from behind.
"Oh," she said, turning around. She found the dead man who'd visited her earlier in the night, insisting he needed to speak to her mother. Now that she was in the Realm of Roots, she could see and hear him plainly. Before, his shape had been nothing but fog, his voice only a murmur. "You followed me? Why didn't I see you?"
The man standing before her shook his head. "I didn't follow you. I followed Infidel." He nodded toward Cinder's mother, who squatted over the fallen boar, freeing Cinder's spear. Infidel frowned as she studied the mangled leather strapping that held the obsidian tip in place. Cinder knew her mother would recognize the spear as one of her own and deduce who had to have planted in the boar's shoulder. Other members of the Jawa Fruit tribe used spears much shorter than those she and her mother preferred.
"Tell her I must speak to her at once," the man said.
"She'll kill me if she finds out I came to look at the long-men," Cinder said. "She'll kill me if she finds out I fled to the Realm of Roots!"
"You engage in hyperbole," the man said. "She'll scold you, no doubt, nothing more."
"We should wait," said Cinder.
The man scowled, though his scowl wasn't much different than his normal expression. Dead men seldom looked happy, but this one's face seemed permanently set to a look of disgust, as if merely speaking to Cinder was a loathsome task.
The man was a good deal taller than she was. He held his body in an unnatural posture, his spine straight and stiff as bamboo. His nose and lips were thin, his eyebrows white and bushy, his scalp bald and dabbled with dark spots. His forehead was covered in a thick mass of scars. He wore long black robes, with white gloves and boots, unlike most other dead men she'd met, who were normally unclothed. He differed also from other dead men in his gaze. Most of dead she'd met had wandering eyes, confused expressions, as if they couldn't quite comprehend where they were or why they were there. This man's expression was focused, unblinking. He appeared to have no doubt as to the where or why of his existence.
In the living world, Cinder's mother stood up and shouted, "Cinder! Cinder!"
"She thinks the boar has killed you," the man said. "It would be cruel not to tell her you're unharmed."
Cinder sighed and nodded. "Wait here."
"Where else am I to go?" the man asked.
Cinder reached out, parting the dimensional veil as if it were a curtain, and stepped through. The humid jungle air washed over her, rich with a thousand scents, flowers, berries, bird droppings, and, above all, the odor of blood as the boar bled out from the slit her mother had carved in its throat with her obsidian knife.
"Cinder!" her mother cried out again, facing away as her daughter emerged from the land of the dead. The worry in her voice could be plainly heard now that it was no longer muffled by the dimensional veil.
"I'm here," said Cinder, softly. "I'm okay."
Her mother ran to her, grabbing her shoulders. She looked ready to hug Cinder, her face a mask of joy. Then, her face took a sterner cast, and she kept Cinder at arm's length. "Are you trying to scare me to death? I found your spear! I thought... I thought you had... what on earth were you doing out here? Don't you know how dangerous it is?"
"I'm fine," said Cinder. "I was looking for you."
"Looking for... why? What was so urgent it couldn't wait until I got back?"
Cinder placed her arms behind her back. "There's... there's a dead man who's come to see you. He says he knows you from a long time ago."
"Stagger?" her mother whispered, her eyes growing wide.
"It's not father," said Cinder. "He says his name is Ver."
Her mother's face fell. She wiped her bloody knife against her loincloth, shaking her head slightly.
"You've been to the Realm of Roots."
"I had to go there to escape the boar."
"And you've been spying on the long-men," her mother said. "You say you came here looking for me, but you really came to watch the settlement. This is the third time! Why do you insist on disobeying me?"
Cinder felt both guilty and relieved to discover that her mother didn't know her actual visits here numbered in the dozens. "Since you hadn't told me you were going out, I knew you must have come hunting here, on the edge of the settlement."
Her mother looked even angrier. "So you knew I didn't want you to come, but you still followed me?"
"I only came because Ver says his business is urgent."
"He's dead," her mother said, sheathing her blade. "How urgent can anything be?"
"Tell her I come with news of an old friend," said Ver.
"He says he's come with news of an old friend," said Cinder.
"Not Tower, I hope," she said.
"It's not Tower," said Ver. "Tell her I swear it."
"He swears it's not Tower."
Infidel crossed her arms, frowning, looking lost in thought. "I suppose the bastard isn't going to give you any peace until I say yes. Fine. Let me talk to him."
Cinder held out her hand. Her mother hesitated, then took her offered grasp. She looked around, seeking the visitor. Infidel's eyes locked on a nearby form, invisible in the material world, but revealed now that she shared Cinder's connection with the Realm of Roots.
"Ver," said Infidel. "I can't say I'm happy to see you."
"Infidel," said the dead priest. "It would be a dark day in Hell before I came to you for help. A dark day indeed, but that day that has come."
"Hell's had a lot of dark days lately, hasn't it?" asked Infidel. "Even among the pygmies, the news has reached us. Those long-men settled here because every night the Silver Isles are being overrun with armies of the damned."
Ver nodded. "Tempest long ago completed his conquest of Hell. With the land of the dead conquered, he's turned his eyes toward the living world, tearing down the very Gates of Hell to clear the path for his accursed army."
"You don't sound like you approve."
"Approve?" Ver looked incredulous. "Allowing the damned to return to the land of the living is a sin against the Divine Author. Hell exists to punish the wicked. According to the sacred text of the One True Book, that punishment was to be eternal."
"Maybe Tempest never bothered to read the book," said Infidel. "And, I guess it's too late now even if he wanted too."
"True," said Ver. "Wicked times have fallen upon the world of the living since the One True Book was stolen twenty years past. Men have lost faith in the truth. They degenerate into depraved beasts with no spiritual guidance to point them toward divine virtues. To make matters worse, your father's attempts to tame his rebellious subjects have transformed him into a brutal dictator. Many of his subjects prefer anarchy to life beneath his iron fist."
Infidel nodded. "I voted for anarchy a long time ago."
"So you did," said Ver. "Which is why I find it so distasteful to turn to you for help. You, whose soul is untamed chaos, are now my only hope of restoring order."
"What exactly do you want?"
"I want the world set right. I want the living world to be unmolested by the damned, and I want the damned back in their rightful place, suffering as justice demands."
"That sounds like a job better suited for priests. Certainly there are at least a few members of the Church of the Book holding on to their faith."
"Perhaps. But, though it galls me, no other person alive has fared as well as you when it comes to battling primal dragons."
"Ah. And just because you ask nice, you think I'm going to gear up and go fight Tempest?"
"No," said Ver. "You're too small-minded to take such grand action."
"I think my mind is plenty large," said Infidel. "Large enough to know more about the afterworld than you can ever hope to, Ver. I know that the Church of the Book is mistaken in thinking all unrepentant souls go to Hell. I've sailed the Sea of Wine. I've trudged across ice floes in the Great Sea Above."
"And you've copulated on the forested slopes above the Bay of Blood," said Ver. He glowered at Cinder. "You've given birth to a child trapped between life and death. Given the magnitude of your sins, do you feel no obligation at all to seek redemption?"
"We're done, Ver," said Infidel. "Go to Hell, or wherever you're calling home these days."
"Wait," said Ver, placing his hand on Infidel's wrist before she released her grasp on Cinder. "I haven't told you about Sorrow. You remember Sorrow, don't you?"
"I've known more sorrow than I care to recall."
"I speak of Sorrow, the witch. Your friend."
Infidel furrowed her brow. "My friend... the witch?" She didn't sound as if she had a clue of who he was talking about.
"She had nails in her scalp," said Ver.
"Right," said Infidel. "I remember her now. I don't dwell much on that time of my life. I haven't heard anything about her in twenty years. She's in Hell now?"
"Yes."
"That's not a big surprise. She seemed dead set on fighting the world. Eventually, the world was going to win. How did she die?"
"She didn't," said Ver.
Infidel looked confused.
"Sorrow has arrived in Hell via a journey through limbo. She and her companions are still alive, though I doubt they'll remain so long in such a treacherous landscape. I need you to rescue them."
Infidel shook her head. "My adventuring days are behind me, Ver. Certainly there's some valiant Knight of the Book who's up to the task."
"It pains me to say so, but the remnants of my church contain no men of true valor. It galls me further to admit that there is a man among the heretics in the settlement nearby who does, indeed, possess a virtuous heart, despite the folly of his beliefs. Alas, I've no way of speaking to him."
"That's too bad," said Infidel. "But it also confirms what I suspected."
"Which is?"
"For me to get to Hell, you need Cinder to take me there."
"If she must be born with a curse, shouldn't at least try to use it for good?"
"It's not a curse," said Cinder.
"Stay out of this," said Infidel. Then, addressing Ver, "You're crazy. Go away. I'm not letting you lead my daughter to Hell."
"You have no choice!" cried Ver. "Just as the damned have no place in the land of the living, the living don't belong in the realm of the dead."
"Completely agree, which is why we're not going."
"You don't understand the implications!" the priest said, his voice trembling. "If living men remain too long in Hell, it will unravel the truth of that place. All of reality will fray and tear. The world that we know will come undone!"
"I've no doubt you believe that," said Infidel. "But I'll take my chances that you're as wrong in death as you were in life. This conversation is over."
Infidel tore her hand from Cinder's grasp.
"Mother," said Cinder, "what if he's telling the truth?"
"Then I suppose reality will unravel," said Infidel, crouching next to the boar. "Until it does, we've got work to do. I'm going to start cutting up this boar. Run back to the village and tell Kanopi to send men to help carry the meat."
"Mother, the dead man is screaming. He says you're condemning your friends to death."
Infidel shrugged. "He's trying to trick us. Ignore him."
"Trick us? Why?"
"I don't know and I honestly don't care."
Cinder found the dead man's shouting distracting. But it wasn't what he was saying now that found purchase in Cinder's mind. It was something he'd already said. "This person called Sorrow? Isn't she the weaver who put Father inside the sun?"
"That's her," said Infidel, working her knife along the boar's belly.
"Don't you want to save her?"
"It's not that. It's just... Sorrow's not really the kind of person who needs saving," said Infidel as the guts spilled out. "When I last saw her, she'd given herself the powers of Rott, the primal dragon of decay. She was insanely powerful. Scary powerful."
"You're not going to rescue her because you're scared of her?"
Infidel didn't look up as she cut the intestines free of the body. In the jungle heat, meat could spoil quickly if a hunter didn't work fast.
"I'm not scared of her, or for her," said Infidel, tossing the intestines into the bushes. "It's you I'm worried about."
"Me? Nothing can hurt me as long as I can flee to the Realm of Roots with but a thought."
"You don't think there's monsters in the Realm of Roots?"
"Not that I've seen. It's mostly empty whenever I visit. The dead aren't able to hold on for long there. They get tangled in the roots and fade away. Ver has stuck around longer than any spirit I've encountered."
Infidel wiped her cheek, leaving a smear of blood against her emerald skin. "The bastard was the most stubborn man I ever met. Hopefully he'll go away if you ignore him."
"He's not making himself easy to ignore," said Cinder. Even though she was now fully in the material world, she could still see his shadowy form before her, arms lifted as he raged. His voice seemed so loud even from the other side of the veil it was difficult to believe her mother couldn't hear him.
Though, in another sense, it wasn't difficult at all to think that there were things her mother couldn't hear. It wasn't only the dead she could turn a deaf ear to. Cinder herself fared no better. Her mother might have technically listened to her as she spoke, but she seldom gave anything Cinder said any serious consideration.
"This meat isn't going to carry itself," said Infidel, looking toward the jungle. "Go get help before the day gets hot."
Cinder jogged off toward the village. The dead man floated beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, his legs not moving. He looked calm now, lost in thought.
"You should go away," Cinder said, finding his silence more unnerving than when he'd been shouting at her. "My mother's not going to help you."
"Your mother doesn't have the power to help me," said Ver. "Now that the false hope has been eliminated, the true solution is clear. You're the one who possesses the power to traverse to the realms of the dead. You're the one who must save the world."
"Um," said Cinder. "I don't think that's going to happen."
"Why not?"
"First, mother would kill me if I did. Second, while my mother has taught me a thing or two about defending myself, I'm nowhere near the fighter she is. I'm certainly not ready to fight dragons."
"You won't need to fight at all, should you help. As I said, in the village nearby, there's a man of valiant spirit. He's well trained in combat, and, more importantly, possesses a spotless conscience, having lived his life in obedience to his faith, albeit a faith based on falsehoods. Still, the truth of his beliefs matter little. A pure heart is the ultimate armor in Hell. No evil shall be able to touch him."
"You'll have to find someone else," said Cinder. "There's no way my mother would give me permission to go to the long-men's village, let along make the journey to Hell."
"You're no child," said Ver. "Your mother didn't ask the permission of her mother when she went to fight Greatshadow. She didn't consult with her father before travelling to the Great Sea Above and battling Hush and Glorious. You're nineteen, an adult in anyone's eyes. You may do as please."
They were nearing the Jawa Fruit village. She slowed her jog to a walk, looking skyward to make sure no one was watching her. If the other villagers heard her speaking with no one around, they'd assume she was talking with a ghost.
Ver's eyes followed her gaze up to the houses and walkways spread throughout the canopy. He said, "You don't belong here."
"It's my home," she said.
"Your mother has told you of her adventures?"
"Yes. But only after the village children told me tales of her past. She said most of the stories were exaggerations, and wanted me to know the truth."
"Truth is a precious thing. Did she tell you the title I possessed in life?"
"She said... you were a Truthspeaker."
Ver nodded. "It's a title I hold precious even in death. I'm incapable of deceit. I speak the truth when I say you don't belong here. The tribesmen have never accepted you."
"That's not true. My great grandfather, Tenoba, was chieftain of the tribe," said Cinder. "He took in my mother when she was pregnant. At first, she says the pygmies didn't accept her, especially since she was a woman who hunt and fought. Then, when I was still an infant, she single-handedly slew eleven members of the Spike Branch people when they tried to raid our village. The tribe holds my mother in the deepest reverence."
"Yes. But they fear you. You've never truly belonged."
This was truth. She looked down at her hands, black as soot. Her mother was taller than the pygmies, it was true, but she dyed her skin the same color, and with her prowess as a warrior, she'd earned her place of honor within the tribe. The pygmy dyes merely made Cinder's skin a shade darker. The village midwife said it looked as if she'd been burnt in the womb and named her Sakoni, the charred one. Her mother had liked the name, though she translated it into the tongue of the long-men as Cinder. When Cinder had been old enough to understand the intimacies between a man and a woman, Infidel had explained that there was truth to her being burnt in the womb. She'd been conceived on the slopes of the volcano above the Bay of Blood, the spiritual realm where Greatshadow's soul had hidden when his physical body had been slain. Her sooty skin was no doubt a side effect of her unusual origins, having been conceived in a dead land by a dead father and given birth by a living mother in the realm of life.
If it had just been her skin that was different, perhaps the tribe would have eventually have accepted her. But, from the earliest age, she'd had conversations with people no one else could see. Everyone assumed she was crazy. Sometimes, she'd vanish for hours, even days, and when she'd return she'd explain how she'd been in a place of shadows. She couldn't explain how she'd gotten there, or how she came back. When she was finally old enough to grasp the concept of death, and could explain to the village elders that her imaginary friends were actually the spirits of the dead, it had made matters worse. No longer was she called crazy. Now, she was called unclean. Children said she stank like a rotten corpse, though her mother said she smelled just fine. Children also said her touch would make them sick, and that the sound of her laughter was a sure sign that someone in the village was about to die. She'd stopped laughing. People died all the same.
"You're not one of them," said Ver.
She placed her arm against a tree to steady herself. Her run to the cliff and back had left her weary. She needed a moment to find the strength to climb up to the village.
She ran her fingers through her hair. "Perhaps. But I don't belong with the long-men, either."
"Your mother and father were, as you say, long-men. You won't know happiness until you live among your own kind."
"Do you think I've never went among the long-men?" she asked. "I have. They were far, far worse than my tribesmen."
"Among the long-men? In the settlement?"
She shook her head. "In Commonground."
"Ah," said Ver. "A city of rogues and half-seeds. I assure you, you didn't find the best examples of long-men in that horrid place."
"Didn't I?" asked Cinder. "Mother told me that what happened there might have happened anywhere in the world, save for here among the pygmies."
"Truly? And what happened?"
"It's a long story."
"I'm willing to listen." Ver smiled. It proved a chilling expression on his cadaverous face.
# CHAPTER THREE
# CALAMITY
"Hell?" Bigsby asked, bewildered. "I mean... I always kind of knew I'd wind up here, but... are we dead? I don't feel dead."
"We're not dead," Sorrow said emphatically as she glanced around at her fellow travelers. "We still have living auras."
Keeping the blanket that hid her body clasped tightly around her, she walked toward Walker, the albino pygmy who stood at the wheel, who watched her with a sly, knowing grin. She said, "I don't know how you did it, or why, but this is your fault. I'll give you ten seconds to take us back to the material world or—"
"Yes?" asked Walker, sounding genuinely curious as to how she would finish her threat.
She frowned. "I'll be very, very cross with you."
"I'm already cross with you," Gale Romer said, stomping toward the pygmy. She pointed to the riggings, where a trio of demons busied themselves with the sails. "Tell these things to get their hands off my ship! Let loose of that wheel at once. No one pilots the _Circus_ but me and my family."
"The rivers of Hell are not easily navigated," said Walker. "Inexperienced hands swiftly run aground."
"We'll take that risk," said Gale. "I'd rather have my family's safety in my hands than in the claws of these... these—" Her voice trailed off as she glanced up at the creatures.
"You may call them monsters," said Walker. "Demons; devils; unholy scum... their feelings aren't easily damaged."
Walker stepped aside to let Gale take the wheel. The pygmy placed his fingers between his lips and let loose a shrill whistle. The trio of demons in the rigging dropped to the deck.
All three stood taller than Slate, heavily muscled, with large black wings and bright red tails that swung from holes in their sailor's britches. One had the head of a vulture, another the head of a lion whose skin had been peeled off, and the last, where a head should be, had a hornet's nest, complete with swarming hornets.
"May I introduce Fester, Fume, and Foment," said Walker. "They're my truest friends in Hell, and are now your friends as well."
"I'll call no devil friend," said Slate, clutching the Witchbreaker tightly in both hands. "Begone, the lot of you, before I show you the power of my blade."
"They know well the power of your blade," said Walker. "It sends the souls of those you slay to Hell. Which, of course, is where we already are."
"So, if he stabs someone here, will they go back to the living world?" asked Bigsby. "If so, I volunteer to be stabbed at once."
"There's no need to volunteer for a violent death," said Walker. "You won't need to wait long for such an end in this wretched landscape."
"All the more reason to leave this place," said Gale. "Sage! Can you see a clear path out of here?"
Sorrow glanced up to the crow's nest. Sage, Gale's eldest daughter, swept her spyglass across the fiery landscape. "I... I don't think it's safe for us to jump," she called down. "I'm not certain we can transition back to the Sea of Wine without risking getting caught in Limbo."
"There are other paths to the Sea of Wine," said Walker. "This very river empties into it."
"How can that be?" asked Gale. "The Sea of Wine is the afterlife for Wanderers. Hell is the afterlife for wicked followers of the Church of the Book. They're two completely different abstract realms."
Walker shook his head. "Nonsense." He turned to Sorrow. "You've been to at least four abstract realms. The Sea of Wine, the Great Sea Above, the Black Bog, and the Convergence. You must have taken note that all share an aquatic nature."
"You told us you were from the Realm of Roots," said Sorrow. "Is there water there?"
Walker nodded. "The Dark and Winding Stream feeds the Realm of Roots, before flowing on to the great unknown. Of course, I know the unknown. All of these deathly waters share the same source. They all flow to the same ocean."
"So... we can sail this river to the Sea of Wine? Then we can transition from there to the living realms," said Gale. "Sage, can you plot a course?"
Sage shook her head. "Every direction I look, the horizon is hidden by storms."
"Yes," said Walker. "Storms in every direction. By now, no doubt you've seen something else odd about the landscape."
"Hell is more than odd," Sage said. "The terrain... it's... creeping. The land looks to be in constant motion."
"Do you notice anything strange about those who walk upon the land?" asked Walker.
"I can't say that I do," said Sage. "Honestly, I don't see anyone here but us."
"Ah," said Walker, sounding pleased with her answer. "Curious, isn't it? Where are the damned?"
"What do you mean, where are the damned?" asked Sorrow. "I would assume they're here, in Hell."
Walker shook his head. "The banks of this river once teemed with damned souls pressed shoulder to shoulder, crying out to slake their thirst. Look about. The shores are vacant."
"Has... has Hell been emptied?" asked Slate. "How is such a thing possible? The Divine Author would never allow such injustice."
Walker let loose a sharp laugh, almost a bark. "The mere existence of Hell is proof the Divine Author cared nothing for justice."
"This place exists that the wicked may suffer for their sins," said Slate.
"As your progenitor, Stark Tower, suffers?" asked Walker.
Slate frowned. "The man I was copied from fell prey to his temptations. If his soul is here, it's justice. He allowed the desires of his flesh to overcome the moral judgment of his soul."
"Are you truly so simpleminded?" Walker asked. "You believe he's here because he gave in to his lusts?"
"His sins are well known to me. Though, I suppose justice has been denied. He's not here, is he?" asked Slate. "You said Hell was vacant."
"I said these shores are vacant. In the darker valleys, in the deeper pits, there are souls too crippled to heed Tempest's summons."
"Tempest?" asked Sorrow. "What does he have to do with any of this? We killed him."
"Yes," said Walker. "With the Witchbreaker. A sword forged from metal stolen from the Gates of Hell. A sword with the power to send the soul of any creature directly to this place of torment."
"Tempest is here?" asked Slate. "No wonder there are storms everywhere."
Walker nodded. "Indeed. When you killed him with the Witchbreaker, his soul journeyed to this place. Devils fell upon him at once, preparing to drag him to eternal torment. Alas, a primal dragon is not a power to be trifled with, even when his soul has been ripped from his body. Tempest easily overpowered the devils who came to plague him. After he'd slain a few hundred, the remaining demons begged for mercy. He had them swear fealty to him. Then, he launched a war of conquest, slaying any devils who opposed him, until most joined him willingly. Demons are weak-minded beasts, eager for subjugation by a more dominant spirit. It took him several years, but eventually he made himself master of this accursed place, taking his seat upon Hell's empty throne."
"Empty?" asked Slate. "Why was Hell's throne empty? The church teaches that the Master Deceiver sits upon the throne, the eternal foe of the Author of Truth."
"He sat upon the throne many, many centuries ago," said Walker. "Then he grew bored and left."
"How do you know all of this?" asked Sorrow.
Walker shrugged. "I listen. I learn."
"What does Tempest being Lord of Hell have to do with the shores being empty?" asked Sorrow. "You said Tempest sent out a summons?"
"Indeed," said Walker. He glanced at the black blade in Slate's grasp. "Having felt the bite of the Witchbreaker, he took inspiration. He gathered the spirits of every blacksmith dwelling within this domain and built a forge, a pit of flame more fearsome than any that had ever raged before. Then, he had his army of devils tear down the Gates of Hell, so that they might be smelted into weaponry. For seven years, his damned blacksmiths hammered hell steel in the dragon's forge. In the end, they produced an armory of the most fearsome weapons imaginable. Once, the Witchbreaker was unique. Now, thousands of blades with the same power exist. Tempest then offered the most fearsome warriors ever to fall into Hell one more chance to walk the living world, one more chance to seek glory in battle. He sent them forth armed with the hell-blades, knowing that all they killed would be sent to the dark kingdom. As his army spread across the surface of the earth, the population of this place increased. To keep it from becoming unpleasantly crowded, he spread his offer to all the damned. They could leave through the gap where the gates once stood, and seize the living world for Tempest."
"This is horrible," said Slate. "How could the Divine Author allow it?"
"The Divine Author?" asked Walker. "Why blame him? Weren't you listening? _You_ are the author of this calamity."
"Me?" asked Slate.
"You sent Tempest's soul here."
Sorrow stepped forward. "Slate can't be blamed for that. Tempest attacked us. We had to defend ourselves."
"If Slate isn't to blame, who is?" asked Walker. "You, perhaps?"
"How could she possibly be to blame?" asked Slate.
"Sorrow was warned repeatedly that her heedless pursuit of power would lead to ruin."
"People said it would lead to my ruin," said Sorrow. "I was hardly warned that I might be bringing on the end of the world."
"Weren't you? I told you the devils believed you were the Destroyer. I didn't see it, but I've been wrong before."
Sorrow crossed her arms. "I've made some mistakes. I'll even admit I was blinded by my hunger for power. Still, I had nothing but the best of intentions."
"Look upon the dark rocks that pave the shores of this river," said Walker. "The waters are memories. What might the stones be composed of?"
Sorrow didn't answer.
Slate spoke up. "You said... you said that the soul of Stark Tower still dwelled in this place? Is that true?"
"When have I ever said things to you that weren't true?"
"Can I... can I see him?"
"I don't believe you would find the experience pleasant," said Walker.
"I don't want this because I think it would be pleasurable," said Slate. "But... the Voice of the Book told me I'm a body without a soul. I would... I would like to look upon the soul that was once my own."
"Stark Tower's soul is trapped within a prison built from the bones of those he killed with his cruelty," said Walker. "The journey to find it would be dangerous. To actually enter the place would be unimaginably perilous."
"I don't fear danger," said Slate.
"Then let me be afraid for you," said Sorrow, placing her hand on his arm. "There's no point in seeking out Stark Tower's soul. You know he grew corrupt in life. Let him rest in the prison he built for himself."
Slate frowned, looking lost in thought.
The deck shuddered as the hull dragged on something unseen on the dark water. Walker turned to Gale and said, "This would have been a good moment to have me at the wheel. I fear you've stirred up the mud."
"We're clear of it now," she said.
"True. But the sediment will flow down the river before us. It will alert others of our travel. There are forces here who do not wish us to reach the Sea of Wine."
"Why not?" asked Gale. "I don't see what we have to do with any of this. We're Wanderers. We don't belong here, living or dead. We'll reach the Sea of Wine and be free of this place."
"Then you'll return to the living world?" asked Walker.
"Of course."
Walker grinned. "And how will you make your living in the living world?"
"After twenty years, I imagine the world has forgotten the price upon my family's head," said Gail. "We'll manage."
"Haven't you been listening?" asked Walker. "The armies of Hell have spilled across the living lands. Each night, they expand their empire. Mankind attempts to regroup during the day, when the dead dare not stir, but there's never enough time to undo the horror before night comes once more. Unless Tempest's legions are halted, there will be no safe harbor. There will be no ports where you may seek trade. All the cities of the world will be populated by the damned."
"The world's a big place," said Gale.
"Hell is a much larger place," said Walker. "There are far more dead souls than living ones."
"We've faced tough odds before and come through safe and sound," said Gale. "I refuse to think there's no hope."
"I never said there was no hope," said Walker. "You, Gale Romer, are that hope. You and your family may yet set things right in the world."
"Don't speak in riddles," said Gale. "What do you want from us?"
"I want you to reach the Sea of Wine and find the Happy Isles. There were many great warriors among the Wanderers. As residents of the Happy Isles, they've not succumbed to Tempest's temptations. Your task shall be to return with an army, that we might pull the usurper from the throne."
"You can't ask this of me," said Gale. "Those who dwell upon the Happy Isles are at peace. I won't disturb them."
"Even if their happiness is threatened by Tempest? A Wanderer slain by one of the hell-forged blades is sent to Hell as surely as a believer of the Book. The Happy Islanders won't be so happy when a generation of Wanderers who share their heritage no longer find their way to those blessed shores."
Gale looked out over the hellscape, trusting the evidence before her that Walker was telling at least a partial truth, but uncertain if she could trust him. The idea that they'd been thrown forward in time twenty years was difficult to swallow. The idea that the world could be on the verge of total destruction was even harder to believe. Yet, somehow, the sheer impossibility of the claims gave them weight. If Walker was trying to manipulate her, certainly he could easily have crafted more plausible lies. Her sons stood nearby, studying her closely.
"We'll do whatever you want, Ma," said Jetsam, floating in the air above Mako's head.
"But we shouldn't do what this pale bastard is telling us," said Mako.
"Agreed," said Rigger, moving to his mother's side. "I don't trust him. What if these demons want us to show them the way to the Happy Isles? We'd be crazy to listen to him."
"Any sane person should find everything I've said completely absurd," said Walker. "Unfortunately, sanity is poor tool for coping with the madness of these times."
Gale tightened her grip on the wheel as she studied the pygmy's face. "You swear you can guide us to the Sea of Wine?"
"I would not have told you this if it were not true."
Gale released the wheel. "Take it. Steer us there."
"Ma!" said Rigger and Mako in unison.
"I don't trust him either," she said to her sons. "But, you have eyes. We're in a place we shouldn't be. He says he can guide us from here. I'll take that chance."
"You'll have to make the voyage without me," said Slate.
"What?" asked Sorrow.
"I... I can't leave. Knowing his soul is out there... it's... it's a hunger I can't describe. I have to find it. I have to know."
"Know what?" asked Sorrow.
"Can it be redeemed? A living man may repent of his sins up to the moment of his death. I'm a continuation of Stark Tower's living flesh. If I walk the narrow path he failed to keep, might I yet save him?"
"Slate, think about what you're saying," said Sorrow. "Tower died five centuries ago. His soul has been tormented all this time, seared and scarred and picked at by devils. Would you even recognize it if you found it? There's no point in taking this risk."
Slate's face remained calm as he weighed Sorrow's words. "Until a few hours ago, you had willingly blended your body and soul with that of Rott. You, of all people, know that there are some rewards worth any risk."
"Fine," said Sorrow. "Let's go below deck and get packed."
"Packed?"
"We aren't going traipsing across Hell without at least a few supplies, are we?"
"We?" said Slate. "Why would you take this risk?"
"You just answered that two seconds ago," she said.
He crossed his arms. "I can't allow this."
"I don't recall asking your permission. I hate to get all possessive, but not even half an hour ago, you'd stopped breathing. I brought you back to life."
"Aye," said Slate. "With a kiss. And I'm grateful."
"Then show your gratitude by shutting your mouth."
Slate shut his mouth, then nodded and followed her below deck.
Sorrow and Slate entered the hold that had served as her quarters since she'd boarded the _Circus_ several weeks prior. The room was packed with the pygmies they'd rescued from the slave markets in Raitingu. Cinnamon and Poppy, Gale's youngest daughters, moved among the crowd of frightened refugees, handing out food. Brand Cooper waited just inside the door, kneeling next to a sack of dried fruit, scooping out small portions into bowls with a measuring cup.
"I noticed you'd disappeared from deck," said Sorrow.
"Being in Hell is bad," said Brand. "Being in Hell with a hundred panicking pygmies screaming at the top of their lungs would be worse. I decided they might take the news of where we're at better on a full stomach."
"That's noble of you," she said.
"I suppose. Anyway, I couldn't stay on deck. I was getting seasick."
"Seasick?" Sorrow asked. "The river's fairly calm."
"It's not the water. It's the land. Didn't you notice it was moving? The hills were rolling slowly like swells on the sea."
"I noticed," she said. "Though it didn't make me feel sick. Just terrified."
"If you're terrified, you don't need to accompany me," said Slate, who now knelt next to the pack that held his few earthly possessions.
"At least one of us should have the good sense to be afraid if we want to make it out alive," said Sorrow.
"What are you talking about?" asked Brand.
"Slate wants to search Hell to find the soul of Stark Tower."
Brand stared at her, his mouth slightly agape.
"That was my initial reaction as well," she said.
"Are you both crazy?" asked Brand.
"I think that's been established beyond all debate by this point," said Sorrow. "I don't suppose you've seen my sea chest in here, have you?"
"We put it over there," said Poppy, nodding toward the corner.
Slate retrieved the large chest, carrying it as if it weighed next to nothing. They retreated back to the hall. She had Slate put the chest into the bunk room where the Romer brothers normally slept, then told him to wait outside.
She shed the blanket that Sage had covered her with when they'd fished her naked out of the sea and knelt before the chest. She was similar in size to Sage, who'd given her a few pairs of old canvas pants weeks ago when she'd lost her serpent's tail. The worn, patched, snow white canvas contrasted with the finely tailored black silk blouse she retrieved from the chest. She dressed quickly, completing the outfit with a pair of boots Sage had given her. The chest still held a sword she'd crafted when she had power over iron, and a scabbard. She strapped these to her hip, then opened the door. Slate stood there, waiting patiently.
"I'm decent now," she said. "Come in."
"I was tempted to leave while the door was closed," he confessed. "I still doubt the wisdom of you joining me on my quest."
"Why'd you stick around?"
Slate moved toward the bunks. He dug beneath the mattress to produce a large book. "When Tempest attacked, I ran below deck to hide the One True Book. I dared not leave it behind."
"Hmm," she said, eyeing the tome. "I'm fairly certain it will fit in my leather backpack. That's all that will fit, however. Doesn't leave us a lot of room for provisions, and I'm not certain we can live off the land in Hell."
"Knights must fast from time to time," said Slate. "I'll endure."
"I've no doubt you will. I think I can go quite a while without eating as well, now that I'm getting the hang of bone magic."
"This is how you healed me?"
She nodded.
"But your other powers, over iron, glass, silver... these are gone?"
She nodded again.
"Don't you see the madness of leaving the relative safety of this ship while you are powerless?"
She placed her hands on her hip. "First, I'm not powerless. I still know a little necromancy I learned from Mama Knuckle. And bone magic is one of the most valued of the weaver arts. I'm not only good at healing wounds. I can inflict them as well. At least, I'm pretty sure I can. I admit, there may be a learning curve."
"Perhaps you could defend yourself from foes of flesh and blood, but in Hell we'll face devils... and a dragon."
"Ah," she said knowingly.
"Ah?" He sounded confused by her tone.
"You're not just hunting for Tower's soul. You're planning to go fight Tempest all by yourself."
He set his jaw, looking at her sternly.
"Don't deny it," she said. "This is exactly like you. You think you're to blame for Tempest arriving in Hell—"
"It's certain that I am."
"—so now you think it's up to you to fix it, and kill him without getting me or the Romers into danger."
"You... are correct," he said, softly. "Though you're mistaken in believing I don't intend to find the soul of Stark Tower. Before his seduction by Avaris, he was a warrior without peer. He may prove to be a powerful ally in this terrible place."
"Tower was mainly famous for killing unarmed women," Sorrow said. "I don't recall him slaying any dragons."
Slate opened his mouth to argue, but Sorrow placed a single finger lightly upon his lips to silence him. She whispered, "We can quibble about the details once we're off the boat. Mako is probably listening to us. His hearing is superhuman."
"So what if he is?" asked Slate.
"It's... I suppose it doesn't really matter. I'm sure I'm just being paranoid. Honestly, he'll probably be more than happy to see me leave the ship."
"Why?"
She looked at her feet, wondering how much to tell him. "Things... things didn't go well between Mako and myself the last time we were in private." She took a deep breath. "He made... advances."
Slate nodded. "You said he kissed you."
"I told you? Oh, right. Before we reached the Temple of the Book. Things got so crazy after that, I completely forgot I mentioned it."
"I didn't," Slate said, somewhat tersely.
"It's really nothing but a misunderstanding," said Sorrow. "I mean... I'd given him reason to think that I might be, um, receptive." She shook her head. "I didn't turn him away as tactfully as I should have. I haven't had much experience rebuffing the advances of men. I wasn't someone men found even remotely attractive."
"I assure you that isn't true," Slate said, his eyes locked upon her face.
She turned away, finding the intensity of his gaze disquieting.
"It wasn't just the fact my head was covered in nails and scars," she said. "Before you knew me, I spent over a year with half my body paralyzed. My arm and leg were withered, given motion only by the iron bracing I wore. My facial muscles on that side had atrophied. From one side, I looked like a teenager. From the other, I looked like an old woman who'd had a stroke. I was able to reverse a lot of that damage after I tapped into Rott's power, but I was still... asymmetrical. Unbalanced."
"I never noticed it," said Slate.
"I did. I stared at myself in a mirror every morning while I shaved my scalp." She ran her fingers along the baby-smooth skin of her head. "I guess I won't be needing my razor now. I wonder what I'll look like with hair. I've been bald since I was twelve."
Slate smiled. "I'm curious to learn what color your hair is."
"Me too," said Sorrow. "I've honestly forgotten."
"I must remain curious, I fear. Listen carefully to me, Sorrow. This journey before me is one I must make. Please don't endanger yourself by—."
She poked his chest with a finger, hard. "This isn't up for debate. You've fought one primal dragon, and he nearly killed you. I dealt with Hush, Glorious, Rott, and Tempest, and survived every encounter."
"But—"
"But shut up. You and I have been partners ever since I dug you out of the ground. You'd still be sleeping in a glass coffin if I hadn't found you. That means you're my responsibility. Anyway, I'm more to blame for Tempest's death than you are. You might have struck the blow that sent his soul here, but I'd torn him to pieces before that."
"With Rott's power, which you no longer have."
"I still have my wits. I still have my will. I may no longer be a dragon, but I'm still a force of nature. Do you honestly think Tempest stands a chance against me?"
Slate opened his mouth, then closed it.
"I see I have no choice," he said. "I've no doubt you would follow me at a distance if I didn't agree to your company. It's best you remain close, under my protection."
"You've got that backward. I'm staying close in order to protect you."
"Yes, ma'am," said Slate.
He offered her his large, calloused hand. She placed her small, baby-soft, newly restored palm against his and gave the firmest handshake she could muster.
# CHAPTER FOUR
# BAY OF BLOOD
Cinder climbed the tree and found Konoko, a village elder, and told him of the boar her mother had slain. Konoko placed his fingers between his lips and gave out three shrill bird cries, waking any members of the tribe who still slumbered. Moments later, the men set out for the berry fields, scampering across the treetops like green monkeys.
Cinder waited until they were gone, then went into her mother's hut. Ver sat in the shadows. Here in the dim light, he looked almost like a living man save for his unnatural paleness. She'd noticed that he wore white gloves, pristine as a sun-bleached shell. The flesh of his face was whiter still, adding contrast to the darkness of his eyes.
He said, in a gentle tone, "If you're ready to talk about what happened in Commonground, I'm willing to listen."
"I never said I'd tell you," she said.
"Only I can help you see the truth," said Ver. "You no doubt witnessed things in that pagan city that forever poisoned you against long-men. Commonground is not a proper place by which to judge the civilized world."
"Mother said what happened was the ultimate truth about civilization."
"Tell me the story," said Ver. "I'll gladly acknowledge if your mother is correct."
Cinder sat on the hammock that her mother slept on each night. Cinder had never mastered the art of sleeping. As far as she could tell, other people went to the edge of death each night, their minds silent, their bodies still, only to come back to life each dawn. Since she already straddled the boundary between life and death, sleep had no hold upon her.
"It happened a long time ago," said Cinder. "When my great-grandfather, Tenoba, lay near death."
"How old were you?" asked Ver.
"Twelve, I think, as a long-man would say it," said Cinder. "Pygmies don't use numbers to measure age. We would say only that I was the age where a girl transitions into a woman."
Ver nodded, listening, as Cinder told her story.
It was after _the season of summer storms, when the air grows cool at night. The sun was low when Tenoba called Mother to his bedside. I came with her. He told her he would die before the next full moon. He said we shouldn't mourn, for he'd lived a full life. He told her he had no regrets about leaving behind the cities of the long-men to live with the Jawa Fruit tribe._
" _No regrets?" my mother asked, perhaps sensing a tone in his voice that my young ears missed._
Grandfather chuckled at her question. "One," he admitted. "Without fire, the pygmies have never learned the art of distillation. The fruit wine they make is sweet and quenching, but I sometimes miss the harder stuff. The warmth of a good rum spreading through my chest... there are few pleasures left for a man my age. I wish I had a bottle to carry me through these dwindling days."
Mother smiled. "You really are related to Stagger, aren't you? Get some rest, Tenoba. Promise to live for three more days and you shall have your bottle."
" _I'll do my best," he said, before slipping into slumber._
My mother left Tenoba's hut. I followed her and asked, "What's rum? What's a bottle?"
She gave me a wistful look. "Rum is something long-men drink. It makes them feel less pain. Bottles are... well, they're like empty gourds, only made of glass."
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but mother interrupted. "Glass is something like the shiny volcanic rocks, only clear." She shook her head slowly. "Your father would be appalled at the holes I've left in your vocabulary."
" _I don't understand why I need the long-men's words at all," I said. "Who am I to speak to other than you and Tenoba?"_
" _You might not always live here in the jungle," she said. "Believe it or not, few people in this world speak forest-pygmy. Millions speak the silver tongue."_
I was confused by her words. Though she had taught me the numbers of the long-men, I couldn't grasp how the concept of millions.
She studied my face, seeing my bewilderment. She smiled at me with wistful eyes. "I guess now's as good a time as any. I think you're ready."
" _Ready for what?"_
" _To go to Commonground."_
My eyes grew wide. "That's... that's the bad place. Why would we go there?"
" _The bad place?" she asked._
" _They say the forest-pygmies who disappear are taken there. They say the river-pygmies sell them to long-men. They're taken to distant lands, where they die without ever seeing their homes again."_
" _Ah," said Mother. "Yes. That does happen."_
" _Why would we go to such a terrible place?"_
Mother sighed. "The world is complicated. Yes, bad things happen to forest-pygmies. Bad things happen to everyone, from long-men to ogres, even to dragons. It's just that different categories of bad things happen in Commonground than what happens here. And, it's not all bad. I knew some good people in Commonground."
" _Then why did you leave?"_
" _Way, way, way too many people wanted to kill me," she said with a shrug. "It got a little tedious. But, hey, everyone probably thinks I'm dead."_
" _What if some of these people recognize you?"_
" _How likely is that?" she asked, holding up her hand and studying the back of it. "I'm as green as an unripe banana. No one's going to recognize me if I pop back into the city for a little visit. And if anyone tried to start trouble..." She cracked her knuckles. "I've won a fight or two in my day."_
" _We'd risk this for a bottle of rum? Is it truly such a magical drink?"_
My mother shrugged. "I never cared for the stuff myself. But, I do care for Tenoba. We're not going there for rum. We're going there for him."
With these words I put aside my fear, and resolved to make the journey by her side.
We left an hour later, as sunset gave way to stars. My mother was dressed in strange attire, something she'd pulled from the old trunk she kept hidden in the hollow tree by the creek. I'd never seen anyone wear pants before, or a blouse, and the leather coverings on her feet, boots they were called, looked dangerous to me. How could you grasp slender branches with your toes covered? She'd left behind her hunting spear and now carried a sword in a black scabbard. Her long, flowing hair was tied back, mostly concealed by a square of black cloth she called a scarf.
She'd outfitted me as well for the trip to the city. For most of my life, I'd gone naked, like other pygmy children. As I reached the age where I was to become a woman, I'd begun to wear a loincloth, as other women do. Mother had me don one of her old leather vests, though I found it itchy and confining. She gave me a pair of her old pants as well. I was almost as tall as she was even then, but the pants were baggy. They had to be cinched up with a tight belt, which felt as if it would cut me in two if it were to snag on a branch. At least she didn't insist that I wear boots.
We made good time along well-worn paths through the jungle. I was frightened by the very ground we tread upon, for I knew that the paths were the work of river-pygmies. From time to time, I'd see their shadowy forms far off in the brush, but none approached us.
Mother sensed my fear.
" _It's okay," she said. "I've got a reputation among the surrounding tribes. No one's going to mess with us. And if they do, just remember your training."_
I tried to take comfort in her words, but failed. Mother had taught me to defend myself even if I was unarmed. I often pinned her when we wrestled, but I suspected she only let me win so I would feel confident. But, no matter how aggressive my mother might be with my training, I knew she'd never truly hurt me, let alone kill me. Could I really handle an opponent intent on doing me harm?
By the end of the night, I'd never been so far from home. When my mother paused to sleep in the heat of the day, I slipped into the Realm of Roots, preferring its barren silence to the buzzing, chirping, creaking and crunching jungle.
Night had fallen again by the time we reached the edge of the bay. We stood on a low bluff, looking at the city before us. I had never seen so many lights! There were uncountable ships rocking gently on the waves, all festooned with lanterns. Even from a mile away, I heard the murmur of hundreds of voices, some shouting, some singing, and the wind carried with it a multitude of new and mysterious smells. Mother said we'd arrived at high tide, which meant I was spared the worst smells the city had to offer. Instead I caught hints of pastries fresh from the oven, of meats roasting over charcoal, and of exotic spices packed in the holds of ships. Along the docks, hundreds of vendors hawked various foods that could be shoved onto a stick and fried in bubbling vats of oil.
I followed Mother along the shore to the nearest dock, then out to the city. "There's a lot here to see," she said. "But looking is all you should do. Promise me you won't touch anything."
I nodded in agreement.
Looking would be more than enough, I felt. I'd never seen such strange creatures as the long-men stumbling along the docks. I'd thought the flowers and birds of my jungle home must surely represent every combination of color possible, but there were men dressed in vests woven from threads of a dozen different colors, and women who painted their skin not in a single shade, as is the custom of pygmies, but in multitudes of hues, with crimson lips and dark green powders around sparkling blue eyes, topped with long flowing hair the color of sunshine. And the dresses they wore! I'd never imagined there could be so many kinds of fabric.
We approached a large boat festooned with flags, fields of white that sported the dark silhouette of some sort of bird I didn't recognize.
" _That's a swan," said Mother. "A black swan. We had them back in the Silver City. Except they were white."_
We went up a gangplank onto the huge boat. Music played on instruments I'd never before heard spilled from the swinging doors as we approached. Mother walked boldly into the room beyond without hesitating. I followed closely behind, never more than an arm's length away. The air inside was foul with acrid smoke. I feared something had caught fire, until I saw that men were placing burning rolls of dried leaves into their mouths, drawing in the smoke, then puffing it out. I had little time to be bewildered by the custom before I was confused by other things, like men sitting at tables staring at handfuls of colorful cards, and other men leaning over tables and throwing small cubes of bone. The women here made me especially uncomfortable. I'd grown up in a land where no woman other than my mother concealed their breasts. Here, all the women were clothed, but in such a way as to push their breasts up into the faces of the men who surrounded them. Their breasts were large and full, as if they were all overdue to be suckled by their babies, but there wasn't an infant anywhere to be seen. It was unthinkable that a collection of more than three or four women in the Jawa Fruit tribe could be gathered without at least one holding a child.
As strange as the long-men were, the creature behind the bar was stranger still. My mother might be called a giant by our tribe, but the beast serving drinks truly was a giant, and not a human one. His head was like that of a water buffalo, only not as shaggy, and his horns curled less. My mother walked toward the creature without hesitation.
" _Hello, Battle Ox," my mother said to the beast. "It's been a while."_
The beast stared at the green woman before him, then said in a deep voice, "Do I know you?"
" _Let's say you don't," she said. "It's simpler that way. I'm only here do a quick transaction then get out of your hair. I need a bottle of your finest rum."_
" _I'm sure I've seen you before," he said, sounding distracted. "Are you that lady pirate who sailed with the South Shore Savages?"_
My mother winked at the beast. "Battle Ox, what happens outside Commonground, stays outside Commonground."
" _Right, right," the beast said. "Sorry." He turned and pulled down a bottle of dark fluid. "Five moons."_
" _Five!" my mother sounded shocked. "It used to cost only a single moon!"_
" _Yeah, like ten years ago," said Battle Ox. "But ever since things went to hell in the Silver Kingdom, the supply lines have tightened up."_
" _Things have gone to hell in the Silver Kingdom?" Mother asked. "Is... is Brightmoon still the king?"_
" _Last I heard. But... you know the One True Book's gone, right? The Church of the Book has collapsed. The kingdom's falling apart now that no one's afraid of Truthspeakers anymore."_
" _The One True Book is gone?" Mother scratched the back of her neck as she contemplated this revelation. "I wonder if Sorrow had anything to do with that?"_
" _How do you know Sorr– wait a minute," he said, his eyes going wide. "I knew I knew you! You're Infidel!"_
" _Shhhh," she said, holding her fingers to her lips._
" _I thought you were dead."_
" _And I'd like for the rest of the world to keep thinking that."_
" _I can keep a secret," said Battle Ox. "But... where have you been? Why are you back? And... my memory's not what it used to be, but were you always green?"_
" _I'll help you keep those secrets safe by not sharing them with you," said Mother. "But look, we've always treated each other fairly. I need to buy a bottle of rum, but I don't have five moons."_
" _You don't have... I figured your finances would have improved now that you're not hanging out with Stagger."_
Mother managed a forced half smile. "When I got back to the Isle of Fire, I only had two moons in my pocket. I haven't spent them in all these years. Can't you do an old friend a favor? The bottle for two moons?"
Battle Ox shook his head. "You know how the Black Swan watches inventory. I guess I could extend you credit..."
Mother shook her head. "I'm not coming back to Commonground for a long time. Maybe never. I don't want credit. I just want to pay a fair price and be on my way."
Battle Ox turned back to the wall of bottles behind him. He retrieved a bottle that was more than half empty. "This one's half gone. I guess I can let you have it for two moons. I feel bad about taking your last moons, though."
" _No need to feel bad," said Mother. "I'm offering them to you. I'll take the open bottle. The man I'm buying for probably couldn't finish the whole thing anyway."_
" _I mean... well, if you're broke, I know where you can find work. The new goons aren't working out. The Black Swan has sent messengers out to look for Menagerie, but who knows if he's even still alive? She'd hire you in a second."_
" _Yeah, thanks for the offer, but no. I'll be fine."_
Mother placed two small disks of metal on the bar. The giant slowly handed her the bottle, looking as if he was contemplating more questions. Mother took the bottle, turned, and said, tersely, "Thanks." She grabbed my hand and headed for the door.
" _He recognized you," I said as we walked off the boat onto the docks. "Is he one of the people who wants to kill you?"_
" _No," she said. "Don't worry. I shouldn't have said anything. The kind of enemies I used to make tend to have short lives. Everything's fine. Relax. Try to think of this trip as a fun adventure."_
I nodded. We headed away from the barge, down the docks back toward the shore. Gazing at the waiting jungle, I could feel the tension in my belly slacken, instantly replaced by hunger. We'd traveled a long way with little rest. While my mother had brought along dried meat and a few Jawa Fruit for rations, I'd been too nervous to have an appetite.
As we walked along the docks, we passed by rows of small shacks along the boardwalk where people were holding up food of all sorts, including one with skewers of friend monkey, bright red with spices.
All my life, my mother had told me how delicious these delicacies were, so I reached out and took one from a gray-haired, toothless man holding it toward me. I kept walking as I tore the meat from the bamboo and placed it between my teeth.
Behind me, the man started shouting. I turned to see what the commotion was and saw he was hobbling toward me, shouting, "Thief! Thief!"
He was an old man with a cane, one eye blind with cataracts. He lifted his cane as if to strike me, but as he swung, my mother's hand shot out and caught the makeshift club.
" _Whoa!" she shouted. "What's your problem?"_
" _Thief!" the man cried, his good eye fixed on me._
My mother glanced at the red meat still dangling from my lips and cringed.
" _Cinder!" she said. "What are you doing?"_
" _Eating?" I said, confused by the question._
" _She didn't pay for that!" the man said._
A fat woman from across the dock came up and said, "It's true! I saw her steal it!" She was followed closely by a large, heavily muscled youth with the faintest wisp of a beard.
I didn't understand what the fuss was about. In my home village, there was no such thing as money. Food was food for whoever was hungry.
" _She didn't know better," my mother said. "I'm sorry."_
" _Sorry don't pay for it," said the old man._
" _Yeah," said the fat woman._
I held out the skewer to the old man, wanting to give it back. This only made him angrier.
" _You've already eaten half of it!" he cried. "Payment! Now!"_
" _We've no money," said Mother. "Please, she meant no harm."_
" _No money!" the fat woman scoffed. She eyed the scabbard on my mother's belt. "That blade is worth a few coins, at least."_
" _The blade isn't up for barter," said my mother, crossing her arms._
" _The blade!" the old man said. "She's already eaten the meal. I'll take the blade as payment!"_
Mother rolled her eyes. "There's no possible economic theory where this sword and that little stick of meat have equal value."
" _You should have considered that before you took something that wasn't yours." It was the large youth who spoke, stepping forward, fists clenched._
" _Let's all take a deep breath," my mother said. "I'm sure we can—"_
The youth lunged, grabbing for the hilt of the sword. Before my eyes could properly focus on what was going on, there was a loud SMACK and the boy was flat on his black, his nose bloodied.
My mother rubbed her knuckles and said, "Now, can we just talk? I'm willing to make a bargain. How about my boots? Where I'm heading, I don't use 'em much."
A crowd was starting to form around us. Two men even larger than the youth mother had just knocked down pushed their way through to the front of the crowd. One of them carried a large knife, still wet with blood from where he'd been butchering monkeys. The other one was unarmed, but far more menacing, shirtless and muscular, his head shaved and covered with scars. The bald one said, in a slurred voice, "What's the problem, Ma?"
" _This thief stole meat from your uncle," the fat lady said. "The woman said she was going to trade her sword for the meat, but now she's trying to welsh on the deal. On top of everything else, she just broke Buck's nose for no reason!"_
" _I made no such trade, and Buck's nose would be fine if he kept his hands off stuff that wasn't his."_
" _Oh," the old man said. "So, you're saying we're in our rights to break the girl's nose? She did more than touch my monkey. She ate it!"_
My mother positioned herself between me and the men. "Everyone just back off. I didn't come here looking for a fight."
" _Grab them!" the fat woman screamed._
The bald man leapt toward my mother. She met his advance with a solid punch to the mouth, but his sheer mass carried him forward. They slammed down hard on the dock, with him on top. I jumped out of the way of their flailing limbs, only to have the second man grab me by the hair. I scratched at his wrist, screaming, struggling to break free. He pulled me closer to him, and brought the knife to my throat.
" _I got her, Ma!" he screamed, right in my ear._
Instinctively, I went to the other place. To my shock, he came with me. He instantly released his grasp, spinning around, disoriented by the ghostly shadows that surrounded him. The once green slopes of the jungle were covered with dry and withered trees, the branches stretching up like the arms of beggars. The water around the dock was black and stank of blood.
" _Where?" he asked, bewildered, stumbling as he tried to make sense of his surroundings._
I felt similar confusion. Never in my journeys to the Realm of Roots had I ever seen it look like this. It wasn't just the bay of blood that was different. The Realm of Roots was almost always vacant. Here, scores of shadowy, naked figures, men and women, young and old, stumbled along the docks, their eyes vacant, their faces slack. Some moaned, some murmured, some sobbed softly. It was nothing like the silence found in the Realm of Roots.
One of the ghostly figures, holding his hands before his face as if he were studying cards, staggered toward us, mumbling, "Fold, fold, fold." He passed through the faint forms of my mother and her bulky attacker as if they were made of fog.
The knife-wielding man shrieked as the man drew near. He swung his knife at the ghost, the blade passing through the man's torso without resistance. Off balance, he flailed his arms as he found himself at the edge of the dock. With a cry, he toppled into the blood.
I stepped back into the living world to find the second man straddling my mother, his hands around her neck. Her left arm was pinned beneath his bulk. Her face was bright red as she struggled to break his grip with her free hand.
" _Get off her!" I shouted, jumping forward to punch the brute in his ear. He shifted his weight to swat me away. I tried to dodge, but even the glancing blow he landed was like being struck by a heavy rock. I fell to the dock._
Fortunately, his shifted weight freed my mother's arm. She grabbed the hilt of her sword and pulled the blade free. No one was more startled than I when the sword burst into bright orange flame with a loud WHOOSH! She struck the brute straddling her across the eyes with the flat of the burning blade. He rolled away, yipping at the pain.
Springing to her feet, my mother screamed, "Back off! Everyone back the hell off! If anyone is within ten feet of me or my daughter two seconds from now, I swear I'll gut you."
Nearly everyone ran, save for the fat woman who screamed, "Where's Newt? Where's Newt?"
Since the man who grabbed me was still missing, I guessed who she was looking for. I looked at my mother. She looked at me, and instantly guessed what I'd done.
" _You can take people to the Realm of Roots?" she asked. "Why didn't you ever tell me this?"_
" _I didn't know!" I protested. "And... it's not the Realm of Roots. It's... someplace worse."_
" _The bastard deserved it," she said._
I frowned, not knowing if he did. Yes, he probably would have hurt me, but if I left him in the other place... wasn't that the same as killing him? I'd caused this whole mess by taking the meat. I didn't fully understand why it was wrong, but I did grasp that I'd broken some rule.
" _I'll be back," I said, grabbing a coil of rope that lay near a mooring, then stepping back into the realm of the dead. Distantly, I heard my mother call for me to stop._
I knelt at the edge of the dock where Newt had fallen. I saw him floating in the water on his back, not struggling. His eyes were wide open. I worried he was dead. "Newt?" I asked.
I saw his eyes turn toward me.
I threw the rope to him. The coil landed on his chest. He sunk down into the red fluid that surrounded him, moving his arms lazily. More by chance than deliberate action, the rope wrapped around his wrist. I heaved with all my might to pull him toward me, dragging him close to the dock pilings.
" _Can you climb?" I asked._
He didn't answer. He made no motion to try to grab the dock.
Dropping to my chest, I stretched my arm to grab his hand. There was no way I could lift him. Hopefully, his brother could.
I shifted us both back into the land of the living.
The bald man my mother had struck had tears streaming down his cheek, but his expression was one of rage rather than pain. He glared at my mother, blinking hard, his fists clenched.
" _You think I'm going to let you live after this?" he said with a snarl._
" _It's Newt!" I shouted, leaping to my feet and pointing toward the water. "He's drowning!"_
" _Newt!" the fat woman cried, running to look into the water. "Ham! Get over here!"_
" _Not now, Ma!" the bald man screamed._
" _Newt's drowning! You gotta save him!"_
" _Listen to your mama, Ham," said my mother, moving to my side and grabbing me by the upper arm, squeezing so hard I winced._
" _You're not going anywhere, bitch," said Ham. But instead of advancing toward us, he stepped back, to the other side of the dock. He reached down and picked up a long pole tipped with a giant hook. "I'll gut you like a damned fish!"_
Mother sighed as she let go of my arm. Ham lunged, swinging the pole. Mother easily ducked beneath the hook. She rose from her crouch sliding the blazing sword between Ham's thighs. She didn't thrust hard enough to cut him, but when she pulled the blade away, Ham's crotch was on fire. He yelped and rushed to the edge of the dock, leaping into the bay.
" _Save Newt while you're down there!" the fat woman yelled._
Mother gave the onlookers surrounding us a hard glower. "Anyone else want to try their luck?"
Nobody had the courage to answer that, or even to look directly at her.
The crowd parted as mother walked toward the shack where the skewers of meat were on display. She grabbed a handful, then announced, "We're leaving now."
Mother nodded for me to follow her down the dock, not bothering to look back, the burning blade still crackling in her grasp.
" _Taking stuff that doesn't belong to you is wrong," she said as we put distance between us and the scene of the altercation._
" _But... but you took those skewers," I said, staring at the meat in her hands._
" _This is an idiot tax," she said. "It's the price they pay for me letting them live. I mean, what the hell did they think I was going to do? Just hand over the sword?"_
I furrowed my brow, trying to process the wisdom she was trying to impart.
She stopped walking, sheathing the sword. She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. "Fine. I shouldn't have taken the skewers. I've never been able to tolerate bullies. I mean, they were just looking for an excuse to rob us."
" _Should we take the skewers back?"_
" _Nah," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "I'm sure I didn't do any real damage to either of the guys I fought. They're dumb enough to start something if we went back. I've gone a really long time without disemboweling anyone. I'd hate to break my streak." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the distant figures. "The guy who grabbed you. You brought him back?"_
" _Yes. I... I think."_
" _You think?"_
" _There was, um, something was wrong with him. He fell into the blood—"_
" _What blood?"_
" _In the other place."_
Mother nodded. "The Bay of Blood," she said. "It's sort of a Hell for the lost souls of Commonground who have no place else to go."
" _I saw a lot of ghosts," I said. "They did seem lost."_
" _The old-timer's say that if you fall into the bay, you lose your memories. You don't even remember that you're dead."_
" _Newt... he couldn't understand me anymore. His eyes were blank. I think... I think his mind was gone."_
Mother shrugged. "He probably won't miss it."
Glancing at the black hilt by her side, I couldn't help but ask the obvious question.
" _Where did you get a flaming sword?"_
" _This?" She patted the hilt. "Found it."_
That felt like a very short origin story for such a wondrous object, but there was something in her tone that told me further questions would be useless.
" _I can't believe that man got so angry that I took that skewer," I said. "People have to pay for food? The way you paid for that rum?"_
" _Yes."_
" _But... what if you don't have money?"_
" _You go hungry."_
" _Even if others have more food than they can eat? They had enough monkey to feed half our tribe."_
" _That's pretty much how it works in every part of the world that proudly calls itself civilized."_
" _Oh," I said. "I don't think that's something I would be proud of."_
My mother smiled. We left the dock and climbed back up the jungle slope. When we were a good way into the jungle, my mother stripped off her clothes, starting with her boots. I took off my leather vest, my whole torso feeling raw and chafed. She cut our pants into strips to fashion fresh loincloths for us. She tossed the remnants of our clothes into the bushes. We walked on, never looking back.
As promised, Ver had listened patiently to the story. His face gave no indication that he found the story remarkable, or even interesting.
He said, "I still say that Commonground is a poor representation of civilized life."
"Then... mother was wrong? In other cities, I might have eaten my fill, even though I had no money?"
Ver frowned. "No," he said. "While there are houses of charity in the Silver City, if you'd taken food from a street vendor without paying, you would be arrested as a thief. Your punishment would likely be mild, however. Perhaps nothing more than a public flogging."
"Then mother is correct when she tells me I'll be happiest here in the jungle."
Ver's eyebrows lifted, ever so slightly. "Most likely. Now that we've established that, will you come with me to the village that I may speak to the knight?"
"No," said Cinder. "If he's part of the civilized world, I want nothing to do with him. You just admitted I'll be happier if I remain here!"
"Ah," said Ver. "I understand now. You're suffering from a rather common delusion."
"And what would that be?"
"That happiness matters anything at all in this world. It's far better to bear the unpleasant burden of a truth than to be lifted by the buoyant pleasure of a lie. The truth is, you have the power to save others in need. This is now your burden. You must lift it."
"In truth," said Cinder, "I don't like you and I don't trust you. I'm not going to change my mind. Go away."
Ver nodded. "As you wish. When the world crumbles around you, and all that you love perishes, remember this as the moment when you chose not to prevent such tragedy."
With that he turned, his gloved hands crossed behind his back, and walked away through the wall of the hut.
# CHAPTER FIVE
# A PENCHANT FOR VERSE
Fester, Fume, and Foment stood on the forecastle, arms crossed, glowering at Slate and Sorrow as they returned to the deck. Slate glowered back. He tightened the straps that held the heavy pack on his back, then placed his hand upon the hilt of the Witchbreaker. The three demons crouched slightly, looking ready to pounce.
"Don't provoke them," Sorrow whispered.
"The presence of these monsters is an abomination," Slate whispered back. "I feel fury any time I gaze upon them."
"There's no need to murmur," said Walker from his position at the wheel. "The devils can read your thoughts. Whispers do nothing to protect your privacy. As for the growing rage you feel, it's only natural. These demons are flaws in the great tapestry of reality. They're things that should not be. Look upon them too long and you'll go mad."
"Then we should depart at once," said Slate. "I don't know how much longer I can stay my hand."
"Hopefully you'll manage to control your temper long enough to reach your destination," said Walker. "You'll not travel far in Hell without one of these three guiding you."
"Why do we need a guide?" asked Sorrow.
"Hell is the terrain of nightmares. The landscape here is not as obedient as it is in the waking world. A step forward might leave you behind the point where you started. You might set out to climb a hill, only to find yourself at the bottom of a canyon."
"My faith will guide us," said Slate.
Walker gave the faintest hint of a smile, then turned to Sorrow. "Perhaps you will be more receptive to reason."
"It doesn't sound as if reason is going to be of a lot of use down here," she answered.
"That is a most reasonable attitude," said Walker. "But, you've yet to answer the question. Will you accept help, freely offered? You, of all people, shouldn't fear Fester, Foment, and Fume merely because of their hideous countenances. When last we met, you were half covered in dragon skin."
"If merely looking at them would drive us mad, it sounds dangerous to have them along."
Walker chuckled. "On the contrary. A touch of madness is required to traverse this treacherous terrain. A sane man would never take a single step in this place."
Sorrow nodded. "Very well. We'll take the one that's part bird."
Slate frowned, but said nothing.
"That's Fester," said Walker. "An excellent choice."
The vulture-headed devil stepped forward. It bowed respectfully before Sorrow.
"If my looks don't unnerve you," the beast said, in a surprisingly gentle and well-mannered tone, "it's an honor to serve you."
"I didn't expect a demon to be so polite," she said.
"My brothers will envy me when I tell them your name. Your war against the Book has brought you great fame."
Sorrow looked toward Walker. "Does he always rhyme?"
"A penchant for verse is part of his curse," said Walker.
"Is it too late to pick another demon?"
"Certainly not," said Walker. He nodded toward the one with hornets for a head. "Since Fume has no mouth, he speaks via expelling gas from his bowels. With close attention, you'll soon enough understand his speech. The odor, alas, is noteworthy. As for Foment," he said, motioning toward the lion-headed demon, "he doesn't so much speak as shriek like a wounded rabbit."
"Fester it is, then," said Sorrow.
By now, the Romers had gathered round them, save for Mako, who was nowhere to be seen.
"This is incredibly dangerous," said Gale. "Suppose you do find Stark Tower's soul. Then what? How will you ever escape this place?"
"You're coming back with an army, right?" asked Sorrow.
"Who knows how long that will take?" Gale threw up her hands. "When I ask Walker how long we'll be sailing this river, he tells us, quote, 'long enough to arrive.' "
Cinnamon, Gale's youngest daughter, ran up and embraced Sorrow's legs.
"Don't go," Cinnamon said softly. "It's too scary out there."
"Don't listen to her!" said Poppy, stepping forward, plainly excited. "Slate, this is just like in the book about knights! You have to do this!"
"They might get killed!" said Cinnamon.
"You can do this, Slate," said Poppy, placing her fist in her palm. "You're a brave knight with a pure heart. Nothing can stop you!" She concluded with a crisp salute.
Slate returned the salute, then embraced the child. "I'll tell you all about my adventures when we meet again."
One by one, the Romers said their goodbyes. There were hugs and handshakes, but no tears. Wanderers never shed tears at parting; to do so was bad luck. Brand and Bigsby, however, weren't bound by the Wanderer's code. Bigsby walked away from his parting hug with Sorrow, wiping his eyes.
Brand looked into Sorrow's face long enough for her to grow uncomfortable. She took him by the arm and pulled him away from Slate, who was still talking with Poppy and Jetsam.
"I know this look," she grumbled. "You're getting ready to tell me I'm doing something stupid."
He shook his head. "I don't need to tell you. You know it already. I almost– _almost_ –understand why Slate is doing this. I can't understand what's in this for you."
She glanced at Slate. "He's in it for me."
"Ah," Brand said. "Finally admitting to yourself that you're in love?"
"I honestly don't know." She crossed her arms. "I haven't had much experience with the emotion. But... back in the Temple of the Book, the Voice of the Book told Slate to kill me. Slate disobeyed."
"Isn't the Voice of the Book, like, the head Truthspeaker? How could Slate disobey?"
"One of the knights we met said that Slate possessed a greater truth. The truth is that it was more important to protect me than to obey the Voice of the Book. Then, later, when we stood before the One True Book..." Her voice trailed off.
"Yes?"
"You have to understand. I went to the Temple with every intention of destroying the Book. I wanted to tear apart everything Slate believed he was fighting to defend."
"Why wouldn't I understand that? You don't exactly keep it secret."
"Opposing the church wasn't some idle whim. It was part of my identity. When I looked in the mirror each day, I saw the face of a destroyer, and I liked it."
"Everybody needs a hobby," said Brand.
"Don't be flippant," she said. "I'm trying to tell you something important."
"Sorry," he said.
"When Slate picked up the Book and vowed he intended to save it... I couldn't harm the Book without harming him."
"Oh." he said, his eyes widening slightly, as if he suddenly understood something. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Slate wasn't listening, then whispered, "Don't tell me you're just sticking around him until you get a second chance at the Book. I assume that's what he's carrying in his backpack?"
She shook her head. "You really don't understand. At the moment Slate took up the book, I might have killed him, and fulfilled my destiny. Yet, I couldn't harm him. He's somehow... precious to me. More precious than my dreams of destruction."
Brand nodded. "So you don't plan to destroy the One True Book?"
"I won't go that far," she said. She raised her hand to her lips and bit at her nails before catching herself, and putting her hands back to her side. "But... if what Walker says is true... is there a Church left to destroy?"
"If there isn't, that leaves you with a lot of free time on your hands."
"Walker says we were in Limbo for twenty years. Twenty! Think of all the people we knew who've died during that time."
Brand shook his head. "I intend not to think of that at all. For now, all the people I care about most are here on this ship. After my father died, I didn't feel much of a connection to my old life."
Sorrow crossed her arms. "My father may still be alive. He was over sixty when I last saw him, yes, but some men live to see a century. Perhaps... perhaps there's hope he yet lives."
"Hope? You always wanted him dead."
"No. I wanted to kill him. I wanted him to suffer for his sins, _at my hands._ Anything else would be unjust."
Brand looked around the hellscape, with its black gravel hills and pools of bubbling lava. "Hmm. I think I'm finally starting to get your true motive here."
"Caring for Slate isn't enough of a motive? Keeping close to the One True Book to ensure it doesn't return to the Church isn't enough of a motive?"
"You might hope your father's alive, but you're betting he's dead."
She didn't respond.
"And you think he's here," he said, in a tone half statement, half question.
"Is it too much to dream that he be damned to the very Hell to which he condemned witches, outlaws, and heretics?" asked Sorrow. "Perhaps hypocrites suffer greatly in this place... except this place is broken, is it not? Apparently, the damned can simply walk right out the gate." She waved her hand toward an imagery door in the distance. "I can't allow that. If my father _is_ dead, he should be here, not out wandering the land of the living doing further harm."
"You have a gift for making metaphysical matters somehow personal. I do believe you'd overthrow Tempest just to ensure your father suffers eternal torment."
"Yes," she said. "I believe I would."
"And... you do see that, in a way, you'd be defending one of the central teachings of the Church of the Book? A teaching you once told me was unfair and cruel? The notion that a brief life of sin earns one an eternity of torment?"
Sorrow frowned. "Brand... you don't... I mean... I should go. You've got your own problems, helping Gale and Walker find an army. I need to get on with Slate's quest, and mine."
Brand gave her a firm hug. "Sorrow, the world would be a much duller place without you. Swear to me you'll stay alive."
"I swear."
"And promise that you won't pick a fight with Tempest in order to get your dad back into Hell," he whispered in her ear.
"I can't promise that," she whispered back.
She walked toward Slate as the knight broke free from the embrace of the younger Romers. Surveying the deck, she noticed Mako was still absent. In a way, she was relieved. She felt no hard feelings toward Mako for making advances upon her. Indeed, she felt nothing but sympathy and affection toward him. Still, it did spare her the awkwardness of having to look him in the eyes as she said goodbye.
Of course, the universe had little interest in sparing Sorrow any discomfort. As she reached Slate's side, Mako climbed up the stairs from the hold. He carried a wine bottle in his hand. The bottle was broken, the bottom neatly sheared off.
He cleared his throat as he came closer. "Leaving this ship would be suicide for most people. But, if anyone's going to survive out there, it will be the two of you."
"Thank you," she said.
"You make a surprisingly good team, considering you're natural enemies."
"Slate's not my... well I mean..." Sorrow's voice trailed off.
Slate nodded. "I know what you mean."
Mako held out the wine bottle. "I've had this for a long time. I've been below filling barrels, but now I want you to have it."
Sorrow furrowed her brow, wondering if giving a broken bottle was some sort of obscure Wanderer insult.
"Mako," said Gale. "If you give them the bottle, you might never see it again."
"I know. But, without it, we might never see them again. I doubt there's fresh water anywhere here to drink, and, unlike us, they can't carry barrels."
"What's so special about this bottle?" Sorrow asked.
Mako uncorked the bottle and tilted it. Water spilled from the mouth, splashing on the deck, and kept spilling far beyond the capacity of the bottle, even if it hadn't been broken.
"It's a bottomless bottle," said Mako.
"When we had to abandon the _Freewind_ , this was one of the first items we secured," Gale explained. "It's something Mako found in the wreckage of the _Wave Wolf._ The bottle will pour any liquid you wish, and can never be emptied. For years, we've used it to keep our ship supplied with fresh water."
"Oh," said Sorrow. "Mako, this is too precious for you to give away. Your family needs it."
Mako looked directly into Sorrow's eyes. "I'm the one who found it. By the law of salvage, I may dispose of it as I wish. My family will be fine. As I say, I've filled every barrel in our hold with fresh water."
"We've a lot of thirsty mouths," said Gale. "Has anyone even got an actual count of the pygmies?"
"Rigger, you're the one good at math," said Mako. "With our stocks full, even with a hundred bellies to fill, we can be at sea for three months if we're not wasteful. Are my calculations correct?"
Rigger shrugged. "Sounds close enough. In truth, we're more likely to starve before we run out of water. We didn't stock provisions for such a crowd, and these unnatural waters can't be safe to fish."
"You always know how to put a positive spin on things," said Jetsam, floating just above Rigger.
Mako clasped his webbed fingers around Sorrow's hands, forcing her to take the bottle. "The bottle is yours. I give it freely. Your need is more immediate than ours."
Sorrow nodded, turning her gaze away from his dark eyes. Was he trying to make her feel guilty? She suspected not. She knew Mako had a fierce temper, even a touch of bloodlust, but she'd never detected any trace of cruelty, or the capacity for deceit.
She tried to put the bottle into Slate's pack, jamming it next to the One True Book. She took care not to let her fingers brush against the cover. All her life, she'd been told that the book was so holy that no living person could touch the book without being destroyed, as the purity the book would burn away their unclean flesh. She wasn't certain she believed this, but decided that she'd wait until a later time to test it. Alas, the bottle wouldn't fit. She placed it in her own pack, though the seemingly empty vessel proved unnaturally heavy, as if it held gallons.
They lightened their load by leaving behind the wineskins and canteens they'd filled to prepare for their journey, then, with a final wave goodbye, they leapt from the deck of the _Circus_ as it pulled within a few feet of a steep bank. Sorrow made the leap easily, but the black soil crumbled as Slate landed in his full armor, the bank collapsing, threatening to send him into the treacherous river.
Fester, the demon, flapped his wings, lifting from the deck, swooping toward Slate. He grabbed the knight's flailing arm and carried him safely to the bank. Slate stumbled as Fester dropped him to his feet, then spun around, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Even though my death you'd cherish, I promise not to let you perish," said Fester.
Slate stared at the devil for a long second, then removed his hand from the sword. "Thank you."
"We shall be the best of friends, fighting to our bitter ends," said Fester.
"This rhyming is going to get tedious really fast," Sorrow grumbled, rubbing her temples. "Is it too late to take the demon who speaks by farting?"
"It is," shouted Walker, as the _Circus_ pulled away from the bank. "Welcome to Hell!"
They watched as the _Circus_ vanished around a bend in the river.
"There's no turning back now," said Sorrow.
"As any demon will plainly tell, there's never turning back in Hell," said Fester.
"I had no intention of turning back," said Slate. The muscles of his face twitched as he forced himself to keep his eyes on the devil. "Walker said you'd guide us. He also said you could read our minds. You know where I wish to go. Take us."
"Stark Tower's soul I'll help you find," said Fester. "But your lover has a different soul in mind."
"First of all, we're not lovers," said Sorrow. "Second, if Slate wants to find Stark Tower, I want to help him."
"You would find that quest a bother," said Fester. "The soul you search for is your father."
"I don't even know if he's here," she said.
"You need not fear. Of course he's here."
Sorrow felt the blood drain from her face. It was the news she'd wanted to hear, but, now that she heard it, she felt no satisfaction. "Where is he?"
"In the foul, dark valley of despair, where he chokes on poison air."
She nodded slowly. "How did he die?"
"This news, perhaps, will make you weep," said Fester. "He passed quietly in his sleep."
"After the Church of the Book collapsed? After he watched all the thought was true crumble?"
"I'm sorry, he didn't survive that long. He died before he learned the Book was gone."
"But he's still here? Why didn't he leave when Tempest opened the gates?"
"Your father has faith that sinners burn," said Fester. "He won't relent when it's his turn."
"If you want to find him first, Stark Tower can wait," said Slate.
She turned her back to the demon, wondering how he could possibly read her mind at the moment, since she herself wasn't understanding all the conflicting fragments of thought scattered through her brain. "I don't know what I would say to him that would do me any good. It sounds as if he's finally getting taught the lesson I wanted to teach him. I can only imagine his shock at going to sleep thinking himself a saint and waking up in Hell."
Fester shook his head. "Of this fact, your father knew the truth. His soul was black, and each man he hung was proof."
"He knew?" Sorrow ran her hands along her scalp, feeling as if this revelation didn't quite fit inside her skull. "If he knew, why didn't he change?"
"He traded his soul for a greater good, as you also think you should."
Sorrow turned back to Fester.
"I... I don't need to see him. I don't want to see him. Slate's mission should come first."
"I suspect this decision is one that won't rest," said Fester. "But, as you wish, we'll do your lover's quest."
Sorrow started to protest the second use of the word 'lover,' but held her tongue. It could simply be in the demon's nature to try to get a rise out of her. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"Which way should we go?" asked Slate, surveying the hills around them. Sorrow looked around as well, realizing that landmarks she'd been unconsciously cataloging were already gone. The hills were moving, too slowly for the naked eye to track, but rapidly enough to rob her off all sense of direction.
"Toward the snow, we all shall go" said Fester.
"There's snow in Hell?" Slate asked, surprised.
"Since Tempest's allied himself with Hush, half his kingdom is cursed with slush."
"We really should stop asking him questions," said Sorrow. "If I listen to one more rhyme, I think I'm going to scream."
Fester said, "Screaming here would be—"
"Ahh! Just stop talking!" she cried.
"—unwise," finished Fester. "It would draw the gaze of dangerous eyes."
"Oh," she said. "Fine. I'll keep my voice down."
"Too late for that now, I fear," said Fester, gazing toward the ridge of a nearby hill. "A gibbering guardian now draws near. If we're to survive this endless night, draw your blades, for now, we fight!"
Slate had the Witchbreaker drawn before Fester finished speaking. In the living realms, whenever he drew the blade, the air was filled with the moans of the damned. Now, the weapon left its scabbard with a more earthly sing-song of metal scraping metal. Yet, as the blade's vibrations fell silent, Sorrow heard voices in the air, not from the Witchbreaker, but coming from over the hill that Fester faced.
Sorrow drew her own blade, deeply regretting her outburst. It sounded as if an army of thousands crept up the far side of the ridge. Still, while Avaris hadn't been terribly helpful in teaching Sorrow the secrets of bone magic, she knew, in theory, she could alter her body to better prepare for a fight. Bone magic focused the procreative energies of life itself. Simply by moving the energy within her body, she could will her limbs to possess ten times their normal strength and speed. With focus, she could heal any wound mere seconds after a foe struck her. But the only clue Avaris had given her to tapping the magic of her body was that the energy would build with sexual contact. This didn't seem helpful under the circumstances. Why had she ever trusted Avaris to teach her?
She set her jaw. This was no time for self-pity. She'd had no teacher for most of the magics she'd mastered. She'd figure it out. As for sexual contact... simply by kissing Slate, she'd found the power to heal his wounds following their battle with Tempest.
The crowd of voices grew louder. At any moment, their attackers would rise over the ridge.
"Slate," she said firmly. "Look at me."
He turned his head.
Before she had time to second guess herself she stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the back of his neck, and drew his face toward hers. As their lips pressed together, she felt nothing but pressure. Her lips lingered for several seconds, with each second growing more awkward. If this was supposed to spark some magical energy within her, it had failed.
Then, Slate wrapped an arm around the small of her back, and his lips, unprepared for her initial assault, moved to match hers. What had been little more than a collision of lips swiftly transformed into a genuine kiss. A pleasant warmth spread through her.
Slate drew his face away, loosening his grip on her waist. He was smiling, plainly pleased with her actions, but with more than a trace of confusion in his eyes.
"Can't a lady kiss her knight to wish him luck?" asked Sorrow.
"Aye," said Slate, as he turned his eyes back toward the ridge, to the legion of voices. "For luck."
Sorrow focused on the warmth still filling her, then, despite herself, she shivered. The energy swirled within her, almost impossible to hold. She closed her eyes, thinking of Slate's face. She focused on the way his arm had brushed against her back, of how strong he'd seemed, of how right it had felt for his arm to be there. Still, the energy faded, sputtering, nearly gone.
Though she made no conscious choice to do so, her memory shifted, not to the kiss that had occurred only seconds ago, but to the first time she'd touched Slate, when he'd crawled naked from his glass coffin and fought a dragon with his bare hands. In the aftermath, she'd cleansed his wounds, and stitched them, her fingers exploring every inch of his perfectly-muscled body. Her eyes had lingered a long time on his face, all covered in long whiskers, his hair like a lion's mane. He'd looked like a wild beast, and, though she'd never have admitted it, his masculine scent had stirred an animal hunger within her.
She opened her eyes. The warmth was back. Her sword felt light in her hand. She felt swift and strong and tough, ready for anything.
Then the gibbering guardian crested the ridge. She learned that one is never quite prepared for Hell.
# CHAPTER SIX
# IMMATERIAL MATERIAL
The dead man was back, floating beside her, his gloved hands clasped behind him.
Cinder ignored him, focusing instead on the thorny blood-tangle vines she slowly climbed. With careful movements and a little luck, she could reach the beehive in the hollow of the trunk above her without needing to pluck barbs from her feet and hands for the rest of day.
Ver cleared his throat. "There's an urgent situation that requires your attention."
Cinder said nothing, continuing her climb. Until a few years ago, raiding hives had been the work of older boys. Enduring the stings was a test of manhood. But, Cinder's ebony skin gave off a slight smoky scent. Insects never lighted upon her. Since she'd been old enough to climb the highest trees, she'd become the chief honey gatherer for the Jawa Fruit tribe. Whenever she returned to the village with loads of fresh honey, even the girls her age who hated her most would greet her with a smile.
Cinder carefully stepped from the vine onto a thick limb jutting from the tree. Ordinarily, a limb like this would easily support her weight, but the bees had chosen this tree because it was hollow. The branch might be connected by mere inches of healthy wood. A few extra pounds might cause the branch to tear free.
She stood still, her arms spread for balance, as she focused on the bark beneath her toes. It felt solid enough.
"It's rude to pretend you don't hear me," said Ver.
"It's ruder to keep bothering me after I told you to go away," she said, inching closer to the hive. The vibrations of her movements traveled through the branch and sent a tornado of angry insects swirling from the black hole in the trunk. The bees darted toward her, then veered off sharply, as if bouncing off some invisible wall.
"I understand you won't help set things right in Hell," said Ver. "I've no illusions you'll change your mind. Your mother possessed legendary stubbornness. You've inherited this trait."
"Can't you see I'm busy?" she asked, pressing her ear against the trunk. From the sound of the buzzing within, the hive extended down several feet from the hole. This would keep her tribe supplied for weeks.
"There are more urgent matters than collecting honey," said Ver.
"Have you ever had honey?" she asked, gripping the bark and scooting up to the hole.
"As a child," said Ver. "Truthspeakers are forbidden to eat such things. Sweets are one of the seventy-seven false pleasures that lead men to ruin."
She thrust her arm into the trunk and dug her hand into the hot honeycomb. The wax squished between her fingers.
She pulled out her hand, flicked away the few bees stuck to the surface, and took a bite.
"False pleasure? Mother said your religion was crazy." She spoke with her mouth full as she chewed the honeycomb. "If this isn't genuine pleasure, I don't know what is."
Ver shook his head. "The seven genuine pleasures are prayer, study, service, charity, fidelity, obedience, and truthfulness. Pleasures of the senses lead men to their doom."
She took another bite. "Honey will lead to doom." She rolled her eyes. "I'll never doubt my mother again."
"Yet, it's never truer than at this moment. As you stand here licking your fingers, you bring a good and innocent soul closer to death."
Cinder smirked. "I can't imagine how my enjoying a little honey can possibly hurt anyone."
"As we speak, a knight from the nearby settlement fights for each breath. I alone am aware of his peril. You alone have the power to save him."
"What are you talking about?" Cinder asked, bewildered.
"When last we spoke, I told you there was a knight of pure heart who lived in the settlement. His name is Luminous Mantle. This morning, Mantle ventured into the forest with a band of hunters, searching for game to help stock the larders of the settlement."
"Mother says that knights avoid useful work whenever possible. Are you sure this one's helping feed his village?"
"Your mother again has given you a false view of the world. In previous forays into the forest, hunters have faced harassment from your tribesmen. Mantle is along to protect them."
"Perhaps these hunters deserve harassment, or worse," said Cinder. "They intrude upon hunting grounds pygmies have carefully cultivated over centuries. However, it's not my tribe that's fighting the long-men. Jawa Tribe territory ends at the berry fields. The long-men are encroaching on the Spike Branch tribe. The Spikers are terrible people, but they can't be blamed for defending their territory from poachers."
Ver gave the faintest hint of a smile. "Then your claim pygmies share their food freely was a lie?"
"No," she said, wiping her sticky fingers against the bark. "The Jawa Fruit tribe takes care of its people, and the Spike Branch tribe takes care of their people, and... look, it's not the same as what the long-men do. In any case, don't blame my people for what the Spikers do. Our tribes have been at war since long before I was born."
Ver nodded. "I haven't come to place blame for Mantle's current peril. I wish only to save him."
"From what?"
"Since the hunters would be ineffective if they remained too close together, they split into teams of three, with Mantle remaining at a central camp. One of the trios was led deep into the jungle by the clucking of tree hens. From my spiritual vantage point, I could see the sounds they followed were made not by birds, but by pygmies. The small men were camouflaged among the greenery. The hunters never suspected their peril."
"That's unfortunate for the long-men," said Cinder, shaking her head. "The elders say that the Spikers are cannibals. Mother told me it wasn't true. She says every tribe in the jungle thinks their neighbors eat men, while their own tribes are too virtuous to do so."
"Which do you believe?"
Cinder shrugged. "My mother says she's traveled all over the island, but the elders have lived in the jungle a long, long time. Maybe the Spikers don't really eat people, but I still keep clear of them."
Ver nodded. "I cannot state with any certainty that the Spike Branch tribe are cannibals," he said. "I can testify that they led the hunters into a clearing filled with snares and nets, capturing two of them. Only one escaped, though grievously wounded by a spear. He fled to the camp to warn Mantle of the attack. The knight boldly set forth to rescue them."
"By himself?"
"Mantle has few peers when it comes to speed. No one can match him in a sprint, and his enemies seldom land even a glancing blow in battle. Alas, with his speed, he sometimes acts before thinking about consequences. When he abandoned the hunters who'd returned to camp at the sound of the wounded man's alarm, Mantle left them vulnerable to capture. He was too far away to hear their cries of surprise, and too focused on the path he'd discovered, a muddy track along which the first captives had been dragged, kicking and struggling, into the dark reaches of a ruined temple."
"A temple?" Cinder asked. "Forest-pygmies never go into those ruins. Mother says the old places are harmless, but on this, I agree with my tribesmen. It's an unnatural thing to voluntarily go beneath a roof of stone. Stone belongs beneath one's feet, not above one's head."
"The Spike Branch tribesmen do not share your taboos," said Ver. "They'd no qualms about using the ruins to trap the long-men sure to come looking for their captured brothers. The pitch black interior of the temple concealed an ancient cistern, very deep, with sheer and slippery walls. The pygmies crossed the cistern with the aid of a bamboo ladder that spanned the gap. But after crossing, they positioned the ends of the makeshift bridge directly on the lip of the pit. When the knight followed, the bamboo bent, dropping him into the cistern. As we speak, he floats within the dark, deep waters. His fingers find no purchase on the smooth stones that line the pit. He's shed his armor and weapons to be able to float, but it's only a matter of time before he drowns."
Cinder put her hands on her hips. "What does this matter to me?"
Ver stared into her face. She felt her left eye twitch.
"I mean, the long-men would be safe if they didn't go where they weren't wanted," she said.
Ver continued to stare at her.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again, unnerved by his silence. "Aren't you going to say something?"
"What is there to say?" he asked. "Your brusque protests against caring reflect what you've learned from your mother. However, I've been a judge of men's souls for a very long time. You don't need me to tell you right from wrong. In your heart, you know you have the power to save a fellow man from unnecessary death. You believe yourself to be a good person. Now, we shall both discover if that is true."
"Fine." Cinder said, throwing up her hands. "I'll go tell Mother. She'll know what to do."
"That would be unwise," said Ver.
"No it wouldn't. The Spikers are terrified of Mother. She'll be able to reach the temple safely."
"They fear your mother because she's slaughtered dozens of their brethren. But, as you say, the Spikers are merely defending their territory. You could reach the temple safely on your own, without any blood being spilt," said Ver.
"She'll never let me go. She tells me to stay away from Spikers and long-men. I don't see why she'd change her mind now." Cinder shook her head. "Of course, she does things all the time that she tells me I shouldn't do."
"When I traveled at your mother's side, for most of our journey she wore a disguise. If she says one thing then does another, her words are a disguise for her true values. If you save this knight, she'll hold you in high regard within her heart, no matter what she might say about it."
Cinder bit her lip, weighing his words. If her mother was seen crossing into Spiker territory, it might provoke skirmishes that would lead to the deaths of warriors from both tribes. Still, she didn't share Ver's faith that her mother would secretly approve of her saving the knight.
She glanced at the sun. If she left for Spiker territory now, it would be dark when she arrived. At night, her black skin made her all but invisible. Rescuing the knight sounded simple. All she needed to do was lower a vine into the cistern, make sure he climbed out, then slip away. He would never even see her. She could return home without her mother knowing what she'd done.
"I'll do it," she said softly, looking around as if expecting her mother to be hiding just out of sight. "But only if you swear you'll leave me alone afterward."
"I give you my word," said Ver.
In the moonless dark, Cinder followed Ver along the game paths that wound beneath the tree top villages of the Spike Branch tribe. She could hear the Spikers in the canopy, their conversation little more than murmurs punctuated by short chuckles.
She cringed, pressing her back against a trunk, as a shriek like a wild animal came from overhead. The cry died off, replaced with raucous laughter.
"What's so funny?" she whispered to her ghostly companion.
Ver looked up, studied the shadows, then shook his head. "The pygmies amuse themselves by tormenting the long-men they've captured."
Cinder held her breath, listening closely. She could hear weeping, the deep-throated sobs of long-men. One babbled, begging for mercy. His weakness was met with more laughter.
"Savages don't show the respect for prisoners that is the custom of civilized men," Ver said, his voice dripping with disgust. "They live so far beyond the truth that the pain of a fellow man amuses them."
She clenched her fists. "My people would never be so cruel."
"Perhaps. But they tolerate the cruelty of their neighbors. The Church of the Book never turned a blind eye to wickedness. We sought to bring the truth to the far reaches of the world."
"Let's keep moving," she whispered, wanting to get beyond the horrible sounds from above. "How much further?"
"Not far," said Ver. "Come."
They ascended a steep hill to reach a landscape of vine-draped boulders. She took note of the blockish shapes of the stones and realized they moved among one of the countless ancient ruins hidden within the thick vegetation of the Isle of Fire. Tenoba had told her tales of the Vanished Kingdom, and she sometimes imagined what the island must have looked like long ago. Once, the forests had been trimmed and tamed, the land thick with cities from the highest ridges of the mountain all the way down to the shores.
Ver's ghost walked through a veil of vines. Taking a deep breath, she slipped through into the dark interior of an ancient building. She eyed the stone ceiling carefully, worried it might collapse at any second. After a moment, she accepted that it wasn't likely to fall and allowed herself to look around the rest of the interior. Ver had called the place a temple, but Tenoba had told her that no one really knew the true purpose of the old buildings. What modern men might label a temple could perhaps have been a granary. In the darkness, she had no way of judging the function of the place, or even its full size. The only thing she could see clearly was Ver's pale form, glowing faintly with spiritual light.
He moved forward a few dozen yards, then turned.
"The lip of the cistern is directly beneath me. Take care as you approach. The drop is nearly one hundred feet."
"Do I even need to approach?" she asked. "Is the knight still alive?"
"Hello?" a voice called out from the darkness. The word echoed, as if rising from a deep pit. "Is someone there?"
She didn't answer. She'd been careless, forgetting that while no one but her could hear Ver, anyone in the living realm could hear her.
"Can hear me?" the voice cried out, "Beware! There's a deep pit before you!"
She glanced through the veil of vines at her back. If the knight kept shouting, the Spikers might hear him. But, she'd come too far to run away now. Using her spear to tap the stone before her, she crept forward, stopping before she reached Ver's floating form.
"I've come to help," she said into the pit, her voice barely a whisper.
"Who are you?" the voice asked, now clearly coming from below. "You speak the silver tongue, but strangely."
"Who I am isn't important," she said. "Now, please, stop shouting. The Spikers will hear you."
The voice below chuckled. "I'd rather die in a hail of spears than freeze to death."
She noticed for the first time the shiver in the man's voice. It was cool within the cave, but hardly freezing.
"The water below is untouched by sunlight," said Ver. "It soon drains a man all warmth. You must act swiftly."
She nodded, the said into the pit, "I'm going to go cut vines. We'll get you out in a moment."
"We? Is someone with you? Who are you?"
"Hold on," she said. "I'll be back."
She moved to the veil of vines. Freeing her obsidian knife from the pouch on her loincloth, she cut loose several strands. Working as quickly as she could in the darkness with her sharp blade, she trimmed the thorns from the vines, then knotted the ends together. Having lived her whole life in trees, tying knots that wouldn't slip was a fundamental survival skill.
She crept back to the pit, pausing when her tapping spear fell upon open air. She crouched, feeling the edge with her fingers. Assuming Ver was right about the drop being one hundred feet, she had more than enough vine for the job. She'd anchored the far end around a sturdy boulder just beyond the doorway.
"Watch out," she whispered. "I'm throwing down a rope."
Without waiting for his reply, she tossed the looped vine. It whispered through the air, then splashed in the unseen water. The echoes seemed loud as thunder in her stony surroundings. If the Spikers heard, her rescue would be in vain.
She felt the line grow taut.
"I'm ready," the man below said, sounding weary. "Pull."
"Pull?" she said. "You'll have to climb."
"The cold has robbed me of strength," the man said. "It took all I had to wrap the rope round me. You must pull."
Cinder set her jaw. Among the pygmies, she was considered quite strong, but she had little hope of lifting a grown man on her own.
"We should have told mother," she said to Ver. "Between the two of us, we might lift him."
"Certainly you're not giving up when you're so close to saving him?"
Cinder looked around. In the darkness, she couldn't spot anything she might loop the vine around for better leverage. Perhaps, come morning, there would be sufficient light to work by. Would the man survive that long?
Ver still floated in the thin air above the pit. He cleared his throat, which struck her as strange, seeing that he didn't actually breathe.
"What?" she asked.
"You possess a gift far better than a mere rope. Why not use it to save him?"
She frowned.
"You have the power to take others with you as you cross between the lands of the living and the dead."
She still wasn't following him.
He looked down at his feet. His white boots rested on nothing at all.
"What are you saying?" she asked. "That I can float like you?"
"Some souls within the spirit realm remain earthbound, but only by force of habit. You may freely walk anywhere you wish, whether deep below ground, or high in the clouds."
She furrowed her brow. The whole idea seemed absurd. On the journeys she'd made to the Realm of Roots, she'd always stood upon what felt like solid ground. Still, Ver wasn't the first ghost she'd ever witnessed who could walk upon the air.
"Take my hand," he said, holding it toward her. "I'll teach you."
She stared at his bony fingers. Was this a trick? But a trick to what end?
"What's happening?" asked the voice from below. "Are you still there?"
"Hold on," she said.
"Please hurry," he said, his voice sounding weaker even than it had a moment ago.
"His inner fires grow cooler with each breath," said Ver. "If you don't choose to save him now, you may find yourself explaining your delay directly to his phantom."
She stretched out her hand. She closed her eyes on the material world and opened them in the Realm of Roots. Ver's hand closed around her fingers. His grip was the coldest thing she'd ever felt.
She looked around. Ordinarily, the Realm of Roots was much darker than the living world. But in the tomb-like darkness, the stone surrounding her possessed a ghostly radiance. She saw her surroundings clearly for the first time. The pit before her was twenty feet across and quite deep. She hesitated as she reached the edge, leaning over only slightly, still fearing she would topple. A bright glow rose from the depths, as if a fire burned on the water. With her free hand, she shielded her eyes as she gazed down.
The fire proved to be a man. Until now, her mother's spirit had been the brightest soul she'd ever seen. It was a mere candle compared to the bonfire spirit of the man below.
"He's so... I've never..." Her voice trailed off, the wondrous light robbing her of words.
"What you look upon is a virtuous soul," said Ver. "They're rare and precious things. If he'd been a Knight of the Book, Mantle might have turned back the tide of darkness that washes over this world."
She furrowed her brow. "Doesn't the purity of his soul prove your church wasn't in possession of the only truth?"
Ver shook his head. "Pure souls may exist even among pagans and schismatics. His mind may embrace a falsehood, but his heart leads him along a righteous path."
Cinder still had her feet on the stone floor. It felt solid. She felt solid. She looked at the open air beneath Ver's sandals and shook her head.
"I can't do this," she said.
"Certainly you can, my child," he said. "Here, all that you see or feel or touch is pure spirit. The stone and the air, my body and yours, are all the same immaterial material. Step forward, and have faith."
She took a deep breath, held his hand, and moved her foot over the open space. Exhaling, she stepped forward, to stand upon nothing.
She looked down, grasping the implications of her new power immediately. "This is certainly going to be helpful when I'm gathering honey."
"How practical of you," said Ver, still holding her hand. "Now, follow." Hand in hand, they walked down toward the water as if descending an unseen staircase. They stopped when they reached the water of the cistern. The dark liquid felt like yielding sand between her toes.
The knight still clung to the vine she'd tossed down, his wrist entwined in the vegetation. His eyes were closed, his teeth chattering, his head resting on his shoulder as if he no longer had the strength to lift it. Though his internal light still burned brightly, she could see his skin was pale, almost blue.
She stepped forward, letting go of Ver, and willed herself back into the living world. She gasped as she splashed into the cold water.
Though she knew the knight was mere feet before her, she could no longer see him. The darkness disoriented her, and she took a gulp of water as she tried to breathe. She coughed violently, then went still as icy fingers closed around her wrist.
"Don't tell me you fell in," the knight said through chattering teeth. "I can't bear the thought that I've led you to your death."
"We're not dead yet," she said, pulling him closer. She shifted back into the spirit world, carrying the knight with her.
His eyes grew wide. "I see you." He looked around, at the faintly glowing walls, until his eyes fixed upon Ver's ghostly form.
He stared at his own glowing fingers. In the faintest of whispers, he asked, "Am I... dead?"
"No," said Cinder. "Come. Walk."
She climbed from the spirit waters, her feet finding purchase where her mind wished. Less than a minute after discovering her power, if felt perfectly natural, as if she'd known how to do this all her life. But the knight wouldn't move his legs and he proved difficult to lift. Spirits might be weightless, but it didn't mean they couldn't be heavy.
Ver came to her side and draped the knight's arm across his shoulder. Together, he and Cinder climbed back up the invisible steps. The knight didn't struggle, saying nothing, his head turning from side to side, his eyes unfocused. Perhaps he imagined he was dreaming.
They reached the stone floor above and laid him down. With a thought, she and the knight moved back into the living world. Darkness embraced her once more.
"You still alive?" she asked, shaking the knight's shoulder.
"I d-don't know," he said with a groan.
"Think you can walk?" she asked, as he shivered violently beneath her fingers. "It's warmer outside."
"I'll t-t-try," he whispered.
Her eyes had adjusted sufficiently to the darkness that she could see the entrance to the structure as a rectangle of dark gray against a background of pure black. She helped the knight rise. With his arm draped over her shoulder, they stumbled forward.
The jungle night proved warmer than the damp air of the ruins, but the breeze set the knight's teeth chattering louder than ever. She helped him sit on a rock. After only a second he fell to his back, completely limp. If not for his chattering teeth, she might have thought him dead.
She wished she had pelts to drape over him. He wore no clothes save for a pair of thin cotton britches. If he'd come out here with boots, they'd apparently been shed.
She'd lived her life in a village where clothes consisted of nothing more than the loincloths worn by women and the gourds worn by men. Nudity held little interest for her, but she'd never been able to study a long-man in such a state of undress. He was well-muscled and impossibly tall, easily six foot, if not taller. His skin was white as foam upon the waves.
Still disoriented by his ordeal, he had yet to fix his gaze upon her for any length of time. He moved his arms feebly without opening his eyes, until his finger closed around a dried, dead vine. The leaves crunched as he pulled it free from the rock. With a grunt, he struggled to sit up, succeeding at last and crossing his legs. Opening his eyes, he gathered every leaf and twig within reach, gathering them into a mound before him.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Starting a fire," he answered.
"With what?" she asked. Her mother had taught her how to start fires with a bow, but the man had no cord.
"Prayer," he said. He lowered his head, cupping the driest leaves in his hands, and whispered, softly, "Dear Lord of the Flame, Bringer of Heat, Guardian of the Foundry, you are hallowed in my heart. If it be your will, oh Lord, grant me a spark, that your Sacred Flame my warm my limbs once more."
Cinder's eyes grew wide as tendrils of smoke rose from the dried leaves. A pale flame flickered, then spread, like a delicate yellow butterfly opening its wings. The knight lowered the flame down onto the bed of leaves, then began to feed it twigs.
"It's a pity," Ver said, shaking his head. "Such a good man, seduced by a false faith."
Cinder had bigger worries than the man's religion.
"The Spikers will smell the smoke," she whispered. "Put it out."
The knight shook his head, rubbing his water-puckered fingers over the small fire. "Let them come. I don't fear them."
"You should," said Cinder. "They're torturing your fellow long-men. We need to leave as soon as you can get to your feet."
The knight frowned. "If my brethren are being tortured, this is all the more reason to stay."
"They'll kill you," she said.
He gave a grim smile. "They can try. I'm a Knight of the Flame, in the presence of a fire. Though greatly weakened by my time in the water, I won't dishonor the Lord of Flame by retreating now that he has graced me with his spark. We're in no danger. Those who dwell in darkness fear the fire."
She gazed up into the surrounding trees, feeling distraught. Had she saved him from the cistern only to witness him commit suicide?
He looked at her, studying her closely, as if seeing her for the first time.
"You speak with the accent of a forest-pygmy," he said. "Yet, plainly, you're human, though oddly colored. Why have you dyed your skin this shade?"
"It's not dyed." She found his presumption somewhat rude. "And of course I'm human. So are pygmies."
"Some people have this opinion," he said, nodding. "I've no basis for arguing it, I suppose. But, if they're fellow men, they've proven unreasonably hostile to our presence."
"Does that surprise you?" she asked. "If river-pygmies paddled their canoes across the great waters and built homes at the edge of the Silver City, would they be welcomed with open arms?"
He shook his head. "I suppose they wouldn't, though the question is now moot. From what the most recent arrivals tell me, that once great city has fallen to Tempest's legions of the damned. Save for the Wanderers, the people of my village may be the last living men."
Cinder suspected this news would be of interest to her mother, though how she'd ever tell it without revealing she'd spoken with a long-man she couldn't imagine. She continued to study the surrounding trees, looking for any moving shadows, listening hard for any rustle that might betray approaching Spikers.
"I may know of your mother," said the knight. She looked at him, and found he was staring at her with an unblinking gaze. She crossed her arms over her breasts, though they didn't seem to be his focus. He studied her face carefully, then asked, "There's a woman who once lived in Commonground. A mighty warrior, and infamous heretic. Her name was once a curse on the lips of every worshiper of the Church of the Book. She was called Infidel."
Cinder said nothing.
"It's said she went to live among the pygmies," he said. "And that she was pregnant, with a child conceived in Greatshadow's spiritual presence."
"She sounds like an interesting woman," said Cinder.
"You're her child?" the knight asked, in a tone balanced between a question and a statement.
Cinder didn't answer.
"You may tell me without fear," said the man. "Infidel may be a heretic to the Church of the Book, but within the Church of Sacred Flame, she's honored as a saint. Our Great Lord lives because of her mercy."
Cinder's mouth opened slowly as she finally grasped exactly who the Lord of Flames had to be. "You worship Greatshadow?"
The man held his finger against his lips. "His divine name shouldn't be uttered idly. It's to be used only in a house of worship, or within a foundry. But, you're Infidel's daughter, aren't you? I didn't dream that you and a ghost carried me from that pit. I passed through the land of the dead to return to the living realm, did I not?"
"If you know so much, I don't see why you need me around to answer questions," said Cinder, looking at the fire he'd stoked into a sizable flame. "I should go. You should go too. If you linger here, you'll be dead before dawn."
He grinned. "I appreciate your concern." Then, to her surprise, he shifted his weight onto his knees and used his bare hands to extinguish the fire.
"Because I believe you're Infidel's child, I obey," he said. "You're the daughter of a saint. You may regard me as your faithful servant." He kept his eyes on her feet now, as if it would be an offense to look into her face. He asked, "Will you grant me the honor of telling me your name?"
She looked at the last glowing remnants of the fire, at the black lines among the pale red embers.
"Cinder," she said. She saw no reason to hide her name. If word got back to her mother that a young woman with ebony skin had rescued a knight by carrying him through the Realm of Roots, she could hardly hope to be mistaken for someone else.
"Since becoming a Knight of the Sacred Flame, I've taken the name Luminous Mantle. I'm yours to command, Cinder."
"Fine. I command you to leave here at once," she said. "We're lucky the Spikers haven't seen us yet."
"Not so lucky," said Ver, his eyes scanning the treetops. "With the fire gone, they've no reason to hide any longer."
Cinder looked up, saw the moving shadows, and knew it was too late to flee through the forest. She'd have to go once more into the Realm of Roots.
Before she could grab hold of Mantle, she heard a whisper in the air.
"Spear!" cried Ver.
She phased from the living world an instant before the spear sliced through the space where she stood.
There was a cry behind her. She spun around to see Ver struggling as black vines, writhing like snakes, rose from the stones he stood upon to entrap him.
She drew her knife, stepping forward to cut him free, when a pygmy stepped in front of her. He was covered in scars in the shapes of leaves and wore a headdress made of parrot feathers. He held the thighbone of a long-man in his right hand, pointing it toward her.
"You're the child shaman of the Jawa Fruit tribe," he said, in his harsh, barking Spiker accent. "I hope you breathed deeply before leaving the living world. You shall return there no more."
# CHAPTER SEVEN
# BROTHER WING
Cinder's own tribe had a shaman, of course, Ganak, the Silent One. It was said he, too, could traverse between the lands of life and death, but she'd never encountered him during her visits to the Realm of Roots. Nor did she often see him in the living world; Ganak lived in a hollow tree on the furthest edge of the village, and seldom mingled with the other members of the tribe.
This Spike Tree shaman looked much younger than Ganak and far more muscular as he waved the thigh bone at her, chanting deeply in a language she'd never heard. The black roots that covered the rocks snaked up her legs with alarming speed, squeezing like a boa. In seconds, she'd be as trapped as Ver.
Unlike Ver, she had an escape route. With a thought, she left the Realm of Roots for the living lands. The entangling vines faded like smoke. Of course, now she had other concerns, like the score of pygmy warriors swarming toward the boulder where she stood next to Mantle. In the brief seconds she'd been gone, the ground had sprouted several dozen spears. Somehow, all had missed Mantle. Did all Spikers have such bad aim?
She formed a second theory as to how the spears had missed an instant later, as Mantle leapt from the boulder toward the onrushing pygmies, fists clenched. He moved with a swiftness she'd never witnessed, showing no sign of weakness. Either the fire had revived him more than she would have thought, or the call to battle gave him new strength.
A pair of pygmies met his charge, swinging clubs spiked with jagged shards of obsidian. Mantle grabbed a low vine, lifted himself above the swinging bludgeons, then kicked out, catching both attackers in the face. He dropped to the ground as they fell, snatching their clubs in each hand.
By now, more pygmies had closed in. Mantle moved gracefully through his attackers, avoiding their blows. With every swing of his clubs, pygmies fell with caved in skulls and crushed ribs. He wasted no motion, with each foe falling from a single impact.
Cinder stood with her jaw agape. Not even her mother fought this well.
Nor, she remembered, could she, as a trio of Spikers ran toward her. She dared not slip back into the Realm of Roots while the shaman lay in wait.
Setting her jaw, she plucked up a spear embedded in a root by her foot and hurled it at the closest pygmy. He swatted it away with his club, but before he could recover from his swing she lunged, her obsidian knife in hand, and sliced across his throat with all her strength, just as her mother had trained her.
Her first foe fell, but now the second was upon her, swinging his club. Cinder tried to dodge but he struck her in the hip. The stone spikes dug into her flesh, knocking her from her feet. As she fell, by pure luck her legs tangled in his and he tripped. Off balance herself, she slashed out with her knife, catching him in ribs, the knife biting deep. He screamed and rolled away, taking her knife with him, but leaving his fallen club at her fingertips. She grabbed it and lifted it just in time to block the blow of the third pygmy. He raised his weapon to strike again but she swung first, catching him in the knee, the obsidian spike punching down to bone. He gave a yelp as he fell sideways, writhing in agony. Cinder put an end to his pain with a sharp, hard blow to his nose.
She lay back, panting, her eyes searching for the next attack. She spotted no one but Mantle, a club in both hands, bodies scattered in a circle around him. He panted hard, his eyes probing the shadows as he tracked the remaining pygmies who now fled for their lives.
"Are you all right?" he asked, cutting his eyes toward her.
She bit her lip to keep from crying as she looked at the blood running from the gashes in her hip. Mantle ran to her side, kneeling, pushing aside her bloodied loincloth to examine the wound. His fingers, so cold when she'd pulled him from the water, felt like hot coals upon her flesh.
He tore off a strip of cotton from his own leggings and wiped the blood from her skin. He probed her flesh, pressing hard, causing her to gasp.
"It doesn't feel as if any of the stone remained inside," he said. "Nor are any bones broken. Do you think you can stand?
She nodded. With a grimace, she rose, holding his hand for balance. She took a step forward, feeling dizzy. The forest spun around her. Mantle caught her as she fell and helped her sit again.
"How far is it to the territory of your people?" he asked.
"Several miles," she said. "Why?"
"I should take you there at once. They can tend to your injuries."
She shook her head. "I don't think that would be a good idea."
"Why?"
Showing up wounded was already going to lead to a difficult conversation with her mother. Showing up carried by a knight would compound the unpleasantness of that conversation. Still, she felt embarrassed to tell this man that she was afraid of her mother.
"Uh," she said. "My people are cannibals."
Mantle looked skeptical, but didn't argue. "Then we must hide you while I rescue the hunters."
"Rescue them? Do you have a plan?"
He nodded. "Now that they know I'm not to be trifled with, I'm hoping they'll listen to reason."
"I'm not sure the Spikers are all that reasonable," she said. "Do you even speak forest-pygmy?"
He shook his head. "Perhaps one among them will speak my language."
"Take me. I can translate."
Mantle looked surprised by her offer. Cinder felt surprised herself. But, despite her injuries, the battle had left her feeling strangely invigorated. She could see why her mother had once been addicted to such dangers.
"I can't accept your offer," he said. "You'd be in great danger."
"I can't possibly get into deeper danger than I already am," she said, still thinking of her mother.
"Very well. Perhaps keeping you in my sight is a surer way to guarantee your safety than trying to hide you on enemy territory." Without asking permission, he slid his hands beneath her knees and back and picked her up as if she were a small child. She instinctively wrapped her arm around his shoulder to balance herself.
He glanced up at the trees. "You got me out of a pit with your magic. Can you take me up into their village?"
"I don't think it's safe to go back into the Realm of Roots," she said. "There's a shaman—"
"No," said Ver, looking over Mantle's shoulder. "The shaman is no longer a threat."
"You're alive?" asked Cinder, surprised that Ver hadn't been dragged permanently into the roots.
"I'm not sure why you would doubt this," said Mantle, not understanding that she wasn't talking to him.
"Of course I'm not alive," said Ver. "That pathetic shaman posed no threat to me after the initial surprise of his ambush. I had only to explain the errors of his flawed faith. He vanished as he came to understand the impossibility of his continued existence."
"You talked a man out of existence?" she asked, incredulous.
"What are you talking about?" asked Mantle. "Oh, wait. I remember, there was a man who helped carry me from the well. He was... more ghostly than you."
"His name is Ver," said Cinder. "He's right behind you, though you can't see him."
"Ver?" Mantle said, his eyebrows lifting. "The Truthspeaker slain by our Lord's sacred flame?"
"I think that's how he died, yes," said Cinder.
"Hmph," said Ver. "The dragon struck while we were distracted. It was a dishonorable and cowardly attack. There was nothing sacred about it."
"Yes," Cinder said to Mantle. "He says that's exactly how he died."
"His spirit still lingers so long after his death?"
Ver shook his head. "I've not lingered. I've journeyed through distant realms. Tell him I need to speak to him."
"If you're afraid to return to the Realm of Roots, it doesn't matter," said Mantle, taking off running without warning. The movement jostled her. She clenched her jaw to keep from crying out in pain.
He reached a thick vine, placed both her arms around his neck and said, "Hold tight."
"You'll climb with both of us? You couldn't even get out of the pit on your own."
"Not after such a long immersion in water, no," he said. "But the flame has restored my strength."
She clung tightly as he scrambled up the vine as skillfully as a monkey. Reaching the branches, they climbed higher, until they reached a platform of woven bark. She dropped from his neck, wincing, but found that she could stand on her own. She limped after him as he strode across the woven branches toward a thicket of huts faintly visible in starlight. He walked into the midst of a seemingly abandoned village.
"Call out to them," he said. "Tell them no one else need die tonight. Return the hunters I seek, and we'll leave peacefully."
She said, quietly, "We're in the heart of their territory. I don't know if this is the safest place to be shouting out demands."
"I can't imagine any place better," he said.
Before Cinder could decide whether to obey him or not, a single pygmy slowly crept across a branch from a nearby tree, his hands raised, looking frightened.
He said, in a trembling voice, "You are free to go. We shall hunt long-men no longer."
She relayed the message. Mantle shook his head.
"Those aren't my terms. They'll hunt us no longer, yes, but they'll also give back the hunters they kidnapped."
Cinder repeated his words in the pygmy tongue. The pygmy they spoke to swallowed hard and said, "You killed many of our warriors tonight. Meat will be needed for their funeral feasts. The hunters are already dead to you. Leave them."
Mantle nodded as Cinder translated, then said, "The way he phrased it, it sounds like they're still alive."
"I think so," said Cinder. "Plus, I heard the long-men crying out not even an hour ago."
"It's so," said Ver, floating to the side of the platform. "While you climbed, I explored. The men yet live."
"Ver says they're alive," she said.
"Tell our friend the hunters must be returned in five minutes," said Mantle.
She at first thought Mantle meant Ver, before realizing she was to convey her message to the pygmy. The pygmy answered instantly, with a single word.
"Or?" she asked.
"Or I'll burn this village to the ground," said Mantle.
She shuddered at the coolness with which he spoke. It was one thing to kill warriors in the heat of self-defense. But burning the village would kill women and children, or at least leave them homeless.
"Tell him," he said, when she remained silent.
She took a deep breath, then repeated his message.
The pygmy turned a paler shade of green, then darted back across the branch.
Mantle let out his breath slowly, then showed the faintest grin as he said, "All that's left to do now is stand here until we die in a hail of spears."
"You should have thought of that before making threats."
"I did think of it," he said. "But this is no time to show doubt."
The pygmy returned a moment later.
"You'll find the hunters on the ground below," he said. "Leave this place, and never darken our forests with your shadow again."
Mantle shook his head when the message was translated. "I've every intention of returning. Tell him I'm aware that the warriors his tribe lost tonight were important, just as our hunters are important. To honor them, I'll return tomorrow with items of great value. We've no fresh meat to give for the memorial feast, but we can give a full barrel of salted cod, and iron knives, one for each warrior they lost. Tell them our people haven't come to conquer this land, but to live in peace as neighbors. We understand the game we must hunt is game that could fill their bellies. Tell them we can pay them for the rights to hunt here."
"They don't really have a word for 'pay,' " said Cinder. "No matter. I'll figure out some way to explain the concept."
The pygmy listened intently as she explained Mantle's offer, then ran back across the branch to deliver the message. They waited several minutes. When he returned, they quickly arranged for a time and place for representatives of the tribe to meet with representatives of the settlers. The iron knives were of great interest to the Spike Tree tribe. They'd seen such things used by the river-pygmies, who frequently traded with long-men.
When they were done talking, Mantle asked if she needed help climbing down. She felt steadier on her feet than she had, but still agreed to be carried on his back. She felt conflicted by what she'd just done. The Spike Tree tribe might well use their iron knives against the Jawa Fruit people. As terrible as this would be, she also found herself strangely worried for the Spikers. Going to meet the long-men seemed risky, given the ordinary fate of forest-pygmies.
As he placed her on the ground, she could hold her tongue no longer. "Are you tricking them?"
"Tricking them?"
"To trap them. Do you intend to make slaves of them?"
Mantle shook his head. "My faith regards slavery as an abomination. Even if we didn't, they'd still be in no danger. The slave trade has no purpose now that the mines on the Isle of Storm are no longer being worked. I promise, when we restore civilization, slavery will be forbidden."
"Restore civilization?'
"Yes. That's why we're here. As I said, Tempest's armies have brought ruin to the rest of the world. One day, we intend to take back what was lost, and rid the world of its present darkness."
"What if that darkness comes here?" asked Cinder, wondering what her mother would make of this news.
Mantle shook his head. "Our Lord is allied with the Heavenly Light."
"The sun?" asked Cinder.
Mantle nodded. "The Sun provides the illumination that all creatures see by. The Sun has chosen to bend the light around this island, hiding it from those who would do it harm."
Cinder had been told that her father was the ghost who guided the sun. Perhaps he was hiding the island to save her. But the thought chilled her. Why should she be spared while millions of innocents died?
Mantle continued: "The Isle of Fire will be untouched by this war. In the end, when Tempest and Hush believe they've vanquished all, our Great Lord will emerge from hiding and sear the face of the earth, driving Hush back to the frozen wastes, robbing Tempest of the armies that give him power. The Church of the Sacred Flame will send out ships to the ash covered wastelands, plant fields and forests in the enriched soils, and build cities once more. Civilization will be restored, in an era more just and peaceful than any yet known."
Ver sighed so loudly, Cinder almost expected Mantle to hear him.
Ver said, "The plans of his people are doomed to failure. It's plain to me that the dragon they worship is only fattening them up to devour them at the time of his choosing."
Mantle noticed the tilt of her head, the way that her eyes seemed fixed on something he couldn't see. "Is Ver still here? Is he talking to you?"
"Yes," she said. "He's... offering opinions on your church."
"I don't imagine they're favorable ones," said Mantle. "I suppose if he'd understood the truth of my faith, he'd never have helped you save me from the cistern."
"Actually, saving you was his idea," she said. "He told me where to find you."
"Truly?" asked Mantle. "How curious."
"The simplest way to satisfy his curiosity is to let me speak to him," said Ver.
Cinder said, "He wants to talk to you. Do you want to talk to him?"
Mantle stroked his chin. "I'm not certain that's wise. Many members of the Church of the Sacred Flame are former members of the Church of the Book. The remnants of the Church regard us as heretics. Member of that faith are under orders to kill us on sight."
"Ver claims he killed the Spiker shaman just by talking to him," said Cinder. "Your caution is justified. Still... he did rescue you."
"And you don't know why?"
"Actually, I do, even if I don't fully understand all of it. He says that there are living people trapped in Hell. He says if we don't help guide them out, it could cause reality to unravel."
"Unravel?" asked Mantle, scratching his head.
Cinder felt confused as well. Maybe she wasn't using the right word? It wasn't like she got to practice the long-men's language often.
Mantle looked around, his eyes surveying the darkness. "I believe I hear the hunters beyond that ridge. Let's join them and see to their wounds."
He started moving toward them, but she didn't follow. He glanced over his shoulder. "Aren't you coming?"
"I don't think that's wise." The more people who saw her, the greater the danger that her adventures would reach the ears of her mother.
"You should reconsider," he said. "Now that I have to care for the hunters, I can't accompany you to your village. Trying to cover so much territory on your own while you're injured is risky. You should return with me to the settlement."
She shook her head. "I'm forbidden to go there."
"I understand," he said. "Still, I'd consider it a great honor to introduce you to our leader, Brother Wing. He can tend to your wounds."
"When I get back into my home territory, I'll gather herbs to make a poultice that will speed my healing," she said. "I'll be fine."
"I don't doubt you can care for yourself. But Brother Wing has magical gifts far greater than the medical properties of plants. With his touch, he can restore your flesh. It will be as if you'd never been injured."
Cinder pondered this news. Returning home uninjured was an appealing prospect, but it came at the price of being gone even longer from her village. If she wasn't home by dawn, she knew her mother would come looking for her.
Sensing her indecision, Mantle added a further incentive. "Brother Wing will also know what to do about the ghost who haunts you. His gaze reaches into the spirit realms."
Ver frowned. "I see no need for Brother Wing's involvement. Let me speak directly to Mantle. He will see the truth of my words."
"Going to see Brother Wing sounds like an excellent idea," said Cinder.
"Are you intentionally vexing me?" asked Ver.
Cinder nodded. The ghost scowled.
They crept through the jungle darkness cautiously until they found the captured hunters, their arms and legs bound, sitting at the base of a dead tree. Her stomach turned as she got close enough to see them clearly. All were stripped naked and covered in gore.
Mantle crouched and used her obsidian knife to slice their bonds. Most proved able to stand on their own. The wounds they'd suffered had been designed to inflict pain and humiliation rather than mortal injury. Teeth had been broken, nostrils slit, and fingernails torn out by the root. Still, only one hunter had broken legs.
Working in silence, aware of the Spikers watching in the trees above, Cinder helped fashion a litter from branches and vines to carry the hunter who couldn't walk. As Mantle positioned the wounded man on the litter, she found that it was no longer the Spikers' gaze that worried her. Mantle's eyes had never lingered on her naked breasts, nor had he seemed put off by the darkness of her skin. The hunters proved less polite. Some glared at her with disdain, others stared in confusion, and a few leered at her near-nudity. She crossed her arms over her breasts, feeling awkward, before thinking of how her mother would handle such things. She lowered her arms, straightened her shoulders, and defiantly met the gazes of the men. All turned their eyes away.
It took hours to move through the jungle, descending slowly along twisted roots and slippery rocks. As dawn brought color to the sky, they reached a cliffside path leading down to the settlement. When they neared the palisade, Mantle called out, "Open the gates! We've injured men!"
Instantly, the silhouettes of numerous heads rose above the walls. Shouts rang out and the gates swung open as their party approached. As they passed inside the walls, women ran toward them, throwing arms around the returned hunters, weeping with joy. Other women ran up carrying blankets, which they draped over the shoulders of the naked men. A young woman dressed in a white nightgown moved toward Cinder with a blanket in hand, then stopped short a few feet away, her eyes opening wider as she studied Cinder's face.
"Thank you," said Mantle, stepping forward to take the blanket. He turned and draped it over Cinder's shoulders, then said, softly, "I know it's not the custom of your people to conceal your flesh. This is merely to take the edge off the chill of the morning air."
"There's no need to lie," she said. "My nakedness causes discomfort here."
"Yes," he said. Then, with a gentle smile. "And, quite likely, a good deal of jealousy among the women."
His eyes lingered on her face. Before, when he'd looked at her, it had always been with a utilitarian purpose. Now, he seemed to be studying her in a new light. As she looked back into his eyes, she also felt as if she was seeing him for the first time. Often, when she caught glimpses of the faces of long-men, their visages seemed distorted, even monstrous. In addition to the corpse-like paleness of their skin, their noses were too sharp, as if the bones beneath might push through. Their mouths were too wide and their lips too thin.
Mantle shared these hideous features, but she was also struck by the symmetry of his face, the way the sharp lines and the gentle curves merged. Stubble had darkened his chin, and his skin proved tan in the morning light, quite far from corpse flesh.
She turned her eyes away, feeling uncomfortable. Mantle took her by the hand and led her through the gathering crowd. He gave quick, polite acknowledgements to the countless folk who ran up to greet him, and kept moving forward without breaking his stride.
She quickly realized he was leading her to the largest building in the settlement. The teardrop shaped structure had caught her eyes many times. It rose much higher than the walls that protected the settlement, and was painted in bright shades of red, orange, and yellow that glowed in the morning light, as if the building were built of unmoving flame. Smoke rose from the uppermost tip of the structure leaving a black, serpentine trail across the sky. High above the smoke hovered a dancing flame, forever burning with no apparent fuel.
The throngs that followed them fell back as Mantle reached the steps of the structure. Only Ver remained at their side as they approached the door.
"The fools regard this temple as sacred ground," said Ver. "The masses only enter on feast days."
The doors to the temple opened as Mantle reached them. They moved into the cavernous space beyond. In the center of the room was a raging fire. She hesitated, filled with an instinctual fear of large fires that only someone raised in a forest could truly understand. She quickly realized, however, that the flame was contained within an iron cauldron at least fifty feet in diameter. While it glowed dull red, the heat within the room proved no worse than the heat of a midday sun. The tall chimney did an admirable job of leaving the room free of smoke.
Mantle dropped to one knee before the inferno and lowered his head. In a soft voice, he said, "Brother Wing, forgive me for entering this holy space unannounced. The woman by my side is— "
"I know who she is," said the fire, in a voice that nearly deafened her. She cringed, drawing back, but Mantle still held her hand.
"There's no need to be afraid," said Ver, his voice unexpectedly comforting. "The one who speaks will not harm you."
"Are you so certain of that, little ghost?"
"You know me," said Ver. "Certainty is a commodity I possess in abundance."
"Bold words," said the flame, "for a priest who found his eternal reward in Hell."
"Even in Hell, there is truth," said Ver. "Indeed, in Hell there is nothing but truth."
The flame laughed, a frightening sound that caused Cinder to try to break from Mantle's grasp. Then it stopped laughing and said, "Don't be afraid, girl. The dead man speaks truthfully. I mean you no harm."
At these words, the flame shuddered and swayed. Sparks shot from the center of the flame, then spiraled up the rising smoke toward the chimney. A shadow moved within the inferno, a dark red form that rose, and kept rising, until it loomed over them.
The red thing stepped forward. A scaly leg sporting long, black talons clamped onto the edge of the cauldron. Enormous wings spread from the flame, stretching from wall to wall, as dark ash and bright embers rained from glowing scales.
A long serpentine neck snaked from the center of the flames, topped with a reptilian head covered with horns. Eyes that seemed filled with liquid gold fixed upon her. The toothy jaws opened, revealing a cavernous maw that could have swallowed her in a single gulp.
In a gentle voice, the dragon spoke. "You're welcome here, Cinder Merchant. Though we've never met, I'm a friend of your parents."
"I doubt that _friend_ is the word they would use," said Ver.
"Twenty years in Hell haven't taken the sting from your tongue, I see," said the dragon.
"And twenty years among the living haven't removed the fork from yours," said Ver. "It took a skilled liar to deceive me those long years ago, Relic. I'm not surprised to see you've found a new life leading men astray with a religion built upon lies."
"Relic?" the dragon sounded a bit bewildered. "Oh, yes, that was the name you knew me by. You were already dead when my father gave me the name Brokenwing."
"And now you call yourself Brother Wing," said Ver. "You weave deceit into your very name. No dragon may ever be a brother to men."
Cinder could hold her tongue no longer. Her mother had told her the story of Brokenwing.
"You're Greatshadow's son," she said.
Brother Wing nodded.
"But... but mother said that Greatshadow hated you. She said he maimed you, tormented you, and vowed to kill you. Why would you risk returning to the Isle of Fire?"
"Because I am his son," said Brother Wing. "But not his only son. My eyes have been opened to the larger reality. Fire is the foundation of civilization. Without it, there would be no law, no art, and no science. My father is the hidden architect of the highest achievements of mankind, and I am his prophet, revealing his sacred plans. I've returned to the Isle of Fire to save the world. And you, my dear Cinder, belong at my side."
# CHAPTER EIGHT
# NOBODY GETS THE GIRL
Fester reached over his shoulder and grabbed a spiky protrusion jutting from between his wings. With a tearing, slurping sound, the skin over the protrusion pulled free. Using both hands to draw out the object he'd freed, the spike became a rod, then a staff, then a shaft much longer than Fester's body. With a final tug that sent a shudder through the demon's form (and a wave of nausea through Sorrow), the shaft came free, revealing a trident dripping with gore.
"To die in Hell is the final death," said Fester, panting. "Fight fiercely if you cherish breath!"
Slate, as was his nature, hadn't waited to hear Fester's admonition. Brandishing the Witchbreaker, he unleashed a savage battle cry and charged up the slope toward the figures that continued to rise over the hillcrest.
At first, the gibbering guardian had appeared to be three men jammed together, their bodies bent and distorted into a single horrific form. The three mouths jabbered and babbled, their voices forming a cacophony from which only a few individual words could be discerned. "Pervert! Lamprey. Ox! Indigo. Helmet? Smell."
As Slate drew closer, the gibbering guardian climbed higher up the ridge and Sorrow saw it wasn't three bodies melded together, but a dozen, then a hundred. By the time Slate reached the guardian and struck with his hell-forged blade, it was apparent an entire army had been mashed into this single form. A thousand legs all kicked and stumbled and shuffled to bear the mob-thing's hideous weight, their seemingly random motions somehow driving it forward.
Slate hacked again and again, slicing heads free of the mass, digging deep gouges into the maze of torsos. Some of the heads cursed, others wept like brokenhearted women, but most continued their ceaseless, mindless babble: "Umbrage. History! Scissors. Bar. Negation? Spine! Penance."
Despite Slate's superb skill with the blade, a single arm slipped past his parry, the grimy fingers slipping into Slate's chest plate at the neck. A second hand clamped onto his wrist, jerking him forward, so that more hands took him by the throat, the ankle, the elbow, and lifted him. Some of the voices gave shuddering cries of delight, others moans of hunger, and the sound of teeth clacking and clicking against Slate's glass armor filled the air as the remaining voices changed from random babble into a single chant: "Feed! Feed! Feed!"
With a flap of wings, Fester darted into the sky, landing atop the writhing mass. He jabbed his trident into the limbs that entrapped Slate. Slate tore his right arm free, then his left. With swift slices of the Witchbreaker, he cut loose the hand that gripped his throat, then made short work of the limbs trapping his legs. He fell before the writhing mass, rolling down the steep slope an instant before the countless legs would have trampled him into paste.
Sorrow ran to Slate's side and helped him rise. "Are you all right?"
"No," Slate said, sounding shaken.
"What's hurt?" she said, seeing no place the gibbering guardian's teeth had broken through his armor.
"My pride," he said, with the ghost of a smile.
Meanwhile, Fester attempted to pull his trident free from the wriggling mass, but a score of hands had gotten a grip upon the weapon. Letting go of the shaft, he spread his wings to fly free, but a hundred grasping hands now had hold of this legs and tail. Fester tilted his beak toward the cloudy skies and uttered an animalistic squawk of despair.
"We must save him!" Slate shouted, darting up the hill.
Sorrow agreed. Losing Fester would mean they'd never find their way through this ever-changing landscape. She suspected Slate's motives weren't so pragmatic, however. Though he'd been willing to kill Fester on sight not even an hour ago, now that they were brothers in combat, Slate's honor would require him to fight to the death to rescue the devil.
Slate fought more strategically on this second charge, using the length of the Witchbreaker to keep him beyond the reach of the grasping hands. With each sweep of his blade he severed two, three, four limbs, but it made no difference. The wall of writhing limbs never showed any sign of pain.
Sorrow still held the energy of Slate's kiss in the center of her torso. She felt stronger, faster, tougher than ever before, and was certain her own blade could make short work of a hundred limbs before her energy waned. But what would be the point of such an attack? In the end, the gibbering guardian would simply wear her down.
She furrowed her brow as she studied the beast. In her years of study under Mama Knuckle, she'd learned a thing or two about anatomy. The gibbering guardian appeared to be nothing but the bodies of damned men jammed together randomly, but genuine random placement of muscle and bone would have produced a quivering mass incapable of movement.
She also knew that master bone weavers were capable of blending bodies. Not long ago she'd encountered Captain Stallion, who possessed a man's torso grafted onto the body of an ass, supposedly the work of a vengeful bone weaver he'd romantically betrayed. If bone weavers could put bodies together, couldn't she tear them apart?
Though she knew it meant losing her enhanced strength, she shifted the magical energy from her muscles to her eyes. Instantly, the logic of the gibbering guardian became plain. Ten thousand muscles braided together in a fashion that enhanced strength rather than destroyed it. Bone melded with bone in such a way that it provided the solid framework that allowed the mob-thing to move without collapsing beneath its own weight. Most importantly, she could see the nerves. Her witch eyes made each spinal column glow with a pale blue aura. From the base of each spine, a tendril of nerve dangled, threading together into a network of rhythmic signals that caused limbs to move in concert. At the center of it all, encased in a single orb fashioned from hundreds of skulls, she saw a brain, large and throbbing, pulsing with dark black thoughts.
"Moonlight! Hush. Net! Entropy? Cubic," jabbered the mouths as she ran toward the gibbering guardian.
Now that the guardian had pulled Fester down, a thousand mouths gnawed on his flesh, but most took only one bite before spitting in disgust. Demons apparently didn't taste all that great, though Fester looked a great deal worse for wear from the test nibbles. In its feeding frenzy, the gibbering guardian had dropped Fester's trident. Sorrow snatched it up. With her strength back to normal, the weight of the weapon nearly caused her to stumble, which would likely prove fatal so close to the grasping arms. Steeling herself, she focused on the nearest bodies. With her enhanced vision, the jumble of shoulders and hips behind the limbs seemed almost like a staircase. With the shaft of the trident she knocked an arm aside then leapt, landing on a shoulder, climbing swiftly, using the trident to keep her balance on the writhing bodies beneath her. With her new knowledge of the creature's anatomy, she kept safely out of the grasp of the straining hands, though she did nearly place her foot in a gaping mouth before catching herself.
She moved past Fester, not daring to let her eyes linger. He was bleeding from a thousand wounds, though perhaps bleeding wasn't the correct verb. Instead of blood, fat white maggots poured from his lacerations.
The chaotic whirlwind of words seemed to settle on a single theme as she leapt across the melded bodies, a thousand tongues crying, "Bitch! Mother! Whore! Slattern! Weaver!" The words goaded her to greater speed, and gave her confidence that her plan was going to work.
Five seconds later, she reached the center of the mass. The dull glow of the braincase lay beneath a further shield of intertwined torsos. A black-nailed hand reached for her and she grabbed it, wrapping her fingers around the wrist. With a loud grunt, she pulled, and a skeletal, gray-haired man pulled free of the tangled bodies, shouting, "No! No! Yes! Yes! No! Please!"
Free of the mass, he stumbled away from her, before arms caught him by the ankles and pulled him down. He cried in terror, then went silent. She didn't look back to see his final fate, as she tore loose another damned soul, this time a woman, no older than herself, yet horribly scarred, covered in scabs and stretchmarks. The woman collapsed instantly, weeping tears tinted yellow with pus, her shrieks of grief as loud as the alarm bell of a town sentry.
A third body came free, a pale, petite thing that might have been a child or a small woman. She saw only its back before it fled, skipping across the flailing arms for a good twenty feet before being caught and pulled down to the mouths. It met its fate in utter silence.
By now, hands had gotten hold of her ankles. Nails dug into her thighs, clawing higher, pulling her britches low on her hips. A mouth dug into her shin, but the teeth couldn't break through her leather boots.
With a loud gasp, she filled her lungs and raised the trident over her head with both hands. "Die!" she screamed, as she brought the shaft down with all her might. Though she lacked magical strength, she was far from frail, and the tines of the trident were sharp as well-honed knives. She tore through the entrails of the torso she stood upon, broke through the woven skulls, then drove her weapon into the surface of the pulsing brain below her. The organ proved spongy, yielding, and at first she feared her weapon would merely bruise it. Then, with a gush of black blood, the membrane surrounding the brain split beneath the trident. She drove the shaft deeper, twisting it, and the mouth that gnawed her boot opened, crying, "Mercy!" The word was echoed by the next mouth, then the next, until it seemed a million voices begged her to pull back.
Sorrow pressed deeper, using the full weight of her body to drive the shaft to the very center of the quivering brain. One by one, the voice's that cried for mercy fell silent. A few whispered words of confusion—"What? Where? Why? How? Why? Why? Why?"—before the roving eyes above the mouths glazed over, then moved no more.
With a loud _schluck_ , she pulled the trident free. Though the limbs no longer clawed at her, she decided that a second blow was merited, then a third, until the organ beneath her felt well-minced and the last limb stopped twitching.
She straightened up, instinctively wiping her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. This only made her discomfort worse, considering the gore that dripped from her fingers.
"Slate!" she called out, unable to see him from her vantage point.
"Here!" he called back, not so far away.
She climbed over bodies to reach the crest of the fallen guardian. Below her, Slate crouched over what remained of Fester. He had his hands on Fester's beak, looking into his face. Fester's eyes were unfocused, full of haze. The demon coughed and pale, writhing maggots flew from his nostrils.
"He's dying," said Slate. "Can your magic...?"
"One... never born... cannot perish," Fester whispered, his chest heaving with the effort. "I m-merely vanish... from this half-life I...ch-cher..."
His voice trailed off as his eyes slowly shut. He drew one last, ragged breath, then fell still.
Sorrow knelt, pressing her fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse. His body was hot as a stove. She jerked her hand away before her fingers blistered. In her few seconds of contact, she'd found no trace of a heartbeat, but did that mean anything? Did he even have a heart?
With the last remnants of magic still in her eyes, she tried to make sense of Fester's injuries, or even of his anatomy, but it was too late. His body fell apart, turning into worms and bugs that wriggled down through gaps in the fallen guardian. In seconds, all that remained of the devil were the britches he'd worn.
"He died that I might live," Slate said, his voice choked.
"You threw yourself back into combat to save him," she said. "You've no cause to feel guilt."
Slate rose, looking around. "Don't I?"
"You did all you could," she said, picking up Fester's pants and shaking them to remove the maggots and beetles. She wiped her hands on the tattered cloth to remove the worst of the foulness still coating them.
"Perhaps I did too much," said Slate. With his arm, he directed her gaze across the tortured landscape. "How many men have I sent to this place?"
"I really couldn't count," she said.
"I thought this was a place of divine justice. But... how could the Divine Author allow such a place? What possible sins could a man commit in life to deserve... _this_?" He shuddered as he looked down at the mass of faces and limbs he stood upon.
Satisfied her hands were as clean as they were going to get in this filthy place, she used the few dry spots left on the ragged pants to wipe the shaft of the trident. "I'm not the right person to ask," she said. "Your religion would condemn me here a dozen times over. If your church ever captured me, my eternal torture would be preceded by weeks of agony upon a rack. I'd be starved and beaten in some dank cell, before the mercy of being burned at the stake. If the judge was feeling especially kind, perhaps I'd be hung."
Slate frowned, but said nothing.
"You know I'm right," she said.
He took a deep breath. "Yes. Given your actions, I suppose you couldn't expect much in the way of mercy."
"My actions?"
"You've waged war against the church for years. I know you have your reasons, but you can't deny you have blood on your hands." He glanced at the gore-smeared rag in her grasp. "Metaphorically speaking."
Sorrow threw the rag aside, feeling rage building inside her. But, as she looked over the mass of bodies she stood upon, her rage sputtered, then vanished.
"I won't pretend I'm innocent," she said. "I've made bargains with terrible, dark forces in pursuit of power. I've never felt the slightest flicker of remorse. Perhaps the Divine Author believes that fear of a place such as this is the only thing that has any hope at all of causing me to abandon my wicked ways."
"Would you?" he asked. "Could you?"
She leaned on the trident, allowing herself a second to consider his question. Now that she was a witness to Hell, she finally understood a falsehood she'd embraced for far too long. "Before I came here, I thought my enemy was your church. In my heart, I believed men had corrupted the truth of a larger, more benevolent god. But... what if I've been wrong? The Truthspeakers, the judges, the Knights of the Book... what if you're all following the plan of the Divine Author to the last letter?"
Slate didn't answer. He couldn't even meet her gaze.
"Perhaps it was cowardice on my part," she said.
"Cowardice?" he asked.
"To think that my enemies were mere men. The truth has been before my eyes a long time. I've lacked the courage to see it." She lifted the trident, holding it steady, planting her feet on the firmest bones beneath her, bracing herself for Slate's reactions to what she was about to say.
"My true enemy isn't the Church of the Book. My true enemy is the Divine Author."
He looked up, at last meeting her gaze. "I cannot imagine a more blasphemous statement."
"Neither can I," she said. "Nor can I imagine I'll ever regret uttering the words. I'm an enemy of all you stand for, Slate."
He lifted the Witchbreaker as she spoke, gazing into the dark void of its surface.
"What now?" she asked. "We fight?"
He didn't answer, continuing to stare at the blade.
"Circumstances have pushed us together," she said. "We've been allies out of necessity, but I don't think either of us is under any illusions about the fundamental facts. I'm a witch. You're a witchbreaker. In the end, one of us is going to have to kill the other."
Slate lifted his face toward hers and dropped his sword. His cheeks were wet with tears.
"Then kill me," he whispered.
"What?" she asked, shocked by the look in his eyes.
"Kill me," he said. "Do it now. If one of us must perish at the hands of the other... I offer myself to you."
"Damn it," she said. "Not like this! I don't... I can't just..."
"It wouldn't even be murder," he said, looking at his open hands. "I'm not truly a man. You know this well. I'm a doppelganger, an empty shell. I'm a clever bit of magic wrapped in flesh. I'm not your equal."
"Oh Slate," she said, stepping forward, forgetting that mere seconds ago she'd been prepared to kill him if he'd raised his blade against her. "You're more than my equal. Since the day you've come into my life, you've surprised me, even shocked me, with your kindness, your courage, your devotion to doing what's right. If I'd met even one man like you in my childhood, my life might have taken a very different course. You've changed me, Slate, in ways I can't even express."
Sorrow cast her gaze over the hellscape. "This place could never make me change for the better. But you... I've changed in a thousand small ways since the day I met you. I care nothing for the judgement of the Divine Author. I despise his opinion, should he have any notice of me at all. But you... I want to be a better person because of you."
Slate looked skeptical as he met her gaze.
"It's true," she said. "Until I met you, I hadn't felt... hadn't felt a single positive emotion in so long. I couldn't remember what it was like to not be angry all the time. I couldn't imagine what it was like to look upon my fellow men and not feel scorn, or outright hatred. But with you, I've discovered I can still feel tenderness. Just hearing you speak is like listening to music. And when I look into your eyes... I feel something profound. It's... like safety. Like hope, and joy, and... fear, somehow."
"Fear?" he whispered.
"Not fear of you. A fear... of a world without you." She turned away, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't the best time or place to tell you this."
"There's no place where you should tell me this," he whispered. She could tell he'd turned away from her as well.
"Then... you don't feel the same way?" she said softly. She set her jaw, having expected the reaction. Yes, he'd shown signs of affection, but just as often, he'd reacted to her with horror. She'd betrayed him in the Black Bog. She'd manipulated and used him to reach the Temple of the Book. And he'd seen not only the darkness of her soul, but her very body distorted, covered in scales, sporting tail and wings, her hands monstrous talons. She might once again look human, but he'd seen her at her worst. To expect him to summon any emotion more substantial than simple kindness towards her was too much to ask.
His hand fell upon her shoulder. She turned her to face him, the trident dropping from her trembling fingers.
"You shouldn't tell me this because... because I'm not a thing worthy of such feelings. If... if I were a man, I... I would love you," he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. "I cannot imagine a woman anywhere in all of reality more driven than you, more courageous, and certainly none more beautiful."
She'd always rolled her eyes at such statements in romantic tales, believing them to be duplicitous, lust-driven drivel. But now her eyes were fixed on his, and she found she believed every word he uttered.
"But I'm not a man," he said, turning his face away. "I'm an abomination."
"No! Don't say that. Nobody I know has more humanity than you."
"But I am nobody," he said, forlorn. "Less than nobody. I'm no more alive than Fester was. Don't you understand? How can you not understand? _I have no soul_."
"That's not true," she said, placing her fingers on his chin and turning his gaze toward hers. "You have half of mine."
She pressed his lips to his. He hesitated, one second, two, his lips devoid of warmth or movement, like the lips of a corpse. Then he seized her by the arms and pulled her tightly against him. His lips warmed, then parted, and her tongue slipped between his teeth.
Their shared breath flowed from lung to lung, making her dizzy. If he was truly an empty vessel, she wanted nothing more than to fill him, to pour all the joy and pain and hope and regret within her heart into him.
Heedless of where they were, he loosened the clasp at her neck that held her cloak. He spread it over the twisted limbs, forming what might have been the most terrifying bed in all of creation. Still locked in an embrace, they lowered themselves to the velvet cloak. She moved her fingers skillfully along the clasps of his glass armor. Having forged it herself, she knew how to free him from it with the required alacrity, revealing his magnificent bare chest. At some point, her blouse had come undone, whether by his fingers or her own she couldn't recall.
She pressed her breasts against his skin, his warmth filling her. She felt as if her body were awakening from a long slumber. For the first time, she understood how men and women had survived in the world so long without killing one another. She'd thought she'd experienced pleasure before, thought she'd felt it contemplating a lovely sunset, or listening to old fisherman singing by the docks, thought she'd found pleasure in the tart sweetness of strawberries, in the richness of cream. But she'd never truly felt pleasure until now, never known how divine the touch of a man she loved would be. As his fingers ran along the length of her spine, her mind filled with a pure white light that erased all hope of conscious thought.
Lost amid the barren wastes of Hell, they found each other. In the furthest reaches of the land, even the most wretched souls of the damned fell silent. For the first time since the creation of eternity, love flickered to life in Hell, a pale white candle that, for a moment, held back the darkness.
# CHAPTER NINE
# INHUMAN FREAKS
Rigger steadied himself with a hand against the wall as he moved down the narrow steps leading below deck. At the end of the short hall, in the cabin reserved for Bigsby, he heard murmuring voices. He'd been controlling the sails for the last ten hours, following Walker's guidance to navigate the winding river. Every muscle in his body felt spent. The winds in Hell were ever-changing, and Walker had advised Gale against controlling them since it might draw Tempest's attention. The effort needed to keep the _Circus_ from running aground had exhausted Rigger. They'd anchored in a deep bend in the river where there was little current. A few hours' sleep and he'd be back at work.
Rigger slouched into the bunk room he shared with Mako and Jetsam, pleased to find it empty. He wasn't in the mood for mindless chitchat. He collapsed onto his bunk, his eyes closed, eager for sleep to claim him.
His eyes opened. The murmuring from Bigsby's room... he was certain he'd heard Mako's voice, and that of his mother.
Rigger closed his eyes again, settling deeper into his bunk. He then sat up. What were they talking about? What else could they be talking about? Maybe they were trying to answer the question he'd been too busy focus on, but a question gnawing at him all the same.
"Sleep. Talk later," he mumbled to himself, leaning once more toward his pillow, until his body swayed and he found himself on his feet.
"No one on this damn ship ever follows my advice," he grumbled, opening the door. "Not even me."
He went to Bigsby's room. He paused as the voices from the other side went quiet. He raised his fist to knock, but before he could the door opened. Mako grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside. Though it was Bigsby's room, the dwarf wasn't present. Brand, Mako and his mother stood in the small room. Sage sat cross-legged on the bunk, gazing into her spyglass.
"Glad you could make it to our little family meeting," said Mako, keeping his voice just above a whisper.
"I might have been here sooner if anyone had bothered to mention it to me," Rigger grumbled. He eyed Brand, then asked Mako, "If it's a family meeting, what's he doing here?"
"He does own the ship," Sage said, not looking up from the spyglass.
"Brand will be part of any discussion of our future," said Gale, giving Brand's hand a squeeze.
"Well this stinks of low tide," said Rigger, shaking his head. "You two are a couple again?"
"Try not to sound so enthusiastic," said Brand.
"I thought you were never going to forgive him for bringing on a stowaway?" Rigger said to his mother.
"Brand has since proved his loyalty to our family many times over," said Gale. "Without him, we couldn't have freed the slaves on Raitingu."
"Ah, yes, the pygmies. That's a lot of mouths to feed, when the _Circus_ only took on supplies for eleven people back at Port Hallelujah."
"We'll manage," said Gale. "Bigsby and the girls are taking a full inventory and drawing up a plan for rationing. Bigsby's run a successful business for years, so I've faith he'll be able to manage the stock. As a bonus, Bigsby's fluent in several of the pygmy dialects. Without him, we'd never have kept them calm."
"Maybe we should make them nervous," said Rigger. "Get them too worried to eat."
"You don't mean that," said Brand.
Rigger sighed. "I suppose I don't. It would just be nice to feel like anyone else on this ship is as worried as I am." He looked at Mako. "It certainly didn't help that you've given away the bottomless bottle. We can't even count on fresh water."
"The bottle was mine to give," said Mako.
"You think that the bottle is going to make Sorrow love you?" Rigger asked.
"Rigger!" said Sage, her voice soft but scolding. "Don't be cruel."
"I'm only saying what we all know. Everyone can see how he feels about her."
"My feelings had nothing to do with my gift," said Mako. "I simply want to help Sorrow and Slate survive their quest."
"I didn't want them to make that stupid journey at all," said Rigger. "Why the hell did we let them go?"
"What authority did we have to stop them?" asked Gale. "They can take care of themselves."
"All the more reason they should have stayed with the _Circus_ ," said Rigger. "I can't believe we're going to make it through Hell without something trying to stop us. There's strength in numbers."
"I've been defending this ship since I was old enough to swim," said Mako. "If trouble comes, you can hide behind me."
Rigger smirked. "You'd be dead a dozen times over if I didn't have your back."
"It's only natural you'd have my back, since I'm always out in front," said Mako.
"Seems to me you're usually two steps behind Jetsam," said Rigger. "Speaking of which..."
"He's gone up to talk to Walker," said Sage.
"Alone?" asked Rigger.
"You've been talking to him by yourself," she said.
"Yeah, but I'm not the type to fall for Walker's mumbo jumbo mysticism. Aren't you worried that Jetsam is a little impressionable?"
"Not in the least. That's why we sent Jetsam up to talk to him," said Gale. "He'll be fine."
"Sent him? Why?"
"Because as long as Walker's talking to him, he's not spying on us," said Sage. "At least, I hope he's not. If he's telepathic, who knows how far his range is?"
"Are we hiding something from Walker?" asked Rigger. "If we are, is it safe to send Jetsam up to talk to him? If he's telepathic, he'll know we're trying to distract him."
"Jetsam doesn't know the purpose of his mission," said Sage. "I told him to go tell Walker all the dirty jokes he knows."
"That's... that's a lot of jokes. And hardly any of them are actually funny. Why have we decided Walker deserves this kind of torture?"
Sage kept looking in her spyglass as she said, "I just think it's important to figure out the truth about him before he leads us into something even worse than where we are now."
"Worse than Hell?"
"There was Limbo," said Brand.
"Sure. And he got us out of there. I mean... look, I'm the biggest skeptic on the ship. But, if Walker wanted to do us harm, I can think of a hundred different ways he could have killed all of us by now."
"I don't think he wants to kill us," said Sage. "Not while we're useful."
"Useful for what?"
"I have no idea. I don't know his true goals. I honestly don't even know what Walker is. He's definitely not a pygmy."
"Are you sure?" said Rigger. "According to what he told Jetsam back on Podredumbre, he used to be a shaman."
"I'm sure," said Sage. "His aura isn't remotely human, at least not when I study him in my glass. Somehow, he manipulates his aura to look human when I look at him directly, but whatever he's doing doesn't affect what I see in the spyglass. Walker's aura has a lot in common with the demons."
"Okay," said Rigger. "Let's assume he's a demon. I still don't see how he could possibly be leading us anyplace worse. I'm not up on the theology of the Church of the Book, but is there some super-Hell I'm unaware of, Brand?"
Brand shrugged. "Why are you asking me?"
"Didn't you grow up in the Church?"
"I mean, sure. But it's not like I paid attention to the sermons."
"I think he's told us the truth about where he's taking us," said Gale. "My gut tells me that he really is guiding us to the Sea of Wine."
Rigger nodded. "I'm not as reliant on my gut, but, yeah, I can't think of reason he's trying to trick us."
"I think the trick is coming later," said Mako. "He wants us to go to the Happy Isles and bring back an army to overthrow Tempest. Why?"
"To save the world?" said Rigger.
"Sure. But what's he going to do with the world afterward?" asked Mako. "When Tempest is no longer ruling Hell... who will be?"
Rigger scratched his head. "You think this is some kind of bid for power? Walker wants to be king of Hell?"
"I'm saying we should consider all possibilities," said Mako.
"Oh, I totally agree," said Rigger. "I'm more than happy to accept that Walker has a secret agenda. But... so what? Do we have a better plan than to get to the Sea of Wine and look for help?"
"Maybe," said Sage. "When we get to the Happy Isles... we stay there."
"That doesn't sound like a good option to me," said Rigger.
"Only because the word Happy is involved," said Sage. "You'd be miserable."
"I mean... what? We abandon the rest of the world to its fate?"
"Why does this have to be our fight?" asked Sage. "Don't forget, the _Circus_ now holds the souls of two fallen Romers, both Grandmother and Levi. Don't we owe it to them to get them to the Happy Isles once and for all?"
"Hold on," said Brand, lifting his hands. "I understand you want the best for your departed family members, but everyone else on this ship is still alive. We can't seriously give up on getting back to the living world, can we?"
"The way Walker describes it, there might not be a living world to return to," said Mako, shaking his head. "Can it be true? Has Abyss really fallen to Hush?"
"If so, there will be Wanderers in the Happy Isles who can verify it," said Sage.
"If all the oceans are frozen, what's the point in going back?" asked Mako.
"What's wrong with you?" asked Rigger, studying Mako's face. "I would normally expect you to be the one arguing we should go back and fight no matter what the odds."
Mako frowned, an almost clownish expression given his inhumanly large mouth. "Who are we fighting for? Everyone I care about is on this ship."
"I'm with Rigger," said Brand. "I can't believe any of you would seriously consider not going back."
"Then why are we even discussing this?" asked Rigger. "It's your damn ship. You give the orders. Tell Ma we're going back."
"I'm not giving her orders," said Brand. "We need to make a mutual decision." He looked toward Gale. "I have to say, you've been awfully quiet."
"Indeed," she said. "Listening to you all has given voice to the conflicting thoughts in my own mind. When we fought against the slaving Wanderers, I sometimes felt as if our ship was alone against the world. In truth, we weren't. We still had a safe haven in Commonground. There were friendly ships upon the sea crewed with Wanderers who supported our cause. But even if we had been utterly alone, we've never allowed this to keep us from doing what's right."
"That's the question though, isn't it?" asked Rigger. "What's right? How do we answer that question when it sounds as if the apocalypse is already underway?"
Gale nodded thoughtfully. She took a breath, preparing to speak, when a shout sounded from the deck above.
"That's Jetsam," said Mako.
"Is he in trouble?" asked Brand.
"We may all be in trouble," said Sage, peering into her spyglass. "There's another ship approaching us."
"Maybe it's friendly?" asked Brand. He tilted his head the second he said it, looking incredulous at his own words.
Loud bangs sounded on the timbers overhead as Jetsam stomped to get their attention. "All hands on deck! It's the _Seahorse!"_
"The _Seahorse_?" asked Brand as they rushed through the door. "Captain Stallion's ship?"
"I wondered if he'd survived his leap into the sea after our last encounter," said Gale. "If he's in Hell, I guess I have my answer."
They reached the deck. Jetsam was now high above the ship, swimming through the air. Sage leapt into the ropes and climbed to the crow's nest, swift as a squirrel. Rigger moved toward the wheel by instinct, though it wasn't likely there was steering to be done. They'd lowered the sails when they'd dropped anchor in the still water. The ship coming for them was fully rigged, closing fast, and, while the river was broad, it wasn't so broad that they could outmaneuver their attackers in order to avoid being boarded.
Wrapping his hands in the ropes that hung near the wheel, he glanced back at the approaching vessel. It was the _Seahorse_ alright, though much worse for wear than when they'd last seen it. The black sails flapped in tatters and seaweed hung from the rigging, as if the vessel had spent time in the briny depths.
The ship was now close enough that he could see skeletal figures climbing the ropes. Most were humanoid, but with the skulls of beasts. When last they'd encountered the _Seahorse_ , it had been crewed by half-seeds. They'd killed three score of the human-animal hybrids in that fight, leaving only two survivors aboard the rudderless ship. From the angle of approach, he couldn't tell if the rudder had been repaired, not that it mattered much with the wind propelling the ship straight toward them.
Rigger wondered where Walker had gone, and when he looked around he found the pygmy standing directly beside him.
"It seems the memories we stirred up when we struck bottom have found their rightful owners," said Walker.
"I'm not surprised that Stallion wound up here," said Rigger. "He was a fallen Wanderer, and would never reach the Sea of Wine. I guess his crew of half-seeds wound up in the appropriate afterlife as well. But how did the _Seahorse_ wind up here? Do ships have souls?"
Walker nodded. "The _Freewind_ did, and now, so does the _Circus_. Stallion may not have been a good Wanderer, but he loved his ship. The ship, it seems, returned his love, and went down with its captain."
Jetsam drifted above their heads. "I can't believe they're crazy enough to attack us. We kicked their butts last time."
"You spilt their blood to end their lives," said Walker. "Now, they have no blood. You do."
Mako stood on the rail, staring down at the water. "There's still time for me to rip a hole in their hull. Walker, what will happen to me if I dive in the river?"
"You'll survive," said Walker. "But when you emerge, you'll no longer have your own memories. The thoughts of others will have filled you. Your own mind will float bodiless along the currents, lost forever."
"So, no swimming," said Mako. "We'll do this the hard way."
"Are your demon friends any good in a fight?" asked Rigger.
"They're quite ferocious, though not necessarily efficient," said Walker. "They take a bit too much pleasure in tormenting their foes."
As Walker spoke, Bigsby poked his head above deck. "Is something going on?" he asked.
Cinnamon and Poppy appeared beside him. "Is it a fight?" asked Poppy. "If it's a fight, let me get my weights."
"No," said Gale. "Get back below deck. Keep the pygmies calm, no matter what you hear happening."
"Ma, I can take care of myself," said Poppy.
"Those are orders!" snapped Gale.
"Yes, Captain," Poppy grumbled.
As the three disappeared below deck, Rigger said, "You know, Ma, Poppy's powers might actually come in handy."
"Don't question me," Gale said. "You heard Walker. We can't stab or strangle these enemies. If we hope to survive this fight, I'm going to need to focus. I can't be distracted by worrying about the girls."
"What?" asked Jetsam. "You're not worried about us?"
"You should come down from the sky now," said Gale.
"Why?" asked Jetsam. "You plan to smack me?"
"I'm about to make it very, very difficult for you to ride the winds."
Jetsam kicked through the air to the nearest rope and secured himself in the riggings.
"If you use your powers, Tempest will likely notice us," said Walker.
"We'll fight that fight when it happens," said Gale. "Right now, shut up, and let me save my ship."
By now, the _Seahorse_ was less than a hundred yards away. Rigger thought the deck of the ship looked more crowded than he remembered. Stallion and his half-seeds weren't the only men they'd ever sent to Hell. Perhaps the ranks of his crew had grown on these dark waters.
"Ma, if you're going to do something, do it now," said Sage. "In another minute, even your strongest winds won't keep us out of the range of their grappling hooks."
Gail nodded and climbed onto the bowsprit, lifting both hands. "Sage, you've never seen the strongest winds I can summon." She held her hands before her, her fingers caressing the breeze. "I've always used my control over the winds to push our ship as fast as the sails could stand, but I've also known that I could push them faster. Much, much faster."
She pushed her hands forward. Instantly, every sail on the _Seahorse_ snapped backward, slapping against masts and ropes. Waves rose from the previously calm water as the bow of the ship lifted from the force of the gust.
Gale pushed again, then again, and the deck of the _Seahorse_ turned into a scene of chaos as the skeletal sailors in the rigging lost their grip and fell among the dead men below. Few of the attackers kept their feet beneath them as the deck pitched violently.
The _Circus_ began to roll in the ensuing waves. Rigger hoped the pygmies below weren't prone to seasickness. All the Romers, plus Brand, wrapped their arms in ropes to keep from getting tossed about. The two demons, Foment and Fume, leapt into the air, clear of the pitching masts. Walker simply stood where he'd been standing, his hands clasped behind him, looking unperturbed.
The _Seahorse_ spun to the side. Rigger could see the rudder was still missing, leaving the ship all but defenseless against the wind. The tattered black sails ripped further, flying away in a flurry of loose rags that resembled a murder of crows. In under a minute, the ship was stripped of all canvas.
"You're doing it, Ma!" Jetsam shouted from above. "Don't let up! You're going to send them to the bottom!"
For half a second, Rigger thought he was right. With the _Seahorse_ broadside to the wind, it listed to such a degree that much of its crew tumbled overboard, vanishing in the waves. If its hull sank any further, water would pour in through any open hatches and the ship would go down.
Then the lightning struck. Rigger was blinded, then deafened as thunder slammed his whole body like a giant's fist. In the aftermath, he smelled burning wood. He screamed, "Ma!" but his ears rang so loudly he couldn't hear his own voice. All he could see before him was a field of white sparks.
With his sight and hearing gone, he was left to rely on his sense of touch. His power let his mind flow through every rope on the ship. He could feel anything touching the rigging. He could tell that Jetsam and Mako were still clinging to their ropes. Brand had let go of his and might be anywhere. His mother hadn't been touching a rope, and his heart sank as he detected a slackness before him. The ropes stretching out to the bowsprit had snapped. The burning wood he smelled came from that direction. Had lightning struck his mother?
"Ma!" he yelled again, this time faintly hearing the word. "Ma! Are you alright?"
"A little help, please!" someone yelled from in front of him. Brand?
He blinked, trying to make sense of the fragmented images that began to bleed through his snowy vision. The bowsprit was aflame. The lightning had apparently struck right where his mother had been standing. Where she'd stood, Brand now had one knee hooked around a broken post from the guardrail, with his torso bent over the damaged front of the ship.
"Rigger!" Brand yelled again, his voice on the edge of panic. "Rigger, I can't hold on much longer!"
Rigger instantly understood the man's peril and every rope in reach snaked out and wrapped around Brand's legs. He tried to lift the man, but was surprised when Brand weighed more than he should have.
With a grunt, he pulled harder, lifting Brand free of danger. To his relief, he discovered the reason that Brand weighed so much was that his hands were wrapped around Gale's wrist. To his even greater relief, he saw that his mother was not only alive, but seemed not even singed by the lighting strike that had torn apart her perch.
He lowered them to the deck.
"Ma!" Mako yelled, leaping from his perch to run to her side. "Ma what happened?"
"I guess we caught Tempest's attention," she said. She reached to her belt, where her cutlass hung. Rigger noticed for the first time the cloth bag just behind it. She opened the bag and pulled out a glowing glass rod.
"Good thing I picked this up when it fell to the deck after our last fight with Tempest. I held onto it for safekeeping."
Rigger had forgotten all about the lightning rod they'd taken from the Stormcaller. It had protected his mother from the lightning, though the protection must not have spread to the wood she stood upon.
Rigger glanced up at the sky. "What chance do we have if Tempest can just blast our ship out from under us?"
"He won't," said Walker. He glanced at the _Seahorse_ , which settled upright now that Gale was too rattled to summon winds. In the chaotic current, the ship had drifted closer. Rigger felt a sinking sensation as he saw skeletal warriors climbing onto the railings, grappling hooks in hand, preparing to board.
"Finish them off," said Walker, nodding toward the invaders. "Then sail as fast as you can to reach the end of the river. I'll have to trust that Sage can navigate, though I'd rather not have put that to the test. I'll return before you reach the Sea of Wine, if I can."
"Where are you going?" asked Gale.
"To give Tempest a more enticing target," said Walker. He looked up at Fume and Foment and said, "Come."
Rigger blinked, still trying to clear the last of the sparks from his vision. When he opened his eyes, Walker and the demons were gone. He had no time to ponder the vanishing act, however. By now, the grappling hooks from the _Seahorse_ were lashing onto the _Circus_. Rigger's command over ropes only extended to ropes he touched, or ropes that touched ropes he touched. He had a half dozen coils of ropes linked together along the rails and he used these to snake out and tangle the grappling hooks, lifting them free and tossing the skeletons climbing them into the drink. Unfortunately, for every grappling hook he removed, three more found purchase, and already the two ships were close enough that the boldest skeletons from the _Seahorse_ made the leap to the deck of the _Circus_.
With the two ships so close, Gale couldn't use her control of the winds to separate them. Instead, she drew her cutlass and leapt toward the rails. Mako and Jetsam joined her. Gale fought with cool-headed precision, her blows aimed at the leathery ligaments that held the skeletal limbs together, freeing arms from shoulders and legs from hips. Mako showed his usual bloodlust despite his enemies' lack of blood. Finding that decapitating his opponents didn't slow them, he tossed aside his sword and grabbed a foe by the rib cage, using it as a battering ram to knock the invaders overboard.
Jetsam normally entered combat with either a quip or a song, but now he fought in utter silence, his face grim as his rapier failed to do real damage to the skeletons. He kept being pushed back, focusing on parrying their attacks. Rigger tried to help, using his ropes to trip and tangle the skeletons surrounding Jetsam, but it was no use. Jetsam vanished beneath an ever-growing mass of thrashing bones.
"Jetsam!" Sage cried from above. To Rigger's great surprise, she dropped onto the skeletons that had buried Jetsam, a belaying pin in each hand. Sage seldom engaged in hand-to-hand combat, but not from lack of skill. Her supernatural eyes could spot the weakest point in any foe and keep her safely away from every blow aimed at her. For a moment, she danced over the wriggling heap of dead men, breaking arms and spines, bashing in skulls, but, in the end, there were just too many. Skeletal fingers closed around her ankles and she vanished into the scrum.
Rigger continued to pluck away skeletons to free his siblings, though in his heart he was certain they were already dead. With his focus on saving Jetsam and Sage, he didn't notice the clacking of skeletal feet on the wood behind him until a half second before the attack. He ducked, then spun around to find himself face to face with a huge, horse-headed skeleton wielding a mace. The creature swung at him again and Rigger rolled away, abandoning the guidelines that connected him to the rest of the ship. Holding onto them wouldn't do him any good if his skull was bashed in.
He bounced back to his feet, looking around for a weapon. Unfortunately, he saw plenty of weapons, all in the hands of skeletons that charged toward him from all sides. He crouched to leap, praying he could get high enough to brush his fingers against the lines overhead. But, as his feet left the deck, skeletal fingers grabbed him by the belt. He was thrown down with enough force to leave him seeing stars. Before he could recover his wits, a skeleton fell on him, then three more and in seconds he was completely pinned. Yet, curiously, none of the skeletons delivered a final blow. He heard cursing to his left and turned his head to see Mako fall, pushed down by countless bludgeoning arms and legs. Mako disappeared under his attackers, yet he too continued to live, judging from his abundant cursing.
Rigger scanned the deck, looking to see if anyone could aid him. He spotted Brand balanced on the rail, dodging the blows of a trio of skeletons armed with halberds. Brand kicked away the skull of his nearest attacker, but was clipped behind the ankle by the shaft of a halberd as his leg came down. He waved his arms for balance, to no avail. He vanished over the rail, plunging toward the river.
Now, only his mother was free. Her opponents were packed in so thickly around her that she was able to leap atop them, dancing across the flailing mob, until she reached the rigging and climbed. The skeletons followed, but from her higher vantage point they had no hope of reaching her as she coolly leaned over and sliced free the fingers of any skeleton who tried to climb toward her.
"That should do," called a voice from the other ship. "Bring them all together."
The skeletons manhandled Rigger to his feet, with his arms pinned against his back. They dragged him toward the middle of the deck, where he found Jetsam and Sage already waiting, their limbs held by skeletal fingers.
Mako was the last to arrive in the center of the skeletal mob. Everyone was scratched and bruised, but Mako definitely had taken the worst beating. His nose had been broken, one eye was swollen shut, and his hands dripped with blood.
Now that he was standing, Rigger could see over the heads of most of the skeletons. On the deck of the _Seahorse_ , Captain Stallion had finally made his appearance. Unlike his crew, he still had flesh, though that didn't seem to be a gift. His skin was corpse-white and spongy, the flesh of a drowned man. On the flanks of his horse half, the hide had peeled away, revealing gray, putrid meat crawling with pale worms.
Stallion looked at Gale, still free in the riggings, and said, "I've waited a long time for this day. You and your bloody family are to blame for my being here. For twenty years, I've dreamed of making you suffer for your crimes."
"Crimes?" said Gale. "We defended our ship when you attacked us! You've only yourself to blame for being here. You died a coward's death, diving into the sea rather than facing me in combat."
"It would hardly have been a fair fight," said Captain Stallion. "You and your family are inhuman freaks."
"Says the man who's half horse," said Jetsam.
A skeleton punched Jetsam in the gut, silencing him.
Captain Stallion came to the rail, then leapt to the deck of the _Circus_. "Gale, you should come down from the rigging now. If you don't, I'll kill one of your children."
"Don't listen to him, Ma!" yelled Sage, before skeletal fingers clamped over her lips, muffling her.
"I see we have a volunteer for who'll go first," said Stallion, drawing his saber as the skeletons parted to give him a clear path to Sage.
Gale dropped from the ropes, landing between Stallion and her daughter, cutlass at the ready.
"Are you so eager to die again?" Gale asked.
"Oh yes," said Stallion, his voice suddenly soft. "Yes, indeed, I'd welcome death. A final oblivion, sweet as sleep... I want this more than you can ever know. It's why I'm here, instead of in the lands above, helping Tempest's armies. I don't want to continue as a dead man, above or below. I want to be finished. To be free."
"Take another step forward and you'll have your freedom," said Gale.
Stallion shook his head. "You haven't the power to end this. Stab me, drown me, burn me to ash... always, my essence will endure. We're all immortals, Gale. A thousand deaths will never end us."
"If it's all so futile," said Gale, "why bother with any of this?"
"Because the priest tells me this ship carries the one thing that can bring an end to eternity," said Stallion. "He sent me here to recover the artifact. I've come for the One True Book, Gale. Hand it over, and I'll spare the life of one of your children. I'll even let you choose which one."
# CHAPTER TEN
# HELL'S OUTER WASTES
Cinder's heart slowed back to a normal beat after the initial spike of fear she'd felt when Brother Wing had emerged from the flame. Her mother had fought numerous dragons in her day, and Cinder had imagined them as monsters the size of mountains, with wingspans wide enough to blot out the sun. Brother Wing was the largest living thing she'd ever seen, yes, but he fit comfortably into the temple. As for the rest of his appearance, his jaws were no toothier than those of the crocodiles who lurked in the deep rivers. Reminiscent of the boas that slithered among the treetops, his scales glinted like smooth jewels, in a hundred shades of ruby and orange. His catlike eyes were a golden hue, and when he looked upon her she felt no fear. Though his inhuman face couldn't convey emotions, she sensed deep down the creature meant her no harm.
"You're correct," said Brother Wing. "I wouldn't hurt you. I can, in fact, help you, if you allow it."
"You... you're reading my mind?" she said, remembering that her mother had told her that dragons had this power.
Brother Wing nodded. "Forgive the invasion of privacy. I cannot turn off this sense, any more than you could turn off your hearing. You may trust, however, that I'll never share what I might overhear. Now, let's return to the matter of your wound."
"Had we even talked about the matter of my wound?" she asked.
"Oh," he said. "I suppose we hadn't. Not out loud. But Mantle would like me to heal you."
"You possess the gift of healing now?" Ver asked.
"Indeed," said Brother Wing. "During the time I lived with Zetetic, I dined with many of the most talented mystics from throughout the Shining Lands. Zetetic was obsessed with all the conflicting, yet functional, systems of magic that existed in the world, and continually searched for a grand unified theory of magic that might incorporate all of them."
"He already knew the explanation," said Ver. "Truth is finite, while lies are boundless."
"Perhaps," said Brother Wing. "Zetetic would no doubt debate the assertion, but I feel no obligation to defend his opinions. I parted ways with Zetetic primarily to protect my own sanity. When I first went to dwell with him, my telepathy had yet to recover from my father's mental assault. As my mind healed, I found it harder and harder to ignore Zetetic's thoughts. His willingness to accept everything as truth bewildered me. His thirst for ever more knowledge frightened me. One day, in his quest to know all, he hopes to discover some hidden thread of reality. It frightens me to know that he would willingly pull this thread and unravel the entire universe."
"Indeed," said Ver. "That's very much what I've come to speak to you about."
"In a moment, ghost," said Brother Wing. He turned his gaze once more on Cinder. "My apologies. It's easy to ramble off topic anytime one discusses Zetetic. The point I intended to make is that I learned many secrets of magic from his guests, including the art of healing. If you'll permit me to touch you, I can repair your damaged hip."
Cinder nodded her assent.
His talons were sinewy and hard looking, his claws black and sharp as obsidian flakes, but his touch proved gentle as he brushed his claws lightly across her bloodied hip. His eyes fixed intently upon the wound. His nostrils twitched.
"It's good that Mantle brought you," he said. "I smell infection. Spikers never clean their weapons. By tomorrow, you would be feverish. A week from now, you'd be dead. Fortunately, I can draw out the puss."
He cupped his talon over her hip. She felt a strange, negative pressure, then a burning sensation that grew ever hotter until she involuntarily cried out.
Brother Wing released her. She staggered away, her hip aching, feeling more injured than she had when he'd first touched her. She looked down to examine how much harm he'd done, and found, to her shock, fresh, unblemished flesh. The jangling, burning sensation of her newly knitted nerves throbbed with each heartbeat, but as the seconds passed the pain grew fainter, fading from agony to mere tingling, before no longer being detectable at all.
"You did it!" she said, putting her full weight on the leg. She felt completely recovered.
The dragon shrugged. "Like any skill, I've grown better with practice. Building this settlement has been dangerous work. I've treated wounds far more serious than this. There are few within the town walls I haven't healed." He looked at Mantle. "Save for you, of course. I see you've once more returned from battle unscathed."
"As you say," said Mantle, "everything becomes easier with practice. I've trained for combat since I was old enough to walk."
"Mantle's prowess is why I've come to you," said Ver. "Though many things in the living world are hidden from my dead eyes, his soul gleams like a beacon. Mantle's a man of virtue and courage, a pure soul who, alone of all the men left in the world, may undertake the terrible task I must lay upon his shoulders."
As the dead priest spoke, Cinder took Mantle's hand into her own, so that he could hear the ghost's words.
The dragon studied Ver's face. "I see. There are innocent souls in Hell."
"I wouldn't call them innocent," said Ver. "The Romers are Wanderers, the pygmies are animists. Sorrow's a witch, and would wind up in Hell soon enough. Slate isn't even a man, merely a bit of magic too stubborn to stop breathing. Yet, none of them arrived in Hell due to the judgment of the Divine Author. They must be rescued, returned to the realm of the living at once."
"You fear that, the longer they remain there, there's a chance that Hell might come undone?" Brother Wing sounded skeptical. "I hardly think this likely."
"Which of us is the theologian?" asked Ver. "You can see my mind. You know I believe it to be true. You also know I've studied this matter in far greater depth than you."
"I don't dispute that you believe the threat is real," said Brother Wing. "I simply feel the problem is somewhat remote from our immediate troubles. The problems this settlement faces are far more acute. The world beyond these shores grows less inhabitable by the hour. The bay at Commonground is a mass of ships now, as Wanderers are driven there by the sea ice that grows ever closer. They carry with them refugees from other lands. Some are upon the ships because the Wanderers felt mercy, others because, even in the face of doomsday, there were still Wanderers willing to let wealthy men purchase passage."
"Which is why our first priority must be to fortify our settlement," said Mantle. "It's only a matter of time before the refugees leave Commonground to find new homes upon the Isle of Fire. We'll welcome with open arms anyone who comes in peace to help us build. But, we also know that many of these men will see our humble settlement as ripe territory for conquest."
"You see why I'm reluctant to have Mantle join your quest," said Brother Wing. "Reluctant... but not completely unwilling."
"I'll go where you wish me to go," said Mantle. "But, why do these people trapped in hell matter to us?"
Brother Wing sighed. "Because I know them. Some of them, anyway. Bigsby was one of the first humans I encountered when I came to Commonground. I fear I didn't treat him well. Later, at the Keep of the Inquisition, I dined with Slate, Sorrow, and Brand, and found them interesting. While I've never met the Romers personally, in the time I lived in Commonground, I learned of them from the minds of their fellow Wanderers. They're people of great integrity. The world will be poorer for their absence."
The dragon paused, looked as if he were weighing something further, then said, "I should also add that I know Sorrow much more intimately than from a single dinner."
"My mother knew Sorrow," said Cinder. "I'm told she was very driven, and very angry."
Brother Wing nodded. "Traits I shared, in my younger days." His eyes seemed less focused, as if he was lost in memories. "My father cast me aside as a fledgling, my wings broken, with every expectation I would die. But I killed the lava-pygmies who came to collect my body. From their minds, I caught the faintest glimmers that there was a larger world beyond the jungle. I filled my belly with the bodies of the lava-pygmies, but they couldn't satisfy my intellectual hunger. Driven by a desire to understand more of the world, and more of myself, I descended the mountain and made my way to Commonground."
"Even in a city of half-seeds, I can't imagine they welcomed a dragon with open arms," said Ver.
"No," said Brother Wing. "I was met with hostility and violence, driven back into the wilds weeping and wounded. However, as a telepath, I quickly learned to hide myself from the gaze of men. At first I merely hid in shadows, but soon I learned the art of disguising myself in rags. Moving among the crowds of the city unmolested, I drank in the minds of those around me, and soon mastered human languages. I'd left the jungle feeling deep emotions, emotions I had no words for. But soon after I arrived in Commonground, a woman in a cloak of fine green silk walked past me. Instantly, she caught my full attention, for here was the first human I'd encountered who felt precisely the same emotions that I'd known since being discarded. She was filled with hatred of her own father, and a deep and abiding desire for revenge against him. In her, I'd found a kindred spirit."
"And how did she feel about you?" asked Ver.
"She never knew me. She was too intently focused on revenge against her father, and the religion that had shaped him, for me to ever hope of winning her over to my cause. Plus, she'd come to Commonground at the summons of the Black Swan, who'd hired her to make use of her talent as a sculptor. I stayed near her, careful to remain beyond her range of vision. At night, I'd slink into her sleeping chambers and stand by her bedside, exploring all she'd learned. It was from her I learned the basics of necromancy and soul catching that allowed me to craft my first golem, Patch. Alas, he proved to be a flawed creation, not even lasting through his first fight."
"I find it disturbing that you would read her mind as she slept," said Cinder.
"It was inexcusable," said Brother Wing. "I'd never engage in such a thing now. My years of study at the Keep of the Inquisition exposed me to many arguments about morality. My most steadfast companions were, I fear, somewhat hedonistic. They'd argue I'd done no wrong to Sorrow. You don't harm a flower by gazing at its colors or smelling its scent. I didn't harm Sorrow by studying her thoughts."
"But you don't agree with this?" asked Cinder.
Brother Wing nodded. "Now, I inform everyone I meet that I can see into their minds. It's their choice if they wish to stay near me. I gave Sorrow no choice. What's more, with the wisdom of twenty years of hindsight, I understand that the emotional bond that drew me to her, her unquenchable anger, was a poison to my own soul. It took me many years to forgive my father and learn to love him."
"Does he love you back?" asked Cinder.
"He hasn't killed me yet," said Brother Wing. "Perhaps that's all the love he's capable of expressing. But, if you'll pardon my insight, I see a hidden layer of depth in your question. You're wondering if your own father loved you."
Cinder crossed her arms. "I don't see how he could. He was dead before I was born."
"Yes. But his spirit lingers on, guiding the sun. I'm sure he watches over you constantly."
"Does he?" asked Cinder. "My mother explained his choices to me. He did what he had to do. But, I get no more sunshine than anyone else in the jungle. Not that I would expect this. Does he even know I was born?"
"I'm afraid I don't know. But, during our journey to slay Greatshadow, I was intimately connected with your father's spirit. His love for your mother was genuine and profound. I'm certain he would have loved you."
Ver cleared his throat. "This discussion is heartwarming, but I fear we're wasting time. Will you allow Mantle to journey with me to Hell to rescue Sorrow and the others?"
Brother Wing took a deep breath. He studied Mantle's face and said, "I see you would embrace the quest if I asked you to go. There's no place you fear to tread, not even Hell itself."
"If this Sorrow was important to you, she's important to me," said Mantle, crossing his arms. "I won't turn my back on a soul in danger."
"I never imagined you would." Brother Wing turned his gaze toward Cinder. "You understand what's being asked of you?"
"Maybe?"
"You alone have the power to guide living men into the realms of death. You alone have the power to return them. If Mantle is to undertake this quest, you must go with him."
"That's what I thought," she said. She frowned. "This seems like the sort of thing I should discuss with my mother."
"Your mother would forbid it," said Ver. "But there's no need to ask her. You're a woman, Cinder, not a child."
"I still have to live with her when I get back," said Cinder.
"It may be that your mother wouldn't forbid it," said Brother Wing. "Infidel's traveled to many abstract realms and lived to tell the tale. When I knew her, she was fearless."
"So I've heard," said Cinder. "But the woman I've known seems afraid of everything, at least where I'm concerned."
"It's a mother's duty to have such concerns," said Ver. "It's an equal duty to accept when a child is no longer a child."
Cinder bit her fingernails, torn with indecision. This was precisely the sort of adventure her mother used to have. It could be a chance to prove to her mother that she was ready to go off on her own. It could also be an excellent way to die in some far off realm, and never be heard from again.
Before she could arrive at a decision, shouts sounded from outside. Metal clanged against metal and men cried out in pain as the sound of someone heavily armored moved up the steps to the temple.
"An attack!" said Mantle, racing toward the door. "But who?"
Brother Wing furrowed his brow as Mantle neared the door. He called out, "Wait!"
Too late. The door splintered as Mantle reached it, the heavy fragments knocking him backward. A woman covered head to toe in black iron armor marched into the room, wielding a massive mace.
"Cinder!" the woman yelled, in a peculiar squawking voice that sounded almost like a goose honking. "Don't listen to these fools!"
Her forward march was halted as Mantle clawed free of the debris and clasped his hand around her ankle. She craned her torso to look at him. As her metallic ribs slipped and twisted, Cinder realized that the woman wasn't wearing armor at all. Somehow, her entire body was made of iron.
"You!" the metal woman cried, raising her mace over Mantle, who still lay on his back amid the debris. "With your death, this all comes to an end!"
"No!" Cinder cried, leaping toward the woman. She slammed into her back, with about the same effect as slamming into a wall. Still, she jarred the woman just enough that Mantle rolled out of the path of her blow. The mace shattered the stone where he'd been, missing by inches.
"Cinder, move!" Brother Wing cried.
Cinder leapt aside as the iron woman spun toward the dragon's voice. Cinder shielded her eyes as white hot flame shot from the dragon's mouth. In the aftermath, the woman glowed a dull cherry red. This didn't slow her as she sprang forward and attacked Brother Wing with a savage, two-handed swing of her mace. The weapon crunched into the side of the dragon's jaw. Bloodied, broken teeth clattered across the floor.
Brother Wing drew back on his hind legs, his wings spread, so that he seemed to fill the whole of the temple. With his tail he reached out and swept Mantle, still on knees, behind him. "Black Swan!" he growled. "You dare? You dare defile the sacred temple of my father?"
"There's nothing sacred about your father," the Black Swan answered. "I know where his true loyalties lie. Stand aside. This man must die."
"You're the Black Swan?" Cinder asked, stepping backward. "My mother always said you were dangerous."
"Dangerous, yes, and in the right. Listen to me, all of you. I'm here to save the world. Cinder, go home at once. You don't need to witness what comes next."
"You intend to slay Mantle," said Brother Wing. "But...why? Your mind... I can't make sense of your thoughts. Memories overlay memories, until all is chaos. Why would you—"
"I don't have time to explain," said the Black Swan. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you stop me." As she spoke, long needles grew from the tips of her left hand. She lunged toward Mantle. Brother Wing extended a talon into her path, seeking to block her. But perhaps her attack had merely been a ruse, since she ran straight toward the open talon and jammed her finger-needles into the dragon's wrist.
Brother Wing hissed in pain, drawing his talon toward his face. His eyes fixed on his wound, mere pin pricks, before his gaze shifted once more toward the Black Swan. Then, his eyes rolled backward, his body convulsing. Sorrow watched his body collapse, utterly limp, while his spirit lingered above, looking down on his fallen form in confusion.
The Black Swan leapt to avoid being crushed by the falling dragon. Though inhumanly strong, her iron body proved too slow to make it to freedom. She vanished under Brother Wing's torso, her mace clattering across the floor.
"Flee!" Ver shouted to Cinder. "You must take Mantle and flee the living lands. In Hell, the Black Swan cannot touch you."
By now, Mantle had made it to his feet. He ran and recovered the mace, then turned to face the Black Swan.
"I don't think the Black Swan will be bothering anyone once Mantle's done with her," said Cinder.
"Fool! She's far more dangerous than your mother has warned you. Mantle's attack will be countered with more trickery!"
This proved to be true. As the Black Swan pulled herself free of the dragon's body, she pressed a button on her forearm and was instantly hidden by a cloud of inky smoke.
"Go!" said Ver. "Her diamond eyes allow her to see clearly through the smoke. Don't wait for her to make another attack!"
"I'm going," said Cinder, running to Mantle's side. She reached him just as the smoke enveloped them both. In the darkness, she heard the Black Swan's metallic footsteps.
"Stay back," said Mantle. "It's dangerous for you to be near me."
"No," said Cinder grabbing his arm. "It's dangerous for you to be without me."
As she willed it, their bodies turned to spirit. The Black Swan's poisoned fingers sliced into the space where Mantle's neck had been. As the material world faded around them, all she could hear was the muted, distant sound of the Black Swan squawking in rage.
Brother Wing looked down on his body, disbelieving the sight. From his spiritual vantage point, his physical shell seemed translucent, and he could see the black threads of poison that had stilled his heart and silenced his brain in only a single heartbeat. With his training in necromancy, he recognized the substance as the legendary bad blood, a poison that took seven years to distill, refined from the heart-blood of a hundred murderers. A single drop could kill a man. She'd injected him with nearly half a cup.
The room vanished around him, the walls of the temple fading away. Since birth, he'd been able to see into the lands of the dead immediately adjacent to the living world, and grown familiar with the varied terrain. Since most of the members of his community had been recruited from former believers of the Church of the Book, the spiritual realm next to the village had been the outer reaches of the church's traditional Hell, intermingled a bit with the Realm of Roots encroaching from the faith of the nearby pygmies.
As each second carried him further from the realm of the living, he expected to find himself in these familiar surroundings. Instead, he found himself falling freely through an open sky. Far below was a shimmering green ocean. There was no land in sight, and no way of knowing how far he would fall before hitting the water.
He clenched his jaw tightly, feeling old resentments rising within him. Any other dragon could simply spread his wings and fly to escape the fate of falling. But, though Vigor had made his best attempts to heal Brother Wing's childhood injuries, his damaged wings had never been strong enough to bear his weight in flight.
He closed his eyes, as the stinging wind rushed past his face. He spread his wings, feeling the wind catch the sails of his skin. When he'd lived at the Keep of the Inquisition, the island had been constantly buffeted by storms. He'd often climbed to the roof of the highest tower, spreading his wings, catching the wind, closing his eyes and imagining what it would be like to fly, to claim the birthright of any creature born with wings.
In the living world, due to his ill-knitted bones, even his make-believe flights had caused knifelike pain to run through his shoulders and down his back. Here, with his spiritual body, there was no pain.
No pain.
And wind beneath his wings.
He opened his eyes. Instinctively, he'd stretched his wings to their fullest. In the time his eyes had been closed, he'd fallen close enough to the sea that he could now see whitecaps atop the waves. Yet, the whitecaps grew no closer. He was no longer falling toward the water. He was moving forward, in a smooth, painless glide.
With a cry of joy, he flapped his wings, and climbed higher in the sky. He flapped again, and again, feeling the power of an unbroken body. The wind whispered along his scales in a sensual caress. He was flying!
Tears again filled his eyes, but no longer from the stinging wind. Since his birth, he'd walked the living world, with various Hells always haunting him from the shadows. He'd always assumed these dark landscapes would be his eternal home one day.
With a sob that became a laugh, and a laugh that became a song, he beat his wings with all his strength as he joyfully flew through the sky of Heaven.
Cinder's transition into the spirit world was unlike any previous journey she'd made. The atmosphere of the Realm of Roots was steamy, smelling of dank decay mixed with a cloying sweetness of rotting fruit. Now, the air surrounding her was hot as a furnace, desiccating, with a volcanic stench of sulfur. The ground beneath her felt like fine, loose powder, sloped into a steep dune, yielding, threatening to engulf her. Unlike the ghostly glow of other spiritual realms, here she was surrounded by unbroken darkness. She couldn't see her own hand before her face, though her spiritual body normally possessed its own internal light.
Nor could she see Mantle, though she still grasped his arm with one hand.
"What's happened?" asked Mantle, still unseen in the darkness. "Why have you brought me to this place?"
"That metal woman was going to kill you," said Cinder. She coughed violently after she said this, as dry dust blew into her mouth.
"She was certainly going to try," said Mantle. "We must go back. We have to defend Brother Wing."
From the darkness ahead of them, Ver, unseen, spoke. "Brother Wing is dead."
"Then I must return to avenge him!"
"I understand your pain," said Ver. "But, I'm afraid we've landed upon shifting sands. Climbing back to the living world from here will be all but impossible. To reach firmer ground, we must move forward."
Cinder finally managed to stop coughing, taking shallow breaths through her nose. She craned her neck to see around her.
"Have I gone blind?" she whispered. "Even in total darkness, I should be able to see you, Ver."
"Your eyes still work. It's your mind that's failed. This happens to many new arrivals to Hell. Their eyes see the horror around them, but their minds deny what they see. I'm a moment or two, your sight will return. Soon after, our mission here will be complete. The ones we seek aren't far at all."
"I see fine," said Mantle. "This place is bleak, certainly. Barren. But, far from horrific."
"You cannot see the world the way Cinder sees it. The sand you walk upon? It's not made of crushed stone. In life, all men carry a great cargo of hope. For some men, hope is their most priceless treasure. For others, it's their heaviest burden. But in Hell, all hope is lifted from men's shoulders. The hopes are crushed, then scattered on the winds. The dust eventually settles here, on Hell's outer wastes. You see only powdery soil. Sorrow's spiritual vision sees the truth of what she walks upon, and rejects it."
"I don't want to be here," said Cinder. "You never told me... you never told me it would be so horrible."
"It's Hell, my dear," said Ver. "What were you were expecting? No matter. You wish to leave. I want your swift departure as well. We've only to gather those we've come for. Follow me. Mantle, you'll have to guide her."
Now it was Mantle who took her by the arm. "I have you," he said, in a calm voice. "We'll get through this together."
"Follow!" Ver said, his voice growing more distant.
Mantle moved forward and she followed only to immediately lose her footing in the dust. He lost his grip on her as she flailed for balance. As she struggled to remain upright, she wound up taking a deeper breath that she should have. Dust filled her lungs. Suddenly, she felt the crushed hopes of a thousand dead souls weighing heavy on her shoulders. She gave a choked cry as her legs gave out beneath her. Blind, as one of falls into a swoon, she stumbled in the darkness and went down.
# CHAPTER ELEVEN
# A MAP OF HELL
Gale silently cursed that the One True Book had ever come aboard her ship. Trying to take the book from the Isle of Storm had caused Tempest to attack them, which led directly to the death of her eldest son. Levi had given his life to save the rest of his family, even though he'd been estranged from Gale for years. Gale's grief was still fresh, and bound tightly with guilt. If she'd had possession of the book at this moment she'd gladly tossed it overboard to be rid of the cursed thing. But, if she did have the book, there was one thing she most definitely wouldn't do, and that was turn it over under pressure of blackmail, even if she'd thought a villain like Stallion had any intention of keeping his word.
Still, this was the wrong moment to tell him that. With all eyes fixed on her, she saw a figure moving behind the skeletal mob. It was Brand, climbing back to the deck. It looked as if he'd grabbed a rope as he fell and saved himself from the river.
She focused her gaze on Stallion, hoping he'd not seen her eyes wander. From her peripheral vision she saw Brand slink silently along the deck, then go over the rail once more, climbing down toward the porthole in the master cabin.
So far, the skeletal army had made no move to go below deck. Gale knew, as sure as she knew her own mind, what Brand's next move would be. She had to buy him time.
She threw down her sword and raised her hands. "Is that what this is all about? The book? You didn't need to attack us at all," she said, in a laughing tone. "I'll turn it over gladly. The book means nothing to me."
"The priest said there'd be a knight guarding it," said Stallion. "That big fellow, the one who helped you attack my ship." He glanced around. "Where is he?"
"Slate?" she said, trying to convey a mixture of surprise and sadness. "He's dead. Drowned in the bay at Raitingu."
Stallion shook his head. "Don't lie to me Gale. I was told the knight was aboard your ship by a Truthspeaker."
"A Truthspeaker?" asked Gale. "If he was in Hell, he must not have been very good at his job."
Stallion chuckled. "It turns out that Hell is full of their ilk. But this one was right in everything he told me so far. He said that Tempest would pull down the gates of Hell, and forge the iron into weapons for an army to invade the living realms." He pulled a small pocket compass from his vest. "He also gave me this."
"A magic compass?" she said, eyeing the object.
"No! Something better! A real compass! Even here in Hell, it points toward true north. Ver said that even this trivial bit of truth would tame Hell enough to let me navigate. I only had to patrol until you came, then finally have my revenge against you. He also swore that, if I brought him the One True Book, he'd help me escape Hell forever, not as some shambling skeleton in the living realm, but through permanent, final oblivion."
"Then let's not waste more time," said Gale. "Free my children, all of them, and you'll have the book. If what you want is oblivion, I don't see what value you'll find in taking revenge against me."
Stallion shook his head. "I'm not negotiating, Gale. I'm offering fair terms. I'd dreamed of many, shall we say, _exotic_ ways of making you suffer. The Truthspeaker assured me that the only true way to hurt you would be to hurt your children. But won't it be a fine thing that one will still live?"
"Speaking of children," said Gale, not knowing if Brand had yet got into position. "What happened to that boy who was pushing you around? What was his name?"
"Numinous?" Stallion said. "The priest told me the bastard made it to shore."
"We were three hundred miles from land," said Mako. "Even I can't swim that far."
Mako was swiftly silenced by a blow to the gut from a club-wielding skeleton.
"I always thought the boy was lucky," said Stallion. "Not to me—he was a plague from the day I laid eyes on him—but he always boasted it wasn't luck that kept him alive. He said it was destiny, said he couldn't die until he accomplished his great deed. I thought he was crazy, but the Truthspeaker told me the boy really was what he said he was... the Omega Reader."
Gale furrowed her brow. "The Omega Reader?"
"Aye, you're probably not much better versed on the Church of the Book than I was. The Omega Reader will read the One True Book on the Day of Judgment. When the book is read, all the false, sinful things in the world will be wiped away. That includes you, that includes me, and most assuredly it includes this accursed place!" With the hand that held the compass, he motioned toward the dark, twisted landscape.
"That kid wasn't the Omega Reader," said a voice from outside the circle of skeletons. Gale's eyes were drawn toward the voice, and found Bigsby standing by the stairs that led below deck. He wore a helmet, beneath which hung the long blonde curls of his wig. He carried a mace that looked too large and heavy for him, and was weighed down further by a vest of chainmail. As the skeletons turned toward him, Bigsby said, "The Omega Reader is supposed to be perfect in everything. But when I fought that punk, I kicked his butt."
Stallion looked at the dwarf with an expression somewhere between amusement and bewilderment. He asked, "Who the devil are—"
He never finished his sentence. At that exact second, Poppy dropped from the rigging onto Stallion's equine back. She wore her belt studded with large lead fishing weights, letting her land a good, solid blow that caused his legs to buckle. She bounced off to the side the second she made contact. Stallion launched into the sky. Gale's gaze followed as he whizzed straight up. In the ropes above, she was thrilled to find Brand, with a long coil of rope in his hand. Brand's hand darted out, as if he was attempting to punch Stallion as he whizzed past, but he never made contact.
Looking down, a strange smile on his lips, Brand shouted, "Rigger!" then threw the rope.
Gale had no time to ponder how Brand had gotten above her. Instead, she snatched up her cutlass and whirled toward the skeleton who held a blade to Sage's throat. With a swift and precise jab, she cut the sinews at the creature's elbow. Its sword fell, only to be caught by Sage before it hit the deck. She spun around and severed the skull from the neck of the skeleton that had menaced her, then launched an attack on the next one.
From the corner of Gale's eye, she saw that her sons made good use of the fraction of the second in which the skeletons had watched their captain fly away. With a savage growl, Mako did a reverse head-butt to the skeleton that held the blade to his throat, knocking its face in. In seconds, he was free of the grasping limbs and once more in possession of a sword.
Rigger, meanwhile, had turned the rope Brand had thrown him into a writhing serpent that pulled away the blade against his throat and entangled Jetsam's attackers as well.
At the same time, Bigsby had charged forward and shattered the knee-cap of the skeleton nearest to him. The blow left Bigsby off balance, and he might have been overrun by the undead warriors who lunged for him, except that three pale green pygmies darted up the stairs bearing makeshift weapons of iron skillets and a large butcher knife from the ship's galley. They ran to defend Bigsby, only to be followed by three more, then a dozen, then an entire army of small green men armed with anything heavy that could be turned into a bludgeon. With jungle battle cries from their various tribes, they yipped and yelped and jabbered their way through the confusion of skeletal warriors, shattering thigh bones and knee caps, before bashing in the skulls of falling opponents.
"Watch out below!" Brand yelled from the rigging.
Before Gale could look up, Sage wrapped her arms around her mother's waist and pulled her forcefully to the side. The two of them fell to the deck just as there was a horrible sound, a mix of a splash and a thump, directly behind them. Cold, dark, foul-smelling fluid spattered her. She turned and saw Stallion had fallen back to the deck where she'd been standing. The impact had reduced him to a mass of broken bones jutting up from an oozing puddle of pulverized meat.
Before she and Sage could make it to their feet, a skeleton armed with an axe charged toward them, brandishing his weapon. She rolled to her back, raising her cutlass to block the coming blow, when Brand swung down on a rope and kicked the skeleton in the chest with enough force to carry the creature back over the rail.
The splash of it hitting the water was indistinguishable from the sound of a countless other skeletons being tossed overboard. By the time Gale rose, the battle was all but over. The only reason the skeletons had posed any threat at all was their overwhelming advantage in numbers, and the pygmies had proven to be even more numerous.
"Gale!" Brand called out as the rope swung him back toward her. He dropped off to land by her side. "Are you alright?"
"Except for being spattered in goo," she said, wiping the flecks of gore on the back of her hand against Brand's silk shirt. "Where's Cinnamon?"
"I'm here!" the girl called out from the stairs. She came above deck carrying a saw and a hammer. "I'm afraid I've had to cut up all the furniture to give the pygmies weapons."
"We'll make do," said Gale.
Brand turned to Sage and held out his hand. "I got a present for you."
He turned up his palm to reveal the compass Stallion had held earlier.
"When did you get your hands on that?" she asked.
"It was flying into the air with him."
"You saw it? And grabbed it that fast?"
"You know I'm good with my hands."
Gale put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to speak.
Sage cut her an evil glance. "Ma, don't say anything that will embarrass me."
Sage took the compass from Brand and examined it.
"Is it magic?" he asked.
"Just the opposite," she said. "If it was magic, I'd see the aura. Stallion was telling the truth. This is something even more precious. It's completely mundane."
Brand scratched the back of his head. "Um, one of us apparently doesn't know the meaning of the word precious."
"Don't you see?" said Sage. "Hell is an ever changing place of magic, devoid of the normal reference points that make reality manageable. The landscape is fluid, so that hills become valleys, swamps become deserts, and there's no way of knowing where you are. But, underneath it all, there must be some physical truths. Gravity still seems operational, at least." She glanced at the mashed mess that used to be Captain Stallion. "Apparently, there's also a north here. The needle holds true as I move it."
"And we didn't have a compass of our own?" Brand asked.
"Of course we did," said Gale. "But, until now, what good did it do us to know which way's north?"
"I guess it doesn't help, does it?" asked Brand. "It's not like we have a map of this place. We don't know if the Sea of Wine is north or south, east or west."
"We don't need the compass to reach the Sea of Wine," said Gale. "It's always night here. I can feel mother's spirit stirring within the boards. I only need to give the order and she can take us there."
"But, you said... I heard you ask Sage if—"
Sage shrugged. "I saw the path immediately. But I read the look in Ma's face and knew she didn't want me to reveal that."
"I'm more confused than ever," said Brand. "Why aren't we already there? Why go through the bother of sailing this accursed river?"
"Because I wasn't ready to trust Walker," Gale said. "I'm less ready to trust him now."
"Then it's a good thing he's not here, right? We can make our move before he gets back," said Brand.
"Not yet," said Gale. "You're right about the compass being useless without a map. My guess is we'll find something useful if we search the _Seahorse_."
Before Brand could question her further, Gale turned to Bigsby, who was surrounded by a cluster of pygmies. "Excellent work," she said. "Tell the pygmies they've earned double rations tonight."
"Ma," said Rigger, who stood nearby. "We don't know how long we'll—"
She narrowed her eyes at him, stopping him in mid-sentence. "Instead of standing there complaining, grab a mop and get this deck cleaned."
Rigger frowned, but said, "Yes, Captain."
Gale barked out further orders, telling Poppy and Cinnamon to get Mako and Jetsam stitched up. She had Bigsby assemble a crew of pygmies to repair the damage to the ship, using parts from the _Seahorse_ if needed. She took it as an article of faith that the forest-pygmies, who spent their whole lives living among trees, would prove to be gifted carpenters.
She then had Sage, Brand and Bigsby follow her to the rails, where they hopped onto the now abandoned _Seahorse_. The deck was slippery with slime, but the boards beneath still seemed solid enough. If the ship hadn't been structurally sound, her earlier attack with hurricane winds would have torn it to splinters. She took a minute to tell Bigsby what structural components they would need for repairs. When he left to relay his orders to the pygmies, she had Sage and Brand follow her toward the back of the ship in search of the captain's quarters.
The found a single crewman left aboard the ship. It was the rabbit man, one of only two survivors when they'd fought the _Seahorse_ in the living world. The rabbit man seemed not to have moved at all from where she'd left him, cowering and weeping, terrified of the fate awaiting him. Now, though he'd been dead twenty years, he still cowered, his body emaciated, his rabbit fur riddled with holes. His hands were over his face and his back trembled as he noiselessly sobbed.
"What's he so afraid of?" Brand asked as they walked past. "How much worse can things get?"
"How much better can they get?" asked Sage. "It must be a terrible thing, to have all hope stripped away."
"A coward in life has no hope of courage in Hell," said Gale. As she said it, the words struck her as somewhat militant, and for the briefest moment she thought of the times when it had been her own young children sobbing in fear. They'd never received any kinder words than she'd uttered just now. Her own mother had been kinder, more patient and petting, but the earliest skirmishes of the slave wars had come when Gale was only fourteen. She'd caught fire then, convinced that courage, discipline, and a good steel blade might somehow carve the world into a better place. When her own children came along, she'd taught them never to back down, never to show fear, or even to admit you felt it. Save for Levi, her teachings had kept her children alive and clearheaded through a host of dangers that would have left weaker people on the verge of madness. She would never, ever, say she'd done them wrong, raising them as she had. But the thought that there might be a place where one day she could weep, could say she was afraid, could feel all that her heart wished to feel... was that Hell? Or Heaven?
She quickly pushed the musings from her consciousness as they reached the captain's quarters. With Brand's glorystone locket bringing daylight to the gloom, she instantly spotted what she'd expected to find. A map was stretched open on a rough-hewn table, the four corners weighted down with skulls, and a large, gold-rimmed magnifying glass sitting in the center. Drawing nearer, she saw that the parchment was made from cured human flesh, covered with tattooed mountains and valleys, as well as the winding, twisted river they sailed upon. Like the land itself, the whole of the map was in motion, the features slowly shifting, reflecting the ever-changing contours of Hell.
"A compass wouldn't be enough by itself to navigate," said Gale. "But with this, we've got a chance."
"A chance for what?" Brand asked. "If you can get us to the Sea of Wine, why don't we just go there? Walker's not here, so he won't know what's happened."
"Walker's only half our problem," said Gale. "We have to find Slate and Sorrow, and quickly."
Brand cocked his head to the side. "Why? They seemed pretty insistent on striking out alone."
Sage seemed to instantly understand. "Stallion said he was looking for the One True Book. Slate has it."
"Whoever this priest was that sent Stallion to find it, I don't want him getting his hands on it," said Gale.
"You take it seriously?" asked Brand. "The idea that, somewhere, somehow, there's an Omega Reader who'll read the book and bring reality as we know it to an end?"
Gale pressed her lips together and took a long, slow breath, which was something of a mistake given the charnel atmosphere of Stallion's quarters. Still, it gave her time to weigh the matter.
"Yes," she said. "All my life, I've been content to let others believe as they wished to believe. We Wanderers had our faith, the Church of the Book had theirs, and even the fact that the poor fools on Raitingu worshiped a dragon didn't bother me. It's a big world, with room for a lot of ideas. But, right now, there's one ideology dedicated to bringing an end to everything. I don't think we can shrug off the threat they represent."
"It's a shame Sorrow isn't here," said Brand. "She'd give you a hug right now that you wouldn't believe."
"I'll be happy to repeat the words when I find her," said Gale. "Though I doubt Slate will be happy to hear what I have to say. When we find them, we have to destroy the book."
"Destroy it?" Brand said. "That seems... seems..."
"You were raised to respect the teachings of the church," said Gale.
"I was raised to respect a lot of stuff that I figured out wasn't worthy of respect," said Brand. "I haven't been inside a church in ages, and can't fathom what circumstances would take me back inside one. But that book matters to a lot of people. Despite what Sorrow thinks, the church brings good to the world as well as bad. It encourages charity. It encourages loving your fellow men."
"We Wanderers are charitable, and love just as much as any person, without need of a book to tell us right from wrong. The world can survive without this text."
"Besides," said Sage, "if I understand correctly, no one really reads the book. The Truthspeakers say what's in it without ever looking at its pages. I don't see how the absence of the book will interfere with their ministry at all."
Brand nodded. "I can't think of an actual objection. Whenever religion comes up as a topic, I'm so used to telling Sorrow she's not thinking straight that I'm arguing out of instinct."
There was a single knock on the cabin door. They turned to see Jetsam sticking his head into the room. "Ma, there's something you should see."
Taking the magnifying glass and rolling up the map, Gale and the others followed Jetsam. He swam through the air back to the _Circus_. Gale felt a sense of relief as she jumped from the rails of the _Seahorse_ back to her own ship. The atmosphere changed instantly. Despite the nearness of the two ships, the stench of death gave way to the clean, sharp odor of pine soap. The deck was spotless, freshly mopped. The pygmies had cleared away all traces of the skeletons who'd menaced the ship, and were already at work prepping the damaged bowsprit for the replacement that Rigger was helping to pull free from the _Seahorse_.
Mako stood in the now clean spot where Stallion had fallen. Mako's wounds had been expertly stitched by Cinnamon, whose small and steady hands made her quite adept at the task. Behind Mako was a barrel. He stepped aside as Gale approached, revealing square of canvas draped over something roughly the size of a cantaloupe atop the barrel. Jetsam flitted down beside Mako. "I heard it, Ma. Rigger was about to throw it overboard, but I heard it."
"I heard it first," said Mako. "I was the one who stopped Rigger. Don't take credit for stuff I did."
"I didn't say you didn't do those things," said Jetsam.
Gale sighed. "Boys, what are you—"
Before she could finish, Jetsam pulled away the canvas with a flourish. Beneath it was Stallion's head, relatively intact despite the fall.
Gale turned her eyes away, her stomach tightening. "Why on the waves would you think I'd want that as a trophy?"
"No!" said Mako. "That's not our intent. Stallion's still alive!"
Stallion's eyes opened halfway at the sound of his name. His jaws moved, his lips forming words, nearly soundless. Gale couldn't tell if he was trying to speak but Mako said, "He says, 'Not alive.' He's still as dead as ever, I guess. But that hasn't shut him up."
"Good," said Gale, stepping closer. "I've got questions for him."
The jaws opened wide, the pale tongue trembling.
"He's laughing," said Mako.
"I gathered," said Gale. She crossed her arms. "Stallion, I don't see much use in threatening you. You're as beaten as any man could ever be beaten."
Stallion gave a grim smile, then spoke again, with Mako translating, "If I were in your shoes I'd threaten to pluck out my eyes, shove hot irons into my ears and nostrils."
"You'd like that," said Gale. "You probably don't enjoy seeing, hearing, or even smelling what's become of you."
Stallion frowned, then said, "I'll never tell you a damn thing you want to know."
"Since I can't threaten you," said Gale, "I've no choice but to bribe you."
Stallion laughed again, his face twitching for a long time.
When he calmed at last, Gale said, "I can take you to the Sea of Wine."
Stallion's eyes opened wide.
"I'll never take you to the Happy Isles, but I'll throw you into the wine. You'll spend your eternity in drunken bliss, unless Rott devours you. The price of passage is only a few answers."
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"Who's the priest who sent you on this mission? What's his name?"
"Ver," said Stallion.
Brand scratched his head. "Where have I heard that name?"
"From Infidel," said Gale. "When she told us about the failed quest to slay Greatshadow. Ver was the Truthspeaker who led the expedition."
"Right," said Brand.
"Ask him how he uses the map," said Sage.
Gale did so. Stallion told her that the magnifying glass could be used to study the tiniest details of the map, even the location of individual souls. Then, with the guidance of the compass, you could simply will the terrain around you to change until it gave you a clear path to whoever it was you wished to reach.
"How do you know where to look on the map to find the soul you want?" asked Sage.
"I didn't say it was easy to use, or fast," said Stallion. "You search by studying the map inch by inch, until you find what you want, or go mad. Few things in Hell are easy to look upon."
"One more question," said Gale. "We've been travelling with a pygmy named Walker, and a couple of demons named Fume and Foment. We think there's more to Walker than he's letting on. What do you know about him?"
"Walker?" Stallion said, looking confused. "Never heard of him. But Fume and Foment... they used to hang out with a devil named Fester. Together, the three of them were the last devils to remain loyal to the Alpha."
"The Alpha?" asked Gale.
"The first ruler of Hell," said Stallion.
"So, the guy Tempest overthrew when he got here?" asked Brand.
"No," said Stallion. "The throne of Hell was empty when Tempest arrived. The Alpha simply walked away from his job centuries ago, or so I'm told. Said he was tired of the role the Divine Author had written for him, and was quitting to seek a different fate."
"I had no idea that was allowed," said Brand.
"But it meshes with what we know of Walker," said Sage. "First, if he walked off the job, it might explain his name. Second, it would explain why Tempest would focus his attention on Walker and leave us alone. Third, it would explain why Walker is so knowledgeable about Hell, and why the devils seem so deferential to him."
"Why would he come back?" asked Brand, looking around. "Once you escape a place like this, it doesn't make sense you'd come here voluntarily."
"You couldn't be more wrong," said Stallion, with the faintest trace of a bittersweet smile. "Everyone comes here voluntarily. There's not a soul born who isn't warned that Hell awaits if he doesn't mend his ways. We all plunge headlong toward damnation just the same."
"Speak for yourself," said Gale. "Some of us try to live a virtuous life."
"Aye," said Stallion. "And your kind are thick as fleas here."
"Put him back under the tarp," Gale said to Jetsam. "Get him below deck, someplace safe."
"We should just toss him overboard," said Mako. "His stink is unbearable."
"I made a deal," said Gale. "We'll drop him in the Sea of Wine. Until then, breathe through your mouth."
# CHAPTER TWELVE
# BITTER WOODS
Sorrow woke slowly, luxuriating in the warmth that ran through every muscle. Until now, she'd only toyed with magic, only caught glimpses and hints of what it was like to wield true power. Yes, she'd experienced the raw elemental magic of Rott, a destructive, nihilistic force that had almost devoured her. But in Slate's arms, together they'd awakened something new and powerful within her, a force of creation, a power of life instead of death.
With her eyes still closed, she frowned. Where was Slate? She'd fallen asleep in his arms, his chest glued to her back by sweat. Now, he wasn't touching her.
Sorrow sat up. She instantly placed an arm across her naked breasts as she found that she wasn't alone. In a tightly packed circle around the silk cloak they'd fallen asleep on, a score of old men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, glaring at them with judgmental eyes.
Slate sat next to her, pulling on his pants with one hand, holding onto the Witchbreaker with the other.
"I don't think the sword is necessary," she said softly. "They look too old and toothless to hurt us."
"Appearances can be deceiving in Hell," said Slate. "It's not their teeth I fear, nor their limbs. It's their eyes that tear into me. I've never felt so... _naked_."
Sorrow put her hand on Slate's back to comfort him. He instantly tensed up, and said, "Don't touch me while they watch."
She pulled her hand away, watching the faces of the assembled crowd take on an even deeper look of disapproval following her touch. One of the old women whispered, barely audible, "Whore." A man on the opposite side of the circle murmured, "Sinner." A third voice behind her, too weak and trembling for Sorrow to determine the sex of the speaker, hissed, "Shameful!" The word was taken up, passing among the crowd. "Shameful! Shameful! Shameful!"
"No!" Slate cried, pulling on his shirt. "You don't understand!"
"Slate, calm down," she said, noting the panic in his voice. She'd never heard anything vaguely resembling this emotion come from him before.
He turned to her, tears welling in his eyes. "We should have waited," he said, his voice choked. "We—"
"Hussy. Tramp. Fornicator. Dirty, dirty, dirty," murmured the crowd.
"Please," said Slate. "It was only a moment of weakness."
Sorrow stood, her fists clenched. She made no effort to conceal her nudity. She stared into the eyes of the woman nearest to her. "You're wasting your time."
"Shame!" scolded the woman.
Sorrow shook her head. "I feel no shame. You've no power over me. Go away."
The woman flickered, turning halfway to smoke, before solidifying again. Her eyes now focused on Slate, completely ignoring Sorrow. "Seducer," she said, clucking her tongue. "Shame! Shame!"
Slate clamped both hands over his eyes, shaking his head. Sorrow grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. "Snap out of it!" she said. "Don't you see? These things are feeding off your shame."
"What have we done?" he asked, his voice trembling.
She slapped him, hard, much harder than she intended. He was nearly knocked from his feet, and remained standing only because she still had hold of his wrist.
"What's wrong with you?" she said. "How can you possibly be ashamed of what we did? It was wonderful. We're in love, Slate! We made love! Don't you understand the beauty of what we did?"
He swallowed hard. "There are... there are _rules_."
She struggled to resist slapping him again, took a deep breath, and said, "Love has no rules."
"Love cannot be anarchy," he said. "If so, it's meaningless, capricious and fleeting."
She poked a finger into his chest. "Love isn't anarchy. But we don't have to follow anyone's script, not even the Divine Author's. If our love turns out to be fleeting, so be it. Last night was still precious to me. You're the first man I've ever given myself to, and it meant something to me." She crossed her arms, feeling a chill run through her. "It meant... everything to me. I love you, Slate. Do you know how impossible those words sound to my ears? Do you not understand how much of myself I had to let go of in order to embrace you? Now, to find out you're filled with... with regret... I... I..." She couldn't finish her sentence. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring his figure.
She closed her eyes, fighting back her tears, when his arms closed around her. He kissed her softly on the forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I love you. What happened between us was precious and pure. There can be no shame attached to it."
She turned her face upward, until their lips met.
Around them, the crowd hissed, then groaned, then wept. She opened her eyes to find them slinking away, one by one.
"They were scolds in life," she said, understanding the truth. "Scolds incapable of love, hating the very sight of the genuine emotion. They only have power over us if we give it to them."
"Aye," said Slate. "I see that now. I don't know why I... I said what I did. Why I felt ashamed. There was no trace of shame within me when we fell asleep."
"A lot of people who feel confident of their actions in private crumble when they know they're being watched. Though, in your case, perhaps there are... other issues."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm talking about the whole reason we're out here in the first place. Your unhealthy obsession with Stark Tower."
"Unhealthy?" Slate asked, sounding confused. "Your whole life has been guided by your obsession with your father."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Stark Tower is more than my father. I was crafted from his blood. I'm the continuation of his body, the same person on a fundamental level."
"You think that, yes," she said. "And that's probably why you felt such guilt. Stark Tower became the lover of the queen of witches. He let himself be seduced by the very thing he'd sworn to destroy."
"Yes," said Slate. "And his weakness led to his being here."
"But not the weakness you imagine," said Sorrow. "You think he's here because he gave in to his lust. You think he's here because he betrayed his church."
"These are the sins we know of."
"His greater sin was hypocrisy. If he grew to love Avaris, he hid his love from the world during his lifetime. He could have sworn off his war against the witches, made amends for what he'd done. Instead, he chose to wear one face in public, and another in private."
Slate nodded, looking as if he were weighing her words carefully.
"Do you still want to find him?" she asked.
He didn't answer. He studied the distant hills with a vacant gaze.
"You do," she said, seeing his face settle into certainty.
"Yes. I have to talk to him. I have to know. Why did he fall? Where did he go wrong?"
"So you can avoid his fate?"
"I don't believe I'm in any risk of his fate," said Slate. "I'm nothing but a body, devoid of spirit. When I meet death, it shall be final. There will be no eternal punishment, and no hope of reward."
"If you could only understand how much I envy that," she said, kneeling to retrieve her clothes. As she picked up her boots, she noticed a clawed hand at the edge of her cape. With three fingers and the thumb, it grasped the cloth. The other finger pointed straight out.
"Is this Fester's arm?" she asked, nudging the thing away from her cape with her foot.
"I believe it is," said Slate. "There's his other arm." She followed his gaze toward a mangled limb atop a mound of bodies they stood upon. It, too, had the fingers tightly curled, save for the first one, which pointed toward the horizon. Was it her imagination, or was it pointing toward the same spot the first one had indicated? She dressed quickly, keeping her eyes on the limb she'd pushed away, watching as the fingers clawed to move it back into alignment with the other limb, then extend a lone finger, pointing into the distance.
"This is crazy," said Sorrow. "I think Fester is still trying to tell us where to go."
Slate by now had his armor half-donned. She moved to his side to help him finish buckling up.
"I say we follow it," said Slate. "We've no better guide."
"What if it's not really pointing at anything?" she said. "It could lead us nowhere."
"Then it's no worse than simply striking out on our own," he said.
"Good point." She bent over and picked up first one arm, then the other. As she moved them from side to side, the fingers bent to keep pointing in the same direction. "I guess we'll know where we're going when we get there."
As she dressed, she looked around the landscape, finding it completely unfamiliar. The hill where they fought the gibbering guardian had been utterly barren. Now, they were surrounded by woods, dark and tangled with vines. An acrid, bitter stench rose from fallen, rotting fruit that covered the ground. Craning her neck, she saw no trace of the river, though it had still been in sight when they'd fallen asleep. Upon realizing the absence of the river, she felt suddenly thirsty. She found the bottomless bottle Mako had given her and took a long, cool drink.
She passed the bottle to Slate, but found her thoughts focused on Mako. She didn't regret rebuffing his advances, but she did feel bad about hurting his feelings. She worried most of all that he might think her rejection had been due his physical oddities, like his saw-toothed mouth. She would never have turned him away for a reason so shallow, especially since, at the time, she'd had wings and more than a few scales. She hoped that one day Mako would grow to see the wisdom of her choice and they could be friends.
Slate wiped his lips and handed the bottle back to her. He looked as if he were about to say something important, but said only, "We should go." She suspected these weren't the words that he'd contemplated speaking.
They each took one of Fester's arms and navigated through the tangled, gloomy, bitter woods, breathing shallow breaths. At times, she sank shin deep in the muck of rotting fruit. The acidic mush burned as it seeped through her canvas britches. At last, they cleared the worst of the thickets, emerging onto a plain of jagged rocks. It looked as if all the arrowheads, spear points and stone knives ever chipped out by mankind had been dumped here. Her boots proved durable enough to tread upon the surface, but she moved slowly, using Fester's trident as a staff. To fall here would prove painful.
They walked across the field of stone knives for what felt like hours. In the distance was a mountain range half obscured by storm clouds, the lower slopes white with snow. Both of Fester's arms pointed toward a single peak. Slate took the lead, and she found it was easier to keep her orientation if she focused on his back rather than on the land around her. The energy generated by their lovemaking was still powerful within her. Even through Slate's armor, she could see the structure of his body plainly, the scaffolding of bone bound together with sinew and set in motion by muscles. Slate was very close to masculine perfection, but even as she admired the symmetry and balance of his form, she also saw the design flaws he shared with all other men. She felt as if she could simply reach out, grab a tendon in his neck, and peel him apart if she so wished. It was only the magic, she knew. Back when she'd first gained power over iron, she couldn't pass by a table held together with nails without an almost irresistible urge to make the nails disintegrate into rust. Hopefully, the novelty of her powers would soon wear off and she'd be able to see people as a whole once more, instead of seeing a collection of components to be manipulated.
From time to time in the distance, shadowy forms stumbled across the landscape, human in size. Their shuffling movements reminded her of Mama Knuckle's "uncles," men whose bodies continued to serve the old necromancer long after their souls had departed. She wondered if Mama Knuckle was still alive after all these years.
Lost in reverie, she almost walked into Slate when he came to a halt.
"Listen," he said.
She listened. A child screamed in the distance, the voice coming from behind a crumbling wall. She'd noticed the remnants of structures before. She'd yet to see an intact building in Hell.
Slate took a step toward the screams. Sorrow placed her hand on his arm. "It could be a trick."
He nodded. "There... there couldn't be children here, could they?"
"Why not?" she asked.
"Children are incapable of falsehood. They've no reason to be condemned here if they die young."
"How many young children have you met?" asked Sorrow. "In my somewhat limited experience, children learn to lie almost as quickly as they learn to talk."
"It's probably a devil, trying to draw us nearer," Slate murmured, echoing her original objection.
Somehow, his agreement stirred her to a contrary emotion. She suddenly knew, beyond all doubt, that Hell was full of children. Her rage against the Divine Author surged so powerfully she felt herself tremble. She couldn't bear the thought of walking away from a child suffering from his cruel, so-called justice.
"Let's at least see what's making the sound," she said. "It's going to haunt you just as much as it haunts me if we walk away."
Slate nodded and set off for the wall at a brisk jog. She kept pace, feeling as if she could easily run rings around him. Her magical awareness of her body made her feel as if she hadn't really known how to use her legs to their fullest extent until this moment.
Slate slowed as they reached the edge of the crumbling wall. He stuck his head slowly around the corner, then pulled back.
"It's a child," he whispered, his face pale. "A boy, I believe, though so emaciated it's difficult to tell."
"What's happening?" she asked. "Is he being tortured?"
Slate nodded. "He's in the grasp of a giant hand."
Sorrow clenched her fists. "We've fought giants before."
"Yes, but there isn't a giant," said Slate. "Only a giant hand, thrusting up from the ground."
She moved past him to look for herself. Slate had assumed the child was a boy, perhaps because the child had no hair. Having been bald herself for so many years, she thought the child looked more like a girl. The girl was held in a huge, filthy fist, blood caking in the knuckles and nails. The girl was nearly skeletal, her ribs prominent. She was held from the waist down, but her torso and arms were free. She writhed, her expression more fear than pain, scratching at the hand with her twig-like fingers, beating it with her tiny fists, twisting and pushing and fighting to get free. Her mouth was open wide as she wailed in terror.
Sorrow pressed her back to the wall and swallowed hard. "I... I shouldn't have looked."
"Aye," said Slate. " 'Tis a horrible thing."
"We can't just leave her," said Sorrow.
"Even if we free her... then what?" asked Slate. "She'll still be in Hell."
Sorrow pressed her lips together tightly as she contemplated what to do. Rationally, she knew that taking action to free the girl would be unlikely to bring any permanent relief in a place like this. Still, on a gut level, she knew she had no choice but to act.
"Let's hit it hard and fast," she said, not waiting for Slate to respond before charging around the wall.
Her suspicion that she could now run much, much faster proved true. She was at the hand mere seconds later, jamming the trident into the tendons on the back of the fist, rendering the forefinger useless. Again and again, she struck. In mere seconds, the fist relaxed, every tendon severed.
The ground trembled, then cracked. She skittered backward, certain that the giant buried beneath the ground was about to emerge. Instead, she saw the wrist sinking slowly, withdrawing with the child still entangled in the limp fingers.
Slate had reached the hand by now, grabbing one of the huge fingers to pull it away from the child. The child continued screaming.
"It's okay!" Sorrow called out as she sprang forward to help free the girl. "We're going to save you!"
The girl didn't seem aware of her words. It continued to claw and scratch at the finger that pressed against her hip.
Only, as Sorrow drew nearer, she saw that the girl wasn't trying to free herself of the giant's loosened grasp. Instead, she now dug her nails into the flesh and pulled, as if trying to keep the finger wrapped around her.
With a grunt, Slate pulled the creature's uppermost finger fully open, revealing part of the palm.
Sorrow gasped. The girl had no body from the hips down. Her torso merged with the flesh of the giant's palm. She grabbed the girl by the wrist, yelling, "Hold on! Hold on!" as the giant hand sank further into the earth.
"No!" the girl screamed, in the first coherent word Sorrow had heard her utter. "No no no no no no no!" She squirmed, twisting her arm, desperate to break Sorrow's grip.
Sorrow kept hold, trying to ignore the screaming and focus on the area where the girl and the giant merged. Perhaps her magical awareness of bodily structures might let her see a way to cut the girl free of the giant. Even if the girl lost her legs, wouldn't that be preferable to getting dragged underground? What she saw vexed her. The girl didn't seem to be a separate body embedded in the giant's hand. The two appeared to be a single entity. The tormenter and the tormented were of one flesh, and she couldn't spot an easy way to tear them apart without killing the girl.
Before she could study further to see if a more complicated surgery might accomplish her goal, the girl struck her, slapping her hard across the cheek. Sorrow at first assumed the blow was unintentional, an accident of the girl's flailing arms. But the slap was followed by the girl snarling, locking both hands on Sorrow's throat, and pulling Sorrow's face toward her own. The girl's jaw's opened as wide as they could and she bit down on Sorrow's left eyebrow, her chin jammed into Sorrow's eye.
Reflexively, Sorrow defended herself with bone magic. By instinct, she snapped the bones in the girl's fingers, freeing her neck, and caused the girl's teeth to crumble wherever they touched her. The girl squealed and drew away. Sorrow fell backward. Gauntleted fingers wrapped around her upper arm. She looked up and saw Slate on his knees above her. She was now in a pit formed by the retreating hand.
Slate dragged her to the lip of the pit as the hand continued to sink. The girl wailed, blood streaming from her damaged mouth, her eyes fixed on her mangled fingers. Then the giant fingers closed over the girl once more. Her screams trailed away. A placid look crossed her face as the giant hand once more formed a crushing fist. The dirt of the pit fell in upon her, and she was gone.
For a moment, it seemed as if their journey would end here, as the pit walls grew deeper, collapsing as they tried to climb free. Slate sank the Witchbreaker deep into the earth to anchor himself and shouted, "Climb over me!"
She did so, her fingers finding easy purchase in the gaps in his armor. As she clawed her way up his body to the edge of the pit, she found that the barren, jagged landscape had once more changed into a tangled forest of trees. The scent of rotten fruit made her stomach turn, left her feeling weak, but she had no time for weakness. With the trident still in her grasp, she jabbed the tines into a nearby root, making an anchor on the surface to pull herself once more onto relatively level ground. She spread her limbs wide on the edge of the pit, which still shuddered and rained dirt down on Slate. She tossed down the edge of her cloak. Slate grabbed hold, tugged the Witchbreaker free, then climbed.
They lay together panting, limbs entwined, as the shaking earth slowly calmed. In the silence that followed, the only sound was their panting. Then, from deep, deep beneath the earth, the girl began to scream once more, her muffled cries more forlorn than ever.
Sorrow closed her eyes. The vision of the girl's bloodied mouth came to her mind. The thought of the additional pain she'd caused hurt more than nails driven into her skull.
"I only wanted to help her," she whispered, her voice on the edge of a sob.
"You're bleeding," Slate said.
She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his face a mask of concern. The vision of her left eye was tinted red. She rubbed her brow and found the girl had broken the skin with her bite. Closing the wound proved effortless, nothing more than rubbing her finger across the cut to push the damaged tissue back into place. The blood in her eyes was washed away by tears, which came freely now.
Slate took her into his arms, comforting her. "You did your best. You didn't mean to hurt the child."
"They were one," she said, her voice trembling. "The girl, the giant, both the same. Attacking one did damage to the other."
"It's this place," he whispered. "Nothing but horrors."
"No." She wiped her cheeks, sniffling, and pulled away from him. "It's not Hell where such entanglements are formed." She felt a hollowness in her gut, a void as terrifying as the darkness that had dwelled inside her when she'd been merged with Rott. "It's life. It's my life. I fought so hard to be free of my father. I thought him a monster, a beast to not only escape, but to vanquish. But... he was part of me. His blood fills my veins. My thoughts... my very soul... are forever bound with his." She gazed around at the entangling vines that choked the twisted trees, seeing how perfectly they reflected her soul. She shook her head, drawing a deep breath. "If I'd ever succeeded in destroying him, I would only have destroyed myself."
Slate looked at her with an expression that bordered on skepticism.
"What?" she asked.
"That seems like a vast change of heart," he said. "You've never said a kind word about the man. Now you credit him for what you've become."
"Credit?" she scoffed, astonished he could misunderstand her so. "I blame him! I hate him for it!"
"But... if you are one and the same... that would leave you hating yourself."
She wrapped her arms across her chest and looked at the pit the girl had vanished into, hearing the cries from far below. She would never be free of her father's grasp. The revelation smothered her thoughts and filled her body with tremendous torpor. The urge to lie down and never again rise overwhelmed her.
Slate removed his gauntlet. His warm fingers fell lightly on her chin as he turned her gaze toward him.
"Can it be that you don't love yourself?" he asked. "You're so precious. A unique soul, so beautiful, so worthy."
She sniffled, then murmured, "If only I could believe it."
"I've never lied to you," he said. "You are loved. I swear it."
He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. Gently, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him and felt her strength return. He loved her. He truly loved her. A sweet, floral aroma filled her nostrils, taking the edge off the acrid bitterness of the atmosphere.
Opening her eyes, she found a thousand small, blood red blossoms freshly opened on the branches that bent toward them.
# CHAPTER THIRTEEN
# DEEP IN THE DUST
The Black Swan squawked with rage as Cinder and Mantle faded from sight. In desperation, she leapt over Brother Wing's lifeless body, her arms outstretched. Her iron fingers clacked together, closing on empty air where Mantle had just stood. She slipped through the dimensional veil in pursuit, hoping it wasn't too late.
It was too late. Her feet sank into the soft dust of the outer dunes of Hell. She'd traveled to this realm enough not to be blinded by the bleakness of it, but her keen vision did her no good. Cinder and Mantle couldn't be seen. Ver knew how to navigate the paths between Hell and the living world better than anyone, and could have brought them out at the place of his choosing. Given Hell's protean landscape, they might be anywhere.
"Well, well, well," said a familiar voice from behind her. "Looks like Ver knew what he was talking about. It's been a long time, Swan."
The Black Swan had sank knee deep in the dust. She twisted around as best she could, knowing who she would find. High on the dune above her stood Reeker, a mercenary she'd once employed, a member of the legendary Three Goons. He'd been dead for twenty years.
"You've talked to Ver?" she asked. "Is he near? I must speak to him."
"He doesn't have anything to say to you," said Reeker. "Which is why he's paid me a tidy sum to kill you."
"Paid you? You're dead! Where are you going to spend it?"
"Haven't you heard?" asked Reeker. "The damned can leave anytime they want these days."
"True," she said. "And I've met my share of withered corpses stumbling through the wasteland Tempest and Hush have created. I can't say it's qualitatively different from what you have here."
"This is just the early stages of the invasion," said Reeker. He moved closer as he talked, treading lightly on the dust. Usually, any damned souls that tried to cross the outer dunes wound up buried, forever choking on the acrid powder. Reeker seemed buoyed by something. He was dressed surprising well for a damned soul, in a nice suit and leather boots polished to a mirror finish. Did the boots have some sort of enchantment?
Reeker kept talking. "Once we've killed the last of the living, the world will be ours. Then we'll divvy up the spoils. Ver understands I'm a man used to luxuries. He's promised me the palace of King Brightmoon himself!"
The Black Swan nodded, understanding. Reeker wasn't held up by magic boots. He wasn't sinking into the dunes because Ver had filled him with hope. His dreams of glory made him buoyant.
The Black Swan bent her wrists sharply, causing the blades stored in her forearms to spring out. "I wouldn't come any closer if I were you," she said. "Your powers are useless against me."
"I know," he said, pausing to take a cigar out of his vest. "Which is why it was my job to distract you."
She spun around, a second too slow. Something hard and heavy smashed in the side of her head with a deafening CLANG! The impact lifted her from the dust and threw her tumbling down the slope. When she landed, the world to her left was completely dark. She raised her hand and found that her brow on that side had a sizeable dent. Her eye had completely popped from its socket. Her head tilted on her shoulder at an odd angle and she couldn't straighten it. She shook off the shock of the damage and looked up in time to see a huge man running down the slope toward her, swinging a large iron ball and chain over his head.
"No-Face!" she called out, lifting her arms to protect herself. "Stop!"
He didn't stop. The iron ball smashed into the slender blades extending from her wrists, shattering them. The ball banged against her forehead, but had lost enough momentum to keep from denting her further.
No-Face planted his feet wide to steady himself as he drew back his ball once more.
"Goodbye, Swan," said Reeker, placing the cigar between his lips.
"My thoughts exactly," she said, as No-Face grunted, swinging with all his might.
His blow struck only empty dust. With a thought, the Black Swan returned to the living world.
She was flat on her back in the Temple of the Flame. She sat up, still unable to hold her head upright. She probed her left eye-socket. Though she knew the damage could be repaired, her asymmetry caused her mental pain. When she'd first taken up residence in her iron shell, the construct had felt like a machine, something she operated. Over the years, she'd gotten so used to it that it felt as if it were the body into which she'd been born. Any reminder of its artifice caused her discomfort.
She became aware of a soft ripping sound to her left. She turned and found a buzzard perched atop Brother Wing's neck, tearing at the dragon's tongue. How had the creature found the body so swiftly? Or even gotten inside the temple?
"I see you decided to start without me," said the buzzard.
"Menagerie?" she asked.
"You know many other talking birds around here?"
"Yes, actually. Commonground's full of parrots."
"Right," said the buzzard. "That was a dumb question." The buzzard lifted her bloodied beak and studied the Black Swan's face. "I take it this knight I'm supposed to kill fights with a mace?"
"He didn't do this to me," said the Black Swan, touching her damaged brow. "I ran into some of our former associates."
Menagerie nodded. "But you got the knight?"
"No," she said. "When you didn't show up on time, I had to act on my own. They got away, slipping into Hell."
"I got here as fast as I could," said Menagerie. "And, now that I'm here, we can follow them. I can turn into a bloodhound."
"Hell's the last place you'd want to be with a superb sense of smell," said the Black Swan. "No, it's on to plan Z."
"Plan Z? You mean Zetetic?"
"No, I mean it's the last plan I've yet to try."
"So... no Zetetic? Couldn't he fix all of this with a single lie?"
The Black Swan attempted to shake her head, but her limited movement made this difficult. "I've tried a dozen times to get Zetetic to help. He's gone completely mad."
"He wasn't exactly sane when I knew him. But, if you still have one good plan, why haven't you used it before?"
The Black Swan took her head in her hands and tried to carefully shove it back into position. She managed it, but when she let go, her head slipped sideways once more. "I never said it was a good plan. I've exhausted all the good plans. Sometimes, more than once."
"But you can keep trying," the buzzard said, her voice garbled a bit as she swallowed a large chunk of fatty tongue. "That's the advantage of being a time traveler."
"It's an advantage I've lost," she said. "Each time I've returned along my storyline, I've returned closer and closer to the final days. Now, at best, I could travel back a few hours."
"We could try this ambush again."
"It won't work," she said. "Something always goes wrong. This time, you showed up late. The time before, Brother Wing didn't get a full dose of my poison and I wasted precious minutes struggling with him. The time before that, Cinder and Mantle never even returned to the temple before Ver led them into Hell. I feel like this moment is... unlucky."
"I never knew you to rely on luck," said Menagerie.
"I'm not relying on it. I'm blaming it."
"So, plan Z," said Menagerie, hopping from the dragon's skull onto the floor.
"Yes," said the Black Swan. "Though I've done everything I could to keep her out of this."
As she spoke, Menagerie changed into a cat. "Keep who out of it?" With a faint _shlup shlup shlup._ the little beast lapped at the blood that had spilled onto the floor. The Black Swan waited patiently. Long ago, Menagerie gained his shapeshifting powers from magical tattoos. Ever since a remnant of his magic had gotten trapped inside a tick, however, he added new forms to his arsenal by ingesting blood. The cat lifted her head, licking her whiskers. "Oh, wait. I know who you're talking about." Menagerie gave a feline shrug. "She's a big girl. She can take care of herself."
A spasm ran through the cat's body, from tip to tail, to be replaced by a dragon, identical to the dead one it towered over. Menagerie unleashed two small jets of flame from her nostrils. She look pleased, until she stretched her wings and found one significantly shorter than the other. Menagerie sighed. "Great. I can finally turn into a dragon, and it's broken."
"So, fix it," said the Black Swan. "You're a shapeshifter. You can't alter a few parts?"
"In theory I could," said Menagerie. "But it would be artless."
"Artless?" said the Black Swan. "Art is in the eye of the beholder. If you fixed your wings, who would know? For that matter, I don't know why you still insist on changing into Infidel when you return to your human form. Couldn't you change in to a man? Why not look like who you used to be?"
Menagerie changed back into her human body. The gray cloak reappeared and fell around her shoulders. The Black Swan wasn't certain why the cloak appeared on some of Menagerie's bodies, but not on others.
Menagerie held out her arm, staring at the back of her hand. "I'm not as sentimental about my old body as you might imagine," she said. "I often wear a dozen different bodies a day. I don't get terribly attached."
"If you aren't that attached to them, it makes even less sense that you won't tweak them a little."
Menagerie shook her head, then asked, "How many old practitioners of blood magic have you met?"
"Just you, I suppose."
Menagerie nodded. "The temptation to alter the forms you've borrowed from the blood of others is quite powerful. Few blood magicians can resist making at least a few alterations. At first, they're minor. You change into a lion, and give it stronger muscles, sharper teeth, and longer claws. Then, you decide it would be advantageous if the lion had wings, or maybe gills. You start to mix and match parts from different creatures in a never-ending quest to create the perfect beast for the job at hand."
"What's so terrible about perfection?" asked the Black Swan.
"Nothing, other than it can never be attained," said Menagerie. "And once a shapeshifter starts making compromises to his physical integrity, his moral and mental integrity are sure to follow. If a blood magician is fortunate, maybe he'll one day become a hideous, terrifying monster, a chimera blended from a hundred different beasts."
"That's fortunate?" asked the Black Swan.
"Compared to the alternative," said Menagerie. "A far more common fate facing shapeshifters who lose their integrity is that they lose control of all their forms, and wind up stuck as quivering, gelatinous blobs unable to maintain any constant form."
"So the monster is the more fortunate fate," said the Black Swan.
Menagerie smiled faintly. "Or one can follow my path. Never cheat. Never be unfaithful to the forms you copy. With constant vigilance, it's possible to still hold onto some last, lingering shred of my core humanity."
"Very well," said the Black Swan. "Then I guess the wing stays stunted."
Menagerie rolled her eyes. "You sound disappointed. A flightless dragon is still a damn powerful thing. You did see me snort fire, right?"
"Right," said the Black Swan. "I apologize if I've sounded dismissive of your choices. You're still my most reliable ally, and I can think of no one I'd rather have by my side in these final hours."
"Don't say final," said Menagerie. "We'll win. We have to."
"Of course," said the Black Swan, "though, for the plan I have in mind, I'm going to need you to turn into something much, much smaller than a dragon."
The sea stretched on forever beneath Brother Wing, a glistening sheet of emerald. He knew that time must be passing, but the sun remained constantly overhead, its orb concealed behind thin clouds. Brother Wing still felt the exultation of flight, and experimented with loop-de-loops and barrel rolls, high climbs and steep dives, thrilled at his newfound mastery of the air.
Behind the joyous beating of his heart, however, a second emotion set in, a gnawing, barely sensed anxiety. For a long time, he avoided letting this distant, tiny concern creep far enough into his consciousness that it might latch onto words and make itself heard. Unfortunately, the beauty of the endless seascape could only hold his attention for so long. With a wince of remorse, he allowed the miniscule worry to find a voice.
If this was Heaven, why was it so empty?
He attempted to reason the question into submission. He'd been born a telepath. For as long as he could remember, whenever he was around another living thing, their thoughts had intruded upon him. When his father had crippled him and tossed him down the slope, the thoughts of the lava-pygmies who'd come to claim his body had given him warning of their intentions. Through their eyes, he'd witnessed his body, broken and bleeding. Through their eyes, he'd seen himself struggle, rising, nipping and scratching. They'd persisted in their efforts to kill him, to no avail. Knowing their thoughts, even his injured frame had been able to avoid every attack. He'd felt their pain as he crushed their bones with his jaws. He'd shared their terror as his hind claws opened their bellies and the smell of blood and excrement grew thick in the jungle air.
He'd long since gotten used to being surrounded by others. Even mice creeping through the walls at night had desires and plans, however primitive. He'd long imagined the true heaven of one day being alone with his thoughts.
What if he'd been wrong? What if an eternity of being alone with your thoughts was actually Hell?
The heat of afternoon had settled upon the Jawa Fruit village. This was normally the quietest time of day, when all the villagers would retreat to shade to sleep until evening. Infidel was waking as her tribesmen were settling in. She'd spent all night hunting, journeying to the great river in pursuit of a troop of howler monkeys. The beasts possessed a seemingly supernatural gift for staying one tree too far away for her to get a good shot with her spear, at least until they'd run out of trees at the river's edge. Even then, she'd only managed to kill two, both runts. The one good thing about killing them near the river was she'd had the luxury of a long swim after she'd cleaned her prizes. She'd returned home at dawn, bone tired, and collapsed into her hammock the second she'd walked into her hut, not even bothering to see if Cinder had enjoyed success with the beehive she'd discovered the day before.
Upon waking, she took a long drink from a gourd fill with cool water, then crawled out into the sunlight. Rising, she stretched her limbs to shake off her torpor. One of the village women had left a plate of fresh jawa fruit and sun-dried beetles in a wooden bowl beside the entrance to her hut. She knelt, rustling her fingers through the bugs in search of a meaty one.
As she lifted the beetle toward her lips, she heard the harsh, raspy cry of a macaw from the south. She turned her head toward the noise, recognizing it as a warning signal from a sentry.
Infidel grabbed her spear. The macaw sounded again from the south, then changed in mid-call into a battle cry. The voice was swiftly joined by a second cry, then a third, as the southern sentries attacked whatever was causing them trouble.
She leapt from branch to branch to reach the sentries, wondering what the problem might be. It couldn't be an incursion of Spike Branch warriors—they'd be shouting their battle cries just as loudly as her tribesmen.
As she scrambled through the treetops, she was soon outpaced by a half dozen male pygmies racing through the trees, spears at the ready, yipping their high-pitched war calls. She could hear when they reached whatever was attacking. Their shouts lost their initial ferocity and became tinged with confusion and fear. The _clink, clink, clink_ of stone spear points striking iron rang out from ahead.
Long-men, she deduced, equipped with armor and shields. It had only been a matter of time before the settlers pushed to expand their range.
She tossed aside her spear, knowing it would be useless, and reached for the magical sword that hung by her side. If she was about to engage with armored long-men, she'd need to even the odds. She pulled the sword free of its scabbard. She frowned as the sword sputtered to life. Once, it had ignited before it even cleared the sheath. Of late, its flame was slower and less bright. Why?
She'd been in possession of the sword for a long time, but it wasn't as if she'd been given any instructions on how to use it. She'd still been pregnant with Cinder, only a few weeks after she'd gone to live with the pygmies, when she'd had a vivid dream of walking up the slope of the volcano and finding the sword jutting from black lava. In her dreams, she'd pulled the sword free and it had burst into flame. She she'd awakened, she'd found the sheathed sword by her side. Wisely, she'd waited until she was outside the wooden hut to first draw it. She'd used it sparingly over the years. But, perhaps after two decades, its magic was simply fading?
Up ahead, the sound of stone on metal grew silent. The tribesmen had thrown away their spears. A second later they began to pass her, fleeing silently in the opposite direction. Pygmies weren't cowards, but they understood the value of a strategic retreat.
One of the warriors almost ran into her. She grabbed his arm as he darted past, stopping his flight.
"Brother," she said. "What attacks us?"
"A metal woman," he said, with fear in his tone, though whether it was fear of the intruder or fear of her flaming sword Infidel couldn't guess.
"A woman?" she asked. In her spying on the settlement, she'd seen only men bearing arms and armor.
"Our spears can't hurt her," he said. "She walks toward our village with impudence. We plan to lead her into one of the traps."
Infidel nodded. The village was ringed with pits, deadfalls, and snares, so the strategy was sound. Still, something wasn't adding up.
"A woman in armor? And she comes alone?"
"Yes."
"On foot or on horseback?"
"On foot."
"What weapons does she carry?"
"None that I saw," the warrior answered.
"Then... why do we think she's attacking us?"
"The sentries called out to her to halt. She answered in our own tongue, saying she wouldn't stop until she reached the village. So they attacked her with spears. She ignored them, and continues marching toward our home."
Infidel let him go, saying, "Go make sure the traps are ready."
She sheathed her sword as she leapt to a nearby vine and climbed down to the forest floor. She took note of the unearthly silence that surrounded her. All the birds, frogs and insects had gone quiet. Ahead in the shadows, she heard the soft, squishy sound of footsteps in spongy jungle soil.
She pressed her back against a large tree and waited for the intruder to pass. She didn't have to wait long before a figure she'd seen before walked by, close enough to touch. It was the Black Swan. When Infidel had last spoken with the old witch, Sorrow was putting the finishing touches on the Black Swan's new iron body. That had been twenty years ago, and the Black Swan seemed little changed by the passage of time, save for the fact that her head was dented, and sitting at an odd angle on her shoulders. The rest of her body seemed in excellent condition. Sorrow's craftsmanship was such that the woman moved through the jungle with little more noise than she would if she'd been made of flesh. Infidel had to listen carefully to hear the faintest whisper of springs coiling and stretching within the woman's iron limbs, and the barely perceptible ratcheting of cogs.
"You can stop right there," said Infidel, still leaning against the tree, her arms crossed.
The Black Swan turned toward her.
"I would have guessed you'd still be asleep," the iron woman said in her reedy, musical voice. "You've become more nocturnal of late."
"I'm not sure where you're getting your information," said Infidel. "Honestly, I don't care. Whatever you've come here to ask me to do, the answer is no. Nope. Never. It won't happen."
"Why such hostility?" the Black Swan asked. It was difficult to judge with her inhuman voice and the limited range of expression in her metal face, but she sounded as if her feelings were hurt.
"When have we ever talked to one another without hostility?" asked Infidel. "You've hated me from the day I first came to Commonground."
"No," said the Black Swan. "I never hated you. Quite the contrary. I always did all I could to keep you alive, and discourage you from risky adventures."
"Why would my survival matter to you even a little bit?"
The Black Swan hesitated a moment, then said, "You... you've been precious to me a long time."
Infidel rolled her eyes. "Flattery is a welcome change of strategy for you, I suppose, though you don't seem very good at it. I guess you didn't get a lot of practice, all those times you tried to get me to do what you wanted with insults, threats, and blackmail."
"I did what I had to do because you're so hardheaded. I'm trying to save the world and you—"
"Not this again," Infidel said, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. "You told me twenty years ago the world faced a dragon apocalypse. But, guess what? The world's still here."
"You might think so, from the vantage point of your village. But in the rest of the world—"
Infidel sighed. "Yeah, yeah. I've heard. Some kind of alliance between Hush and Tempest."
"And Hush has enslaved Abyss," said the Black Swan. "Now, three dragons are united to destroy mankind."
"Is it mankind they're after?" asked Infidel, not hiding her skepticism. "So far, they've mainly been attacking the Silver Isles. Since the Church of the Book killed Verdant, who once made his home there, I figure it's some kind of revenge thing. They won't mess with the Isle of Fire."
"Can you truly be so selfish?" asked the Black Swan.
"There you go," said Infidel, with a satisfied smirk. "I knew you'd get back to insults soon enough."
"Just because you aren't immediately threatened, you think nothing about the millions of people who face their death elsewhere in the world?"
"Listen to yourself," said Infidel. "Let's pretend I believe everything you're saying. I'm just one person. I'm not going to make a difference in a battle on this kind of scale. From what I've learned from the Wanderers I've talked to, Tempest has opened the doors to Hell. Even back in my prime, I did my best fighting one on one. I'm not some kind of strategic genius, a great commander waiting to whip what's left of mankind into a well-honed fighting force. This isn't my kind of fight."
"You might not have been effective against an army, but you've certainly battled your share of dragons."
"And I've made peace with them," said Infidel. "I didn't kill Greatshadow or Hush when I fought them."
"In the battle between mankind and dragons, aren't you on mankind's side?"
Infidel shrugged. "The dragons are aspects of nature. Aurora's people live peacefully with Hush, the Wanderers thrive by cooperating with Abyss, and the pygmies manage to be happy living right under Greatshadow's nose. I say live and let live."
"Except Hush and Tempest aren't letting people live," said the Black Swan. "You know this! You just said you knew about the armies of Hell!"
Infidel frowned. The stories she'd heard were pretty gruesome, but also pretty distant. They'd been easy enough to push out her mind.
"The undead armies can't really win, can they?" she asked, hoping the Black Swan wouldn't hear the lack of confidence in her voice. "I mean... I've heard that the dead avoid sunlight. How hard can it be to fight an army that can only be active at night? Living men would have the advantage of fighting any time, day or night."
"But the dead have advantages over living men," said the Black Swan.
"They don't need food or water," said Infidel, knowing what the Black Swan was about to tell her. "They don't get tired, or have to worry about diseases thinning their ranks. Still, I can think of a hundred ways to take apart an undead warrior. I know the Church of the Book has seen better days, but it seems like a band of a few hundred knights and Truthspeakers could end this war pretty quickly."
"Perhaps. But, following the loss of the One True Book, the schisms that wracked the church have meant that even a modest force of knights can't be assembled. As for Truthspeakers, with the book gone, all have lost their faith. No longer do they have the power to police what is real and what is unreal."
Infidel had heard these rumors as well. Despite her isolation in the pygmy village, she occasionally made trips to the edge of Commonground to hear the latest scuttlebutt. She sighed, thinking of her father, the king, of all his advisors, the priests and generals and bankers who whispered their so-called wisdom into his ear. She'd heard he was dead now. She hadn't mourned the news. The family of her birth had been dead to her a long, long time.
She pulled herself from her reverie. "I'm sorry that the Silver City has gone to Hell, or that Hell has come to it. But, I've got other things to worry about. Other people I'm responsible for now."
"Cinder," said the Black Swan. "Your daughter."
Infidel rested her hand on the hilt of her blade. "How did you learn her name?"
"I've known her name before you conceived her."
"Oh, great. More of your cryptic time travel bullshit."
"Why disbelieve me? You witnessed it yourself! Surely you remember how I knew beforehand of Greatshadow's attack on Commonground. With your own eyes, you saw history rewritten."
"I... only remember... a lot of confusion," said Infidel. "I jumped down a dragon's throat that day. That's the sort of memory that crowds out a lot of other stuff."
"Your confusion is common for those who experience my time jumps only rarely. Aurora and Menagerie were they only ones close enough to me to perceive the alterations in time. They both informed you of my powers, and I know you trusted them."
"Sure, I trusted them. But I've never trusted you."
The Black Swan's shoulders sagged. Her inhuman voice was little more than a hum as she said, "It hurts me to hear you say this, though I've always known it."
"Forget the whole time travel thing," said Infidel. "You ran Commonground with an iron fist long before you had, you know, iron fists. Your goons killed anyone who crossed you. And if there was money to be had, you made sure you got a take. You made your living by selling booze to men who couldn't afford it, by killing anyone with enemies willing to shell out a high enough bounty, off slaves—"
"Never!" the Black Swan squawked. "Never did I take a dime from the slave trade!"
"Okay. But you certainly turned a blind eye to it."
"No! You don't know what Commonground was like before you arrived. If the slave trade had continued at the pace established by Ambitious Merchant a century ago, the Isle of Fire would be empty by now. He left a business plan for Judicious Merchant to follow. Once the last of the forest-pygmies had been enslaved, the river-pygmies were to empty the island of the lava tribes. Then, the river-pygmies, addicted to long-men's wealth, would turn tribe against tribe and sell their neighbors."
"Fortunately, Judicious didn't follow this model."
"No. But he didn't stay behind to actively thwart the avarice of the slave traders who filled the vacuum when he quit the industry. That fight was left to me. I financed the civil war that sprang up among the Wanderers. I saw to it that the most efficient and effective of the slave merchants came to bloody ends. It's true, I never eliminated the slave trade. The more difficult I made it to traffic in pygmies, the more valuable such slaves became, which only meant that new slavers flowed into the business as swiftly as I eliminated the old ones. Still, I did all I could to stem the tide of humanity that flowed out from these shores."
"Fine," said Infidel with a sigh. "So you weren't a slaver. Hooray. You've got one redeeming feature. I still don't trust you."
The Black Swan's dented face shifted in a way that almost conveyed remorse. "I know. You didn't trust me even before I became the Black Swan."
"Before you became the Black Swan? You were called the Black Swan from the first day I came to Commonground. From what I understood, you'd been a force in town since long before I was even born. I never knew you before."
"But you did," the Black Swan said. "You were the first person ever to know me."
Infidel rolled her eyes. "What is it with you? Is there some invisible accountant somewhere who gives you a moon every time you say something that doesn't make sense?"
"What I say always makes sense," said the Black Swan. "You just never make the effort to understand me."
"That must be true," said Infidel. "You've been jabbering at me for ten minutes now and I still don't have a clue what you've come here to say."
"I've hidden this from you for a very long time," said the Black Swan. "And I don't expect you'll believe me immediately. But, before I was called the Black Swan, I had another name. A name you gave me."
# CHAPTER FOURTEEN
# CAGE OF BONE
"Your hair is growing fast," Slate said, running his fingers across the top of Sorrow's head. She raised her hand to feel the fuzz, soft as baby hair. She looked at herself in the smooth surface of Slate's glass armor. It looked almost as if she wore a dark skull cap.
"I guess this is the closest thing we have to a clock," she said, rising. She didn't know how far they'd walked after their encounter with the child. It had felt like many hours, but in this sunless, moonless place, devoid even of a consistent horizon, there was no way to keep track of time. They'd walked until they were weary, moving ever closer to the mountain peaks, then rested. She'd fallen asleep with her head on Slate's lap.
"Did you sleep any?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Why not catch a nap while I keep watch? You must be exhausted."
"I'm fine," said Slate.
He didn't look fine. He looked like he'd aged ten years since they'd been here. Still, she knew it would be pointless to argue.
She dug through her pack for the dried cod and the bottomless bottle. She pulled out the meat, then wrinkled her nose in disgust. The leathery, salt white flesh writhed with maggots. She tossed it away, then emptied her bag. All their rations were spoiled.
"Looks like were on a liquid diet," she said, removing the cork from the bottle. She took a deep swig. As her thirst vanished, she grew more keenly aware of her hunger. She tried to ignore it, but any time she pushed it from her mind it came back instantly. Her enhanced awareness of her body had one downside, it seemed.
Slate took a long draught from the bottle, then lifted the demon hand. He asked, "Ready?"
She nodded as she stuffed the wine bottle back into her pack. She fastened her cloak as Slate marched off. She had to walk swiftly to catch up to him. She understood his sense of urgency. As her hair and her hunger testified, time still passed for them. Perhaps they wouldn't die of thirst, but death by hunger was now a real possibility. It struck her as poignant, the notion that she would have survived armies, giants and dragons only to be brought down because she had nothing to eat. She'd long assumed she'd perish through violence, dying in the thick of battle, or perhaps finally caught by the church and burned at the stake. Starvation had never been a concern.
They walked, kept walking, then walked some more. By now, the magic of their lovemaking had ebbed. She still carried a small spark of energy, cradled next to her heart, saved for a moment she would truly need it. She didn't want to waste it on simply making her walk easier. Her weariness was great, but as long as Slate had the strength to move, she swore to herself she'd stay on her feet. He seemed so driven, so focused. She was certain that, should she collapse, he would simply pick her up and carry her. She couldn't bear the thought of becoming a burden when he needed his strength for whatever was to come.
Of course, she was still unclear on what was to come. She didn't know what Slate hoped to accomplish by finding the soul of Stark Tower. She suspected that Slate was still under the impression that he was part of Stark, and Stark a part of him. She hoped that, when they did find Stark's soul, it would be so loathsome that Slate would turn his back upon the thing, and finally be free of the ghost that haunted him.
Slate paused as they came to the crest of a hill crawling with centipedes. Sorrow gingerly followed, keeping her eyes toward the ground. The crunch of insect shells wasn't the worst thing she'd heard in hell, but still unnerved her. She didn't look up until she reached Slate's side. He took her hand to steady her.
In the distance was the first intact structure they'd seen, a palace, gleaming white against a landscape black as tar. She didn't need enchanted eyes to recognize the building material. The whole structure was formed of skeletons. Judging from the pelvises, the bones were mostly those of women.
The demon claw pointed directly toward the palace.
"He's inside," said Slate.
"What?"
"Stark Tower. His soul. He's inside that building. I know it."
Sorrow turned his face toward hers. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes," he said. "I do."
He moved forward. She followed. Her sense of hunger gave way to a sense of dread. What if Slate's quest wasn't in vain? What if he really could rescue the soul of Stark Tower? What if rescue, in this instance, meant that Stark's soul would take up residence in Slate's body?
She shuddered at the thought. The man she loved would be transformed in a twinkling into the greatest enemy she could imagine. She tried to think of anything she might say that would change his mind and keep him from entering the place, but knew it was futile. They'd come too far, endured too many dangers, and there was nowhere to go by turning back. The only way forward was forward.
As they closed in on the white walls, her eyes searched for any sign of a door. She found nothing. They circled the structure, looking for a way inside, but found no openings.
When they circled the building completely, Slate moved to the nearest wall. The skeletons weren't wired together. Instead, all the skeletal fingers clasped the limbs of their nearest neighbor in a matrix of bone.
"Perhaps there's a way in from above," said Slate, sheathing his sword and climbing, his boots finding easy purchase upon the ladder-like structure of the limbs. Before Sorrow followed, she stopped to stare at a nearby skull, at a dull red speck a few inches up from where an ear had once been. It was a nail, a witch nail, made of iron. She drew it free, finding it intact despite the rust. Brushing the rust off with her cloak, she spotted the arcane inscriptions on the surface.
She ran her fingers over her fine, silky hair. She'd lost all of her nails when she'd been reborn in a fresh body after Avaris had kicked her out of Rott. She was happy to have at last grasped the potential for bone magic, but she missed her old power over iron. Still... what would Slate think if she filled her head once more with such things? She gave a slight jerk as the ramifications of her thought became clear. She'd never before hesitated to alter her form as she saw fit. Should Slate have any say in what she did with her body? Once, this would have been the most repugnant thought imaginable. Now, she felt as if her choice was partly his as well.
Knowing that she'd need to discuss restoring her old powers with Slate didn't prevent her from gathering the materials she'd need. She put the iron nail in her bag and began to climb. Along the way she spotted a nail of glass, and another of silver. She plucked them free, then a nail of rough granite, and another of green copper. She took careful mental note of the placement of each nail. She had extensive notes on the placement of many already, but these were still in her chest aboard the _Circus_.
When she reached the top, she found Slate with the Witchbreaker drawn, standing near the center of the vast roof. There was still no sign of a door. Before she could speak, he chopped into the bones beneath him.
She braced herself. The last time he'd hacked into a roof, they'd been atop Avaris's walking palace and they'd fallen inside. This time, the shattered bones revealed another layer of bones beneath.
"The demon claw points straight down," he said, explaining his strategy, raising his sword to strike again. He grunted as his sword dug into the bones below him.
"The absences of doors hints that whatever's inside is dangerous," she said. "Do you really want to let what's inside the cage out?"
Slate let his actions answer her as he chopped again. He paused after the blow, kneeling to pick up fragments of bone and toss them aside. He'd carved out a shallow pit, only a few feet deep. On his knees, he struck again, then again.
The next time he paused to clear his path of shattered bone, he tossed aside a nearly intact skull with a trio of nails jutting from it. She retrieved the skull and found a nail of dark gray iron, with no hint of rust, its surface protected by a clear, hard patina. A nail of wood showed similar craftsmanship, as did a nail of pure black slate. She'd known slate nails must have existed, having seen a chamber of slate that could only have been formed by a weaver skilled in such magic, but she'd never before seen one. As Slate worked, she pulled her journal from her pack and took detailed notes.
When she looked up again, Stagger was shoulder deep in an pit of jagged bone. He'd removed his helmet. Sweat streamed from his face. He struck again, and when he lifted his sword something bright and glowing shot up from the pit. Instead of falling like the fragments of bone, it continued to rise. The second she recognized the substance, she was on her feet, running, loosening her cloak so it wouldn't slow her movements. She leapt as high as she possibly could, her fingers just barely making contact with the hovering nail. It was enough. She caught the object between her fingers and pulled it down.
"Stop!" she cried out.
"Why?" asked Slate, who'd knelt to scoop out more bone.
"We need to find the skull this came from," said Sorrow. "This is a nail carved from a glorystone! I've never seen such a thing!"
"I'm certain that's interesting," said Slate, wiping his brow. "Why do I need to stop? We're a long way from the center of this place."
"I need to find the skull this came out of," she said.
"Why?"
"To see how it was placed! I can't even begin to guess what part of the brain this should penetrate."
"Is this important?" asked Slate. "You aren't planning to mutilate yourself again, are you?"
"Mutilate?" asked Sorrow. "I preferred to think of it as self-improvement. And... why not? Why limit myself to bone magic?"
"It's just... I thought, since you were back to normal—"
"Normal?" she asked, her hands on her hips. "I wasn't normal before?"
"You had no legs when I first met you," said Slate. "Then you had wings. Is it wrong of me to say I prefer your current look?'
"No," she said. "I wasn't a fan of those looks either. But, those only came about because I tried to make use of the powers of a primal dragon. Before that, I looked much as I do now. Only, you know, bald. With nails in my head."
Slate stared at her.
"Look, just find me the skull, okay?"
Slate frowned, staring at the fragments of bone in his hand. "I suspect it's already shattered. That's probably why it flew free. I think this is part of a skull." His hand moved, and picked up another bone. "Aye, and this as well. Oh, and here's more, an upper jaw." He handed her the bones, then bent to retrieve others. In a few moments, it became clear that she had not only the shattered bones of a single skull, but fragments from at least three different women. She placed them in her pack, along with the glorystone nail. Perhaps in better circumstances, she'd be able to reconstruct the skulls.
Slate resumed his work. He descended another twenty feet before he climbed out of the pit to drink from the magic bottle.
"How's your strength holding up?" she asked.
"I endure," he said. "Knights train for such tribulation. Hunger, weariness, loneliness... these burdens we bear willingly in the service of our cause."
"I don't know why you included loneliness on that list," she said.
"I meant nothing," he said with a smile. "I cherish your company."
"Would you still cherish me if I was bald again, with more nails than ever?"
He pressed his lips together. "I love you, Sorrow. I'll love you even if that is the path you choose."
"But you wish I wouldn't choose that path."
"Aye," he said. "When we leave this place... I'd hoped we could leave behind our life of combat. It sounds as if the church you hated, and the one I sought to serve, is no more. We should find some distant, quiet vale and retire there, to live the rest of our days in peace."
Sorrow considered this option. It felt unsatisfying, but she couldn't bring herself to tell him that. "Let me dig some," she said.
She climbed into the pit. Unlike Slate, she didn't need brute force to remove the bone. With a brush of her fingers and the slightest release of her bone magic, she could command any skeletal form she touched to untangle itself from its neighbor. But, though the energy cost was small, if multiplied by a dozen commands, or a hundred, she might expend the last of her energy. She took a moment to contemplate the surrounding skeletons. She began to make sense of the pattern, the way the skeletons were woven together. Closing her eyes and grasping a skeletal hand, she let her magic explore the entirety of the structure. A picture of the bone matrix formed in her mind, save for a void in the bone directly beneath her, perhaps fifty feet down. This, she suspected, was where they'd find Stark Tower.
"We've been doing this the hard way," she said, looking up at Slate. "Let's go back to the ground."
"And give up on the progress we've made?"
"Trust me," she said. "Now that I'm immersed in these bones, I understand the true nature of this cage. I know how to open it."
"Very well," said Slate, sounding weary. He stretched his arms to his side. "My back will be quite grateful not to chop any further."
"I promise a massage later," she said, climbing up the skeletons to his side. "Come on."
Slate followed as she went to the edge of the roof and climbed down. When he was clear of the structure, she placed her hands upon a skeleton directly before her. She stared into the empty eye-sockets, waiting patiently. After a moment, the skulls of the skeletons beside the one she gaze at slowly turned their faces toward her. Soon, she felt the eyeless stare of all the skeletons in the outer wall.
"Sisters," she said, in the respectful tone Mama Knuckle had used whenever she'd addressed the uncles. "I know who dwells within this cage of bone. I know who you were, and why he is entombed, and the justice of such a prison. Your service is an honor to me. I'm your sister, a fellow weaver. Please open a path that I may see the one you embrace."
The wall clattered as the skulls nodded in unison. The clatter grew into a cacophony as the entangle skeletons shifted position, pushing and pulling into a new configuration, a tunnel opening before her.
They entered cautiously, as the rattling of bone still sounded from all directions. Ten feet inside, the gloom was impenetrable. Cut off from the dull gray light of the cloudy sky outside, she couldn't see her hand before her face, even as she willed her pupils to their widest.
She remembered the glorystone nail in her bag. Even without hammering it into her skull, it would prove useful.
Slate raised his hand to shield his eyes from the light. She reached back and took him by the wrist and guided him forward, toward a thin figure she could see at the far end of the tunnel.
It was a man. A man of flesh, unlike the chalky skeletons that embraced him from all sides. He bled from innumerable wounds, as countless nails of various substances pierced his skin. The man's eyes were wide, with tears of blood flowing down his cheeks, but his expression wasn't one of fear. Instead, as he saw Sorrow, his visage became one of abject hatred.
"Witch!" he hissed. "Thou shalt answer for your sins! Hell's eternal torments await thee!"
"Really," said Sorrow. "Don't you know where you are?"
"Dost thou think me unaware?" he asked, his voice trembling with naked rage. "This is Hell! I'm surrounded by the bones of all the witches I've slain, caught in their embrace until the final page of the One True Book is turned! But thou I would see perish before that day!"
"Since killing witches landed you here, maybe you could be a little less aggressive?" asked Sorrow.
"It wasn't killing witches that led to my imprisonment," said Tower. "It was loving them! The foul slatterns seduced me, desperate to save themselves from the pain of death. Again and again, my carnal desires brought me into their embrace, to my great and everlasting shame!"
Slate stepped forward. "But some witches were spared? After they made such a wretched bargain?"
Tower laughed scornfully. "Don't be a fool. I did my duty. All were put to death. I watched many burn while the taste of their kisses still lingered upon my lips. Their deaths did not redeem my weak..." His voice trailed off. His gaze moved from Sorrow to fix fully upon Slate.
"Step... step closer," he whispered.
Slate did so.
"It's you," he said, his voice a bare whisper. "The doppelganger."
"Aye," said Slate.
"Free me," Tower said, swallowing hard. "Take my hand. Let me inside you."
"Hold on," said Sorrow, grabbing Slate by the shoulders and pulling him back. "Touching him would be a very, very bad idea."
"Don't listen to that whore!" cried Tower. "Touching me would be the greatest thing you've ever done. You're nothing but an empty shell, a soulless parody of a living man. With but a touch, my soul will find a home in life once more. Together, we'll be whole."
"Whole," said Slate, raising his hand.
"Stop!" Sorrow said, moving between him and Tower. "You can't let him take control of you."
"Is that what you fear?" asked Slate. "Can't you see that I shall take control of him? His presence here is proof that flesh may overpower a soul."
"Slate, no!" Sorrow said, putting her hands on his chest and shoving him back a step. "Don't take that chance. This wasn't a man, but a monster. A monster! He's nothing like you. You should want to be nothing like him!"
"But... but this is my soul," he whispered. "My rightful soul."
"Souls are vastly overrated if you ask me," she grumbled. Then she sighed. "Please don't do this, Slate. Please. I'm begging you. I love you. I love you more than I ever knew I could love anyone. I don't want to lose you."
"You won't," he said. "I know it. I love you as well. My love is powerful. He cannot corrupt it."
"Why even take the risk?" said Sorrow.
"Because I love you," he said. "Because I want to be complete, to be a man for you."
"What? You think you aren't a man?"
"I know you think of me as such," he said. "But... don't you see he's right? Without him, I'll forever have this void within me. "
"Oh Slate," she said, pressing her head against his chest. "You still feel empty? So did I, before I met you. But together... together we can be whole."
"Don't listen to her lies!" screamed Tower. "Slit her blasphemous throat!"
Slate put his hands on her neck. Then he pulled her to him, kissing her softly, gently. The magical spark she held next to her heart grew more powerful, becoming a flame. She pressed her lips tightly against his, their mouths opening. She breathed out, letting the magic in her heart seep into her lungs. The magic flowed into Slate, filling him.
She pulled away, studying his face. His eyes were unfocused, wet with tears.
"What... what is this?" he whispered. "What is this I feel?"
She could see it. See the change within him as the magic flowed into his blood. She'd long had the power to see the auras of living things. When she'd first met Slate, he'd had no aura. Now, though faint, the pale light of an aura surrounded him.
"You... you have an aura Slate. It's just as I said. You don't need his soul. You can share mine."
"No!" Tower howled, struggling at the skeletons that held him. "Fool! Cut out her tongue! Don't let her seduce you!"
"I will not harm her," said Slate.
Tower's face fell. "But... but... "
Slate knelt before the bleeding man. "You've done me a great service. Thank you."
"Don't thank me! Save me! Take my hand!"
Slate rose.
Sorrow gasped as Slate extended his arm, taking Tower's fingers into his grasp.
Tower's tortured face took on an expression of rapture. He twisted his face toward the unseen sky and cried, "At last! At last! At... last..."
He went silent. His expression changed from joy to confusion.
"I... I'm not free. I'm not part of you."
"No," said Slate. "You never were. You're a man of hatred and anger, a man of lust and regret. I was never that man. I never will be."
Slate let go of Tower's hand. "Farewell," he said. "In a way you will never understand, it was good to finally meet you.
"B-but... what... don't... I-I can't... please..."
Slate turned from the sputtering spirit and walked away. He didn't look back.
Sorrow lingered for a moment as Slate moved outside. Tower wept tears of blood as he silently sobbed, his face turned toward hers.
At last she turned away, and said, calmly, "Sisters, don't be gentle."
Tower's sobs changed to screams as the skeletons closed in upon him. Sorrow hastened her steps, though the skeletons let her pass unmolested before closing ranks behind her. Soon, Tower's voice faded to only a murmur. By the time the last of the bones clattered shut behind her, the knight could no longer be heard.
Slate waited for her, his hands resting on the hilt of the Witchbreaker.
"That was quite a gamble, taking his hand," she grumbled.
"No. After you kissed me, I knew. I knew there was no room within me for his broken spirit. You're right, Sorrow. I'm whole, thanks to you. I'm grateful."
"I'm glad, but you still scared me. I thought my heart was going to stop when you touched him.""
"I had no choice," said Slate. He looked back at the cage of bone. "If I hadn't touched his soul directly, I would always have wondered. I would never have been certain that I wasn't truly him. I had to know. I had to prove to myself that I'm my own man." He gave her a smile. "Your man, actually."
"I'm happy to have you," she said, returning his smile. "Now, we've only got one trivial problem facing us. How do we get out of Hell and back to the realm of the living?"
"We stay alive until the Romers find us."
"I'm afraid the Romers won't be coming back," said a deep voice from above. They looked to the top of skeleton cage and found a tall, gaunt man standing there, dressed in dark robes, save for his gloves, which where whiter than the bones he stood upon. "By now, the Romers have fallen into the hands of their enemies. They're either dead, or desperately wishing to be so."
"Who the devil are you?" asked Sorrow.
"My name is Ver," said the thin man. "I'm a Truthspeaker. In truth, your journey comes to an end here."
# CHAPTER FIFTEEN
# PILGRIM
Sorrow gripped her trident tightly at finding herself in the presence of a Truthspeaker. These powerful priests of the Church of the Book had tried time and again to kill her. Over the years she'd thinned their ranks quite a bit. She didn't remember killing this one, but had to assume he wasn't here to wish her good health.
Slate held the Witchbreaker at the ready, looking skeptical as he studied Ver atop the cage of bone. "A Truthspeaker? Why would a Truthspeaker be in Hell?"
"Because of the greatest truth of all, Slate," said Ver. "All men are born into a world corrupted by falsehood. Before a babe ever leaves the womb, the lies of the world have already poisoned his soul. No one is born innocent. No one dies redeemed. I once believe that Hell was the separation of man from truth. Now, I've learned that Hell is the ultimate, final truth. Hell is home to all. Heaven stands vacant."
"That's blasphemy," said Slate.
"In a universe of a falsehood, all truth is blasphemy," said Ver, spreading his arms as he gazed toward the nightmarish horizon.
"It's self-evidently false!" Slate protested. "If all men are damned, and there's no hope of eternal reward—"
"Then nothing divides good from evil," Ver said gravely. "The sacred becomes indistinguishable from the profane."
"I'm starting to understand how he wound up here," Sorrow said to Slate. Then she looked back to the Truthspeaker. "What do you want with us? How do you know my name?"
"When other souls arrive in Hell and learn the truth, that they never had hope of an eternal reward, they succumb to despair, or burn with impotent rage. I trained a lifetime to accept truth, no matter how harsh. By embracing the truth, I freed myself from the miseries inflicted upon other souls. Instead of despair, I found wisdom. Hell has proven an excellent textbook, teaching me things I could never had learned in the living world. In seeking truth, I have the power to wander where I will, speak to whom I wish, and see things hidden from others."
"You sound like Walker," said Sorrow.
Ver shook his head. "He and I are nothing alike. Walker does his best to reject the truth of who he is."
"Wait," she said. "You know him?"
"Of course. Who in Hell wouldn't know him?"
"Why would he be famous here?" asked Slate.
"You truly don't know?" asked Ver. "Walker once was king of this realm."
"Are we talking about the same guy?" asked Sorrow. "The Walker I know is a pygmy shaman who answers every question with more questions."
Ver let out a dry, rasping chuckle. "It seems you do not know the Walker you know. You know only his mask. His true aspect would drive a mortal to pluck out his own eyes."
Sorrow didn't know what to believe. She'd often found Walker annoying, but he'd never struck her as evil. On the other hand, he did seem to know his way around Hell.
"You still haven't said why you were looking for us," said Slate. "You claim to be a Truthspeaker. Answer plainly."
Ver looked over his shoulder, then glanced back, fixing his gaze on Sorrow instead of Slate. "I've recruited two assassins to kill the both of you. I fear I've literally left them in the dust, though they seem to be finally catching up."
From the left side of the cage, Sorrow heard voices.
"I think Ver went around here," a man said. "Are you sure you can see okay now?"
"Yes," answered a young woman. "Though I almost wish I couldn't."
From their tone, Sorrow gathered that they didn't know they were only yards away the people they'd come here to kill. She saw no reason to waste the element of surprise. Raising her trident, she charged toward the voices. She turned the corner and found a tall man and a slender, dark skinned young woman barely ten feet away. The woman jumped back, startled. The man crouched. Sorrow leapt toward him, thrusting her trident with both hands to drive the tines deep into his chest.
With a fluidity of motion so smooth it was as if they'd both rehearsed this dance, the man dove forward, his shoulders passing less than an inch from the trident tips. He rolled once and rose, driving up the heel of his right palm beneath Sorrow's chin. Stars exploded before her and she fell backward, her mouth full of blood.
"Sorrow!" Slate cried. She heard his heavy feet rush toward the man, the clatter of his armor as he drew back the Witchbreaker to strike.
"Wait!" a girl cried out in an odd accent. "We've come to—"
The girl didn't get to finish her sentence before there was a loud CRACK and Slate's breath exploded from him in a grunt.
"Demons!" Ver shouted from atop the cage of bone. "We're too late! They're already possessed by demons! Kill them if you hope to save yourselves!"
On her back, Sorrow swallowed the blood in her mouth. She took a deep breath through her nose to clear her head. With a thought, she leapt back to her feet, in time to see Slate once more swing the Witchbreaker. Somehow, though his opponent was unarmed, Slate's breastplate had been completely shattered.
The dark haired man sprang into the air, the Witchbreaker slicing through the space where he'd once stood. With a loud, sharp cry he kicked out with both feet, catching Slate full in the face. Slate's helmet flew apart in a spray of gleaming black shards and he fell backward, his body limp, the Witchbreaker falling from his grasp.
Before the dark haired man hit the ground he caught the Witchbreaker by the hilt. He landed, turning his gaze toward Sorrow.
"You," she whispered, suddenly recognizing his aura. Though he was now twenty years older, she'd fought him before. "You're the boy who attacked the _Circus!"_
"Yes," he said. "I remember you, witch."
"You know her, Mantle?" The young woman stepped out from behind the man. Sorrow's mouth dropped as she saw past the woman's unusual appearance to recognize the woman's aura.
"Black Swan?" she asked, bewildered by the change. Having spent weeks in the Black Swan's presence, there was no mistaking her aura. But what had happened to the iron body Sorrow had crafted for her? Somehow, she was once more a creature of flesh and blood, and a young one at that. The Black Swan had always dressed in heavy gowns and dresses that revealed little of her skin, but now she wore no more clothes than a pygmy. Odder still, her skin was black as cast iron, as if the metal shell Sorrow had sculpted for her had turned to flesh.
"You've mistaken me for someone else," said the young woman. "My name is Cinder. Why did you attack us? We've come here to save you!"
"We're too late," said Ver. "You saw how they attacked without question. They've been possessed by demons. Don't believe a word she utters! She'll say anything to catch you off guard."
Sorrow frowned. Was Ver warning them, or her? With her enhanced senses, she could see that both Cinder and Mantle were living beings. They no more belonged in Hell than she did. Further, she heard no guile in the girl's voice. Cinder truly believed she'd come here on a rescue mission.
Sorrow dropped her trident and raised her hands. "I believe you didn't come here to fight. Let's talk."
"No! Her tongue is her most dangerous weapon," said Ver.
"Possessed or not, I recall you clearly now," said Mantle, shifting the Witchbreaker from hand to hand, testing its weight. "You killed all my shipmates. I alone survived to tell the tale. I've no reason to think you any less wicked in Hell than you were in the living world."
"But you knew we'd come to save her," said Cinder. "We said her name a dozen times."
"I didn't realize we were talking about the woman who tried to kill me when I was only a boy," said Mantle.
"As I recall it, I was only defending myself from your attack," said Sorrow. "And... you didn't call yourself Mantle. Your name was Numinous. Numinous Pilgrim. You said you were... were..." All blood drained from her face as she recalled the full truth of the boy's identity. "You said you were the Omega Reader."
As she spoke, Slate rose to his knees. Blood streamed from his broken nose. She looked at the leather pack on his back, thought about what lay inside, and understood at once the true danger.
"You didn't come here to save us," Sorrow said, clenching her fists. "You've come for the book."
"What book?" asked Cinder, sounding genuinely perplexed.
"Cover your ears, Cinder! Don't let her fog your mind with confusion," said Ver.
Slate rose to his feet. He looked up at Ver and said, "If you're truly a priest of the Divine Author, heed my words. I possess a priceless treasure of the church, and vow to protect it with my life until I at last bring it to the Grand Cathedral in the Silver City. Help us reach this place."
Ver shook his head. "The Grand Cathedral is no more. It burned years ago, in the vicious war that rent the church when the One True Book vanished. The harm you've done is immeasurable."
"Then help me set things right!" said Slate. "It's never too late for a man to make amends for the harm he's done."
"Even if that were true," said Ver, "you never were a man."
"And what role do you play in all this, Black Swan?" Sorrow asked, not caring to go along with the woman's pretense of having a different name. "You've always played the long game, threaded scheme into scheme. Are you here to save the book? Or to destroy it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said the woman.
Sorrow frowned. The Black Swan was no friend of the Church of the Book. She had to be deceiving the Truthspeaker. This must be a plot to seize the One True Book for herself. To destroy it? More likely, to ransom it. Whatever else she knew about the Black Swan, she knew most of all that, somehow, she planned to come out of this richer than ever. If the remnants of the church offered her enough money for the book, it would be theirs.
Her eyes glanced down and spotted where the trident had fallen. The tines lifted a few inches off the ground, resting on a skeletal pelvis they'd knocked free earlier when attempting to bash their way into the cage.
"Slate," she said, stepping on the center tine forcefully. "Catch."
The shaft flew into the air. Slate caught it.
"We're not giving you the book," said Sorrow.
"No," said Numinous. "Of course not. A demon would never do the right thing willingly."
As he spoke, Sorrow concentrated her magical energies within her eyes. It proved a wise move, as Numinous sprang forward with a speed that she would never have followed otherwise. He held the Witchbreaker in a two-handed grasp, pulled back over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on Slate's neck. Though she couldn't match his speed, she threw herself forward, hands raised, and caught Numinous by the wrist as he chopped at Slate. This slowed the blow enough that Slate parried the blade with the shaft of the trident. While Sorrow had contact, her magic flowed from her fingertips into his skin. Numinous broke away with a hiss, his whole forearm covered in bruises.
Slate thrust with the trident, in what should have been a killing blow, but with supernatural speed Numinous twisted his torso away. Then, in a flurry of motion, he slammed the pommel of the Witchbreaker into the back of Slate's hand, causing Slate to lose his grasp on the trident. As part of the same motion, Numinous jammed his elbow hard into Sorrow's throat. She stumbled backward, struggling to breathe.
Numinous, meanwhile, once more threw Slate to the ground with a kick to the warrior's left knee. Slate rolled to his back, raising his arm as Numinous lifted the Witchbreaker for a final strike, his hair fluttering around his face as a sudden, violent wind swept across the landscape.
Before the blade could fall, a long, slender rope snaked from behind Numinous and coiled around the shaft of the blade. Numinous spun around, eyes wide, to discover a fully rigged sailing ship rolling toward him along a river that hadn't been there a few seconds before. The rope that held the Witchbreaker came from the deck of this ship.
With Numinous distracted, Sorrow forced herself to draw a deep breath, though it felt as if her throat had closed to the size of a needle. She raced toward Numinous, arms outstretched, her eyes dancing over his form as she searched out the best muscles to rip from his back. With her focus on attack, she gave no thought to stealth, and at the last second Numinous released his grasp on the Witchbreaker and spun around with a high kick that caught her in the temple.
For an unknown time, everything was black. She forced her eyes open, her skull throbbing, gazing at bloodied mud before her as she slowly raised her head. Mere seconds had passed since she'd fallen. Numinous now had an obsidian knife in his grasp and had sliced free the ropes entangling the Witchbreaker. Strong winds buffeted him, but he kept on his feet. Slate had risen to one knee, shaking his head to clear it.
Numinous spun around to face Slate.
Sorrow cried out, "No!"
Her words counted for nothing. Numinous drove the Witchbreaker into Slate's torso, the blade slipping between Slate's ribs. With the stone knife, he slashed the straps that held Slate's pack. Releasing both blades, he caught the pack before it hit the ground.
A look of serene joy passed over his features as he lifted the leather flap and glanced at the book inside. Slate shuddered violently. Blood sprayed from his lips as he slumped to his side.
Sorrow felt as if the life had drained out of her own body. She had no will to rise, no power to stop the horrible thing about to happen as Numinous cast his gaze toward her. With the pack in one hand and the Witchbreaker in the other, he stalked toward her, slicing away the ropes that reached toward him from the deck of the _Circus_ without bothering to even glance back at the ship. The gale force wind that tore at him ruffled his hair, but did little to slow him.
Behind him, she saw Brand swing down from the deck. He darted toward Numinous, a dagger in each hand, keeping directly behind his target. With the wind so loud, there was no way Numinous could hear him coming. Yet, an instant before Brand could complete his attack, Numinous whirled, swinging the pack. He caught Brand in the face, knocking him sideways. Numinous completed his spin, once more facing Sorrow, and kept walking as if the attack had never happened.
He stood before her and said, in a voice barely audible above the wind, "Now you see the truth. I'm the perfection of mankind. My senses are so finely tuned I felt the footsteps of your latest defender as he drew near. He had no hope of striking me."
He raised his right arm. The dark outlines of her fingers showed where she'd grabbed his wrist, painted in dark shades of purple and yellow. "Not many people have hurt me, witch. Few who've done so lived to tell the tale. I'm tempted to drag you with me to the pulpit, so that you can feel the ultimate despair as I fulfil my destiny. But, the simpler, wiser course is simply to slit your throat."
He drew back the Witchbreaker. Over his shoulder, she saw something big and dark fly through the air. There were no footsteps to warn Numinous, yet some subtle shift in the wind was enough to make him spin around. Mako had leapt from the deck of the _Circus_ , his toothy jaws opened wide. Numinous jumped aside, but didn't count on Mako's own inhuman speed as the shark-man flipped in midair to land on his feet, then sprang once more at Numinous. Mako's body was tuned to swim swiftly in the ocean's depths. In mere air, he moved like lightning.
Numinous howled in pain as Mako sank his teeth into his shoulder. The blow crippled the arm that held the Witchbreaker, which dropped from his now limp grasp.
Any hope that pain would cripple Numinous proved fleeting. He drove his knee hard into Mako's groin. At the same time, he dropped Slate's pack, and used his now free hand to drive his fingers hard into Mako's left eye. The pain loosened Mako's bite, and Numinous leapt away, before charging forward to kick Mako in the chest, knocking him from his feet.
Mako's shoulders hit the ground but he kept rolling, springing back to a fighting stance. With a snarl, he charged toward Numinous. Numinous leapt straight up, letting Mako pass beneath him, then kicked down hard into the base of Mako's spine with both heels. Mako skid along the ground, his limbs sprawled, his legs feebly kicking.
Numinous didn't press his attack. Instead he dashed back to where Slate's pack had fallen and grabbed it. Once more a rope snaked toward him, and once more he ducked beneath it, then snatched up the Witchbreaker. He ran toward Cinder, who stood watching the combat, looking confused. Brand made it back to his feet and hurled one dagger, then the other. Numinous side-stepped the first, then swatted the second from the air with the flat of his blade. He jumped high as a barrel flew from the deck of the _Circus_ , smashing to splinters on the ground where he'd just stood.
He reached Cinder as a hundred pale green pygmies began leaping from the deck of the _Circus_ , yipping out their battle cries as they charged toward the pair.
"Let's go!" he shouted.
"Where?" she responded.
"Not here!"
She nodded, accepting the wisdom of his advice as the pygmy army closed upon them. She placed an arm around his back, stepped forward, and both vanished into thin air. The pygmies stopped short, their war cries trailing off into confused murmurs.
Sorrow rose, rubbing her throat, willing the swelling to go down. She took a deep breath, then ran to Slate's side. Dark blood still pulsed from the gash between his ribs. _Alive!_ she thought, though she knew he had mere seconds left.
A shadow fell over her. She looked up to see Brand, his face pale and grave.
"I need a dagger!" she said.
Wordlessly, he handed her one.
Not pausing to explain her actions, she sank the dagger into Slate's wound, then twisted it, prying the gap in his ribs into an opening large enough for her to insert her fingers. His interior felt hot as an oven as she probed the depths his chest cavity. Judging from the darkness of the blood, the sword had pierced one of the major veins carrying blood to Slate's right lung. A surge of heat around her fingers told her she was near. She felt the vein, sliced cleanly in two. Desperately, she tried to piece the two ends back together, a feat that proved impossible with only one hand.
"Pull his ribs apart," she said to Brand.
"Sorrow," he said softly, shaking his head. She could see he'd already accepted that Slate was dead.
"Pull his ribs apart!" she demanded.
But it wasn't Brand whose hands moved next to her own. Webbed fingers grabbed Slate's ribs and levered them apart. She turned her head to find herself looking into Mako's eyes.
"Hurry," Mako said, the strain evident upon his face.
She hurried, digging both hands into the wound. She closed the major vein that had been severed, then smoothed shut a large artery that had merely been sliced open. As she moved her hands back toward the surface, she paused again and again to stick together blood vessels. The pulsing blood slowed to a trickle as she pulled her hands free.
"I... I've done what I can," she said, wiping her brow with a bloodied hand.
"He's lost so much blood," whispered Brand.
"He's a fighter," said Mako, moving his hands so that Sorrow could piece together the external gash.
"He has a chance," said Sorrow, pressing her fingers against Slate's throat to feel his pulse, weak and racing. "When Numinous struck, he didn't push the blade all the way through Slate's torso. He may have been worried about cutting into the One True Book."
"It would still have been a fatal blow if you hadn't acted," said Mako. He lowered his ear to Slate's chest. "There's not much air getting into his lungs. Still, there's some."
Sorrow nodded. Then, she looked again at Mako, her eyes widening.
"You're on land," she said.
He shrugged, keeping his eyes on Slate's face. "I don't know if the Wanderer pact with Abyss extends to Hell." Then he met her gaze. "If I've damned myself, so be it. I couldn't stand by and watch that bastard gut you."
"Oh, Mako," she whispered, the weight of his sacrifice falling heavy upon her.
"So that was Numinous?" asked Brand. "The kid who attacked us in the middle of the damned ocean? The self-proclaimed Omega Reader?"
She nodded, running her fingers along Slate's chest, wondering what else she could do. All the energy she'd commanded earlier was now exhausted.
"And he has the book?" asked Brand.
She nodded again, though only distantly aware of his questions.
"I would really, really like to cuss right now, but I honestly don't know any words quite strong enough," said Brand.
"Now isn't the time for joking," said Mako, once more pressing his ears to Slate's chest. "I... I'm having a hard time hearing his heart."
Brand frowned, turning away from Slate, looking at the bone cage. Then, he turned back.
"Look, I'm as worried about Slate as anyone," he said.
Sorrow knew that couldn't possibly be true.
"But," he continued, "the goddamned Omega Reader just ran off with the One True Book! This has to be a priority. Is it safe for Rigger to move Slate back onto the ship?"
"Can you give me five minutes?" Sorrow asked, running her bloodied hand across her head. "Let me think. I need to think."
Silence followed, save for faint, ragged, irregular wheezes coming from Slate.
Brand shifted uncomfortably, placing his weight on one foot, then the other, before actively pacing.
"Sage!" Brand called out, looking up at the deck. "Did you see where they went?"
"Sort of," she said. "The way the air folded around them... I think they fled across a dimensional membrane."
"Like, back to the living world?"
"Maybe. But they were close enough to the _Circus_ they could have touched the hull. My hunch is, wherever they thought they were going, they wound up in the Sea of Wine."
"That might be a lucky break," said Brand. "Maybe they'll drown."
"We won't be lucky," said Sorrow, annoyed by the chatter around her but unable to ignore it. With Slate so precariously balanced on the edge of death, she wanted the luxury of being allowed to worry, of being allowed to feel her own heart pierced with needles of fear, of grief, of guilt. Maybe if she hadn't attacked so rashly before knowing who they faced...?
She clenched her fists, forcing her mind to grow still.
"When Numinous was about to kill me, he made an offhand remark about heading for a pulpit. That's where we'll have to stop him."
"That doesn't really tell us much about the location," said Mako. "He didn't say a city? Even an island?"
Sorrow shook her head.
"It guess we'd couldn't expect him to simply spout out longitude and latitude, could we?" said Brand.
She cut him a nasty glance. Did he ever take anything seriously? But, she had no time for anger with him now. "I may have a second lead."
"What?"
"The girl who was with him. I don't know why she's here, and I don't know how she changed into flesh and blood, but that was the Black Swan."
"Are you sure?" asked Brand. "I met her when I purchased the _Circus_. I didn't see much resemblance."
"I recognized her aura."
Before Brand could ask another question, a soft groan escaped Slate's lips. He didn't inhale after this. The pale, half light of the soul she'd shared with him faded to black. Mako once more pressed his ear to Slate's chest, first one side, then the other. He looked at Sorrow, but couldn't find any words.
"I know," she said quietly, looking at the blood pooled onto the ground around her. She knew. She'd known. She'd known all along. Everything she'd ever touched turned to ruin. She'd sealed Slate's fate the second she'd allowed herself to love him. Soul or no soul, to die in Hell was a final death.
"Take him onto the ship," she whispered. "I'd like... I'd like to bury him where we found him, back on the Isle of Fire."
Mako nodded.
Brand said, "I'm so sorry."
"I know," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
He looked as if he were about to say something else. Then, he motioned toward Rigger to lift him back to the deck. As the rope wrapped around his waist, he said, "Take as much time as you need."
She nodded. "I won't be long."
In the course of the fight, the pouch in which she'd gathered the witch nails had been torn. In the blood around her sat nails of jade, of glass, of gold. One by one, she found them and wiped them clean. The final nail hovered in the air, glowing like a tiny sun. She closed her fingers around it, then stood. She took one long, last glance at the cage of bone.
Then she turned away. She had no time for grief or regret. The One True Book had to be dealt with. It was time to finish what she'd begun all those long years ago.
# CHAPTER SIXTEEN
# HE AND WE
Cinder sensed something was wrong the second she stepped through the dimensional veil. Ordinarily, her surroundings took on a translucent, muted-color as she walked between worlds. Now, the ship that had attacked them seemed more solid than ever, as if it were the center of a spiritual realm all its own. It was so solid it possessed its own gravity, and she felt herself pulled toward it. The river it rested upon surged within its banks. Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath her and she plunged with a cry into burgundy waves, losing her grip on Mantle. By instinct, she held her breath, though not before the dark, sweet fluid splashed across her tongue. She closed her eyes as momentum carried her beneath the surface. Weightless in warm liquid, she had no sense of up or down. She flailed her limbs, finding nothing solid near her. She forced her eyes open, regretting it instantly. Whatever she'd fallen into, the fluid burned her eyes. Fortunately, she saw light above and darkness beneath stretching into unknown depths. She kicked hard, swimming toward light.
She emerged beneath a fiery sky. Hell's sky had been an unbroken storm cloud, but here the clouds were wisps, painted brilliant red and orange by a sun barely beneath the horizon.
"Mantle!" she called out, looking around. In every direction there was only trackless ocean, the color of blood, and the overwhelming stink of wine. The ship which had pulled her here was nowhere to be seen. She called again, "Mantle!"
With a splash, Mantle's head and shoulders popped above the surface. The oiled leather of the pack held air, turning it into a makeshift buoy. "Cinder!" he called out as he spotted her. "Grab hold!"
She swam to his side, grabbing hold of the pack, feeling far more exhausted from the short swim than she would have expected. She normally swam in placid pools beneath the falls of the river. The bobbing motions of the waves left her feeling slightly ill and more than a little disoriented.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"The Sea of Wine," said a voice from above. She craned her neck to find Ver hovering above them, his form pale and translucent against the red sky. Despite the wraithlike nature of his body in the waning light, he carried the Witchbreaker in one hand. She hadn't paid attention to it before, but she saw that the soles of his boots were white as his gloves. Her own feet felt filthy after walking across Hell.
Ver said, "The ship that attacked you was crewed by Wanderers. They apparently brought their abstract realm along with them. Take care not to swallow the wine. It will dampen your ability to tell dreams from reality."
Cinder wondered if she'd already swallowed some. The floral, fermented scent was heavy in the air, making her feel as if the world was slowly spinning. She clung to the bag, wanting to summon the strength to leave, but couldn't concentrate due to her growing nausea.
"I see you saved the sword," Mantle said, looking up at the priest. "I lost my grip when we hit the water."
"It seemed like something you might wish to save," said Ver.
Mantle studied Cinder's face. "Are you alright?" he asked. "You look... pale. More gray than black."
"It's the fumes," she whispered. "They're making me dizzy."
"Then rise above them," said Ver. "This is a realm of spirits. You may walk upon the air."
She tried to remember how she'd done it before in the Realm of Roots. It had felt effortless then. Now, every time she moved her legs to find purchase on the spiritual substance engulfing her, she wound up off balance, her struggles pushing her beneath the waves.
"I can't stand," she said. "The world... it's spinning too hard. I think... I think I'm going to be sick."
"Bobbing in the waves isn't helping," said Mantle, looking around, his eyes fixing on gulls wheeling high overhead. "Ver, from your vantage point, can you see land? Gulls only go so far out to sea."
"Not land," said Ver. "But a solid place that will serve. Follow."
Ver began to walk along the air toward something she couldn't see. Mantle wrapped an arm around Cinder's torso and paddled in pursuit. Even though she could barely move her legs, he proved up to the task of propelling them both across the surface. Her stomach lurched as they swam into waves heaving higher and higher. They swam so long she was certain hours had passed, but the sunset had yet to give way to night. Her nausea was compounded as the wine-stench gave way to an overpowering miasma of rotting meat. As a particularly violent wave carried them up, she caught a glimpse of red waves breaking into pink foam on a nearby spit of black gravel. She lost sight of it as they fell into the trough of the wave, then fixed her eyes on it again as the swell carried them up. The beach they swam for curved in a serpentine fashion.
"Oh no," she whispered, remembering her mother's adventure in the Sea of Wine.
"What?" asked Mantle.
"It's Rott," she said, softly.
"Indeed," said Ver. "There's nothing to fear. He's quite dead. His back will serve well as a place for you to get your bearings."
As the stench grew more powerful, Cinder almost told Mantle she'd rather stay floating in the wine. Before she could speak, her toes bumped against something smooth and hard. Mantle's legs stopped kicking and the position of his body changed as he found footing in the pink surf. He dragged her up the dragon's back, across a field of loose scales the size of banana leaves. White bones showed through gaps in the scales. She shuddered with revulsion as Mantle lowered her onto a broad, flat rib of bleached bone.
Mantle let loose his grip on her, waving his hand swat away the flies that swarmed him. Even here, however, her smoky scent kept the insects at bay. Mantle quickly realized this and moved to her side.
"Take a moment to get your bearings," he said.
"I feel worse here than I did in the wine," she whispered. "The stench..."
Her voice trailed off as her stomach staged a full-scale rebellion. She rolled to her side and spewed the contents of her guts onto a deep, dark hole beside the rib she lay upon. She heaved until she was empty, then heaved some more. She rolled to her back, trembling, as Mantle knelt before her. With a tender smile, he wiped flecks of vomit from her chin.
"You'll feel better now," he said.
She doubted this. She felt completely hollowed out, devoid of the strength even to sit up.
Mantle rose, facing Ver. "You guided us into Hell. Can you guide us back into the living world?"
"Of course," said the priest. "The two of you fled Hell too swiftly for me to offer guidance. From here, we may chart a more deliberate course to the living world. We need only wait for Cinder to regain her strength."
Cinder closed her eyes. "Why did we come here?"
Ver said, "The presence of Wanderers caused the Sea of Wine to be the closest spiritual realm adjacent—"
"No," she said. "I mean, what was the point of all this? You brought us to Hell on a rescue mission, then insisted we attack the people we'd come to save."
"You saw for yourself that they'd been possessed by demons."
"And this wasn't something you'd assumed would be a possibility?"
"There was always the risk," said Ver.
"You said if we left living souls in hell, all of reality might unravel. Even possessed by demons, don't they need to be taken from Hell?"
"I understand your confusion," said Ver. "But, while their bodies may yet survive, they are living souls no longer. The demons have devoured their souls, removing the threat."
Cinder frowned. She felt certain he was lying. Yet, her own mother had said that Ver couldn't lie. She wished she didn't feel so dizzy. She felt like, if her head would only clear, she might grasp clearly whether or not he was tricking her.
"Does this have something to do with that book?" she asked, opening her eyes and studying the leather pack Mantle carried. "Was finding Sorrow and Slate not the true goal?"
"How could I have known it they carried the One True Book?" Ver answered. "The tome vanished nearly twenty years ago. Everyone assumed it had been destroyed."
"Perhaps it should be destroyed," said Mantle.
"Don't speak foolishly," said Ver.
"Look at the misery this book has brought the world," said Mantle.
"You seem ignorant of the proper usage of the word 'misery,' " said Ver. "When the One True Book was present in the temple, its timeless truths were the foundation of centuries of peace and prosperity."
"If the truths were timeless," said Mantle, "the church wouldn't have collapsed the second the book vanished. The truths would have endured in men's hearts, even if they weren't written down."
"The One True Book gave the weight of authority to these truths," said Ver. "Without respect for authority, how is one to judge truth from falsehood?"
"But corrupt authority can pass falsehoods off as truth," said Mantle.
"A corrupt authority is no authority at all," scoffed Ver.
Mantle looked at Cinder, his face showing his irritation with Ver's circular logic. She felt glad he shared her skepticism.
"Some of the color has returned to your face," he said.
She nodded. Now that she'd grown numb to the smell, her illness had ebbed. Holding his hand, she rose on unsteady legs and said, "I think I can make the jump."
As she stood, her foot landed on a black scale. It slid against its neighbor. She pulled her foot away and it clattered down the slope of the dragon's rib cage. Pale light seeped up from the gap in the bone she'd uncovered.
"What's this?" Mantle said softly, lowering himself to one knee. To Cinder's surprise, he dropped onto his belly and shoved his hand between the dragon's ribs, digging down until his arm was buried the beast. A look of intense concentration was replaced by a look of pleasure as the pulled his hand free, revealing a cutlass, its blade glowing a soft, pale green.
"It's the Sword of Phosphors," said Ver. "It once belonged to the notorious pirate, Gale Romer. I wonder how it came to be lodged here?"
"Pirate?" said Cinder. "She was my mother's friend."
"You mother's employer, more accurately," said Ver. "Before you were born, Infidel earned her living as a mercenary. It mattered nothing to her who paid her fee. She killed who she was hired to kill."
Mantle slipped the blade into his belt. "This may come in handy in defending our settlement."
"I've no doubt it will," said Ver. "It's good to know that enduring the stench of this place hasn't been in vain."
Mantle raised his eyebrow. "I didn't know ghosts had a sense of smell."
Ver took a deep breath through his nostrils, holding in the stench a long time, then exhaling. "Hell would hold less sting if even one of the senses were dulled. Now, if you're ready, let's leave this place."
Ver held his hand toward Cinder. She took it, as Mantle took Cinder's other hand. Together, they stepped forward. The air shimmered before them...
... and they emerged someplace far darker than the Sea of Wine. A wave of cold washed over her, so intense she heard crackles as the moisture in her still damp hair instantly froze. Her teeth chattered as she looked around, crossing her arms over her breasts. Mantle lifted the Sword of Phosphors, letting its soft light spill over their surroundings. They were in the shell of a vandalized building, a church judging from the overturned pews, or perhaps a cathedral, given the grand scale of the place. Empty window frames in the arched walls looming overhead showed heavy clouds lit by faint flickers of lightning. Snow blew through the open windows, filling the air with drifting jewels. Beneath them, shards of stained glass glittered beneath a carpet of frost.
Tapestries that had once decorated the walls lay in crumpled heaps at the base. With customary swiftness, Mantle moved toward the tapestries. Seconds later he draped a heavy, makeshift cloak over Cinder's shivering shoulders. She pulled it tightly about her, though the cloth was as cold as the surrounding air.
"Where are we now?" Mantle asked. He looked over his shoulder, then craned his neck around the room. "Ver's gone?"
"He's still here," said Cinder. "You can't see him without my help, now that we're back in the land of the living."
She took his hand. He turned until he spotted their ghostly guide, and said, "This has to be the Grand Cathedral of the Silver City."
Ver nodded. "It was. Speak softly. Tempest's armies are massed here in great numbers. Voices carry far in the still of a winter's night."
As did footsteps, Cinder realized, as she heard heavy crunches on the snow along the wall outside. Whoever approached the open door was soon joined by a companion, then another. She held her breath as a skull-faced warrior peered around the corner. His torso was draped in chain mail, and his fleshless hands grasped a gore-encrusted battle ax.
The dead man's empty eye sockets fixed instantly upon the Sword of Phosphors. Raising his ax, he lumbered forward.
"Stay back," Mantle said coolly, moving at a casual pace, until he was close enough for the dead warrior to strike. As the axe sliced toward him, Mantle stepped to the side and with one swift slice of his blade severed his attacker's wrists. The ax clattered to the floor, leaving the dead warrior staring at his stumps. Mantle's blade sliced a second time, lopping off the skull, then twice more, driving into joints in the armored knees. He stepped aside as his crippled opponent fell forward, then took two rapid steps toward the door and drove his blade deep into the eyes of the next undead warrior to come around the corner. The light flickered as the blade plunged again and again into the bodies of dead men lumbering toward the door. Several moments passed before the wave of invaders was exhausted, and Mantle had a moment to fall back and catch his breath.
"Why have you brought us to this wretched place?" he demanded of Ver as he grabbed Cinder's hand once more.
"So you could see the world your god has created."
"My god?"
"Greatshadow turned his back on mankind, letting the other dragons destroy the world."
"Greatshadow protects the chosen," said Mantle. "By his grace, we shall rebuild."
Ver shook his head. "Look around. All is dead. All is frozen. There will be no rebuilding. You've fallen for a grand deception. Greatshadow grows weaker with each day that passes without the flames of the civilized world. It's only a matter of time before the Isle of Fire falls."
"We can't simply give up. Is there nothing we can do to save what's left of mankind?" asked Mantle.
"The One True Book," said Ver. "Read it."
"What?" asked Cinder. "That makes no sense. Mantle's not of your faith. He doesn't believe in the book."
"He's pure of heart," said Ver. "And he's seen the truth. He believes."
"What will happen when I read the book?" asked Mantle.
"All falsehood will be removed from the world, including the greatest falsehoods of all, the primal dragons. You'll free the world from the grip of their terror."
"This... this is what you've been planning all along," said Cinder. She looked toward the overturned pew where Mantle had placed the bag before defending against the undead attackers. Dropping her cloak and letting go of Mantle's hand she leapt toward it, snatching it up. "I can't let you do this."
"Why not?" asked Mantle. "Look around you! All of mankind faces death if we don't act to save them."
"I don't trust Ver," she said.
"I'm incapable of lies," said Ver. As he spoke, he shifted the Witchbreaker to hold it with both hands.
"Any liar could make that claim," said Cinder.
"True," said Mantle. "Perhaps he is capable of lying. But... why would he? What would he have to gain?'
Cinder frowned. Something was off about Mantle's statement. What?
Mantle stepped closer to her. "I don't blame you for doubting Ver. But, though we've only met a little while ago, we've been through a lot together. You've saved my life, and I've saved yours. Can you trust me?"
She didn't answer, staring at his hands as he held them toward her, palms up, asking for the pack. Suddenly, she realized what was wrong.
"You heard him," she whispered.
"What?" he asked.
"When he said he was incapable of lies, I wasn't touching you. But you heard him all the same."
"Oh." Mantle's expression turned completely blank. Then, his whole body relaxed and he broke into a subtle smile. "I suppose I did."
Ver said, "The veils between the worlds grow thin—"
Mantle raised his hand to cut off the priest, "Further deception won't be necessary. She's onto us."
"Have you... have you been lying to me since we first met?" Cinder asked.
"I've been lying since long before we met," said Mantle. "Brother Wing could read minds. Preparing myself for this role required believing my own lies so completely he'd never suspect a thing. Step by step, I've done what was needed to bring myself closer to you. You've a rare gift, Cinder. You wouldn't have willingly helped us if you'd known the truth."
Cinder leaned forward, preparing to leap back into the spirit world, when suddenly the world exploded into stars. She landed on her back, unable to focus her eyes. Her whole face felt numb. She tried to breathe and wound up coughing violently. The warm metal tang of blood filled her mouth. Had Mantle just punched her? She hadn't even seen him move!
A foot fell onto her chest, pressing down between her breasts, pinning her. She squinted, trying to clear her vision, and found herself looking up at Mantle, who held the book in one hand, the glowing sword in the other.
"Why are you doing this?" she gasped, straining to breathe.
"To fulfill my destiny," said Mantle. "A proper introduction has yet to be made. My name is Numinous Pilgrim. I'm the Omega Reader. I'm going to save the world."
"Save it?"
"By reading the One True Book. From the first syllable, the falsehoods of this world shall be erased. I suppose it would be an act of mercy to kill you now."
Still fighting to breathe, she sank her nails into his legs, digging in with all the strength she could muster. The attack didn't even cause him to flinch. He bent over, his face placid, and placed the tip of the sword slightly to the right of her windpipe.
"We'd never have done this without you," he said as he flicked the sword, slicing her throat. "Thank you."
He stepped away. She snapped her hands to her throat, pressing against the surging blood. She felt lightheaded, feverish, but she wasn't dead yet. In an act of pure will she sat up, the world whirling around her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Numinous ascend the stairs into the pulpit of the cathedral.
"Don't," she whispered, her voice gurgling.
"Give up, child," said Ver, standing over her, the Witchbreaker raised as if ready to strike. "You've played your part. Go to the eternal darkness. When he reads, there will be no Heaven, no Hell, only oblivion. When nothing is true, the only truth is nothingness. This is my gift to all of existence. At long last, an end to struggling, to suffering, and pain. At long last, an end to the ultimate falsehood, the sad, sick delusion that anything ever existed at all."
With trembling limbs, she made it to her knees. Numinous jabbed the tip of the Sword of Phosphors into the podium he stood before, creating a makeshift reading lamp. He opened the leather pack and pulled out the One True Book. His eyes were full of reverence as he gently traced his fingers over the binding.
"Don't," she whispered again, as blood spilled from her lips.
Numinous placed the book upon the podium. He closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer she couldn't hear. She staggered toward him, the frosted glass crunching beneath her bare feet. He didn't look toward her.
Numinous opened the book. He began to read, in a tongue she'd never heard before, in a voice not his own.
"No!" she cried.
"Yes!" said Ver, in a tone of pure rapture. He turned his face toward the heavens. He dropped the Witchbreaker and spread his arms, as if ready to embrace all the sky. A bright light spread from the podium. Keeping one hand on her neck, she raised her other to block the light. She could see no sign of Numinous, not even a shadow. The bubble of light rolled toward her. She turned, took a step forward, and stumbled from the living world. She found herself in a place she'd never been before, a vast, verdant field of green, rolling hills in a valley ringed by snow-tipped mountains. Wild ponies munched lazily on fresh spring growth. Then, to her shock, the distant mountains vanished, boiling away in the pure white light that followed her from the cathedral. The light flowed from the mountains like a flood, washing toward the hills. The ponies looked up, tried to gallop, and vanished as the light overtook them. At the last possible second, she turned, leaping, passing once more into a new realm.
She landed on an ice floe in a vast, dark ocean. Blue ogres on the floe next to her turned their heads at the sound of her wet, gurgling gasps. She sank to one knee, certain that death was near. A trio of ogres walked toward her, harpoons in hand, oblivious to the growing white wall behind them. As they vanished into the light, she rose with a groan, and took another stumbling step into the unknown.
From the shadows that surrounded her, she assumed at first she'd reached the Realm of Root. Instead, she found herself sinking into foul, black mire. Black serpents slithered through branches above her. She tried to run, but the mire sucked at her, and before she knew it her head sank beneath the black muck.
Though it would only hasten her bleeding to death, she let go of her throat and grabbed for a vine that had been dangling overhead. Her fingers found their target and she pulled herself free of the mire. With superhuman effort, she dragged herself onto a fallen tree half-submerged in the muck. Looking around, she found herself in a misty swamp, with darkness on every horizon. Then, there was light. Looking to her left, she saw once more the wall of white sweeping toward her.
She sobbed, understanding the futility of flight. She'd be dead in seconds whether she ran or not. She turned to face the light. Then clenching her jaw, she leapt toward it, once more passing through a dimensional veil. She found herself inside a large cavern, with spikes of stone hanging from the ceiling and rising from the floor like the teeth of some great beast. All was dark save for the faint glow of the spirit light that manifested in such places.
A voice, so deep and low she felt it in her bones, grumbled, "You aren't welcome here." The ground beneath her shook. With loud cracks, the stone spikes above her snapped free and fell toward her. She jumped from their path, passing through yet another veil, and kept jumping. Her senses barely had time to register as she fled between worlds. She fell through a land of clouds, landing on the thigh of a gray-skinned giant lounging on mist, before leaping once more, to find herself far beneath the sea, in a kingdom built of coral, as mermaids veiled with seaweed red and brown swam toward her, eyes wide with curiosity, before the pursuing light devoured. She plunged onward, to a bright sandy beach covered in footprints, the white light at her back. She kept running, jumping again and again, her lungs aflame, through valleys of darkness, across deserts burning beneath a throbbing sun, through frost and through smoke, across glowing fields of lava and marshes drenched by rain.
The burning in her lungs faded. Her heartbeat no longer sounded in her ears. She kept running. She kept leaping.
In the end, every leap took her to the same place. She tried a hundred times to jump away, but there were no veils any more. There was nothing but the surface she stood upon, and the black void above.
She looked down, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The ground looked almost like paper. She knelt, running her fingers along it. It _was_ paper, pristine, unmarked, save for the lines of dark blood traced by her fingers. It extended in all directions, toward endless horizons.
"Where am I?" she mumbled.
"The Primordial Pages," answered someone behind her.
She turned to find an old pygmy staring at her. He had no dyes to identify his tribe. He was white as a corpse, save for his dark eyes and yellow teeth. He wore no clothes, and his long white beard hung far below his waist.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"That's a question I've spent a great deal of time pondering," said the pygmy. "Some people know me as Walker. It will serve. Who are you?"
"I..." she froze. She frowned. "That seems like it should be a simple question."
He nodded as he looked at the mud drying on her body. "You've been swimming in the Black Bog. Your name is the first thing it takes from you."
She ran her fingers through her mud-caked hair. "I don't... I don't remember how I got here. I was... running from something?"
"That's likely," said Walker. "Everyone's running from something."
"Where did you say we were?" she asked.
"The Primordial Pages," he said. "The very foundation of reality."
She held her fingers to her throat. No blood flowed from her wound. She pressed her fingers firmly against her neck. She found no trace of a pulse. "Am I... am I dead?"
"That's probable," he said. "Most people are alive for only the briefest blink of eternity. Death tends to last longer." Then, he narrowed his eyes, studying her more closely. "I think I've heard of you. Cinder, the girl who walks between the worlds. From the Jawa Fruit tribe."
Her own name seemed unfamiliar, but she could dimly remember growing up among such a tribe. Her memory of jawa fruit itself was clear. She could remember the smell and taste, remember the soft but firm flesh of a bright pink, fully ripened globe.
Her mouth watered at the memory. She swallowed. The pain in her throat caused the reality of her present circumstances to once more move to the front of her mind.
"Don't be afraid," said Walker.
"I am afraid," she whispered, touching the gash in her throat. "But not because... because I'm dead. I remember... there was a book... and there was snow, and glass beneath my feet, and..." Her voice trailed off.
"Go on," said Walker.
"I think... I think I saw the end of the world."
"Yes," said Walker. "The final words have been read. I watched from Hell as the Omega Reader closed the covers on all of creation. When Hell faded away, I came here." He crossed his arms. "I found the ending... unsatisfying."
"What?" she asked.
"Unsatisfying," he said.
"I heard you," she said. "I don't understand you. Under what circumstances could the end of the world possibly be satisfying?"
Walker chuckled. "I gather you haven't read many books. It's a great paradox that the books with the most satisfying endings are the ones you wish the author had continued writing."
"Then the Church of the Book was right all along?" she asked. "The world was only a book? Reality was nothing but a lie?"
"But if reality itself was a lie, then wouldn't that mean that lies are real?" he asked, scratching his belly beneath his long beard.
She looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. The darkness of his eyes haunted her. She whispered, "Are you... are you the Divine Author?"
"We all were," he said, with a soft smile. "Everyone who ever lived, everything that ever was, we were all aspects of the Author. Our stories were His stories, His stories were our own. He and We are synonymous in this understanding of creation."
"If I were the Divine Author, I wouldn't let the book end this way," she said. She shuddered as a chill ran along her spine. "It's... I can't remember why clearly, or how, but... it's my fault. It's all my fault!" She fell to her knees, too weak to stand. "This can't be all there is."
"The book is closed. The final words lie over the horizon. It's too late to alter them."
She looked around. "The final words?"
He nodded. "The book is closed. That doesn't mean it was never written. Everything still dwells within the sacred ink. Perhaps some future reader will find these words, and bring our world to life once more."
She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the horizon. "Where? Where can I find these words?"
"All the best stories are circles," said Walker. "One measures a circle beginning anywhere."
She rose to her feet, stumbling forward. Slowly her hesitant, staggered pace gave way to a steady walk. Fighting off her weariness, she managed a slow jog. The white paper seemed infinite. Was she even moving? She glanced over her shoulder and saw Walker in the distance, little more than a speck as he waved at her.
If she was moving away from something she must be moving toward something. Turning her face forward, she started to run. She kept running, feeling no hunger, no thirst, no weariness, as her dead limbs let go of the shackling necessities of life. She ran until she couldn't remember why she was running.
Then she found herself passing along slender, dark squiggles running in parallel lines along the paper and remembered what she'd been looking for. She'd found the story! She came to a halt, her eyes running over the marks. Her heart sank. She couldn't read the script.
"Am I... am I back far enough?" Even without looking behind her, she somehow knew Walker would be there.
"Far enough for what?" he asked.
She held her fingers before her, touching the air. "I... I feel... veils. The words are making worlds come into existence. The world still exists!"
"Your world will always exist. The absence of a future doesn't negate the past."
"I know the world ends," she whispered, doubting herself as she said the words. The details eluded her but, just as the Jawa Fruit had been clear in her mind, she could recall small, discreet images. The snow, yes, that was clear. And there had been a dragon, a dragon rising from a cauldron of flame. And... a temple. She frowned. Had the dragon been in the temple with the snow, or a someplace else? But what did it matter if she couldn't remember the full details. She knew that the world faced a final day. "I have to stop it," she said. "I can't let it end."
"You seek to edit the story from within?" Walker asked, sounding amused. "It can't be done."
"How do you know?" she asked. "Have you tried?"
"Why would I try?" he asked. "It's impossible."
"You said... you said we were all the Divine Author." She turned to him, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Can you read this script? If I go back to the world here, will I have time to save it? Have I gone back far enough?"
He shook his head. "You can never go back far enough to undo what is written."
She pushed him away. "Watch me."
Once more she ran. The dark squiggles passed beneath her, a ceaseless narrative guiding her ever further into the past. Her natural body clocks of hunger and thirst had vanished. She tried to remember how long she'd been running. A day? A week? Was it enough?
"I'll admit," said Walker, suddenly at her side. "It will be interesting to see you try."
Cinder turned to look at him, losing her balance as she took her eyes from the path. With no time to brace herself, she fell. When she hit the paper, it ripped, revealing only void beneath it. For a moment, she dangled on the edge of the tear, trying to claw her way back to the surface.
Walker waved at her and said, "Good luck."
The paper she clung to tore free. With a cry of despair, she dropped into the unknowable.
# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
# MERCHANT
Cinder landed on her hands and knees. Sharp, volcanic rock sliced into her hand. She winced as she sat up, staring at the bloodless wound. She looked around the shadowy landscape. Was this the Realm of Roots?
Through the gap in the canopy overhead, she could see stars. A cool ocean breeze ruffled the foliage as it wound its way up the slopes. She stood, sniffing the air, recognizing the scent of the jungle. A thousand blossoms competing for the attention of insects, filling the air with sweet floral notes. As she filled her lungs, she realized she hadn't been breathing only a moment before. She repeated the action, feeling as if the air was restoring her to life. Her hand throbbed. Tiny beads of blood gathered on the gash in her palm where she'd fallen on the volcanic rock.
"I'm alive?" she asked, her voice little more than a squeak. She remembered the reason she'd died, and pressed her fingers to her neck, finding a scar.
Despite the fractured state of her memories, she knew she'd returned to the Isle of Fire. She grabbed a vine and climbed into the branches of the tallest tree she could find. It was a moonless, cloudless night. In a large bay far in the distance she spotted the lanterns of hundreds of ships. That had to be Commonground. With this reference point, she felt memories of the geography of her home returning. Walker had said she belong to the Jawa Fruit tribe. At a gut level, she felt as if the muscles of her legs would lead her there even if her mind remained fogged.
Her confidence in her ability to navigate to the village proved misplaced. As the hours progressed she found herself increasingly lost in the dark jungle. Some landmarks along her journey proved familiar. She remembered the large stone head draped with vines, the half-crumbled wall decorated with tiles made of shells, and the waterfall that led to a pool that looked like the outstretched wings of a giant bird. But, along the edges of the pool she felt she should have found the shell border tokens of the Blue Mussel people. Instead, she found perforated bark threaded with dried palm fronds. As best she could remember, this marked the territory of the Bug-Wood folk. She hadn't seen these marking since her childhood. The Bug-Wood folk had been almost completely wiped out by slavers.
By dawn, Cinder was well into what should have been Jawa Fruit territory, but still found only Bug-Wood totems. The trees looked familiar, towering giants that had stood for centuries. She felt certain she was nearly home. As the sky lightened, she scanned the canopy above for signs of the woven platforms, listening closely for the murmur of voices. She saw nothing but branches, and heard only the cries of birds. She scrambled into the treetops, panting as she leapt from branch to branch. She furrowed her brow in confusion. Some trees she didn't recognize at all, but others brought back a strong sensation of familiarity. The hair on the back of her neck rose as she ran her hand along a pattern of knots in a tree that looked almost like a cat's face. She knew this place. This was the tree where she'd lived with her mother.
At the thought, she could see her mother's face, remembered her long hair, her towering height, the sharp, hard lines of her shoulders. What she couldn't recall was her mother's name.
"Mother!" she cried out. "Mother!"
She succeeded only in silencing the birds around her. For several seconds, the stillness lingered. As the birdsongs rose again, from far down the slope she heard the faint, almost imperceptible scream of a woman.
Knowing it might have only been her imagination, she set off in the direction of the noise, moving with reckless speed through a canopy that kept throwing her surprises. Vines she expected at her fingertips had vanished, while thick branches she'd never seen provided fresh routes among the leaves. The morning jungle came to life. Parrots and parakeets danced around her as she ran, and vibrant green snakes slinked along vines, their eyes fixed on the small gray monkeys that leapt from her headlong run.
In the sunlight, she covered in minutes the distance she'd traveled in an hour during the moonless night. She paused in front of a dangling bit of bark and realized she was mere yards from a Bug Wood village. As confirmation, a shout came from just ahead, followed by a grunt. She pushed through a leafy wall to find a trio of blue-skinned pygmies. They were wrestling with a dark green woman entangled in a net in the center of a large woven platform. To the side of the scene, an old man with green skin lay on his back, his belly sliced open, his entrails sliding from the wound. The old man's eyes blinked slowly as he stared into the sky.
"Let her go!" Cinder shouted.
The trio of river-pygmies turned their faces toward her, their eyes growing wide. She must have looked like some jungle spirit, with her ebony skin and relatively imposing height.
If she'd hoped that her appearance might startle the river-pygmies into flight, her hopes were dashed when they all drew swords. She frowned as she saw the metal blades. No pygmies crafted such weapons. They were only found in the hands of river-pygmies who sold forest-pygmies to the long-men.
Cinder clenched her fists and said, in a low growl, "I am the wrath of the forest. Flee me, or face destruction!"
To her great relief, the two pygmies furthest from her lost their nerve and sprang away, leaping from the platform to dangling vines. The pygmy closest to her charged with a savage cry.
Cinder stood her ground, then, as her attacker came within striking distance, she reached for the branch above and pulled herself up. Her attacker's blade sliced through empty air before she dropped onto his back. As he collapsed, she straddled him. Though he was wiry and strong, she had the advantage of size and leverage. She needed only a second to pry the sword from his grasp. Before he could try to grab it back, she hit him hard in his temple with the pommel of the weapon. He went limp immediately.
Cinder ran to help the woman the pygmies had been capturing. She'd crawled to the side of the fallen man, not bothering to disentangle herself from the net. The woman held the man's hand and wept. Cinder reached out, intending to touch the woman's shoulder and ask what was happening, but stopped short.
There was nothing she could say that would lessen the woman's grief, and nothing the woman needed to explain about what had happened. Cinder deduced all she needed to know. Slavers had raided the village at dawn. They would now be marching their captives to the river, a good three miles away. They'd travel along the ground. River-pygmies lacked the skills to travel through the canopy while managing a band of captives.
She set off for the river, sword in hand. If slavers were active in the area, could they be the reason she couldn't find the Jawa Fruit tribe? It made no sense. Even if they'd taken the people, the platforms and huts would have been left behind. Unless...
She came to a stop. When she'd fallen through the Primordial Pages, how far back in the story had she come? The Jawa Fruit people had migrated into the territory she'd grown up in after the Bug Wood people disappeared. That had been long before she was born. It was impossible that she'd come back so far. Was she still disoriented from her immersion in the Black Bog?
Resuming her pursuit through the canopy, she overtook a group of river-pygmies winding along a rocky path below. There were five of them, adult warriors armed with swords, prodding and poking about twenty forest-pygmies, mostly women and children.
Once more, a vision of her mother appeared in her mind. This time, her mother's face and hands were red with blood, as she stood over a gutted bore. Though her mother's name still eluded her grasp, she remembered her mother's prowess as a hunter and a warrior. In her gut, he knew exactly what her mother would do in this situation.
Cinder leapt from the branch onto the rear-most river-pygmy, plunging her blade deep into his back. His sword clattered on the rocks as he fell. As the others turned toward her she'd already reached the next in line. He had no time to raise his blade before she impaled him, driving her blade between his ribs. As he fell, the twist of his body tore her blade from her grasp, but without pause she caught his blade as it slipped from his dying fingers. She charged the next pygmy in line. He turned to flee, screaming in terror. She struck low across his thighs, dropping him, then leapt to reach the next slaver. Unfortunately, as her element of surprise faded, that slaver bolted like a frightened hare, joined by the last river-pygmy, who'd also decided he valued his life more than his prisoners.
Cinder paused to finish off the ham-strung pygmy, then used her blade to free one of the captives, a boy perhaps ten years old. He looked at her with stoic eyes as she cut through the vines that bound his wrists.
"Are you a hoorga?" he asked as she placed the blade into his hands.
She wasn't familiar with the term. Every pygmy tribe had its own band of forest spirits, good and evil. Perhaps he'd mistaken her for such a creature.
"What's a hoorga?" she asked.
"The black bird who flies through the Realm of Roots," he said. "The black bird who takes the shape a woman when she comes for the dead."
"I'm not here for you," she said, handing him one of the fallen blades. "Use this sword to free the others. How many more have been captured?"
"All of them," he said. Unfortunately, some pygmy tribes had no words to express numbers.
"Then I'm going to free all of them," she said, leaping to a nearby tree and climbing once more.
It took only a little while to reach the river. The water was swollen from recent rains. Her heart sank when she saw several dugout canoes far down the river, moving rapidly despite being laden with huddled captives. The river-pygmies skillfully navigated through the whitewater boiling around boulders. A half dozen canoes still rested at the water's edge, with at least twenty blue warriors gathered into a band to listen to their jabbering brethren, the two river-pygmies who'd escaped her.
Cinder clenched the branch tightly as she contemplated her options. Diving headlong into twenty men was crazy. Crazy seemed like her best strategy. If most of the group fled, she was confident she was more than a match for any single pygmy, or even a band of two or three.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed a hanging vine, cut one end free, and swung toward the slavers. A sane approach would be to strike from the back of the group. Instead, she dropped directly into the center and spun, not bothering to aim for killing blows. She swiftly sliced into as many faces as she could while screaming at the top of her lungs.
The pygmies exploded away from her. She caught one by the hair as he fled and threw him to his back. Before the others had time to catch their wits, she pinned him to the ground and placed her sword against his throat.
"The Jawa Fruit tribe," she demanded. "Where are they?"
His terrified eyes were wide as he stammered, "J-ja-jawa? Jawa fruit?"
He plainly didn't know what she was talking about. With his potential usefulness exhausted, she slid her blade into his neck, finishing him. She stood up, studying the forest around her. The frightened river-pygmies had abandoned their canoes and their captives. To her relief, some of the prisoners were adult men. Many were badly beaten, half-blind with swollen eyes, but a few still looked strong enough to stand if their bonds were severed. She freed them, handing them swords left behind when the slavers had fled.
"Free the others and get back to your village," she said as she cut their bonds. "If you catch sight of a river-pygmy, attack without mercy!"
She went to the river, contemplating the whitewater. She'd never used a canoe before. Getting herself drowned wasn't going to get her any closer to the slavers, or to answers about what had happened to her tribe. Fortunately, she knew where the slavers were heading. They'd sell their captives in Commonground. The thought of going to the city filled her with nameless dread. She felt that something bad had happened to her there, but couldn't remember what it was. Still, if it was where she must go, so be it.
Before Cinder set out for Commonground, she raided the canoes for supplies, finding dried fish and fermented mango paste wrapped in banana leaves, along with gourds of fresh water. She also equipped herself with an iron knife and a second sword. A large and elaborate cape of brightly colored feathers may have once belonged to a tribal chief. She took it, vaguely remembering it would be important to cover her nudity in the city. As a final supply, the last river-pygmy she'd killed had worn a belt with a leather pouch filled with small silver coins. She'd no idea if the few dozen coins constituted a pittance or a fortune, but sensed they might come in handy in when she reached the city.
Cinder moved along the river, her weariness increasing with each step. She'd never before felt any desire to sleep, but she'd also never felt such exhaustion. She'd been running since returning to the living world, and running across countless dimensions for an unknowable time before that. She climbed into a tree, stretching out on a long, broad branch. With a distant, half-memory of having seen her mother fall asleep, she closed her eyes, not knowing if she would be able to fully succumb to slumber.
She woke hours later, in the heat of the afternoon, with every muscle aching. She sat up with a groan. Her exhaustion had diminished, but her whole body hurt. Life in the jungle had kept her fit, but she wasn't used to so much fighting.
Now that she'd slept, her mind felt slightly less fogged. She still had only shards of memory, but she finally felt ready to grapple with the thought that had earlier crossed her mind. What if she'd come back to the world before she'd even been born? If she did find her mother, now young... what could she to say to her?
She shook her head. It was madness to contemplate such things.
After a brief bath in the river, washing off sweat and dried blood, she gathered up her belongings and made her way along the canopy at the river's edge. She kept moving when the day gave way to night, with the barest sliver of a new moon providing light. By dawn, she'd traveled many miles, finally reaching a place where she smelled the strong stink of human feces wafting from below. Dropping to the lower branches, she found a sandy riverbank marked with deep trenches where river-pygmies had pulled their canoes ashore. The remnants of a fire had turned gray with ash. Judging from the footprints, the captives had been tied together into a single group. The broken ground where they'd been kept provided the toilet stench that tainted the morning air. Judging from the ashes, the pygmies must have stayed here for most of the night, departing at first light. They couldn't be far.
With renewed strength she pushed on. The river grew broader. She caught glimpses of canoes floating upon the wide, placid waters. Unfortunately, she saw no signs of the slavers. All the canoes she spotted were manned by fishermen.
Hours later, she reached the edge of the forest and saw Commonground in the distance. Pulling her feathered cape tightly around her shoulders, she dropped from the trees and advanced toward the town, sliding her swords into the leather string of her loincloth.
Like the forest, the city was both familiar and unrecognizable. She vaguely remembered the last time she'd been here, how the city seemed to radiate from a huge black barge at the center. Now, the city had no center. Boats were clustered in more or less random clumps around the bay. Street vendors no longer gathered along the docks. Instead, huge sailing ships guarded by large men seemed to house most of the commerce. Keeping her head down, she passed by the ships, ignoring the sounds of drunken laughter that sang out from some, not turning to look at the angry shouts of brawling rising from others. On her last visit, Commonground had stank, the way any city sitting in its own wastewater would stink. Yet, while the waters had been foul, the boardwalks had been mostly clean, free of litter. Now, the jumbled plank-ways were covered with trash. Everything, piers, ships, the water, even the people, seemed painted with a palette of gray. The first bright color to catch her eyes belonged to a pair of long-women, their lips a crimson hue. They wore dresses of blue silk. Their tight-fitting clothes made their hips swell out beneath impossibly thin waists.
"Look at this one," one of the women said in the silver tongue, her gaze fixed on Cinder. The woman had yellow hair, and there was something unnatural about the way it sat coiled upon her scalp, almost as if it were a hat.
"Aren't you exotic," the other woman said, running her eyes along Cinder's lanky form. Her hair was cropped short and dyed to the same shade of red as her lips. "Looking for work?"
Cinder shook her head. "I'm looking for the Bug Wood folk."
The two women looked at her with blank expressions, as if they hadn't understood her.
"Forest-pygmies. They were brought here to be sold as slaves."
"Everyone's buying or selling something," said the red-headed woman. "You don't look like the typical slave buyer."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
The blonde woman smiled, then asked, "You got money, girl?"
"Enough for my needs," Cinder answered.
"Then, for a quarter moon, I might know something about those pygmies."
Cinder hesitated, then reached for her bag of coins. She had no idea if she had a quarter moon within or not. She pulled out a coin and tossed it to the woman.
The woman said, dryly, "Aren't you a big tipper?" Then, with a nod of her head, "You're looking for the _Maelstrom_. That's the big Wanderer ship down in the eastern bay. Heard they're loading fresh cargo this morning."
"Thank you," Cinder said.
She wound her way eastward along the docks, aware of all the eyes following her. She noticed, for the first time, that the eyes belonged almost exclusively to full-blooded men and women. In her hazy visions of her previous visit, she remembered seeing more half-seeds and partially civilized pygmies.
She had little trouble finding the _Maelstrom_. The ship stank from all the bodies cramped within its hold, an aroma that filled her nostrils more powerfully than the competing stench of the bay. She saw activity on deck, and heard voices speaking to one another. She started up the gangplank. A large man moved to block her.
"Buyers and sellers only," he said.
She produced the purse and jingled it.
He nodded and stepped aside. "Better hurry. The guy who just came aboard says he's making an offer on the whole inventory."
She brushed past him. Five men stood near the entrance of the hold. One wore a tricorn hat decorated with feathers. She assumed this would be the captain. He was flanked by three large men in matching uniforms. Crewmen? Before these four stood a tall, slender man in a linen suit. He was talking, though with his back to her she couldn't make out his words. As she approached, the captain saw her. His crew fixed their gaze upon her.
Turning to see the source of their distraction, the man in the suit looked behind him. She felt a vague sense of unease as he saw his face. Had she met him somewhere before?
"Which one of you is selling slaves?" she asked, her voice firm, her hands loose at her side, giving no hint that she might be ready to move for her swords.
"I am," said the captain. Something in the tone of his voice rankled her, causing her jaw to clench. The way he owned the fact, his utter lack of shame, struck her like a hand across her face. She might as well have asked if he'd been selling bananas.
She'd arrived with no plan. Slitting this man's throat seemed like a pretty direct route to her goal of freeing the pygmies. Before her hands found her swords, however, the man in the linen suit spoke. "I'm sorry, miss, but the captain doesn't have anything to sell."
The captain frowned. "We've not yet signed a deal."
"We've agreed to the terms," the man said. "Isn't a Wanderer's word as good as a signed contract?"
"It used to be," the captain said. "But those were simpler times, and simpler cargoes. We're living in the world your father made. If this girl has an offer, let's hear her out."
"There will be no transaction," said Cinder, fixing a cold stare upon his eyes. "The people of the Bug Wood tribe aren't yours to buy and sell."
"I've already bought them," said the captain.
"And you've already sold them," the man in the suit said, before turning to Cinder. He studied her with a scholarly gaze. "You're no pygmy," he observed. "Are you a half-seed?"
She shook her head, thinking of what the pygmy in the forest had called her. "I'm a hoorga."
The man nodded. "That's Bug Wood dialect. It means, um... a large dark bird, I think? A black heron? An ebony swan?"
His words didn't interest her as much as his voice. She'd heard it before. She knew this man, even though his face had no place in what was left of her memory.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"How rude of me." He gave a slight bow. "My name is Judicious Merchant."
"Judicious..." Her voice trailed off as she stared at him, slack jawed. She remembered knowing him by another name. _Tenoba_. This was her grandfather, only young.
"You look like you've heard of me," he said. "I suppose I'm something of a big deal in this town."
The captain chuckled. "Your father was a big deal. Not many people can boast of getting so rich so fast. But you... have you ever earned an honest moon in your life? You squander your father's fortunes digging around in the jungle. Now this craziness with the slaves. Why do you even need them? Why would you throw your money away like this?"
"It's my money," said Judicious. "Do we have a deal or not?"
"If this girl's not here to shop, I suppose we do. Saves me the expense of feeding the cargo all the way to the Isle of Storm."
Judicious shook the man's hand. "Excellent. My representatives will be along within the hour to finalize the arrangements. We'll take possession of the cargo the second the contract is signed."
"Suits me," said the captain.
Judicious walked away, passing by Cinder and said, in a firm, low voice, "Come."
She followed, confused by his tone. Had he recognized her? How could he? Her grandfather had been a very old man when she'd been born. While she wasn't experienced with judging the ages of long-men, the Judicious Merchant who stood before her still had all of his hair, though there were a few threads of gray along his temple. His face was weathered, but nothing like the mask of wrinkled leather her grandfather had worn. If she had to guess, Judicious was in his late thirties, maybe his mid-forties. A shudder ran through her. She really was in the past. Sixty years at least, perhaps seventy. It might be decades before she was born. Her mother wasn't even born yet! She followed Judicious in a daze, barely able to think.
He led her to a sailboat. For a man of his wealth, the boat was modest in size, though well outfitted, and gleamed as if it had been built the day before. An absolute giant of a man stood at the gangplank leading to the sailboat, adorned in leather armor, with a full metal helmet covering his face.
"They make the deal?" the man asked in a gruff, grunting voice.
Cinder looked up as he spoke, and saw thick brown fur jutting from beneath the helmet. Inhuman eyes glared out through the visor, and she knew she was looking at a half-seed.
"For all the good it does," Judicious answered, shaking his head as he led her onto the boat.
She entered into a luxurious, though cluttered, cabin. Shelves of books lined the wall, the spines decorated with gilded lettering. A desk filled the other side of the room, covered with crudely drawn maps and several open notebooks, the pages full of scribbles.
Judicious closed the door behind her and asked, "What were you thinking?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I saw your hands moving toward your swords. Were you desperate to get yourself killed?"
"I'm a better fighter than you imagine," she said.
"Not so good you noticed the sentry in the crow's nest with the crossbow," said Judicious. "You'd have been dead if your fingers had reached the blades."
She frowned.
"So tell me, Dark Duck, Black Swan, whoever you are... what's your interest in the Bug Wood tribe?"
"I was present when the river-pygmies raided their village. I saved some; I don't like leaving a job unfinished."
"If you've come to free them, know that I've accomplished this without risking life or limb. I purchased not only the members of the Bug Wood folk, but every pygmy aboard the _Maelstrom_. By this evening, they'll be free to return to their homes."
She scratched her head. "With an empty cargo hold, what's the keep the _Maelstrom_ from taking on more slaves?"
Judicious sat down on the chair before the desk. He ran his hands through his hair, looking sad. "I've asked myself that question a lot." He gave a weak smile. "I don't have an answer." He shook his head. "For now, I've a better question. You gave your name with a Bug Wood word. But your accent tells me you come from a different area of the forest."
"Perhaps," she said. She didn't want to tell him too much about herself. If he learned she was from the future, who knew what problems that might lead to?
"I recently returned from an expedition into the Vanished Kingdom. I found a marvelous temple complex near the caldera, right beneath Greatshadow's nose. Hah! That's an adventure I'll have to write down some day."
"I've no doubt you will," she said.
"My guide was a forest-pygmy named Parrot. At least, that's how his name translates. I can't quite do the tongue clicking needed to say his name in his native tongue." He gave a crude attempt and she was startled to find him speaking Jawa Fruit dialect.
"You... you know the Jawa Fruit people?" she asked.
"A lovely people," said Judicious. "It's a pity they're so hounded by their neighbors." Judicious looked at his hands, rubbing them as if there was some stain on them she couldn't see. "Parrot went his own way after I came back to the city. But he came back last night to tell me that, when he'd gotten home, his wife and children were gone, captured by raiders of the Fish Bone tribe. With a little research, I discovered they were aboard the _Maelstrom_. I supposed I could have negotiated only their release but... " He sighed deeply. "If you know who I am, you know who my father was. You know how he made his fortune." He tapped his fingers nervously on the map before him. "If I could stop this damned trade by giving up every last moon I've inherited, I would."
She nodded, certain this was true. A great sadness filled her as she thought of the future. In her time, slaves would still be a commodity bought and sold in Commonground. Judicious wouldn't come up with a plan to stop it. Perhaps individuals could be saved, either with violence or with coins, but in the long run, there was money to be made. If there was one thing she remembered about the world of the long-men, it was that nothing took priority over money.
Judicious shook off his angst, summoning a smile when he looked back at her. "You're connected to the Jawa Fruit people, are you? I'm surprised Parrot didn't mention someone with your, uh, striking appearance."
"The word you're looking for is inhuman," she said.
"Nonsense," he said. "You saw Paw-Paw out front. Half man, half bear. I employ many half-seeds. I find their lot in life to be a cruel one. I take what small actions I can to ease their burden."
"That's admirable," she said. "And no... I'm... I'm not associated with the Jawa Fruit people." She almost added, "not anymore," but stopped herself. It would have been more accurate to say, "not yet," but even this felt wrong. Separated in time by at least half a century, she suspected she'd never go home again.
"So, what tribe are you from?" he asked.
"None," she said. "I have no home. My future... lies here in Commonground."
"Good luck with that," he said. "I'm tied up here for a long time as well. I swear by the sacred quill, there are days when I'm tempted to toss my money in the bay, strip off my clothes, and go live out my days in the trees."
"I might have a more use of your money than the bay would," she said.
"Of course, my little Black Swan," said Judicious. "If you find yourself in need of funds, know that my purse is always open."
They shook hands. He studied her face, looking puzzled by her expression. She was lost in thought She knew so much of the future, and yet so little. She alone knew, years from now, that the world would face total destruction. Perhaps with her grandfather's fortune and the better part of a century to prepare, she had the resources she'd need to stop it.
# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
# STRANGE ALLIANCES
"This is your craziest lie yet," said Infidel.
The Black Swan studied her mother's face. She wasn't surprised by her incredulity.
"I know this isn't easy to accept," said the Black Swan. "I apologize for hiding the truth from you all these years."
Infidel looked back through the trees. "My daughter's back in the village right now."
"Truly? You saw her this morning?"
Infidel frowned. "I didn't have a chance to look for her."
"Go," said the Black Swan. "Find her."
Infidel's face showed her worry as she darted into the shadows of the dense forest. The Black Swan followed, taking care to avoid the traps that lay in her path. When she reached the ground beneath the village, Infidel leapt down, landing in a crouch. She sprung up with a growl, driving her full weight into the Black Swan's torso, slamming her against a tree.
"Where is she?" Infidel demanded.
"Right about now? Probably still in Hell. Though maybe she's reached the Sea of Wine. I need you to help me find her."
"I swear to the Divine Author that if you've hurt her—"
"I am her," said the Black Swan. "Think back. I've always known your every secret."
"So you've got telepaths on your payroll."
"The last time you saw me as Cinder, I was going to gather honey. You were going to find a troop of monkeys that had been playing at the edge of our territory."
"Information you could have gotten from Cinder if you've kidnapped her."
"I suppose that's true. And, I suppose you'll be skeptical when I tell you that Ver never really went away. He came back at sunset yesterday, and persuaded me to go with him."
"Cinder wouldn't be that foolish. I warned her he was dangerous."
"You warned me of lots of things," said the Black Swan. "You treated me like a child. Ver played off my resentment toward you. He kept telling me I was an adult who could make my own decisions."
"Really?" Infidel said, sounding amused. "How'd that work out for you, if you're her and she's in Hell right now?"
"I'm not saying I made the right choice."
Infidel let go of the Black Swan and stepped back.
"I don't believe you," she said.
"Nor would I expect you to, given our history. Fortunately, you have the ability to verify my story. Draw your sword."
"How do you know about the sword?" Infidel looked at her fiercely, on the verge of anger, then her face softened. "Okay, don't answer that. I know what you're going to tell me. Big deal. You know I have a sword given to me by Greatshadow."
"A sword of flame, through which we can talk to him."
"Talk to him?" Infidel asked. "The sword just burns stuff."
"He hears whispers through every candle flame," said the Black Swan. "Our voices through the sword will be a shout."
Infidel nodded, then placed her hand upon the hilt. The Black Swan watched closely as Infidel drew the sword. It wasn't her imagination; fire filled Infidel's eyes as the sword cleared the hilt, not mere reflection, but a deep, internal flame.
"Do you feel different when you hold the blade?" she asked.
Infidel nodded. "Hot, mostly. There's also a feeling of, I don't know, lightness? Like my body weighs less than it should. It's like I've got some of my old strength back. And look..." She ran her fingers through the crackling flames, turning her hand to and fro, letting it linger in the yellow intensity of the blaze. "Fire doesn't hurt me."
"Are you invulnerable?"
Infidel shrugged. "I honestly don't want to know."
"Don't want to know?" the Black Swan asked.
"Life out here in the jungle can be a little, um, monotonous. If I had my old powers again, I might be tempted to make life more exciting. That wouldn't set a very good example for my daughter."
"Cinder wouldn't begrudge you an exciting life," said the Black Swan.
"No. But she might try to emulate it."
"Would that truly have been so bad, letting her pursue the sort of adventures you undertook when you were young?"
Infidel sighed. "Look, I didn't exactly choose a life of adventure. I was trying to get out of an arranged marriage, and next thing I know I'm running for my life with armies of religious zealots hot of my heels. I didn't come to the Isle of Fire looking for excitement. I came here to save my skin. Then I met Stagger and, well, stuff happened. Some stuff was good. Other stuff was terrible beyond all words. I want to spare Cinder some of the grief I've known."
"You didn't succeed," said the Black Swan.
Infidel looked hurt. The Black Swan felt old anger stir within her. She'd always wondered if her life might have turned out differently if her mother hadn't kept her so ignorant of the larger world. It was as if her mother had groomed her to be the perfect target for Numinous and Ver.
She didn't give voice to these feelings. Instead, she looked deeply into her mother's eyes, into the flames that danced within them.
"What?" Infidel asked.
"Greatshadow," said the Black Swan. "He's already here."
The twin flames within Infidel's eyes flickered.
"Dragon!" said the Black Swan. "We must speak. You know why."
Infidel opened her mouth. But, when she spoke, it wasn't her voice that came from her throat. Instead, her voice was a crackling roar, like a bonfire.
"I know you," the fire voice said.
"Yes," said the Black Swan. "You've known me since before I was born."
Infidel nodded.
"Mother said you'd made a bargain with my father. I was to be raised on the Isle of Fire. Why?"
"You know why," answered Greatshadow.
"No," she said. "I don't. Tell me."
"As you wish. I knew that, as the child of a living mother and a dead father, you'd be born with the power to travel between the realms of life and death. If Infidel had returned to raise you in more civilized lands, your early trips to the abstract realms would have taken you to Hell. The wicked things that dwell there would have devoured an innocent soul that came among them. By growing up among pygmies, you made your early journeys to the Realm of Roots, a much less dangerous landscape."
"Why was it important to you that I survive? What did you see in my future?"
Infidel shook her head. "I'm a dragon, not a prophet. I didn't know your fate. But, I know a thing or two about keeping a fire burning. Only a fool waits until a snowy night to hunt for fuel."
"So... I'm firewood. Something placed in store, to await a time when I might be useful."
"A time of cold and darkness," said Greatshadow. "And now, that time is upon us."
"A cold and darkness you've allowed. Why did you withdraw your protection from the civilized world? Why allow Hush and Tempest to ravish the earth?"
"With the Church of the Book in disarray, civilization was destined to crumble. As it's done so, the number of tended fires around the world has dwindled. Tempest has tempted me many times, promising to use his lighting to keep forests constantly ablaze should I help him. I've resisted his advances."
"This isn't always the case," said the Black Swan. "Once, I managed to have Infidel kill Numinous Pilgrim when he was still twelve. I thought the world was safe, but in that timeline Stagger never joined his soul with the sun. When Glorious was slain by Abyss, you allied yourself with Tempest to turn the world into a place of permanent flame."
"You must judge me as I am, not as I may have been in other histories."
"I'd feel better if you'd put up more of fight against your fellow dragons."
"As I weaken, I've little choice but to let Tempest and Hush cleanse the world of the old kingdoms. From the ruins, I hope the humans I've sheltered may build a new and better world."
"Why do you think Hush and Tempest will allow this?" asked the Black Swan.
"I've allies of my own, who will work to drive back the cold and the storm once they've vented their fury," said Greatshadow. Then, Infidel shook her head. "Though... with one less ally than I'd planned."
"Abyss," said the Black Swan. "You didn't count on him falling under the control of Hush."
"Abundant and Stagger remain committed to my cause. Kragg remains neutral; whether men live or die matters nothing to him. I don't believe he'll interfere with my plans. And, though time grows short, I've taken steps to ensure we shall have one more ally."
"It's not just you who must be weaker. With so many animals perishing, doesn't Abundant suffer as well?"
"Yes. Fortunately, Stagger remains strong."
"Stagger isn't a warrior at heart," said the Black Swan.
"True. But Tempest's army of the damned falls back from his radiance."
"Don't you think Tempest is aware of this vulnerability to his armies?" asked the Black Swan. "He must be planning to somehow neutralize Stagger's threat."
"I'm certain this is true," said Greatshadow. "It's important to our plan, in fact. As long as Tempest remains in Hell, we cannot harm him. But if he leaves Hell to strike a blow against Stagger, he'll be vulnerable."
"I hope you're right," the Black Swan said. "But I'm here to talk to you about an even greater danger. All your plans won't matter in the end, once the One True Book is read."
"The One True Book is gone," said Greatshadow. "Lost forever in limbo."
"Forever turned out to be shorter than you imagined," said the Black Swan. "The book is no longer in limbo. The Omega Reader has it. If we don't stop him, there will be no world at all to rebuild."
"If a candle or lantern is lit to read the One True Book, I'll see it," said Greatshadow. "If read in sunlight, or in the presence of a glorystone, Stagger will see it."
The Black Swan pressed her iron lips tightly together. She'd witnessed the reading of the book. She remembered a pale green light. A candle within a lantern of tinted glass? If so, why hadn't Greatshadow intervened? If only she could remember where the light had come from.
Light.
Suddenly, hope flickered within her.
Infidel's stance changed. Her eyes focused on the flaming sword in her grasp.
"Okay," she said, in her normal voice. "What just happened?"
"Greatshadow possessed you. We had a little talk. You don't remember?"
Infidel shook her head.
"I'll fill you in on what he told me later," said the Black Swan. "But, he did explain why he wanted me raised on the Isle of Fire, confirming that I'm your daughter."
"In a conversation I don't remember," said Infidel with a smirk. "Convenient."
"It doesn't matter if you believe me or not. All that matters is that you let me speak to Stagger."
"What?"
"The key," said the Black Swan, "is Brand Cooper. Wherever he is, Stagger can see him!"
Infidel's brow wrinkled. "Brand? I know that name. Gale Romer's boyfriend?"
The Black Swan nodded. "Though, when I last did business with Brand, they apparently were no longer romantically involved. Still, when the Romers showed up in Hell to confront Numinous Pilgrim, Brand was with them."
"This helps us how?"
"This helps because Brand has a glorystone set into a locket. This means, no matter where he's at, Stagger can find him if he focuses on the stone. You must let me speak to him."
Infidel looked confused.
"You are... on speaking terms?" asked the Black Swan.
"Not for a long time," said Infidel.
"When I was little, whenever I played in the sun, you told me he was always present in the light, watching us."
Infidel sighed, running her fingers along the back of her neck. "Maybe. I honestly don't know. I don't know if he watches me anymore."
"But... his love for you was so powerful, so pure...."
"That was a long time ago. And, sure, we swore that our love was eternal. The same sweet, heartfelt promises that lovers throughout the ages have whispered to each other." Infidel sheathed her flaming sword as she spoke. "But then he died, and I kept living."
"He didn't die, he went to live—"
"—inside the sun. Whatever. Other dead people go to the Realm of Roots, or the Sea of Wine. Stagger's moved on." She looked up at the sparkling rays of light that filtered through the canopy. "The past is past. The future is the only way forward."
"There'll be no future without Stagger's help," said the Black Swan.
"So... what? I'm supposed to yell at the sun and ask for help?"
"Do you have another plan?"
"That seems suspiciously like praying."
"I suppose it does."
"I was Stagger's wife," said Infidel, crossing her arms. "Not his worshipper."
"The entire world rests on you seeking his help."
A hand fell onto the Black Swan's shoulder.
"She doesn't need to ask for help," said a masculine voice. "I was her worshiper, not the other way around."
"Stagger," Infidel whispered, her face growing pale.
The Black Swan turned to find her father standing beside her. He looked just as she remembered from the years she'd known him in Commonground, only a good deal cleaner. He wore a suit of luminous white fabric, much finer than silk. In life, he'd always been scruffy, but now he was clean shaven, with his hair pulled back into a white ponytail. He wore dark glasses, seemingly forged of solid iron. She didn't know how he saw around them, then realized he didn't need his eyes to see. Anything and everything touched by sunlight was in his vision.
Infidel stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. "Oh Stagger," she whispered. "You were listening?"
"More like lip-reading. Part of me is always watching you, at least by day." He hugged her tightly as he spoke.
"Why have you been away for so long?" she whispered. "If you could come back...?"
He shook his head. "It's... it's hard for me to be here. I've gotten better at forming avatars over the years, but it's still... unsettling. I'm here before you, but I'm also inside the sun. The price I pay for looking like a man is to increase my awareness that I'm no longer human."
Infidel nodded, pulling away, but still holding his hand. "Thank you for coming. I know this isn't easy."
Stagger turned to the Black Swan. "You're Cinder, huh?"
"You believe me?"
"It's obvious, in retrospect."
"I wish I'd never had to reveal this to you."
"Why?" asked Stagger.
"I'm not proud to be the cause of so much death and destruction. I'm the—"
"Hold on," said Infidel. "Don't blame yourself for what's happening with Hush and Tempest. You're trying to stop it." Then she turned and jabbed her finger into Stagger's chest. "But you. You! Why are you letting them destroy everything?"
Stagger floated backward in the air, beyond the reach of another chest jabbing. "It's not that simple."
"Then give me a complicated answer," she said. "How could you let this happen?"
"Because I love you," he said.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I've hidden the Isle of Fire by shifting the light around it. Tempest and Hush can't find it. But Kragg doesn't need light to know you're here. Kragg hates me, viewing me as an interloper, a fraud wielding an elemental power that should belong to a dragon. He isn't fully aligned with Hush and Tempest, but he's warned me that if I ever raise my hand against another dragon, he'll shrug and plunge the Isle of Fire into the sea. This threat meant nothing when Greatshadow was strong, but now I don't know if he could defend the island."
"So you're letting Kragg bully you?"
"I'm playing strategically. I'm surrendering territory in the short term, but plan to take it back later. Only, if I've lip read your conversation correctly, there isn't going to be a later because the Omega Reader is going to end the world."
"But you can help us stop him," said the Black Swan. "You can find Brand Cooper."
"And then?"
"And then he's on Gale Romer's ship, which is either in Hell or in the Sea of Wine. When I fled Hell with Numinous, we wound up in the Sea of Wine. I nearly drowned. We had to rest before we came back to the material world."
Stagger nodded. "I could get to the Sea of Wine without needing the Romers. It's as easy for me to travel to an abstract realm as to the living world. Unfortunately, I'm practically blind in the Sea of Wine. The sun is permanently below the horizon. I won't have any way of seeing Numinous unless I'm pretty close to him. A few miles, at least."
"Once we find the _Circus_ , Sage can spot Numinous," said the Black Swan.
Stagger raised his eyebrows. "That's brilliant. So we ambush Numinous—"
"—and destroy the book," said Infidel.
"Um... no," said Stagger.
"Why not?"
"In theory, everything that's ever been and ever will be are inside that book. We can't know the full ramifications of destroying it."
"We'll worry about that after we find it," said the Black Swan. "Right now, time grows short." She offered her hands to both Stagger and Infidel. "Are you ready?"
"Ready," they said in unison, as they took their daughter's hands.
All the pygmies had returned to the ship by the time Sorrow got Slate's body secured in the hold. She walked past them, deaf to their murmurs. She was vaguely aware of walking past Jetsam.
"Sorrow," he said.
She didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge him. She knew all that he had to say. All the Romers would find time in the coming hours to tell her they were sorry for her loss. She didn't want or need their sympathy. People died. Those left behind mourned. There was nothing noteworthy about her grief. It was a common, valueless thing, unworthy of her time. The only thing remaining in the world that held any importance at all was revenge.
As she went up the stairs to the deck, she saw the storm clouds of Hell roiling overhead. She saw in them a reflection of her own mind, dark, angry, and ready to throw lightning. She opened the bag of nails she'd collected from the cage of bone. The bright glow that lit her face gave her hope. She'd need every advantage when next they encountered Numinous. When she'd first set out to become a weaver, it often took her months to fully tap into the power of a new nail. She had only hours. Fortunately, she had three advantages. First, she wasn't a novice. She very likely knew more about the art of weaving than any other living witch. Second, she now knew bone magic. If the placement of the nail wasn't perfect, she could heal more quickly than she used to. As for her third and most important advantage....
"Sage!" she called out as she looked around the deck.
"Up here," Sage called down from the crow's nest.
Sorrow climbed the riggings, moving as swiftly as her exhaustion would allow.
"It's just as well you're up here," she said as she reached the crow's nest. "I want to speak to you in private."
"In that case, we should wait until Mako's asleep."
"The matter's too urgent to wait," said Sorrow. She emptied the bag of nails into her hand, trapping the glorystone nail between her fingers so it wouldn't float away. "I need you to hammer these into my head."
"Uh," said Sage.
"When we fight Numinous again, I need to have all my powers."
"You fought him before with all your powers, plus the power of Rott. He beat you without breaking a sweat."
"We didn't know who we were up against when we first fought him. Even though he's achieved something close to human perfection, he's still only a man. We've seen him slip up. Rigger caught him off guard, and Mako got in a good hit, and—"
"And the second the element of surprise was lost, Numinous got away."
"Exactly. He ran. He's afraid. If he faces me at full power, he doesn't stand a chance,"
Sage picked up an iron nail. "I suppose, if I don't help you, you'll try to do it yourself."
Sorrow nodded.
Before they could discuss the matter further, Jetsam called out from below, "By the tides!"
"Company," said Sage, looking into her spyglass.
Sorrow looked down on a trio of figures. Even though she saw only the tops of their heads, she recognized the darkest of the three forms instantly. "It's the Black Swan!"
"Her aura resembles that of the girl who was with Numinous," said Sage. "And the woman who's with her... it's Infidel! The man... I can't see clearly. His aura's too bright to look at directly."
"Stagger," said Sorrow. "It's Stagger, back in human form."
"I think you're right," said Sage. She stood and called out, "Rigger!" Instantly, a rope swung from below. Sage leapt to it without hesitation. Sorrow felt this would be a foolish way to die, but jumped for the rope anyway. The rope carried them swiftly to the deck, where the trio of new arrivals found themselves surrounded by the Romers.
"Wow," Infidel said, looking from face to face. "You guys haven't aged a day in twenty years."
"Being trapped in limbo does wonders for your skin," said Jetsam.
"I'm glad to see Walker helped guide you out," said Stagger.
"Right. That guy," said Bigsby. "How exactly do you know him?"
Stagger shrugged. "I don't get a lot of visitors in the sun. Walker shows up occasionally. We chat. In general, I don't understand a damn thing he says."
"Yeah, that's him," said Bigsby. "Been a long time, Stagger. Good to see you."
"You did say you were buying, right?" Stagger grinned. Then his face took on a harder look. "We need you to take us to the Sea of Wine, so that Sage can find Numinous Pilgrim. I plan to blast him to smithereens."
"You can blast people to smithereens?" asked Infidel.
"The part that impressed me was that he managed to say it in so few words," said Bigsby.
Stagger shrugged. "This might be the first time we've talked when I was sober. I'm less prone to sesquipedalianism when I'm not drinking. And, yes, I can disintegrate things just by glaring at them."
"Make sure you don't disintegrate our daughter by accident," said Infidel.
"Your daughter?" asked Sorrow. "The girl with Numinous? The one with ebony skin?"
"Cinder," said Infidel.
"Cinder is your younger self?" Sage asked the Black Swan.
"That's something of a leap, isn't it?" asked Rigger.
"Not if you can see auras," said Sage.
"That can't be true. The Black Swan was doing business in Commonground before I was born," said Bigsby.
The Black Swan said, "My life isn't easy to explain. The short answer is I've discovered a way to travel back in time."
"But how can you and Cinder exist at the same time?" asked Sorrow, eying the Black Swan carefully. There was no question this was the body she'd built, despite the damage to the face. "I mean, if you've been in Commonground while Cinder was living only a few miles away... the paradoxes..."
"The paradoxes exist," said the Black Swan with a shrug. "Usually, when I go back in time, I take the place of my old self. But I think that, until Cinder makes her first trip back in time, her personal timeline doesn't create conflicts with mine. That said, I've taken care not to have direct contact with her before now, since I wasn't sure what the ramifications might be."
"So finding her might be dangerous?" asked Infidel.
"We have to take the chance. I've seen death and destruction play out before my eyes more times than I can count. I'll risk anything to finally stop it."
Gale had been listening silently. Now, she spoke. "I don't think there's anything further to debate. Numinous killed our friend. He intends to destroy the world. We'll do anything in our power to stop him."
"Take us to the Sea of Wine at once," said the Black Swan. "We may be nearly out of time.
Gale knelt and placed her hand on the deck. The planks glowed faintly as a red light swept across the _Circus_. There was a blast of wind and a powerful, heady smell of wine. Stagger stumbled as the boat rocked, nearly falling over, until Infidel grabbed him by the arm.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He turned his face toward the sky. "The eternal sunset... it drains me."
"Then Hell should have killed you," said Rigger. "It's permanently night there."
Stagger nodded. "I didn't feel great there, either, but the ship wasn't pitching in the waves. Don't worry. Even at a fraction of my strength, I'm more than a match for Numinous."
Infidel grabbed a rope to steady herself then took Stagger by the arm. "My sea legs aren't much better. It's been a long time since I was on a ship."
"Fortunately, I can help both of us," said Stagger, wrapping his arm around her waist. His glow intensified slightly and they rose off the deck.
"Much better," said Infidel, smiling. "It feels exactly like flying with the Gloryhammer."
"My whole body is a glorystone," said Stagger.
"You look fleshy enough," she said.
He shook his head. "I'm manipulating the light around me to present a human appearance. My true form is more crystalline."
Infidel squeezed his biceps. "You're not kidding. I noticed it when I poked your chest, but thought you'd been exercising. You're hard as a rock."
"Harder than rock by a significant degree," he said.
"Found them!" Sage said, gazing into her spyglass. She pointed away from the reddest part of the horizon, toward the darkest part of the sky. "That way. Unfortunately, they're hundreds of miles away. Even with the fastest wind mother can summon, we might not reach them in time."
"I can reach them," said Stagger.
"I'm coming with you," said Infidel.
"Me too," said Sorrow.
Stagger shook his head, studying Sorrow's bruised face. "I can carry two people, but I don't know if you're the best choice. Numinous beat you pretty badly."
The Black Swan stepped forward. "I know you're hungry for vengeance, Sorrow, but I should go."
"No offense, but you don't stand a chance against him," said Sorrow. "You're already damaged."
"Only my face. My body's intact."
"I know your limits better than you probably do," said Sorrow. "You can't begin to match his speed and agility."
"Let him strike me as many times as he wishes," said the Black Swan. "He can't harm me with his fists. Plus, over the years, I've made improvements." She held up her long fingernails. "Poison needles in my fingers, for instance."
"Sorry, Sorrow," said Stagger. "The Black Swan's right. Facing him with the most powerful fighters we have is our best chance."
"Then why take Infidel?" asked Sorrow. "She has no powers at all anymore."
"I've got a kick-ass flaming sword and more experience killing people than the rest of you combined," said Infidel.
"If she wants to go, she goes," Stagger said, sounding apologetic. "I'm not crazy enough to say no to her."
"It's true," said Infidel. "It's the main reason I fell in love with him."
Sorrow crossed her arms and turned away, making no effort to hide her seething anger as she stomped toward the hold leading below deck.
Stagger rook the Black Swan's outstretched hand and they all rose into the air. "Point me toward them, Sage. In this dim light, I can't make out anything beyond a few miles. Once I'm close, I should be able to spot him."
Sage pointed, Stagger turned, and they zoomed off.
# CHAPTER NINETEEN
# ANIMAL SPIRITS
"Can you breathe?" Stagger shouted over the rushing wind.
The Black Swan tried to answer, but her vocal reeds lacked the volume to be heard above the roar. Certainly he knew she didn't need to breathe anymore. The query must have been directed toward Infidel.
Infidel nodded, but her cheeks glistened with tears.
"I'm fine," she said, as Stagger slowed his flight. "The wind's just stinging my eyes."
The Black Swan tried once more to speak. She could barely hear the squeaking of her voice. "We need a strategy."
"I'm listening," said Stagger.
"Our first target should be me," she said.
"I could drop you right now."
"I mean the younger me, Cinder. When we first reached Rott, I was disoriented. Numinous gave me time to clear my head. But, if we'd been attacked, I could probably have made a leap between worlds, though I don't know where we might have wound up with my head spinning."
"But you can follow her, right?" asked Stagger.
"Even if I could guess which realm she leaping to, a few steps difference when passing into the veil can lead to our emerging hundreds of miles apart. We can't let her leap."
"She not going to run from me," said Infidel.
"I'm not sure of that," said the Black Swan.
Infidel frowned. "My daughter trusts me."
"Yes," said the Black Swan. "And she loves you very much. But, at this time in her life... in my life... our feelings toward you weren't entirely positive."
"She's never said anything to indicate she has a problem with how I'm raising her."
"The fact that you still think you're raising her is at the heart of the problem. She's nineteen, and you treat her as if she were nine," said the Black Swan.
"You don't know what you're talking about," said Infidel. "I let her go hunting alone. I don't watch her from the shadows when she goes to collect honey, the way I did when she was younger. She's well on her way to being an independent woman."
"Hunting and honey gathering only get you so far in this world," said the Black Swan.
"They're skills you need to thrive in the jungle."
"There's more to the world than the jungle."
"Technically," said Stagger, "at this exact moment, there really isn't much world left outside the jungle. Everywhere else is a frozen wasteland under siege by the vengeful dead."
Infidel smirked. "My parenting strategy looks pretty good right now."
"You did what you thought was best," said the Black Swan. "But I found my education lacking when I went to live in the long-man's world."
"What was she supposed to do?" said Stagger. "I mean, what sort of advice could she have given you on how to become the unofficial queen of Commonground?"
"Yeah," said Infidel. "I think I should get some credit for never teaching you the skills you'd need to one day run a brothel."
"I can't expect you to approve of my choices," said the Black Swan. "Mere survival in the long-man's world wasn't an option. I needed the power to change the future. I had to thrive. In Commonground, you rule either by having people fear you, or by having people dependent upon you to supply their darkest vices."
"So you did both," said Stagger. "Speaking of being afraid, why in the world did you threaten to kill me all those times I didn't pay my tab?"
"A bluff, obviously," said the Black Swan. "I treated both of you as well as I dared. I couldn't show a hint of affection toward either of you. If my enemies suspected I valued your lives, you'd have become targets. Just know that another man who betrayed me repeatedly would have wound up in the bay with an anchor around his neck."
"I always made good eventually," said Stagger. He turned his face toward hers. "I may be misjudging your facial expressions, since I'm not used to looking at iron lips. Are you frowning?"
"I don't like talking about your years in Commonground," said the Black Swan.
"Why not?" asked Stagger. "Those were pretty good years."
The Black Swan groaned, though her vocal reeds produced only a light squawk.
"What was that?" Stagger asked.
"That," the Black Swan said, "was my frustration seeping through."
"Frustration?" asked Stagger. "Why?"
"Why?" she asked, incredulous. "You obviously disapprove of my behavior as the Black Swan."
"It's just... I don't..." Stagger's voice trailed off.
"If he won't say it, I will," said Infidel. "I know you were faced with terrible choices. I believe you really are trying to save the world. But it's still hard to reconcile that you're my child. I did everything I could to make sure Cinder would never care about wealth or power. Now you're boasting about dumping bodies in the damn bay? If you're my daughter... I wish you'd found a better way."
"Perhaps you should have set better examples."
Infidel said, "In the jungle, I raised you to—"
The Black Swan cut her off. "When I was a child, you played the role of mother as well as you could. You forget that I also know of all those years you lived in Commonground. You're unhappy that I've dumped people into the bay? I watched you return from mercenary assignments wearing necklaces of human teeth. And the people you killed got off lucky. I can name a hundred men you maimed and mangled. If I'm ruthless, mother, it runs in my blood."
Infidel pressed her lips together, plainly angry, but holding her tongue.
"As for you, father—" said the Black Swan.
"I know," he said.
"Do you?"
Stagger nodded. "You knew me as a drunk, with, shall we say, a lackadaisical attitude toward honest employment. You've heard me lie. You've heard me beg. You paid me for loot that I freely admitted to stealing. I can't imagine you were proud of me."
"Then you lack imagination," she said. "It's true, your excesses often pained me. Still, I admired that you were a man of keen intelligence in a city of brutes, a man more comfortable holding a book than a knife. More importantly, I saw your unfailing kindness in a city where cruelty was the most common commodity. Yes, it grieved me to see you drowning your demons with liquor, but, more often than you'll believe, I was proud. And, mother, for all your violence, for all your swaggering roughness, I stood in awe of your unbreakable spirit. Despite your public show of recklessness, I admired your restraint. You had the strength to topple kingdoms, but never gave into the seduction of becoming a conqueror."
"I never felt the slightest temptation," said Infidel. "Who would want to rule the world?"
"I've tried to do so from the shadows," said the Black Swan. "You know my reasons."
"As do I," said Infidel. "And they're good ones. It's lucky you didn't take after me. My cynicism about the world led me to withdraw from it. I heard rumors of the world falling apart and shrugged them off. You didn't have that luxury. Whether we win this fight or not, I'm proud of you."
"We have to win this fight," said the Black Swan.
Infidel cracked her knuckles. "If I understand things correctly, here in the Sea of Wine, I can punch Ver?"
"Yes," said the Black Swan.
"Excellent," said Infidel with a smile.
"There's the warrior I knew," said the Black Swan. She paused. "We have to be the world's strangest family.
Stagger's forward momentum suddenly halted. They hung still in the air.
"Found them," he said. "I see them. They're on Rott's back. Cinder's lying on her side, her eyes closed. Numinous is sitting next to her. And there's Ver, hovering next to him. I thought you said he'd be solid here?"
"Ver knows a few tricks about navigating the abstract realms, but he should still be punchable. Mother, you take him. Stagger, Numinous might be the perfect human, but he's still flesh and blood. You should finish him easily. I'll make sure Cinder can't help them."
"Sounds like we have a plan," said Stagger.
"Let's do it," said Infidel.
"Take a deep breath," Stagger said to Infidel. "Press your face into my chest to protect it. We're going to move fast."
The Black Swan scanned the horizon. At this distance, from this height, she could see perhaps twenty miles or more. She couldn't make out Rott's form upon the distant waves. Could Stagger fly fast enough to cover so many miles in the time Infidel could hold her breath?
The pink sky and the red sea blurred. A loud boom rattled every joint in her iron body. Then, though only a second had passed, she found herself standing on an island of dull black scales, with clouds of flies swirling around her as she stumbled to keep her footing.
She saw Numinous lift his face toward the flash of light that accompanied Stagger's movements. He reached his hand toward Cinder, touching her shoulder.
"Stand away from her," Stagger barked.
Cinder stirred, rubbing her eyes.
"Blast him," Infidel said as she pulled her face from Stagger's chest and turned to see what was happening.
"I can't while he's so close to Cinder," Stagger whispered.
"Let me put a little distance between them," said Infidel, lunging forward, drawing her flaming sword.
"This isn't the plan!" said the Black Swan.
Infidel shouted, "Hey! Golden Child! Remember me?"
Numinous grinned. "The woman who pretended to be a machine!" He glanced at the Black Swan. "In the company of a machine who pretends to be a woman." With his hand still on Cinder's shoulder, he hissed, "We need to leave!"
"Don't listen to him!" Infidel shouted, now only a few yards away.
"Mother?" Cinder asked, furrowing her brow.
Infidel swung her blade with both hands, slicing the air above Cinder's head. Numinous, alas, was nowhere near the path of the sword. He ducked beneath the blow, diving past Infidel. He planted both hands on the ground and kicked back, driving his heels hard into her back. The blow knocked her from her feet, sending her sliding across the slimy scales.
Numinous bounced to his feet. He glanced back to Cinder, who rose on trembling legs.
"Get ready to get us out of here," he growled, eyeing the bag that held the One True Book, sitting a few yards away.
"But, my mother," said Cinder, completely bewildered.
"Yet another demon, child," said Ver, floating in the air above her. "Flee at once!"
"Don't listen to him," the Black Swan shouted.
"You!" Cinder said, her eyes growing wide as she recognized the woman who'd attacked her in the Temple of Flame. She ran toward Numinous, stretching her arm to grab him.
Before she reached him, Stagger removed his dark iron glasses. Cinder skid to a halt, raising her hand to block the blinding ray of light that stabbed the ground where Numinous had just stood. The ground crackled and hissed as foul fumes filled the air.
Stagger slid his glasses back on. The radiance faded, revealing a large hole in the ground, leading into the dark cavity within Rott's rib cage. Twenty feet behind the pit, untouched by the blast, stood Numinous, who'd jumped away at the last second, landing where the Witchbreaker sat next to the backpack that held the One True Book. He grabbed the sword as Stagger once more raised his glasses. A second flash of light vaporized the ground. When the flash cleared, Numinous had jumped clear, leaping toward the first hole Stagger had blasted in Rott's hide. With a final somersault he vanished into the darkness.
"Fast little bugger, isn't he?" said Stagger.
"I thought you were faster!" said the Black Swan.
"Is he telepathic?" asked Stagger. "It's like he sees what I'm going to do before I do it."
"He's watching your body language," said the Black Swan. "He sees where you're going to strike."
"That can be rectified," said Stagger as he drifted over the pit where Numinous had disappeared. The light shimmered around him and he vanished. His disembodied voice said, "I can bend light around me, though the precaution's probably not necessary. I've held back so I wouldn't hurt anyone else. I can hit him with a broader blast if the rest of you aren't near. He won't be able to dodge that." His voice sank into the dark interior as he spoke.
"Cinder," Infidel said as she made it back to her feet and ran toward her daughter. "Are you all right?"
"Run, Cinder. Run away!" cried Ver, still hovering in the air. "She's not who she appears to be!"
Cinder didn't run away. She instead ran toward her mother. The two of them threw their arms around each other.
"Mother," Cinder said, "it's really you!"
"It's not!" screamed Ver. "It's a devil who's taken her form!"
"I see her aura," said Cinder to the Truthspeaker, sounding annoyed. "You think I don't recognize my own mother?"
"You little fool," said Ver. "Listen to me—"
"It's time for you to shut up," said the Black Swan, stepping forward. She held her hand out, opening her iron fingers to reveal a tiny glittering object.
"No," whispered Ver as his eyes fixed on the delicately made silver mosquito that rose from her palm.
"I take it you're familiar with soul catchers," said the Black Swan. "A master necromancer named Mama Knuckle crafted this one for me. I've been waiting a long time to get it close to you, Ver."
Ver didn't answer. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the red clouds above and shot upward swifter than an arrow from a bow. The mosquito's golden wings buzzed as it took off in pursuit.
"That's one problem dealt with," said the Black Swan. "The soul catcher will either capture him, or keep him running for eternity."
"What's going on?" Cinder asked, staring at the Black Swan. "Mother, who is this woman?"
"A friend," said Infidel. "The Black Swan."
"A friend? I thought you hated her!"
"We've reconciled," said Infidel. "We're here save you."
"Save me?" asked Cinder. "What danger was I in?"
"For starters, you nearly drowned in the Sea of Wine and your boyfriend is the Omega Reader."
Cinder crossed her arms. "He's decidedly not my boyfriend. He was in danger of drowning. I saved his life. Then this woman attacked us, killed Brother Wing, and we had to run."
"You killed Brother Wing?" asked Infidel, looking sideways at the Black Swan.
"You can't take half measures with a dragon," said the Black Swan. "Cinder, I wasn't there to hurt you. I was there to stop Numinous from talking you into going to Hell."
"Numinous? You mean Luminous?"
"He's lied to you this whole time," said Infidel.
"That's impossible," said Cinder. "I've seen his aura. There's not a hint of evil within it."
"You're right," said a voice behind them. "Nothing I do can be evil."
They turned to find Numinous climbing from the hole Stagger had blasted. He wore the backpack, but his hands were empty. Then, he knelt at the edge of the hole and leaned down. When he rose, a light followed him. It was Stagger's body, glowing dimly, save for a spike of pure darkness that jutted through the center of his chest, emerging from the spine. Numinous grabbed the hilt of the Witchbreaker and pulled it free, pushing Stagger's limp and lifeless body away. It drifted in the air, with all illusion of flesh gone, revealing the crystalline structure of the face and hands. His eyes, no longer hidden by the iron glasses, were empty sockets.
"Stagger!" Infidel cried, releasing her grip on Cinder.
"He can't hear you," said Numinous, glancing at the blade. "If I understand the workings of this thing, I've sent his soul to Hell. He's Tempest's toy now."
As he spoke, the endless sunset of the Sea of Wine faded to black. For the first time in eternity, the sky above it twinkled with stars.
"No!" Infidel cried, brandishing her flaming sword.
"Stop!" the Black Swan said, grabbing Infidel by the arm. "He'll kill you!"
Numinous nodded. "I'll kill her whether she attacks or not, unless Cinder agrees to take me back to the material realm."
"What?" asked Cinder. "Why? Why are you doing this?"
"Because, as you say, there's no hint of evil within me. I'm pure of heart, and pure of purpose. I exist to bring an end to falsehood and wickedness, to turn the final page on iniquity."
"To bring an end to falsehood?" Cinder scoffed. "You've lied to me this whole time!"
"It would be poor strategy to unilaterally disarm when doing battle with the lies of the world," said Numinous. "Now that you know who I am, let's be reasonable. We can make an honest bargain, devoid of any falsehood. Take me and the book back to the material world, and I won't kill your mother and send her soul to Hell."
"You can try," said Infidel, tearing her arm free of the Black Swan's grasp.
"You can't fight him," the Black Swan said firmly. "Especially not while he carries the Witchbreaker!"
"I've fought men with big swords before," said Infidel. "They don't impress me."
The Black Swan moved to grab Infidel once more, but the warrior woman moved faster than a jungle cat. She lunged at Numinous, swinging the sword of flames with her right hand. He parried her blade, then, as if he'd understood all along that her sword attack had been only a feint, he easily twisted his body from the path of a small knife she thrust toward his ribs with her left hand. He brought his elbow down hard on the back of her skull, but she rolled with the blow as she hit the ground. She was back on her feet in seconds, raising her blade to block the Witchbreaker. Unfortunately, Numinous also proved well-versed in the art of the feint. He drove his knee hard into Infidel's gut. Her face went pale as she stumbled backward, unable to breathe.
"Mother!" cried Cinder, rushing toward her side.
"Hands off," Numinous said, leaping up and kicking Cinder in the jaw. She fell backward, landing hard on the black scales. "When we leave, we leave together."
Cinder tried to rise, but he kicked her in the face once more. Her eyes fluttered shut as the blow robbed her of consciousness.
Infidel took advantage of his momentary focus on Cinder to once more charge Numinous. He turned to face her with time to spare. With his speed, he could easily have run her through with the Witchbreaker. Instead, he delivered a swift, sharp blow straight to her nose. Her sword flew from her grasp as she fell, completely limp.
Numinous turned to face the Black Swan. "I can't kill Infidel just yet. I need to carve her up until Cinder cooperates. But you? I don't see why I need you at all, whoever the hell you are."
"You don't know my identity?" the Black Swan asked, genuinely surprised. "I thought you could see the truth of anything."
"There are some poor souls so submerged in lies there's no longer any truth for me to see," said Numinous. "But you... you're a puzzle. Your aura is like nothing I've ever seen, chaotic and indistinct. There's something inhuman within you as well. Animal spirits, thousands of them. Curious."
The Black Swan held her hands to her side and let her razor sharp nails extend. "Curious and dangerous. You'll never defeat me, Numinous. I've had lifetimes to prepare to fight you. You don't even know who I am."
"I know you have a soul, however distorted it might be," said Numinous. "And I know I have the power to send it to Hell."
He raced toward her, raising the Witchbreaker overhead. He chopped it toward her. She raised her left hand and caught it. The force of the blow sent her thumb flying and dented the plate that formed her palm.
She swung her right hand toward him, her nails raking empty air as he ducked. He gave a loud cry and drove his shoulder into her iron belly, the force knocking her backward. She staggered, her feet skittering on the slick scales as she fought to keep her balance.
"That blow might have knocked the breath out of me, if I had lungs," she said.
Numinous kept his distance for the moment, rubbing his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. She knew he was looking for any point of weakness, in either body or soul.
He tossed the Witchbreaker aside. "An edged blade isn't the best weapon for a bloodless foe," he said. "And with your overlapping souls, who can say how much of you would be sent to Hell?"
"Hell holds no terror for me," said the Black Swan. As she said this she crouched, her spring-driven legs propelling her forward, her right hand outstretched, her nails dripping poison. He leaned from her path, reaching out to grab her wrist. He added his momentum to her and threw her face first on the scales. She slid down Rott's ribs, gaining speed as the slope grew deeper. Before her lay the Sea of Wine, and certain oblivion were she to vanish beneath its waves.
Fortunately, her fingernails weren't her only body part spring-loaded with sharp things. With a thought, spikes sprung from her knees and elbows, digging through Rott's flesh, scraping on bone. Her momentum halted and she rose, only to find Numinous standing before her. He now carried the small dagger Infidel had used. With an almost casual motion he reached out and jammed the tip into the joint of her right shoulder. He twisted and she lost all ability to move the arm. She swung her left hand toward him, nails extended, and he ducked beneath them, then rose and grabbed the arm by the wrist and threw his full weight against the joint of her elbow, taking care to avoid the long spike. There was a crack as her arm bent too far backward. The spring-loaded spike popped out of its mounting, and Numinous caught it before it fell. He danced to her side faster than she could turn her head. The next thing she knew she lost all command of her left leg as he drove the spike deep into the joint of her hip, popping the iron cable within free of the pulley it rode upon.
With a clatter, she fell to her side.
Numinous stood over her, a smile on his lips. "For someone who claims to have spent lifetimes preparing to fight me, you certainly haven't proven very good at it."
"Listen to me!" she said with a desperate squawk. "I've seen the end of the world! I know what happens when you read the One True Book. It's not falsehood that comes to an end. It's everything! You erase reality itself!"
"If that's the will of the Divine Author, so be it," said Numinous. He placed his foot on her torso and gave her a little nudge. She started sliding once more toward the Sea of Wine, with only her right leg still functioning. She tried desperately to halt herself, but it was luck alone that stopped her, as her hip dropped into a particularly large hole in Rott's decayed flesh.
Numinous loped down the slope toward her.
"Do you truly hate the world so much you'd end it?" she asked.
He placed his foot on her chest once more.
"I don't do this out of hate. It's my destiny to bring the story to an end." He eyed the waves, mere yards away. "Your story, it seems, ends here."
"Please!" she begged. "Listen to reason!"
"What's more reasonable that doing the thing I was born to do?" he asked. "Defying the will of the Divine Author is pointless. Farewell, my curious foe."
As he flexed his muscles to send her once more toward the waves she cried, "Wait! Are you really curious? Don't you want to know why there's more than one soul in my body?"
"Not really," he said. "It happens to the mad sometimes."
"But the animal spirits! Don't you want to understand how they got inside me?"
He smiled. "Anything worth understanding will be found within the pages of the One True Book."
Yet, despite his professed lack of curiosity, he didn't kick her into the wine. His eyes fixed on her face as he spotted the movement in her mouth. He furrowed his brow as a small brown head poked out from between her iron lips.
"A mouse?" he whispered. "That's your true form? A mouse?"
Then the mouse changed into a tiger. Numinous grew pale as he leapt backward. With the maximum speed that his perfect human legs could muster, he ran up the slope, putting distance between himself and the huge jungle cat.
Human speed, even maximum human speed, proved inadequate to the task. The tiger easily caught up in a single bound. Numinous rolled aside, scrambling on his hands and knees to reach the discarded Witchbreaker. He let out a cry of triumph as his fingers closed around the blade.
The tiger crushed him to the ground as it leapt onto his back. The beast's fore-claws hooked deeply into the man's ribs as glistening canine teeth sank into the man's neck. Numinous shrieked like a dying rabbit as the tiger twisted its mighty head. Numinous fell silent as his neck bent at an unnatural angle. The tiger dug its claws into the man's throat and raked, then raked again. With one final, savage jerk, it tore the man's head free. The tiger spat the head away. The head splashed into the waves and disappeared.
"Perfect man, meet average tiger," the tiger said, through bloodied jaws. The tiger rose onto its hind legs and turned into a chimp. The chimp clambered down the slippery slope to reach the Black Swan.
"He wasn't so tough," said Menagerie.
"Why'd you wait so long to attack?" she asked.
"When Stagger accelerated with such insane speed to get here, the shockwave rang your body like a bell. It proved a bit much for a mouse to endure, I fear. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes."
"You woke just in time," she said.
Menagerie dragged her up the slope, helping her sit next to the unconscious forms of Infidel and Cinder. The chimp's eyes carefully surveyed her dented and damaged arms. "What the hell did he hit you with? A sledgehammer?"
"His fists, mostly," she said. "I warned you we couldn't trifle with him."
"I took your warning seriously," Menagerie said. "Once I got into the fight, it was over in, what? Ten seconds? Fifteen, tops?"
"It felt like eternity to me. And why the tiger? You can turn into a dragon!"
"This didn't seem like a good moment to be trying new stuff. I've got decades of practice as a tiger."
"If you'd failed, the world would have fallen."
"Then it's a good thing I didn't fail," the chimp said, frowning. "What's it take to get a 'thank you, good job' out of you?"
"Thank you," she said. "Good job."
"So," said Menagerie, looking at Cinder. "This is her? The young you?"
The Black Swan nodded.
"And if we've stopped the end of the world, she's never going to run back in time and become you, right?"
"I suppose not."
"Then why the hell are you here?"
The Black Swan shrugged. "My entire history is a sequence of unresolved paradoxes. I don't dwell upon them. From my perspective, my continuity remains intact. It's only everyone else's reality I've altered. I've spared this timeline from destruction. At least, destruction by Numinous."
"We still have a dragon problem," said Menagerie.
"Yes. We need to free Abyss from Hush's grip and drive Tempest's army back into Hell," She glanced up at the stars. "And we'll be doing in in the dark, it seems. Stagger's a slave of Tempest now. We have to save him."
"So," said Menagerie. "Just another day at work, then."
Infidel groaned as she lifted her hands to her nose. She mumbled, "What hit me?" She sat up, looking toward Menagerie. She scratched her head. "A chimp? Why did I pick a fight with a chimp?"
"Hello, Infidel," said Menagerie.
"Okay. I'm not really awake." She cradled her head in her hands, then looked back at the chimp. "Wait. I get it. Hello, Menagerie. Where the hell did you come from?"
"He's been with us the whole time," said the Black Swan. "I didn't dare reveal his presence to you. There are too many mind-readers we might have encountered."
Infidel studied the chimp's face. "I thought you'd given up the mercenary business?"
"I did, for a while," said Menagerie. "But, don't forget that my human form is now a copy of you."
"I remember that pretty well," said Infidel. "I have a hard time forgetting it, in fact. It's a bit unnerving to think there's a perfect copy of me out there somewhere."
"Trust me, it's not much fun being your doppelganger," said Menagerie. "I thought I had a lot of enemies. But you! Every other day I was fighting some assassin out for your head. I had to move back to Commonground to keep my family in the Silver City out of danger." The chimp sighed. "Not that it did any good in the end. Tempest's armies have killed everyone there."
"We've all paid a price," said the Black Swan. "But, at least we've removed the threat of the Omega Reader once and for all."
Infidel furrowed her brow. "He's the one who hit me? Man, it feels like he punched the memories right out of my skull. You guys beat him?"
The chimp tilted his head toward the headless body further down the slope. For the first time, the Black Swan noticed that the man's hands were missing as well. Odd. She hadn't noticed the tiger tear them off.
"Right," said Infidel. "He looks pretty beaten." She stood and went to her daughter. She touched her lightly on the cheek and Cinder's eyes fluttered open.
"Mother?" she whispered.
"It's okay," said Infidel. "We're safe now. Everything's all..." Her voice faded as her face grew pale.
She rose and turned, until she spotted the faintly glowing crystalline form hovering a few feet above the black pit. "Stagger!"
Infidel ran to his side, pulling his body to her, clasping it in her arms. The crystalline limbs hung limp. "No," she whispered. "No!"
"Stagger's soul's been sent to Hell," said the Black Swan.
"Then we're going to Hell," said Infidel, firmly. "We've got to rescue him."
"I've been to Hell," said Menagerie. "I'm not going back."
"We'll find work for you elsewhere," said the Black Swan. "Rescuing Stagger is only one of a long list of things we must accomplish."
"This was... this was my father?" asked Cinder.
Infidel nodded.
Cinder rose to step toward him, then stopped as her eyes spotted the mangled body down the slope.
"Luminous," she whispered.
"We told you his real name," said the Black Swan.
"It doesn't... I still can't believe..." Cinder shook her head. "Why did he lie to me?"
"It's all because of this damn book," Menagerie said, knuckle-walking toward Numinous and the leather backpack he still wore that held the cause of so much misery.
Just as the chimp reached the body, the Black Swan saw a dark shadow move toward him, almost invisible in the starlight. From the other side of the chimp's body, a burst of intense light cast a shadow in her direction. The light suddenly diminished as a sizzling sound filled the air. The chimp fell backward, then vanished, and the light flared again. As the Black Swan's vision adjusted to the glare, she saw a man in black robes grasping a flaming sword standing over the body of Numinous.
"Ver!" The Black Swan couldn't believe he'd returned.
Infidel craned her neck, searching the ground near her.
"This is indeed your sword," said Ver, holding the blazing blade before him.
"Greatshadow!" Infidel shouted. "Don't let him—"
"Don't waste your breath," said Ver. "The dragon's spirit moves within the blade, but lacks the power to dominate my will."
"How did you escape the soul catcher?" asked the Black Swan.
Ver held out his free hand. Between the fingers of his white glove, he ground something that fell in glittering silver flakes. "If this thing had reached my spiritual flesh, it might have been unfortunate. Luckily, it blunted its nose against the Immaculate Attire."
"The Immaculate Attire?" asked Infidel. "My old armor? It was lost in the Great Sea Above."
"And then it was found," said Ver. "Certainly you've noticed my gloves? I've been in possession of the Attire for years."
Ver knelt over the Numinous. With a swift motion, he cut the straps of the backpack.
"This isn't over," said Ver, lifting the pack. "If Numinous wasn't the Omega Reader, there must be another. In the end, the will of the Divine Author shall be done."
# CHAPTER TWENTY
# RULE ONE
The Black Swan's mind whirled as she weighed how to attack Ver. She hadn't had time to refill her smokescreen, and, with her arms disabled, she couldn't aim the poison darts spring-loaded in her forearms. With his powerful will, Ver was probably immune to the handful of necromantic commands she knew. If she abandoned her physical form, she could face Ver ghost to ghost, but since he was armed with a flaming sword and wearing impervious armor, her odds of besting him seemed slim.
Before the Black Swan could decide how to proceed, Infidel rose on rubbery legs and said, "Drop the pack, Ver."
"You can barely stand," said Ver. "I've nothing to fear from you."
"Then you'll need to handle me," Cinder said as she stood, holding one of the steel spikes that Numinous had torn from the Black Swan's body.
"You won't be able to get through his armor," Infidel said in a calm tone. "Go for his head."
"He has a big enough mouth," said Cinder. "I'll aim for that."
"You'd send your child to fight me, Infidel?" asked Ver. "Are you so eager to see her die?"
"Surviving day to day in the jungle isn't a job for wimps," said Infidel. "She'll take you down. Wearing armor and carrying a sword doesn't make you a fighter."
Ver's eyes narrowed. Thanks to the sword, he could see clearly within the circle of light immediately around him, but Cinder eluded his gaze by stepping backward, crouching down. With her dark skin against Rott's black hide, she was all but invisible. Ver looked from side to side, searching for any sign of movement.
On the lookout for Cinder, he completely failed to see Infidel sprinting toward him until the last second. He swung his blade toward her but she easily ducked beneath it, rising to grab his arm. He twisted the blade toward her. She gasped as the flames scorched her face, but he couldn't break her grasp.
Without warning, Cinder flew from the shadows, holding the spike overhead with both hands, slashing toward the Truthspeaker's head. Ver's reflexes proved better that the Black Swan would have guessed as he raised the backpack up in time to protect himself. The spike dug into the leather, ripping downward. Ver pushed Cinder away before she could get her balance, but the motion caused the One True Book to topple out of the torn backpack.
"No!" Ver cried, releasing his grip on the sword of flame and jerking his arm free from Infidel's clutches. He lunged, using both hands to catch the One True Book before it hit Rott's slimy scales.
For an instant, a look of triumph crossed his face as he stared at the tome he'd rescued from the filth. His face went slack as he realized the truth of what he'd done. Gloves, even magic ones, weren't enough to negate the blasphemy of his action. He'd laid hands upon the One True Book, an object so sacred it would burn away the sinful soul of any flawed being who touched it.
"No," he whispered, as white light burned through his spiritual flesh.
The One True Book dropped the final inches to the ground.
Ver's robes collapsed into a flat heap as his final cry of despair vanished into the night.
Brother Wing had grown to hate the endless noon of the afterlife. Had he been dead hours? Days? Years? Whatever the span of time, the thrill of flight had become a tedious chore, and the once-welcome silence of being along with his thoughts had turned into unfathomable loneliness. What would he feel after a hundred years? A thousand? He contemplated the unbroken sea below, wondering if he should throw himself into its depths. To what end? Was there a death after death? He didn't have the courage to find out. He wasn't tired or hungry, and felt no physical pain. He'd known all of these things in his infancy. As terrible as his loneliness was, he knew full well there might be worse hells than this.
Oh, what he would give for any hint of the passage of time. How he would rejoice to see a sunset!
Then there was night.
Brother Wing blinked, wondering if he'd gone blind. He hadn't. He could see stars overhead, their reflections twinkling on the water below. The sun hadn't sank below the horizon. It had simply stopped shining. Had his desire for change in his surroundings caused this somehow?
Before he could ponder the implications of a landscape molded by his unconscious will, he spotted a tiny, faint, red light on the horizon. Veering toward it, he could see the light was different from the stars or their reflections. As he flew onward, the light grew larger. When he first spotted it, the light had been no brighter than a candle flame seen at a distance. Soon, it grew to resemble a ship's lantern far out in the harbor, then a torch perhaps a mile away. Breathing deep, he tasted smoke on the night air.
In the starlight it was difficult to be certain, but it seemed to him that the sea ahead gave way to a vast dark shape. A shoreline? As he glided toward the light, he heard the sound of breaking waves.
He spread his wings, slowing his flight, gliding lower and lower, his eyes fixed on the flame. He could now see it was a bonfire on a beach. A signal fire? Who would be signaling whom in this land of the dead? He'd always possessed a strong instinct for survival. The prudent course would be to keep his distance, watch and learn. After the tedium of flying so long without a landmark, however, he couldn't resist the lure of the bonfire. He'd built a church around the worship of flame. After all, within every flame dwelt Greatshadow.
Brother Wing landed on the black shore. The stench of smoke nearly choked him. The land all around him was black and burnt, with here and there the dull, rounded shape of a tree stump hidden beneath ash. He could see that what he'd taken for a bonfire was, in fact, a thorn tree, the only tree still standing within his sight, though it wouldn't stand for long, given how violently it burned.
Brother Wing walked to its edge, then lowered his head in the pose of prayer he'd stolen from the minds of human faithful.
"Father," he whispered.
"My child," the flame answered, as a hot wind caused the branches of the thorn tree to tremble.
"Why have you summoned me here, Father?" asked Brother Wing.
"Darkness has fallen upon the world," said Greatshadow.
"What has happened to the sun?"
"The spirit that dwelled within it has been enslaved by Tempest. Tempest wills darkness that his armies may freely move upon the earth. The sun obeys."
Brother Wing rose. "How can the world survive this?"
"It can't," answered the flame.
"There must be some hope," said Brother Wing. "The sanctuary I founded houses hundreds of people faithful to you, waiting for the day you and your allies will overpower Tempest and Hush. They're willing and ready to rebuild. Their faith cannot be in vain."
"Faith?" Greatshadow scoffed. The thorn tree threw off sparks as the smaller branches crumbled. "Faith is nothing but the stubborn refusal to let go of hope in the face of all contrary evidence. Faith cannot save the world, only action."
"Then why haven't you taken action?" asked Brother Wing. "Why haven't you fought back against Tempest and Hush?"
"I am weakened, my child," said Greatshadow. "There are fewer flames in the world today than ever before. In a direct confrontation with another dragon, I would surely perish."
"Are you saying all is lost?"
"I said I couldn't survive a direct confrontation," said Greatshadow. "What my opponents don't yet know is that I launched oblique attacks upon them long ago. Whether these attacks succeed we shall soon learn."
"Then the world may yet be saved?"
"Perhaps," said Greatshadow. As he spoke, more branches fell away from the tree. "I've no direct knowledge of the future. But there has long been one who dwelled on the Isle of Fire who believed she did: the Black Swan. Through her mind, I've witnessed the end of the world. At first, I thought she was mad. But, as she rose to power in Commonground, I took note of how often events she prepared for came to pass. I decided it would be wise to take precautions. Perhaps those long ago actions on my part may yet save us all."
"The Black Swan is the woman who killed me," said Brother Wing.
"I know. You were standing next to the cauldron's flames within the temple. I witnessed it firsthand."
"If you witnessed it, why didn't you stop her?" asked Brother Wing.
"Your death was a necessary part of my plan." The larger branches of the thorn tree broke off, leaving only the twisted, central trunk still burning. "The Black Swan knew she would one day fight you. I judged that her poison would bring you a swift, painless death."
Brother Wing furrowed his brow. "How could my death possibly save the world?"
"Because there are places only the dead may easily go," said Greatshadow. "Follow."
With a final shudder, the remnants of the thorn tree collapsed, sending glowing embers dancing into the air. The embers swirled together, taking on a shape that vaguely resembled a dragon as the wind swept it away from the shore, over the blackened hills of the island. Brother Wing flapped his wings, sending ash flying as he rose into the air to give chase.
"Okay," said Infidel, taking a few steps back, the flaming sword now in her grasp. She eyed Ver's empty robes carefully, then turned her gaze to the black tome that rested on the gloves of the Immaculate Attire, before looking toward Cinder and saying, "Rule one: Don't touch the book."
"Noted," said Cinder, backing away.
"Agreed," said a woman's voice from the shadows behind her mother.
Cinder looked toward the voice. Her eyes filled with confusion when she found a perfect duplicate of her mother standing there, nude save for a ragged cloak.
"We've never met," the woman in the cloak said. "I'm Menagerie."
"His original body got destroyed by an old god," said Infidel, sensing the need for an explanation. "He turned into a tick and sucked my blood so now he can turn into me." She frowned as she said this. "Does anyone else ever have moments where perfectly accurate statements leave them questioning their sanity?"
"Yes," said the Black Swan.
"All the time," said Menagerie. "I'm alive because I changed into a starfish. They're champs at regeneration."
"You have the weirdest friends," Cinder said to her mother.
"We have to figure out how to get the One True Book back into the backpack," said the Black Swan. "We can't just leave it lying there."
Cinder didn't pay attention to this as she went closer to her mother. The right side of Infidel's face was covered with blisters, and her hair near her ear was singed down to stubble. "You're hurt."
"I've lived through worse," Infidel said, taking carefully placed steps toward Ver's robes. She knelt near the boots and began untangling the Immaculate Attire from the robes. "We can worry about the One True Book later. We have to get to Hell to rescue Stagger."
"I think I can find my way back to Hell," said Cinder.
"We can't ignore the book," said the Black Swan. "We can't risk it falling into the Sea of Wine if Rott sinks beneath the waves."
"What's the big deal?" asked Menagerie. "Let's nudge it back into the backpack with a sword. It didn't hurt anyone while it was in the pack."
"It was put into the pack by Slate, a man with no soul," said the Black Swan. "I'm not even sure it's safe for us to touch it indirectly."
As the Black Swan spoke, Infidel grabbed the edges of the white gloves, then yanked them from beneath the book.
"What are you doing?" asked the Black Swan, exasperated. "Just by touching the gloves you might have been erased!"
"I wasn't," said Infidel, shrugging as she inspected the inner lining of the Immaculate Attire. Finding no trace of Ver within it, she began to strip off her old clothes.
"Mother," said Cinder, covering her eyes.
"What?" she asked. "Menagerie knows what I look like naked. And you've seen me naked before, which means the Black Swan has seen me."
"How does that follow?" asked Cinder.
"Oh, right," said Infidel. "You don't know. The Black Swan is you, from the future."
Cinder's jaw grew slack as she stared at the iron woman.
"It's true," said the Black Swan. "Though I would have preferred to break the news more gently."
"But... but how can..." Cinder couldn't grasp the idea enough to even question it properly.
"It's a long story," said the Black Swan. "And it may no longer be true. You don't have to become me anymore, Cinder. You can chart your own destiny."
Infidel pulled on the armor's leggings. "With the Immaculate Attire, the Witchbreaker, and the Sword of Flame, I feel pretty good about heading to hell to fight Tempest."
"You do have more experience at fighting dragons than anyone," said the Black Swan. "Which is why you'll need to leave rescuing Stagger to Cinder and myself. You need to get back to the Isle of Fire."
"The Isle of Fire can wait," said Infidel."
"No it can't," said the Black Swan. "With Stagger in Hell, he's no longer bending the light around the island. It's in full view of Tempest, Hush, and the enslaved Abyss. I've no doubt they're already moving to wipe out the last traces of mankind sheltered there."
"Greatshadow and Abundant will fight them," said Infidel.
"They're both weakened. They'll need all the help they can get."
"All the more reason to free Stagger first," said Infidel.
"If Stagger intervenes, Kragg will plunge the whole island into the sea," said the Black Swan.
Infidel fastened the clasps of the leather breastplate. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"
"No," said the Black Swan. "Only desperate guesses."
"I've lived in a dozen cities, but Commonground's the only place that felt like home," said Menagerie. "I'll be happy to defend it."
"I'm sure you would," said the Black Swan. "But this isn't the best use of your talents. I'll need you in Hell."
Menagerie shook her head. "I can't go back. I won't. Besides, Infidel should have some backup."
"I'm not sure a tiger is going to help against dragons," said Infidel.
"You know better than to underestimate me," Menagerie said. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve."
"You don't wear sleeves," said Infidel, pulling on her boots.
"Enough squabbling," said the Black Swan. "I need you all to follow my plan."
"First, my plan, which is to ignore you," said Infidel. "I'm going to save Stagger. And you are out of your iron skull if you think I'm going to allow Cinder to go to Hell without me watching out for her."
"Mother, I can take care of myself," said Cinder.
"And she'll have my help," said the Black Swan.
"Numinous crippled you!" said Infidel. "You can't even stand."
"Remove my head. That way, I can guide Cinder. We've no time to wait for the _Circus_ to reach us so that Sorrow can repair me, assuming she even has the power to do so."
"Um..." said Menagerie, looking toward the horizon, "I don't think we'll have to wait long."
They all followed her gaze toward a renewed sunrise in the east.
Infidel shielded her eyes as the light grew ever brighter. She whispered, "Stagger?"
"It's not Stagger," said Menagerie in a screeching voice. Cinder glanced up to see a large eagle flying over them. The eagle said, "I can see shapes within the light. It's a ship."
"A ship?" asked Cinder. "In the sky?"
"A cloud ship?" the Black Swan asked, confused. "Has Tempest sent the Storm Guard after us?"
"No," said Menagerie. "It's a Wanderer vessel. And there's a woman carrying it."
Infidel squinted as the small sun grew closer. "I... I do see a boat-like shadow in the light. But what do you mean, a woman's carrying it?"
"Which words don't you understand?" asked the eagle. "A woman's holding the boat above her head with both hands. And she's flying."
As the light grew closer, the Black Swan saw that his words were accurate. There was a shadow in the light exactly the size and shape of a fully rigged ship. She could even make out silhouettes of people on the deck. Below the ship, in a pillar of light, a distinctly feminine form could be discerned as the source of the radiance.
The ship moved with such speed that it reached the island in under a minute. The ship sank down toward the waves. The woman dropped the ship into the wine, darting backward behind the bobbing vessel. For a moment the light was dim.
"It's the _Circus_!" said the Black Swan.
A second later, the glowing woman shot up over the deck, streaking toward them like a bolt of lightning, only to come to a halt before them. The light faded, revealing the woman at the center of the light, her head studded with nails.
"Sorrow!" exclaimed Infidel.
"The sun's gone dark. What happened to Stagger?" Sorrow asked.
"Numinous ran him through with the Witchbreaker," said Infidel.
"Sending his soul to Hell," said Sorrow, nodding. "I felt something happen only seconds after Sage hammered the glorystone into my scalp. The elemental energy that filled me had an intelligence behind it at first. I sensed something gazing at me, then, suddenly, the intelligence vanished. The elemental power flowed without resistance."
"The glorystone lets you fly," said Infidel. "But, how could you pick up the ship? When I flew with the Gloryhammer, I couldn't move such a heavy mass."
"The Gloryhammer was external. My power is internal. However, the glorystone alone wouldn't have done the trick. Fortunately, I once again have a nail of wood. For me, solid oak feels as light as balsa, and I could mentally hold the hull together as I lifted it."
"You couldn't have recovered your powers at a better time," said the Black Swan. "With Stagger gone, Hush and Abyss will attack the Isle of Fire."
"First things first," said Sorrow. "Since Cinder's here, I assume you captured Numinous?"
The eagle landed on the Black Swan's shoulder. With a wing, Menagerie pointed down the slope toward the headless body. "Captured is an understatement."
The inner light that flowed from Sorrow dimmed for a moment. She took a deep breath, clenching then unclenching her fists. "It... it would have been selfish to ask you to take him alive." She frowned, and looked back at the eagle. "Does no one else find it odd that this bird just spoke?"
"Sorry," said the eagle. "You didn't know I was tagging along. We met before, years ago."
"Menagerie?" she asked.
"At your service."
"Since Numinous is beyond your vengeance, may I have you focus instead on repairing my body?" asked the Black Swan.
Sorrow sighed. "For the millionth time, your breasts are fine."
"No, they aren't," the Black Swan grumbled. "But I meant I need my limbs repaired. Certainly you noticed they're damaged?"
"Oh," said Sorrow. "I didn't. You'll forgive me if I'm a bit distracted. Let me take a look."
"Look quickly," said Infidel. "Now that you've got your powers back, the course is clear. I'll go to Hell to rescue Stagger. You and the Romers go to Commonground and stop Tempest and Hush."
"Excuse me," said Rigger, calling down from the deck of the _Circus_. "Did you just volunteer us to fight two primal dragons without asking if we agreed to the plan?"
"We both know you'll agree to the plan," said Infidel.
"Well, yes," said Rigger. "But it would have been nice to be consulted before you start barking out orders."
"She's not barking out orders," said the Black Swan as Sorrow dug her fingers into the socket of her iron shoulder. "I've more experience than any of you in how this day must unfold. And, on this, I agree with Infidel. The Romers must return to Commonground. Then, they need to set the whole city aflame."
"You want them to burn Commonground?" asked Infidel.
"Greatshadow's weak. Once, he was fed by millions of flames. Now, only a few lanterns and stoves in Commonground sustain him." She eyed Gale Romer, standing at the rail. "Burn the city. Burn the forests if you have to. We have to make Greatshadow strong again. While he's weakened, Infidel's sword of flame isn't powerful enough to finish off Hush. If we slay Hush, there's hope that Abyss might be freed."
"What about Kragg?" asked Infidel. "He threatened to destroy the island if Stagger intervened. You think he'll sit back and let them take out Hush?"
"I'll take care of Kragg," said Sorrow, bending the Black Swan's elbow back into shape. "Move your fingers for me."
The Black Swan wiggled her fingers, pleased to find the mobility in that limb restored.
"You can't fight Kragg alone," said Mako, now beside Gale. "I'll come with you."
"Not where I'm going," said Sorrow. "I'm going to confront him in the Convergence."
"Only dragons can reach that abstract realm," said the Black Swan.
"I know," said Sorrow.
"No," said Sage, joining Mako and Gale at the rail. "You can't seriously be thinking what I think you're thinking."
"I think you're thinking exactly what I'm thinking," said Sorrow, as she focused her attention on the Black Swan's neck.
"Don't expect me to help you," said Sage. "It's too great of a price. You lost your humanity the last time you tried this! How can you throw it away again?"
"When that blade slid into Slate's chest, every last bit of my humanity died with him," said Sorrow. "I'll give up nothing I cherish."
"This is a great sacrifice you're making, Sorrow," said the Black Swan.
"Will you stop being so cryptic?" Mako growled. "What sacrifice? What are you going to do?"
Sorrow glanced down at the black scales beneath her feet. "I'm going to merge with Rott once more."
"No," whispered Mako.
"It's the only way," said Sorrow. "The dragons allied against mankind are at the peak of their power. Our only allies are weakened. But if I command Rott's might once more, I'll be more than a match for any dragon. Kragg will agree to leave the Isle of Fire alone or I'll turn him into a pile of gravel."
"We can't let her do this," said Mako.
Gale put her hand on his shoulder. "Son, what right have we to stop her? She's a free woman."
Sage crossed her arms. "I'm a free woman as well. I refuse to help her."
"Please, Sage," said Sorrow, as she adjusted the tension of the Black Swan's leg cables. "The precision that comes with your mystic vision allowed me to absorb the power of these new nails at a speed I never dreamed possible. With your help, I can control Rott's power to the fullest."
Sage shook her head. "Sorrow, I know you came aboard our ship as a passenger, but after all we've been through together, you're a friend. You're practically family. Please don't do this. I know it hurts to lose Slate. We all miss him. But, can't you see? You're not alone. You still have us."
"We'll all discover what true loneliness is if Tempest and Hush destroy Commonground," said Gale. "The remaining Wanderers are sheltered in that port. How can we not give our all to save them?"
"It's not only the Wanderers," said the Black Swan as she rose, holding Sorrow's hand. "All that's left of living men are sheltered on the island. Sorrow may lose her humanity, but, without her, we may lose mankind."
"Not to mention animalkind," said Menagerie.
Sage turned her back to everyone as a shudder ran through her. When she turned back, she eyes glistened with tears. "Very well," she whispered. She glared at Sorrow. "But only if you swear—swear!—when this is over, you'll let me remove the nail."
"We... we can try," said Sorrow. "I swear to let you try."
"Then do what you must to ready the nail," said Sage, through gritted teeth.
"I will," said Sorrow. "But there's other business I must attend to first."
"Do we have time for other business?" asked Gale.
"I'm not even taking time to use the bathroom," said Jetsam, popping his head over the rail.
"First, there's the matter of the One True Book," Sorrow said, kneeling next to it. She reached into a pouch on her belt and pulled out two silver moons. "It will destroy the soul of anyone who touches it, but souls can't pass through a barrier of silver." The coins turned to puddles in her palm, then dripped down onto the tome. The silver flowed, guided by Sorrow's will, until it completely encased the book. Taking a deep breath, she touched it with a single finger.
She exhaled slowly. "Good. That worked."
"You weren't certain?" asked the Black Swan.
"I was pretty certain," said Sorrow, picking up the book.
The Black Swan stepped forward and held her open hands toward the book. "May I? I think the book is best left in my protection."
"I suppose it's as safe with you as anyone," said Sorrow, handing it over. "I've got other things to worry about at the moment." She walked to where Stagger's crystalline corpse still hung in the air. As she approached, its dull light began to glow more brightly. Sorrow put her hands upon the chest. "I can plainly see the matrix of the crystal. I understand how to shape it. Stagger's left us a great treasure indeed."
"Hold on," said Infidel, grasping the hilt of her blade. "You're not selling Stagger's body."
"Who's left to buy it?" asked Jetsam.
"Of course I'm not going to sell it," said Sorrow, as her fingers sank into the crystalline surface. "I'm going to sculpt it."
"Stop!" said Infidel, grabbing Sorrow by the shoulders and pulling her away. "I'm not going to stand by and watch you mangle my husband's corpse."
"This is only an avatar," said Sorrow. "It's no more his body than those lava dragons you killed in Commonground twenty years ago were Greatshadow's body. It's a tool he used to visit you. Now, it's a tool we can use against the dragons."
"What do you have in mind?" asked the Black Swan.
"Weapons," said Sorrow. "I can reconfigure the raw material of the head into a helmet for the Immaculate Attire. This will give Infidel even more protection, and, as a bonus, she'll be able to fly, just as she could with the Gloryhammer." She looked at Infidel. "Assuming you agree. There's not much use in making a helmet if you won't wear it."
Infidel took a deep breath as she thought this over. "You're absolutely sure this won't somehow hurt Stagger?"
"Positive. All traces of his spirit are gone from this glorystone."
"And when we free his soul from Tempest, he'll return to the sun," said the Black Swan.
"Are you sure?" asked Infidel. "Or is that wishful thinking?"
"Wishful thinking is pretty much the plan, I'm guessing," said Menagerie.
"The only thing preventing it from being a solid plan is Hell itself," said the Black Swan. "The terrain is nearly impossible to navigate. I'm hoping I can provoke Tempest into attacking us. Otherwise, we might search for eternity and not find him."
"Another reason to take me along," said Infidel. "I've got no peers when it picking fights."
"I might debate that if we had more time," said Sorrow. "But the time for debate is over. The Black Swan's delegation of duties is our best option. You must go to Commonground, Infidel.
Infidel opened her mouth to argue, but Sorrow cut her off. "This how it must be. We're all fighting for something bigger than our own personal interests. Rescuing Stagger will make for a bittersweet victory if the Isle of Fire is a dead, frozen wasteland when he returns to the living world."
"Fine," Infidel said, though her expression indicated arguments were still running through her mind. "But how will—"
Gale Romer interrupted before Infidel could ask her question. "I've you're worried about how Cinder and the Black Swan can find Stagger in Hell, we've got something that will help."
"What's that?" asked the Black Swan.
"A compass," said Gale. "And, more importantly, a map."
"You won't be unarmed in Hell, Swan," Sorrow said, turning Stagger's torso around as she studied it. "I've more glorystone here than I have time to fully exploit. It shouldn't take too long to craft a few swords for you and Cinder. They're the perfect weapons. Demons and the damned can't stand sunlight."
"Actually," said Cinder, "I'd prefer a spear."
"That can be arranged," said Sorrow. "We have our missions, but before anything can be done, I need to focus. I require perhaps an hour to craft the glorystone into new configurations, then another hour to properly prepare a fresh nail from Rott's scales. Until this is ready, there's little more the rest of you can do. I advise that you return to the _Circus_. Sage, please tend to Infidel's wounds."
"It's just a few blisters," said Infidel."
"It won't hurt to let Sage look you over," said the Black Swan. "As for the rest of you, I advise a hearty meal and a few moments of rest. The battle that follows will be the toughest you've ever fought. Summon what strength you can in these fleeting moments."
"Excellent," said Jetsam. "I've got time to use the bathroom after all."
# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
# PRAYER OF BUBBLES
The transition from the sultry tropical heat of the Sea of Wine to the freezing hurricane winds of Commonground was instantaneous. A tall wave instantly broke over the bow of the _Circus_ , drenching everyone on deck with a cold spray that swiftly turned to ice.
Mako stood in the rigging, raising his hand to spare his eyes from the wind-driven snow. There were flashes of light high above, and rumbling thunder could be heard through the howling gusts. As the flashes faded, darkness engulfed them, as gloomy as the deepest sea. Fortunately, Mako's eyes could plumb such depths. He spotted lanterns off starboard, not too far distant.
"Go!" Sage shouted from the crow's nest.
"Are you talking to me, or Infidel?" he shouted back.
"Both of you! Hurry!"
Before Mako could leap into the water, the door of the forecastle opened and intense light spilled across the deck, turning the snow into a veil of shimmering diamonds. Infidel emerged from the forecastle, her helmet glowing like a small sun. Save for slits around her eyes, none of her face could be seen. She drew her sword from its scabbard. The snow hissed as it met the dancing flame.
Scanning the sky, she called out to Sage, "Which way to Hush?"
"Her aura is everywhere," Sage shouted. "I don't know which direction to send you. Just start flying around. Hopefully, she'll target you."
"So I'm bait," said Infidel. She gave a thumbs up. "Great plan."
She bent her knees, then rocketed skyward.
"Why are you still here?" Sage called out to Mako.
"I'm not," said Mako, doing a backflip into the waves. The water of the bay was still relatively warm, at least in comparison to the blizzard above. Once he was below the water, the roaring wind faded, replaced by the body-shaking rumble of waves crashing on the shore. As he swam in the direction of the lanterns, he noticed the bay was packed with fish, everything from minnows to great white sharks, and, judging from the low, keening songs echoing across the bay, more than a few whales. He listened to the message of their song, his heart sinking. Could it possibly be true that the full surface of the ocean beyond the bay of Commonground was now frozen?
Darting up through a shoal of herring, he shot from the water to grab the anchor chain of the first ship he reached. He noticed the figurehead and recognized the ship at once as the _Blue Maiden_. It was just his luck to be pleading his case to slavers, Wanderers who'd once made every effort to remove his head from his shoulders. Still, the war was twenty years distant. Certainly old grudges would be put aside in times like this.
The second he poked his head above the rail, a shout of alarm went out. A large man with a cutlass charged toward him and shouted, "Die again, you cursed devil!"
Mako dropped back down the chain as the cutlass bit into the rail where his head had been. With his depth-honed speed, he leapt up before the man could pull his blade free, swinging over the rail, driving his feet into the chest of his attacker. The cutlass clattered to the deck. The man staggered backward, but managed to keep his feet.
The Wanderer's eyes were full of hate as he studied Mako. "I know you," he said. "One of those blasted Romers. Some said you'd gone to sail the Sea of Wine, but I knew your kind would be rotting in Hell." He pulled a dagger out of his belt and assumed a defensive stance. "Come on, dead man. Time to send you back to eternal darkness."
"Dead man?" asked Mako. "I'm as alive as you."
The man frowned.
"Put down your blade. I need to speak to Mariner Conch at once," said Mako.
The man looked confused. "Mariner passed away almost fifteen years ago. His daughter's captain these days"
"Coral?" asked Mako. In the years before the Pirate Wars, he'd played with Coral when they'd both been children. Once, in the third year of the War, they'd both met on the docks at Commonground. She'd changed from child to young woman, and he'd changed from a normal boy into a freakish shark-man. He'd been too ashamed to speak to her then, and had jumped into the waves when she'd called out his name.
Before the man could answer, a short figure in a heavy coat and large hat approached. From the build, Mako knew it was a woman, though her face was hidden by her upturned collar, held in place by a gloved hand. She drew closer, revealing her face, her eyes wide with shock.
"Mako?" she asked.
"Hello, Coral," he said, recognizing her through twenty years of aging.
"You... you look so young," she whispered.
"It would take too long to explain why," he said. "For now, I've come to tell you the plan."
"Plan?" asked Coral. "What plan?"
"For fighting Hush and freeing Abyss," said Mako.
"How?" asked Coral.
The sailor beside her picked up his blade as a pale, half-rotten hand closed onto the rail. He gave a cry and lunged forward, severing the fingers, dropping the intruder into the waves. "Blasted dead men," he growled. "That's the twentieth one I've dropped in the last hour."
"Tempest's armies of the damned have been on the march ever since the sun went dark and the bay began to freeze. It won't be long before we're overrun," said Coral. "We were in Raitingu when the gates of Hell first opened. We saw that city fall in a single night. For years, freezing seas have kept pushing us further and further south, until Commonground was the only port remaining. When this place falls..." her voice trailed off.
"Then it can't fall," said Mako. "To make sure it doesn't, light every lantern and stove aboard your ship. Then, go onto the docks, drench everything in oil, and set this whole city on fire!"
"So we can burn instead of freeze?" asked Coral.
"So we can feed Greatshadow," said Mako. "Make him strong enough to fight Hush."
"Greatshadow will be powerless against Abyss," said Coral. "Ever since Hush froze his mind, he's been a puppet to her will. Ordinarily, seawater wouldn't freeze this quickly. The ice advances because Abyss allows Hush power over his domain. Even if we awaken Greatshadow, it's hopeless."
"Bite your tongue," said Mako. "Let every last dragon oppose us. Let all the armies of Hell rise against us! We're Wanderers, damn it! We fight until we fall! We die as free as we lived!"
Coral's eyes brightened. "You're right. Forgive my moment of doubt. I'll relay your orders to my crew at once."
"Good," said Mako. "I'll spread the word to other ships. We need to move quickly, to give Infidel her best chance to—"
"Infidel?" asked Coral. "There's a name I haven't heard in years. She's still alive?"
Almost in answer, a loud curse came from overhead. They glanced up as a glowing form tumbled through the curtain of snow, shielding their eyes as the light grew brighter. They'd raised their hands to cover their eyes just in time, as a blast of hail swept over the ship, the wind-driven ice as sharp as a thousand needles.
Infidel smashed into the upper mast, then tumbled toward the deck. She still carried the sword of flame, though it appeared to be held only loosely in her grasp. Suddenly, her limp form snapped straight and her grip tightened around the hilt of the blade. Her descent came to an instantaneous halt a few feet above their heads.
"Hello, Mako," she said.
"You alright?" he asked.
"Hush noticed me. Part one of the plan is a success!"
She spun around until she faced up, then zoomed off into the clouds.
"Yes," said Mako to Coral, "still alive. Let's keep her that way. Light the fires!"
With a backflip, he dove into the icy waves.
Infidel zoomed into the sky. Between her helmet and her sword, she had all the light she could possibly want, but she still couldn't see more than a foot in front of her face through the snow. Fortunately, though he'd been gone from her life for twenty years, Stagger's encyclopedic knowledge, freely shared when he was drunk, now came back to her. Once, they'd been high on the slopes of the central volcano, and watched as storm clouds passed beneath them. He'd told her the volcano was roughly four miles high, so the clouds were about three miles high.
At full speed, Infidel shot above the clouds in under a minute. She glanced around, not seeing the top of the volcano. She must have been higher than four miles, and her shortness of breath testified she'd risen to a point where the air was quite thin. Fortunately, the trip accomplished her purpose. From above, the storm clouds spread out in an endless blanket in every direction. Directly beneath her there was an unmistakable sinewy curve that marked Hush's spine and neck. Twin layers of clouds spreading above the others marked the primal dragon's wings.
Infidel hesitated, taking in just how vast Hush had become. She'd been mountainous when they'd last fought. She'd stood inside Hush's mouth and assumed she'd been inside a vast cavern. But now? Hush's scale was unfathomable, her wings and tail tip stretching to the horizon.
Infidel still wasn't sure that she'd done the right thing by coming here instead of joining Cinder in Hell. The sooner she finished off Hush, the sooner she could take on the mission closest to her heart. But, the importance of her fight was now clearer than ever. She thought of the Jawa Fruit tribe, facing the blizzard huddled and shivering. Their tree huts, built to welcome cooling breezes, would provide no meaningful shelter. The Black Swan was right. If Hush won here, all that remained of humanity was lost.
"Let's get her attention," Infidel said to the sword. The flames grew brighter, then brighter still, until she held a bonfire in her hand. Yet she remembered the dragons she'd fought in Commonground long ago, how their jets of flame had shot out hundreds of yards. In comparison, this flame was but a small torch. Was Greatshadow truly so weakened?
She had no time to ponder the matter, however. As she'd hoped, a section of cloud directly beneath her rose up, taking on the shape of a dragon's head.
An impossibly loud voice called out, "This is your champion, Greatshadow? This is all you can throw against me?"
Infidel focused on the origin of the sound, spotting the whirlwind of ice that formed Hush's throat. Clenching her jaw, Infidel dove straight down Hush's gullet. Unfortunately, though she was buffeted by wind, and pounded by hail the size of coconuts, she found nothing solid to slash with her sword as she raced through the churning clouds.
Suddenly, the clouds vanished. She found herself mere yards above the frozen sea. She tried to pull out of her dive, but there was no time. With an impact that not even the Immaculate Attire could spare her from, she slammed into the ice.
Rigger found himself unexpectedly busy repelling an invasion of dead men attempting to claw their way onto the ship.
"Did I miss something during the planning?" he shouted. "I don't remember being told we'd need to fight the undead!"
"Quit your whining," said Jetsam, running along the rails and using his rapier to pop the eyes of any dead man who made it past the flailing ropes. They howled with pain and rage as they fell back into the sea. "At least we don't have to sit here twiddling our thumbs while Mako and Infidel have all the fun."
"This isn't fun," Gale said, as she and Brand slashed at the dead men trying to clamber up the gangplank. "Get over here! We need to get a path clear for the pygmies."
"On it," said Jetsam, flying low down the gangplank, tripping the walking corpses in his path.
On deck, Bigsby and Cinnamon busily handed out makeshift torches to the small army of pygmies who'd climbed out of the hold. Rigger took note of the utter stoicism in their faces as Poppy ran among them with her own torch. They'd been kidnapped, sold into slavery, witnessed a fight between primal dragons, then dragged into Hell. After all this, having orders shouted at them by a wig-wearing dwarf in the middle of a blizzard must have felt completely normal.
The pygmies ran down the gangplank to the docks. Jetsam flew before them, slashing and stabbing to clear their path. The pygmies reached the shore and ran into the forest. As they vanished into the thick foliage of the slopes, their torches disappeared one by one.
Rigger pressed his lips together, not surprised that the torches had gone out. The torches they carried were nothing but shattered bits of furniture topped with rags dipped in lamp oil. They were never going to burn for more than a few minutes, and unlikely to be hot enough to light the underbrush in a jungle that was already wet with snow.
From above, Sage shouted, "It's working!"
Rigger squinted, trying to see through the windblown veil of white. He couldn't see what Sage was seeing, which was par for the course. Then, suddenly, he spotted it: A line of fire, perhaps fifty feet wide, climbing up the slope, driven by the wind.
As he watched, a second wall of fire appeared a hundred yards further up the mountainside. Then, another, and another.
"They're doing it!" he cried out.
"Hush only got here a little while ago," Sage said. "It's the dry season. There's still a lot of fuel to burn. Let's hope Infidel can hold out long enough for Greatshadow to recover."
Infidel groaned as she rolled to her back. Hitting the ice hadn't knocked her out, but she almost wished it had. The Immaculate Attire couldn't be cut or marred, and did a pretty good job of keeping her physically intact, but all magic had limits. She'd hit the ice with her left shoulder and now she couldn't move that arm at all. Her ribs on that side felt as if a dozen knives had been jammed into them. She took the shallowest of breaths and wound up coughing violently. When she swallowed afterward, she tasted blood. She closed her eyes. If she could only take a short nap...
"You still alive?" a familiar voice asked.
She forced her eyes open to find a large white bear looming over her.
"Alive and kicking," she murmured.
The polar bear furrowed its brow. "Let's see you kick."
"After a nap," she mumbled.
"You go to sleep out here, you won't be waking up," said the bear, nudging her with a giant paw. "Get on your feet. Walk this off."
Infidel took the deepest breath she could manage and rose into the air, hovering before the bear. "Walking is for chumps, Menagerie."
"So's crash landing," said the bear.
"The last time I fought Hush, she was more solid. Now, she's nothing but wind and snow. How do you fight wind and snow?"
"The same way people have been fighting it since the dawn of time," said Menagerie. "With fire."
The bear grew larger, then larger still, sprouting wings and dark red scales.
"I had no idea you could turn into a dragon," said Infidel.
"New trick. Unfortunately, it's a dragon with mangled wings. You'll forgive me if I take your quip about walking personally."
"Then let's get you airborne!" said Infidel, flying over Menagerie's back. She grabbed hold of a large, spikey scale jutting from the dragon's spine. The power of her glorystone helmet flowed into the dragon's mass. Menagerie spread her wings to their fullest extent, letting the wind catch them.
"I can fly! What did you do?"
"I shared a little of the glorystone's power with you," she said, straddling his neck. "You breathe fire, right?"
In response, the dragon upchucked a gout of flame that shot forward a hundred feet.
Infidel brandished her sword. Its flames grew brighter than before. Through gaps in the snow, she could see hundreds, perhaps thousands of bright flames dancing below her as the docks of Commonground caught flame. The frigid wind took on the scent of smoke.
"The sword's gotten stronger," she said. "The flames below are feeding Greatshadow."
"Yes," said Menagerie. "In this form, I feel... I feel..." The dragon's voice dropped several octaves. "I feel restored."
"Menagerie?" she asked.
"Greatshadow," answered Menagerie. "My spirit dwells in every flickering candle. This dragon has flame coursing through its veins."
Infidel was thrown off as the dragon's body shuddered. The stunted, broken wings spread wide, then wider, becoming wings of fire. Menagerie's draconic body had been as big as a bull, but now the dragon grew to the size of an elephant, then the size of a whale.
"Hush!" Greatshadow roared. "Face me!"
The snow responded by swirling into a shape like a giant eye. As big as Greatshadow was, he was a mote in Hush's gaze.
"How sad!" The words came on the howling winds from every direction. "You once possessed a flame which rivaled the sun. Now, you're nothing but a match in the face of a hurricane."
Infidel flew toward the center of the eye, a black void. She drew to a sudden halt and willed her flaming sword to nova brightness.
The wind laughed at her efforts. Greatshadow opened his jaws wide and unleashed a river of flame. The flames engulfed Infidel, but didn't burn her. The wind howled, a sound like pain, as the snow caught by the flames turned to steam.
"You cannot win!" the wind cried out as Greatshadow's jet of flame died out. "Cold is eternal! Flame is a flickering, fleeting thing, existing only a moment before it's lost to eternity."
"Perhaps," said Greatshadow. "But this moment belongs to me!" He unleashed another torrent of fire.
Infidel raised her hand to keep from being blinded. She flew higher, hoping to make sense of what was going on. She punched through the clouds, emerging in starlight. The serpentine neck of clouds curved beneath her. She could make out where the clouds that formed Hush's head met the neck.
This would hardly be the first foe she'd ever decapitated. She dove toward the neck, slowing as she entered the snow. She hoped she was in the right place.
"Greatshadow!" she called out. "Pour your flame through the sword!"
There was a ferocious roar, and a deafening thunderclap that echoed from the nearby mountain like a scream.
"We hurt her!" Infidel cried.
Suddenly, the clouds drew back, leaving her and Greatshadow in the eye of a tremendous hurricane. Infidel looked at the retreating clouds and shouted, "That's right! Run!"
"I'm not running," the chill winds answered. "I'm letting my new lover deal with this."
Infidel heard a thundering sound beneath her. She looked down in time to see the frozen bay cracking. Suddenly, an enormous mouth, like the world's largest turtle, shot from the ice. Infidel darted upward before its jaws could close on her, but Greatshadow proved less maneuverable. The turtle jaws closed around the dragon, then plunged back beneath the ice floes.
Infidel's sword instantly went dark, or nearly so. Only the faintest wisp of flame remained around her blade.
"Snow may yield to flame," cried the wind, "but no fire ever burned so bright as to survive the sea."
Infidel didn't stick around to argue. She had only seconds before Greatshadow's flames were completely extinguished. Folding her arms to her side, she raced toward the broken surface of the ocean, aiming for a gap in the ice. No longer protected by the warmth of the flaming blade, the icy sea shocked her as she dove within, leaving her dizzy and disoriented.
She had no time for weakness. She shook her head, fighting back to full awareness. Below her, she could make out the enormous skull of Abyss. She willed herself to fly through the water and found it could be done, though she strained against the resistance. She passed by Abyss's giant, dark eye, and saw ice crystals within it. He looked more solid than Hush had, but she suspected there was little point in attacking him directly.
She found the edge of his turtle beak and flew along the rim, hoping the light of her helmet would reveal a gap between the upper and lower jaw. Her heart raced as she found an opening just big enough for her to squeeze through, in a motion that caused her cracked ribs to feel as if they were cutting into her lungs. Within the dragon's mouth, she saw a faintly glowing ember fading in the distance. She flew toward it and found a tiny dragon, no bigger than a mouse, black as a lump of coal save for the dull red glow of its eyes.
She still had no strength in her left hand. Sheathing her sword, she took the tiny dragon and shoved it under her helmet. She let out a gulp of air, hoping to give the small dragon a few more seconds of life.
Infidel spun around, seeking the gap she'd come entered through. Unfortunately, the narrow space between the dragon's tongue and the roof of its mouth looked the same in every direction. Her lungs ached as her pounding heart burned through her remaining air.
The terrain Brother Wing flew over in pursuit of the dancing ember stretched in all directions as an unbroken, uniform black. The wind that carried the ember whipped up fine ash, gathering it into drifts. Brother Wing had seen this landscape before, in the nightmares of his human followers, former members of the Church of the Book.
"Hell is much like the humans imagined it," he thought.
"Yes," the ember answered, the voice faint on the breeze. "As it should be, since each human crafts his own Hell during life. The land beneath you, however, is not Hell. At least, not a human Hell."
"Then... where are we?"
"The Convergence," answered Greatshadow, as the ember's light pulsed between a dull orange and a dim red. Its heat seemed to be waning, and the voice became even fainter. "The Convergence is the nexus of elemental realms. The primal dragons meet here. Its neutral ground, and it spares the material world the full impact of our... debates. So much pure elemental energy placed in conflict in the living world would be catastrophic."
"Or apocalyptic," said Brother Wing. "Is it true the dragons intend to destroy the world?"
"The world will endure no matter what we choose to do," said Greatshadow. "The living things of the world, be they ants or oaks, hummingbirds or humans, are far more fragile."
"It's said that Abundant keeps watch over the ants and hummingbirds," said Brother Wing.
"She does," said Greatshadow. "But Hush, Kragg, and Tempest care nothing for life. Hush and Tempest would gladly reshape the world to their tastes."
Brother Wing, though born with an angry heart, still couldn't grasp why any dragon would desire such destruction. "What do these dragons gain from causing so much harm?"
"Each has a goal that to them seems priceless." The ember faded further as Greatshadow spoke, going black for a brief instant before flickering back. "For Hush, the eternal silence of winter's night is the ultimate peace. She fights to make the world into Heaven, though a Heaven only she will love."
"And Tempest?"
"Tempest's goal is, perhaps, more fundamental, and more comprehensible. He seeks to ensure his own survival."
"But... he's dead."
"No. Tempest's body was destroyed. His soul was sent to Hell. As long as a dragon's soul survives, he can make a new body if needed."
"Then what does he fear?"
"The destruction of his soul, of course."
"Is such a thing even possible?"
"It is," said Greatshadow. "As I know full well, to my eternal shame."
The last words were difficult to make out on the breeze as once more the ember went black. Brother Wing strained his eyes, searching for it, before the dim red speck pulsed with heat once more.
"Did you say you feel shame?" asked Brother Wing. "What do you mean?"
"I said the land beneath us is not a human Hell. It is, instead, a Hell of my creation."
Brother Wing considered the hills of ash below him. "Because you burn things? Because you leave behind ash?"
"Because of what I burned. Because of who I burned."
"I don't understand."
"You do understand. You've absorbed enough minds that you have all the information you need. In time, the answer will become plain."
Brother Wing sighed. "Given that I'm dead, I suppose I have ages before me to unravel this mystery. But I'd prefer you speak plainly. What is it you wish me to know?"
"When we elemental dragons emerge in the Convergence, we take the forms of islands."
"What of it?" Brother Wing said, his tone no longer concealing his impatience.
"The island you fly over was once a primal dragon. A dragon I selfishly helped destroy."
From the deck of the _Circus_ , Gale watched as the clouds above pulled away, leaving a circle of calm air over the bay. In the center of the circle flew a fiery dragon larger than the ship, and beside this was a dazzling star, which she guessed to be Infidel's helmet.
Without warning, the ice further out in the bay split apart, as the vast head of Abyss rose to close his jaws around the fire dragon. Abyss splashed back into the sea, sending huge waves toward the _Circus_.
"Hold tight!" Gale shouted.
Seconds later, the waves washed over the deck. Fortunately, her family had a great deal of experience with rough seas. As the water washed away, all were present and accounted for, save Mako, out somewhere among the Wanderers, and Jetsam, who'd gone with the pygmies.
She looked back toward the sky just in time to see the white form of Infidel plunge into the sea.
"Sage," shouted Gale, climbing into the rigging. "Can you see Infidel? What's she doing?"
Sage didn't answer.
"Sage?" Gale asked, climbing faster. She poked her head over the edge of the crow's nest. Sage sat with her hands over her eyes, her spyglass at her feet.
"Daughter, what's wrong," asked Gale.
"Everything," Sage whispered.
"What?" asked Gale.
"It's... it's over," Sage whispered. "I... I've seen more than I can tell you. The whole world..."
"Sage, be strong," said Gale. "Pick up your spyglass. Tell me what's happening to Infidel."
Sage shook her head. "I can't. It's too late. We must return to the Sea of Wine."
Gale scowled. "This isn't like you, Sage. I've never heard you give in to despair."
Sage wiped her cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I... I don't know why I... it's just... before the left the Sea of Wine. When I placed the final nail into Sorrow's skull, the nail of Rott..." Her voice trailed off.
"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Gale.
"Because I was looking in Sorrow's eyes as I did it and I saw... I saw Rott take hold of her. I gazed into the infinite depth of his eyes and saw..." She swallowed hard. "There will be no victory. There's no hope, in the end. Death and decay were always the fate of the world. We fight in vain."
Gale grabbed the spyglass and shoved it back into her daughter's hand. "Excellent. You can still feel despair. That means you're sane. So do the sane thing, and look into your spyglass."
Sage wiped her cheeks. "I've... I've never felt this lost before."
"I have," said Gale. "When my mother died. When your father died. When Levi betrayed us, then when he gave his life to save us. If I'd allowed myself tears for all I've grieved, I'd weep a new sea."
"I've never seen you cry," said Sage, sniffling.
"You never will," said Gale, standing straight. "I may not escape Rott in the end, but at this moment I'm alive. As long as I'm alive, I'll fight to save my family, my ship, and my world, in that order. Now wipe your damned eyes and look into your glass and tell me what's happening to Infidel!"
As she spoke, the eye of the hurricane filled back in with clouds. Snow and sleet spattered against the mast. Sage wiped her eyes, picked up the glass, and stared at something she plainly did not want to see.
"Infidel's trapped," she whispered. "She's inside Abyss's mouth and... and she's lost. Her aura's fading. She's running out of air."
Gale pressed her lips tightly together, then leapt from the crow's nest.
"Rigger! Catch me!"
"Maybe shout that before you jump next time!" Rigger called back, but not before sending a rope her way. Seconds later, she was on the deck, sprinting toward the anchor.
"Lash me to the anchor," said Gale. "Then throw me into the sea."
"Mother!" Sage shouted as she climbed down the rigging. "Are you trying to teach me some sort of lesson? I had a moment of weakness, but I'm not suicidal!"
"Neither am I," said Gale. "I'm a Wanderer of pure blood. Since the day of my birth I've not set foot on dry land. I've kept the pact. Abyss won't let me drown!"
"Abyss no longer has free will!" said Sage. "He's been enslaved by Hush!"
"And we've spent our lives fighting to free slaves," said Gale.
Brand ran toward them. "Gale, you can't do this!"
Gale took a step toward him, formed a fist, and knocked him cold with a single punch to the jaw. She rubbed her knuckles and said, "Anyone else want to tell me what I can't do?"
Sage turned to Rigger. "Lash her."
"You're both officially out of your minds," he screamed, throwing his hands in the air.
"Do it!" said Sage.
Rigger muttered something beneath his breath, but the ropes on the deck rose to wrap around Gale and the anchor. Then, with tears filling his eyes, he raised his hands. The ropes carried the anchor into the air. He pushed his hands forward. The anchor went over the edge of the _Circus_. He opened his hands, and turned away as his mother splashed into the waves.
As Gale fell toward the waves, she had the faintest, fleeting doubt. Despite this, she took a deep breath an instant before she plunged into the sea. The cold nearly shocked the breath from her, but instinct kept her lips closed tight. She sank swiftly through the water. Silver fish swirled around her like tiny mirrors in which she saw the desperation in her own eyes. The rumble of thunder and the roar of wind faded as she settled into the black mire at the bottom of the bay.
In the silent darkness, she opened her mouth and spoke a prayer of bubbles.
"Abyss," she said with her last breath, "You have my faith."
Her heart beat like a taut drum but her body slackened. With all her will, she fought back the desire to cut free the ropes that held her.
Gale closed her eyes, inhaled deeply to fill her lungs with saltwater, and held tight her faith.
# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
# THE DRAGON SEED
Infidel stabbed at the tongue, trying to cause Abyss to open his jaws, to no avail. She was now so turned around, she couldn't begin to guess which direction she should go to find the edge of the mouth. She kicked and crawled, but for all she knew she might have been heading down the beast's gullet. The lack of air fogged her mind. It took all her will to keep her jaws clenched tightly, as her body screamed for her to open her mouth, to draw in a breath, despite the complete absence of air.
"Greatshadow," she thought. "Are you still alive?"
The tiny dragon pressed against her cheek didn't answer. Her sword had no flames here in the icy fluid, but still possessed a faint red shimmer, like steel fresh from a forge. She tried to pour her will into, tried to stoke the heat to a brighter glow, to no avail. Rapidly, the light within the sword grew duller, until, finally, it was black, and she could no longer feel the small, scaly dragon beside her skin.
"Are you saying that the island we fly over was once the manifestation of Verdant in this realm?" asked Brother Wing.
"Yes." Greatshadow's voice on the wind was fainter than ever.
"She was the primal dragon of the forest," said Brother Wing, recalling all he could of her history. "The first king Brightmoon worked with the Church of the Book to destroy her."
"Correct," said Greatshadow. "As the dragon of the forest, Verdant fought back against men when they cleared the wilderness to build their cities, or cleared fields to plant their crops. Today, all the plants covered in thorns, all the plants whose leaves drip poison, and all the plants whose pollens choke and sting men's lungs, are remnants of her battle against mankind."
"Even covered in scales, my youthful encounters with blood-tangle vines were most unpleasant," said Brother Wing.
"And yet, the most dangerous plants that endure today are but docile relics compared to the dark and deadly woods men faced. Alone, mankind would never have been able to conquer the forests. Unfortunately for Verdant, mankind possessed a powerful ally."
"You," said Brother Wing.
"Yes," said Greatshadow. "The fires of the natural world are sporadic, the product of lightning strikes and volcanos. My very existence depended on the whims of Kragg and Tempest. The civilization sought by Brightmoon promised to be a more dependable source of sustenance. They stoked their forges to heats that rivaled the fiercest volcanoes. They cooked their food in ovens, warmed their homes with fireplaces, prayed at night by candlelight, and tamed the dark with lanterns."
"Men thrived due to your benevolence."
"Benevolence?" The voice on the wind gave the faintest bitter laugh. "Hunger drove me. Mankind has long tamed beasts by feeding them. Before I understood what had happened, I found myself... domesticated."
"Domesticated? Men fear you like a god!"
"I've known gods," said Greatshadow. "As the Lost Kingdom fell, I tamed them. You think men fear gods? No doubt they do. But never to the degree that gods fear men."
"Why would a god fear a man?"
"Because without men, they are lost," The ember sank lower in the air as Greatshadow spoke. "They need men's fear and men's faith. But men are fickle, and shockingly temporary."
Brother Wing knew this to be true. Though he'd only been alive two decades, this had been more than enough time for him to understand mankind's innate fragility.
"I'd already seen a great civilization fail," said Greatshadow. "The people of the Vanished Kingdom mastered arts and sciences lost to mankind today, and still their world fell to ruin in the span of a few generations. Having seen civilization fail once, I was understandably interested in helping sustain it when I saw it gain a foothold on the Silver Isles."
By now, the ember and Brother Wing wafted along only a few yards above the ground. A shudder ran through Brother Wing as he saw, among the mounds of ash beneath him, the remnants of a long line of stumps fallen on their sides, resembling vast vertebrae. He finally grasped the full implications of what Greatshadow was telling him.
"You killed Verdant here. You killed her soul in the Convergence."
"There are subtleties and nuances that this assertion doesn't capture," said Greatshadow. "But, yes. Ultimately, I'm to blame for her death."
Brother Wing felt a lump form in his throat. "Father, for many years, I hated you for what you did to me as a fledgling. As I grew, I let go of that hate. I admired you. I worshipped you! Now you tell me this?"
"You're free to hate me if you wish. You've every cause."
Brother Wing's mind raced. He now knew why Tempest would welcome the end of mankind. "Tempest fears the destruction of his soul because he's seen another dragon perish! He wages war, but the destruction of man is only a means to an end. His true target is you!"
"Yes," said Greatshadow.
Brother Wing tilted his wings up, bringing his feet forward. He was suddenly very weary. He didn't know what to say to his father. Greatshadow's harm to him had been so personal. Ultimately, he'd been able to forgive a sin that only he had suffered. But how could he judge his father now? The magnitude of his crime was beyond comprehension.
Brother Wing landed, ash rising around him
"You're thoughts are tangled," said the dim ember as it danced before him. "I'm unsure what you think of my news."
Brother Wing didn't know what he thought either, and gave no response.
After a long moment, the voice on the wind asked, "Have you ever wondered why I am called Greatshadow?"
Brother Wing furrowed his brow.
"The other dragon's names reflect their nature. Men might have called me Blaze, perhaps, or Inferno. I chose the name Greatshadow, and made sure others used it."
Brother Wing dismissively waved the words away with his talon. "How can this be of any importance?"
"In seeking to light the world with flame, I cast darkness upon it," said Greatshadow, "Mine was the original sin that forever bred distrust among the primal dragons. Because of my actions, the other dragons have formed their strategies for dealing with the dangers represented by mankind. Abyss made a pact with humans who would be loyal to him. Tempest enslaved the men who dwelled on lands under his control. Hush made sure her realm was barren, devoid of men. My own alliance with mankind has taken a dangerous turn, as the Church of the Book has tried repeatedly to kill me, and not a single fellow dragon has come to my aid."
Brother Wing hung his head low, feeling as if his thoughts were too heavy for his skull. Greatshadow had been right about one thing. Everything his father now confessed could have been deduced by Brother Wing. He'd read the minds of men from all over the world and known their myths. In his years at the Keep of the Inquisition, he'd dined with historians and scholars and philosophers, all of whom brought pieces of the puzzle. How had he failed to see the truth?
"You wanted to believe I was, at heart, more great than shadow." The ember drifted only inches from him now. The voice was barely audible.
"I'd forgiven you for what you'd done to me," said Brother Wing. "I thought I understood you. I could see how integral you were to the world, how men would be nothing more than beasts without you. If you killed some men, and maimed others, your motivations were beyond my comprehension. Now, to learn you were motivated by simple hunger..."
"By gluttony," said Greatshadow. "And vanity, and arrogance. And, in the end, by shame, and by hope."
Brother Wing looked over the black, ruined land. "This is a poor place to speak of hope."
"This is the only place to truly speak of it," said Greatshadow. "And you, my son, are the source of my hope."
"How?"
"Because of your thirst for revenge," said Greatshadow. "Because you brought Infidel to me."
"Ah, Infidel," said Brother Wing. "I haven't seen her in many years, not directly, at least. Some of the men of my settlement have caught sight of a green woman, too tall to be pygmy. From their memories, I've recognized her. I'm pleased she's still alive, though I doubt she would feel the same about me."
"She isn't one to hold grudges," said Greatshadow.
"Are we discussing the same woman?"
"Yes, though she's changed somewhat since you knew her. You studied her thoughts. Tell me: What was the source of her strength?"
"The blood of Verdant, saved by the Church of the Book in a cask at the Grand Cathedral. She stole it, and devoured it all."
"Yes. The blood of a dead dragon, pulsing through the veins of a living woman. Later, you witnessed Nowowon, the old god I'd enslaved, as he split the woman and the dragon into two beings."
"The she-dragon... it was alive," said Brother Wing. "Did Verdant's blood circulating within Infidel somehow revive Verdant's spirit?"
"Perhaps. When I aided Brightmoon and the church in killing Verdant, I couldn't imagine how completely they would tame the wilderness of the Silver Isles. Nothing wild grows there now beyond weeds and a few twisted thickets of stunted pines. With Verdant gone, nothing prevented men from destroying the primeval forest. I decided I would never allow the Isle of Fire to share this fate. I'd like to think that, by preserving one last patch of pristine wilderness, I helped the dragon spirit within Infidel stir to life."
Brother Wing shook his head remorsefully. "Perhaps you did. But, though I didn't personally witness it, I believe that Infidel killed the dragon spirit while she was in the land of death."
"She killed it and devoured a small piece of the beast. But the remainder of the corpse was left practically at my feet. So, I brought it here, twenty years ago, and gave it a proper burial."
"If Verdant is dead and buried, why did you speak to me of hope?" asked Brother Wing, as he followed the drifting ember up the side of a steep slope.
The ember came to a halt at the top of the hill. Brother Wing trudged toward it, his talons slipping in the ash. He shifted his gaze from the ember to a tangled silhouette beneath it. He drew closer and found it was a thorn bush identical to the one on the shore, only alive, unburnt, fresh and green, its leafy branches thrusting into the air like a grasping claw.
"What is this?" asked Brother Wing.
"This is what grew from the corpse," said Greatshadow. "Though it took twenty years, last spring, a single flower blossomed. It was like no flower I'd ever seen before, the head broad and thick, the size of a sunflower, with petals of white, the edges rimmed with emerald. The flower thrived all summer, then withered, leaving behind—"
"A seed," whispered Brother Wing, spotting the pod at the end of a long stem. He raised his claws and gently plucked it. "What would grow from such a seed?"
"A primal dragon, I suspect, given the right soil."
"Where could we find such soil?"
"You are the soil," said Greatshadow.
"Me?" Brother Wing was utterly bewildered.
"Once, you were part of me, my son," said Greatshadow. "But you became a separate being, independent and strong. Long ago, the elemental spirits of the world bonded with dragons. We primal dragons became the lords and protectors of our various domains. But by the time Verdant perished, there were no dragons left to bond once more with the elemental power of the forest."
"There are no dragons now," said Brother Wing. "I've died. This is why I'm here."
"All fires must fade, leaving only embers. Yet, a single ember may set an entire city ablaze. Death doesn't have to be the end. It can be a new beginning. Swallow the seed, my son. Become the dragon of the forest."
"Will I still be myself?" asked Brother Wing. "Or will Verdant's spirit erase my own?"
"We cannot know," said Greatshadow, his voice fainter than ever, the ember so dark as to be nearly invisible in the night. "Never before has a dragon been created this way."
"I paid a great price to become myself," said Brother Wing. "You cannot know the pain I've felt."
"We b-both know I can. I-I know everything about you," said Greatshadow.
"Except for whether or not I'll swallow this seed," said Brother Wing, taking note of the growing weakness in his father's voice.
"You m-must," said Greatshadow. "H-hurry."
"Your voice grows faint, Father. Is something happening to you in the material world?"
Greatshadow didn't answer. The ember give up the last of its heat, and floated down toward the black soil. Brother Wing caught it at the last instant, before it was forever lost among the ash.
"Father?" he asked.
All around him was silence, save for the whisper of ash stirring in the night breeze.
Gale's body felt light as the silver fish shoaled around her. An unexpected peace settled over her mind. This wasn't the first time she'd been so close to death. Every time before, she'd fought, body and soul, to live on. She had too much to live for to surrender willingly. Her family, first and foremost, but also her values, her cause. From her earliest age, she'd seen how the world had gone wrong and swore she'd give all to set it right. Always before, in the face of death, she'd refused to stop fighting while her tasks were yet undone.
The small silver fish shimmered and danced around her like starlight on midnight waves. All her anger, her outrage, her righteous indignation, meant nothing now. Dying, she at last saw the world as it truly was. Beautiful. Life was beautiful. And not just life, but all things, from the most distant stars to the tiniest grain of sand upon a beach. In this vast, variegated cosmos, all things had their place, all things their perfection. Her life, her struggle, her family and friends and foes, all she'd loved and all she'd hated, all had fit into the universe with wondrous precision.
The fight was over. Her death had found its moment and its place. She didn't go to death as a surrender to a foe. She spread her arms to embrace it as a long lost love.
Before her, the silver fish flickered away, leaving behind a wall of darkness. Only, not a perfect darkness. Within her, some faint remnant of consciousness stirred. Her mind came alive enough to make out that the void before her wasn't a void at all. It was, instead, the iris of an enormous eye, rimed over with ice.
The unblinking eye studied her, dull and distant, uncomprehending.
Without will, without force, simply because the perfection of the moment allowed it, her body tilted toward the frozen eye. Her hands pressed lightly against the ice. She leaned forward, her lips puckered. She kissed the face of the being she'd served her whole life.
The ice shattered as the vast eye blinked.
Strong arms wrapped around her waist. She turned her head over her shoulder to see a dark outline behind her, caught a glimpse of sharp white teeth biting through the ropes that bound her to the anchor.
Now free of the ropes, she shot up through the water, smashing through a thin layer of ice covering the bay above her. Momentum carried her high into the air, rising almost to the level of the deck of the _Circus_.
"Gale!" Brand shouted, though her eyes couldn't find the source of his voice.
"Mako!" shouted Sage.
"Got them!" shouted Rigger.
As Gale reached the apex of her flight from the water, a dozen ropes coiled around her limbs. She coughed violently, forcing water from her lungs, as the ropes carried her to the deck. She held herself on her knees and elbows as she continued to spit up water, taking deep, painful gasps of air between convulsions. From the side of her eye, she saw Mako's sinewy, webbed feet.
"What the hell is going on?" Mako demanded as he charged toward Rigger. He gave his brother a shove. "Were you trying to kill her?"
"It was her idea!" Rigger protested.
Mako drew back his fist, looking ready to floor Rigger. Brand leapt forward and caught Mako's arm. "He's right! Gale wanted this!"
"I can't believe you found her with all the commotion in the bay," said Sage. "Even I can't follow everything that's happening."
Mako frowned. "The fish told me where to find her."
Rigger laughed. "So now you talk to fish?"
"I know it sounds strange but there were voices, voices all around me, telling me where I should swim. Luckily, I wasn't far away."
"It's Abyss," whispered Gale.
"What?" asked Mako.
"It's Abyss." Gale raised her head. She held out her hand, and Brand took it, helping her rise. "It's Abyss. He called you. He kept the pact. He wouldn't let me drown."
"Then Abyss is free?" asked Rigger.
"Look!" shouted Sage.
All around them, the once violent sea settled into an unnatural calm. There was not a single ripple upon the water. The only sound was the creaking, crunching, cracking sound of the ice upon the bay breaking apart.
High overhead, the snow clouds boiled together into the shape of a dragon's head. Hush opened her jaws and bellowed, "You can't defy me!"
The water of the bay suddenly bulged. The _Circus_ tilted nearly sideways upon a swell unlike any Gale had encountered in all her years at sea. From the surface of the swell, the head of a giant turtle emerged, rising upward to meet Hush, as a roar of rage echoed across the waters.
Infidel closed her eyes. This wasn't the first fight she'd lost, but it seemed certain to be the last. She'd failed. She didn't fear death, but the knowledge that she'd failed her friends, failed Cinder and Stagger, made her heart feel torn in two.
She had no strength to fight as a woman's hands pulled her helmet from her head. She found herself bewildered to be staring into a mirror. No, not a mirror. The face in front of her was her own, but the face as she'd used to look, before she'd joined the Jawa Fruit tribe and her complexion had become a permanent green. The woman before her was pale as snow. Her lips were tinted blue as she tilted her face toward Infidel, locking their mouths together in a deep kiss. Infidel had resisted the urge to inhale as long as she could. She breathed deeply as the air in her double's lungs flowed into her own.
The new air was hot and stale, but revived her from her torpor. The woman pulled away, and placed Infidel's helmet back onto her head. As the eyeholes slipped back into place, the woman was gone, replaced by the largest octopus Infidel had ever seen. Tentacles wrapped around her wrist. The beast dragged her across the smooth surface of the tongue.
She was relieved to discover Greatshadow's sword was still in her grasp. She wasn't certain how she'd held onto it during the worst of her airless swoon. The sword looked black and lifeless. Greatshadow's spirit was gone from it, and, it seemed, from Menagerie. Infidel wondered if her old friend had any idea which direction would lead them to freedom. The air Menagerie had shared with her wouldn't last long.
The giant tongue they traveled along slammed her into the hard roof of the mouth without warning. Despite herself, the jolt forced precious gulps of air from between her lips. She felt disoriented, feeling her center of gravity shifting rapidly despite her being pinned motionless.
An instant later, she was free, as the mouth yawned opened. She tumbled toward the open gullet beneath her. As she spun, she saw the face of Hush above. The octopus let go of her wrist and changed into a sparrow, darting free of the open jaws. Infidel contemplated the gaping throat she fell toward for only a fraction of a second before laughing. "Right! I can fly!"
Folding her arms to the side, she shot free of the impossibly large jaws of the turtle as they clamped shut onto the throat of the snowy dragon above them. Both dragons let out deafening screeches as the island-sized turtle dragged its aerial foe down toward the sea just outside of the mouth of the bay.
From her vantage point high in the sky, Infidel could see by starlight that the once solid ice of the sea had broken into a field of giant, jagged islands of slush.
"It looks like the Great Sea Above," said the sparrow as it flitted past her right ear.
"Abyss is fighting Hush?" Infidel asked as the two dragons vanished beneath the churning sea.
"Something must have freed him," said Menagerie.
A swell of unfathomable size rose from where the two dragons fell, rolling toward the bay. Infidel watched the lanterns on the Wanderers' ships beneath her sink as the waters of the bay retreated far from the shore, gathering into a monstrous tidal wave. For a few seconds, she could see all the fires that had been lit along the dock. Every shack of every plank seemed to be burning. Along the shore, hundreds, if not thousands of fires roared among the undergrowth.
The wave roared back toward shore and the fires vanished one by one.
"Greatshadow!" she yelled, hoping some trace of his spirit in remained in the sword.
"I don't think he'll answer," said Menagerie. "When I turned into a dragon, I felt his spirit enter me, and—"
"Turn back into a dragon!" said Infidel.
"I can't!" said Menagerie. "While under the water, I felt his spirit struggle, then fade, then vanish. He's gone."
"No," she whispered.
"Yes!" a voice thundered from the sea.
Rising from the waves, her body scaled to such size that it vanished over the horizon, the crystalline form of Hush lifted into the sky. Her head alone seemed as large as the Isle of Fire. Within her icy jaws she carried a turtle, flipped on its back, its limbs struggling in vain.
"You cannot win," her voice cried, speaking to Abyss, though Infidel felt the sting of her words. "All the world is frozen! Your own domain now feeds my strength! Struggle all you wish. In the end, the cold conquers all!"
"I hate braggarts," said Menagerie.
"And I hate bullies," said Infidel. "Hitting her when she was a cloud was like trying to hit, um, a cloud." She cracked her knuckles. "She looks punchable now."
"In the same way a mountain is punchable," said Menagerie. "Hitting her will probably prove just as effective."
"Most mountains don't have brains," said Infidel.
"Most brains aren't surrounded by a skull dozens of yards thick," Menagerie protested.
"When Lord Tower fought Greatshadow, he was like a mouse going up against a man. But, he flew high, and he flew fast, and was able to punch through Greatshadow's scaly hide."
"Tower was surrounded by the armor of faith," said Menagerie. "The impact couldn't hurt him. And, it still wasn't enough to kill Greatshadow, only wound him."
"Maybe Tower didn't fly high enough, or fast enough." She frowned. "Why are you arguing this?"
"Because there's no point in getting yourself killed doing something dumb. As Aurora explained it, Tower could never have won no matter how hard he hit Greatshadow. Only the Jagged Shard could truly kill Greatshadow, since it was formed from the heart of the dragon he'd once loved."
Abyss stopped kicking his limbs. Ice once more spread over his form.
"I can't just watch this," said Infidel. "I have to at least try to break through her skull."
"It's suicide!" said Menagerie. "There has to be another way."
"You can't talk me out of this," she grumbled.
"Don't be so hardheaded!"
"With a glorystone helmet, my head's as hard as it's ever been," she said with a grim smile. She snapped her fingers.
"What?" asked the sparrow.
"The glorystone! Before it was part of Stagger, it was part of Glorious. And Glorious is the dragon who broke Hush's heart. If Greatshadow was vulnerable to the fragments of Hush, then Hush might be vulnerable to a piece of Glorious."
"Hmm," said Menagerie. Infidel had never imagined what a thoughtful expression on a bird might look like before this moment, but recognized it when she saw it. The sparrow said, "Okay. But, your helmet might not be enough. What if you—"
Infidel didn't wait for him to complete his sentence. She folded her arms to her side and zoomed down toward the still churning bay. Amid the chaos, it would have been almost impossible to make out which of the ships bouncing upon the waves was the _Circus_ , save for one thing. While other ships sported yellow lanterns and torches, the portholes of the Circus glowed a pure, even white.
Sorrow had made use of Stagger's limbs to craft weapons for Cinder and the Black Swan. But Stagger's torso was still in the hold. She had no time to speak to the Romers as she flashed past them to land with a crouch on the deck. She threw open the door to the stairs leading into the hold. The air beneath was rank, the product of a hundred unwashed slaves having been quartered in the enclosed space. But when she spotted Stagger's torso floating in the middle of the hold, the air suddenly tasted sweet.
Stripped of limbs and head, the torso no longer resembled something that had belonged to a living being. Instead, it was a large gemstone filled with light. She studied the facets within it. Clenching her jaw, she assured herself that Stagger wasn't here anymore, that the stone before her was only a stone.
It was a stone far, far harder than a diamond. Sheathing her sword, she grabbed the torso in both hands. She held it overhead, then leapt. She punched through the thick planks of the deck like a sheet of paper. She heard the shouts of Romers calling her name, but never looked back. She took a deep breath, expanding her chest despite the pain, filling every last crevice of her lungs. Then, wrapping her arms around the torso, she let the power of the glorystone fill her and she flew higher, then higher still. The wind rushing past her ears sounded like every waterfall in the world pouring by her at once. In seconds, she was above the clouds. In another second, the water that still soaked her hair and skin crackled as it turned to ice. She wondered if Hush could see her through this ice. She wondered if the dragon could hear her.
"I let you live once," she whispered. "I'm correcting that mistake."
Infidel could no longer hear air rushing past her ears. She couldn't hear anything at all save for the pounding of her heart. She looked down. She was so high, when she stretched out her hand, she could cover both Hush and the Isle of Fire.
She dove, pushing the glorystone torso before her. The wind threatened to rip it from her grasp, but she clung to it with every last ounce of her strength. The air around her erupted into flame as she flew at unimaginable speed toward a foe she could no longer see beyond the radiance of the glorystone. Hopefully, her aim was good. It helped that her target was a good deal larger than the broad side of a barn.
At this speed, despite her armor, despite her shield of glorystone, Infidel knew she wasn't going to survive the impact. She smiled broadly. She'd always wanted to go out taking down someone a lot bigger than herself.
Sage clung to the rigging as the _Circus_ tossed and spun in the violent sea. Rigger cursed like the sailor he was as he fought to keep the ship from sinking. Above the chaos of the waves, she spotted a familiar form swimming through the air back to the ship. It was Jetsam!
"Good to see you alive," she shouted.
"For all the good it will do us," he called back. She could see now that he was drenched. "The waves put out all the fires on the slopes. All the pygmies I was leading, the waves caught them. I can't imagine many survived."
Jetsam drifted in the air above Sage and suddenly threw up his hand. A bright light blazed across the sky, as a shooting star bright as a comet tore loose from the heavens and roared toward the towering form of the ice dragon that loomed out at sea.
"What the hell is that?" he shouted.
"That," said Sage, "is our last hope."
The dragon of ice looked up as the comet blazed toward her. She opened her jaws, allowing Abyss to fall. The turtle splashed into the waves. The entire sea looked made of flame as the burning comet spread its light over the waters.
With a crack that sounded as if the world had split in half, the comet smashed into the top of Hush's head. The shockwave that followed knocked Jetsam from the air, bouncing him across the deck. Sage was pushed into the rigging by the blast, but the net of ropes kept her from falling. It felt as if every tooth in her jaw was loosened by the hammer strike of frigid air. She raised her arm just in time to spare her eyes from the darts of ice that suddenly filled the air.
She lowered her arm, her bare hand numb and bleeding. In the distance she watched Hush stumble sideways. Between the ice-dragon's eyes was a crater as large as any she'd ever seen when studying the moon with her spyglass. Hush spread her wings as if to flee from the pain of the blow. With a final shudder, her body fell apart, disintegrating into snow.
"Noooo!" Hush howled in pain and outrage. She'd been so close to victory! In all the world, only the Isle of Fire had remained unfrozen. She looked around at the frigid sea surrounding her, seeing shattered ice flows in every direction. It looked very much like the landscape of her final battle, save for the sky, which danced with ghostly green hues. Her physical form had been destroyed. Her spirit had been forced back to the Great Sea Above.
Hush ground her teeth together, mad enough to spit blizzards. Then, she inhaled deeply, fighting to cool her rage. What did it benefit her to feel such hot emotions? She'd killed Greatshadow. She'd felt his spirit go out like a candle in the face of a gale. This victory, at least, had been won.
With the death of her body, Abyss would be free once more. But, what of it? Tempest had enslaved Stagger. The sun would never rise upon the seas again. Let Abyss have his kingdom of darkness. Let Abyss watch what was left of his precious Wanderers perish in the gloom. While his forces withered, the ice ogre priestesses that served her would build her a new body. She'd return to the living world to claim a final, lasting victory.
"I will not rest until every warm thing has perished," Hush vowed to the silent sea surrounding her. To her surprise, the sea answered her.
"This shall come to pass," whispered the waveless sea.
"What?" Hush asked, baffled.
"All life is warmth. All warmth shall perish," the sea answered.
Hush furrowed her brow. The only time she'd ever heard the sea speak, it had been Abyss who spoke through the water. But this wasn't Abyss. The voice possessed a feminine tone.
"Who speaks?" she demanded. "Who dares follow into my sacred domain?"
"I am found in all domains," the voice replied. "Where I swim, nothing is sacred."
At these words, the ice floes spread apart before Hush, revealing open water, black as ink. The water rippled, serpentine, stretching before her like a vast serpent.
"Rott," Hush whispered.
"No more," said the serpent, its black, empty eye sockets rising from the water. Its jaws moved slowly as the serpent said, "Forevermore, I am Sorrow."
"The... the interloper," Hush said, her voice dying in her throat. "The false dragon!"
"The final truth," said Sorrow, as the black cavern of her mouth grew wider. Hush turned, spreading her wings to flee from the dark maw. But as she turned, the horizon grew nearer, then nearer still, until the jaws of the universe closed upon her. With a final choked cry, Hush tumbled into the dark, eternal peace she'd so long desired.
Sorrow felt the jagged cold claw its way down her mile long gullet. The numb pain that followed was almost welcome. It reminded her of the pain she'd felt as Slate had died in her arms. It reminded her of how her heart had numbed, witnessing her grandmother hung by her own father. It reminded her of the hurt that forever circulated in her mind with the regularity of blood pulsing through her veins. When last she'd possessed Rott's elemental powers over entropy, she'd feared the loss of her humanity. What had been the essence of her humanity? Her pain. Her numbness. Her sorrow. Despite her draconic body, she felt more human than ever.
When she could no longer feel Hush struggling within her, she swished her tail and swam forward, passing with a thought from the chill depths of the Great Sea Above into the tropical warmth of the Convergence. She found it dark and starlit, a welcome change from its former brightness.
"Kragg," she said calmly. "I call you."
"I'm already here," answered a voice like a landslide.
Sorrow swum around lazily to face him, finding an island of barren stone looming above her.
Boulders tumbled down from the heights of the mountain, their scrapes and thuds forming sounds resembling words. "You've come to kill me."
"I won't let you destroy the Isle of Fire."
"What do you care?" asked Kragg. "If I don't push the island into the sea, you will."
"In time," Sorrow confessed, surprised to discover how at peace she was with that notion.
"There's no need for a confrontation between us," said Kragg. "I've watched Hush and Tempest and all the others play their petty games. I've watched as humans grew in power with the aid of my brethren. They all ignored my advice that the very humans who made sacrifices to them would one day bring about their doom. They didn't listen to me. But what if they had? In the long view, nothing at all would change. All will meet an ending. Even you, interloper. Have you ever wondered what will become of you after you've devoured everyone and everything? A whole universe, devoid of stars and stones, empty even of dust and light. All that shall be left are unfathomable silence, and darkness beyond imagination. This will be the kingdom you one day inherit. In the end, your reward will be insufferable loneliness."
"I have claimed this reward," whispered Sorrow. "Do not harm the Isle of Fire."
"Very well. It costs me nothing to ignore that wretched rock," said Kragg. "Now leave me, cursed one."
Sorrow nodded, sinking slowly into the waves.
# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
# THE WHEEL
Cinder and the Black Swan hovered above the outer dunes of Hell, held aloft by their weapons of glorystone. In her centuries of life, the Black Swan had mastered nearly every weapon imaginable, but ever since she'd worn her iron body she'd found that her own hands—supplemented with razor nails and steel spikes—had been her most reliable defense. So, instead of the sword Sorrow had initially proposed, the Black Swan now wore two spiked gauntlets of glorystone.
Cinder carried a long spear and large shield of glorystone, plus her obsidian knife tucked into her loincloth. Her mother had offered her the Immaculate Attire, insisted upon it in fact, but Cinder had successfully argued that her life of near nudity would make the outfit an unwelcome distraction. In the end, she'd agreed to the shield. She'd trained with one from time to time in sparring matches with her mother, though she suspected that, should she actually see combat, she'd wind up tossing the shield aside to fight in her more practiced style of knife and spear.
The Black Swan motioned for Cinder to follow. Together they flew over black dunes. Cinder found flying to be surprisingly natural. Having lived her life in the trees, she had no fear of heights. She was used to leaping between slender branches hundreds of feet above the forest floor. She had muscle memory to balance herself against the resistance of the wind and the inertia of her body.
They swiftly left the black dunes behind, arriving at a landscape of large boulders. The Black Swan touched down lightly on one of the bigger rocks. Cinder followed, landing in a crouch, the hair rising on the back of her neck. Despite the barren nature of the land, she was certain they were being watched.
The Black Swan took note of her eyes, and said, "The unease you feel is perfectly natural. Your mind is protecting you from the full horrors of this place, but on an unconscious level, you still perceive the truth. For instance, you probably permit yourself to see a field of boulders around us.
"What else is there to see?" asked Cinder.
"The boulders aren't made of stone. They're made of guilt. Underneath every rock, there's a damned soul struggling against the burden. That's why the stones are moving."
Cinder felt the stone beneath them shift ever so slightly. Now that she was aware of the subtle motion, she could see the large boulders all across the plain jerking and falling in tiny movements, rising perhaps an inch for a moment or two before dropping back into place.
The Black Swan opened the map given to her by Sage and held the magnifying glass over it.
"Sage had the advantage of her supernaturally gifted sight in knowing exactly where to look on the map to find her destination," said the Black Swan. "Fortunately, we aren't looking for something as small as an individual soul. Tempest's plans to conquer the living world required him to gather all the blacksmiths in Hell in order to hammer the iron gates into weapons for his army. Given how many of the weapons I've encountered in various timelines, I imagine the dragon's forge is quite a prominent feature upon the landscape."
Cinder took note of the authoritative tone in the Black Swan's oddly musical voice. She couldn't imagine ever projecting such confidence, especially in a place as terrible as this.
"You're who I become?"
"Not in the new timeline we're creating."
"But you? You used to be me?"
The Black Swan nodded.
"You... you seem so commanding," said Cinder. "Like you're used to people listening to you."
The Black Swan nodded. "I'm used to being obeyed."
"I don't care about being obeyed," said Cinder. "I'd just like to talk to other people without them either ignoring me or being afraid to look directly at me."
"You'll have that one day. At least, you will once you leave home."
"My previous trips outside my village haven't gone well," said Cinder.
"No. But, ultimately, that's to your benefit."
Cinder tilted her head, not sure what the Black Swan meant.
"Suppose you wanted to become a master lock picker," said the Black Swan. "How good could you get if every door you encountered was unlocked? In the long term, every success you'll achieve in life is built upon a foundation of failure."
Cinder managed a faint grin. "Then I have the potential to be very successful."
"I'm certain you will be," said the Black Swan. The magnifying glass paused in its travels over the map. She tilted her head closer. "And at this moment, however, failure isn't an option. I've found the forge. And, there's an even bigger building beside it. This has to be Tempest's palace."
Cinder studied the distorted image in the glass. Within the glass, storm clouds churned around a gigantic iron spike that pierced the sky. Lighting danced over the dark surface.
"This is the plan," said the Black Swan. "As long as Stagger is Tempest's slave, the living world has no defense against the undead armies. We have to free him."
"That's really more of a goal than a plan," said Cinder.
"True. So we'll use our mother's plan for anytime she and Stagger wanted to rob a place."
"Smash and grab?"
"Smash and grab," said the Black Swan. "I'm not certain we can beat Tempest alone, but I'm guessing I can get his attention. While he's focused on me, you find Stagger and free him."
"I feel like this plan is missing important details," said Cinder.
"That's because we're missing important details," said the Black Swan. "We don't even know for certain that Stagger's in the palace."
"Then isn't a direct attack a huge gamble?"
The Black Swan shrugged. "I own a casino. I know a thing or two about odds. Our odds of saving the world with this plan are low. Our odds of saving the world by standing here and trying to make a better plan in the complete absence of information are nil. Everything I've done for centuries has been a gamble. You'll never win your bet if you don't spin the wheel."
Cinder gripped her spear and shield tightly as she rose into the air. "Smash and grab it is, then."
The Black Swan opened her backpack, sliding the rolled up map down beside the One True Book, still encased in silver. She slipped the backpack over her shoulders and rose into the air beside Cinder. "Take my hand."
Cinder took it. They rose higher over the field of boulders. The Black Swan leaned forward.
The landscape beneath them began to shift and twist, the terrain blurring as if they were flying at impossible speed, but Cinder's internal sense of balance told her they weren't actually moving. Somehow, the Black Swan's knowledge of the palace's location was causing the landscape to shift. Rain and hail began to pelt against them as the storm clouds above them grew darker. Lightning struck the earth all around them. Still holding Cinder's hand, the Black Swan flew straight up. Visibility within the clouds was non-existent. Everything was black except when lightning arced, then everything was white. The only thing that could be heard over the howling wind was the crashing of thunder. Cinder held the glorystone shield close to protect her from the worst of the lashing sleet, but was still soaked. Her teeth chattered as they finally broke through the worst of the clouds, rising into a starless sky, with the storm clouds churning below like a turbulent sea. A mile or so ahead was the iron spire. They flew closer, and the smooth surface of the tower proved to be ornately decorated with iron sculptures shaped like giants writhing in agony. The lightning continually striking the spire created a net of glowing plasma. As they drew closer, a stream of the bright white energy peeled free and flashed toward them. Fortunately, it struck her glorystone shield and fizzled to nothing. The impact had been nothing worse than the kick of a goat.
Now that they were only a few hundred yards distant, she saw that the mouths of the iron giants were open in permanent screams. Through their open mouths, she could see a pale bluish light flickering within. The interior of the tower looked to be hollow, with the mouths forming windows.
"Ready?" the Black Swan shouted.
"Not even a little bit," Cinder shouted back. "But that's never stopped our mother!"
They released each other's hands and flew toward a gaping mouth. Another tendril of plasma whipped toward them. Cinder took the blunt of the blow, but a thread of the blue light bent around and hit the Black Swan's back with a crackling sound. The Black Swan didn't seem injured, but the leather straps of her backpack were burnt clean through. The Black Swan tried to spin to catch the tumbling pack, but proved too slow. Cinder folded her arms and dived, catching the tumbling parcel between her shield and her hip.
The Black Swan gave her the thumbs up, then darted into the mouth of the nearest giant. Cinder followed. Once inside, she was relieved to find the sleet came to a halt, though the wind through the mouths created a skull-piercing howl. From a distance, the spire had seemed needle thin at its highest point, but now that they were inside it was cavernous, opening onto a base that must easily have been a mile across.
In the center of the vast space sat a dragon, its scales made of iron. The huge beast didn't look up. Had they really taken Tempest by surprise?
The Black Swan evidently thought so. Clenching her fists, she dove straight down the center of the shaft. Tempest still hadn't looked up. Cinder hesitated. Should she attack as well? The plan was for her to find Stagger. But where would she even look?
Far below, the Black Swan was now a tiny figure, her dark body invisible against the iron scales of the dragon, her glowing gauntlets like twin fireflies. Without warning, the fireflies veered sharply away from their straight downward line. An instant later, the Black Swan slammed into the side of the spire, ringing the entire structure like a bell.
In the relative quiet that followed, a low, rolling thunder resolved into a chuckle.
"Fool. You come to me wearing iron skin? I am the lord of lightning. When I run my energies through iron, I become a powerful lodestone. I don't even need to add your soul to my ring to make you a puppet."
The dragon lifted his claw. His talons were adorned with golden rings, capped with diamonds as large as a man. Inside each of the diamonds, Cinder could see a vaguely human shape writhing within the facets. Was this where her father was kept?
The dragon moved his claw toward the Black Swan, who was pinned to the wall. He gave a sudden jerk and the Black Swan shot straight up the shaft, her glowing gauntlets blurring into streaks of light.
Cinder raised her shield. The Black Swan smashed into her. The glorystone absorbed most of the impact, but the blow still knocked the wind out of her.
"Run!" the Black Swan squawked. "I can't control myself!" She kept swinging her arms in viscous punches. Cinder hid behind her shield, but the impact of glorystone against glorystone felt as if her forearm was getting smashed with a large rock. The backpack holding the One True Book slipped on one of the blows. She raised her leg to pin it against the shield once more, but the distraction allowed the Black Swan to punch the top edge of the shield, driving it into her forehead. Dark spot danced against her eyes as she flew backward, up the shaft, trying to get away. The Black Swan pursued with unflagging intensity.
"Flee," the Black Swan begged. "He'll keep hitting you until you fall. You can't defend against me forever!"
She was right. Cinder couldn't defend forever. So she did what her mother would do, and attacked. She threw her shield aside and thrust with her spear, driving the glorystone shaft straight through the center of the Black Swan's breast. The Black Swan swung hard, the gauntlet flashing a hair's width away from Cinder's nose. Clenching her jaw, Cinder channeled the full power of the glorystone spear into forward flight. With a clang, she pinned the Black Swan into the nearest wall, then leapt back, drawing her knife.
She fell the second she no longer held the shaft of glorystone. Fortunately, she'd tossed her shield down, and could twist her body toward it. The second her fingers grasped the edge, she was weightless again. But instead of flying up, she doubled the speed of her dive, aiming for the tumbling backpack several dozen yards below her. She slashed at the leather bag with her knife, slicing it open. The silver clad book broke free of the leather. She slowed her pace to match its fall and cried, in the best imitation of her mother's voice, "Tempest! I've come for you!"
"Then you've come to die!" the dragon roared, opening his jaws as he looked directly up the shaft.
Cinder drew up her legs, curling into a ball completely hidden behind the shield. Something smacked against it and arcs of lighting shot sideways, as sparks traced bright patterns upon the iron walls. She peeked over the edge of the shield. The silver coating the book had been boiled away by the blast of lighting. The One True Book fell freely, its pages flapping in the rushing air.
Tempest's eyes narrowed to focus on the relatively tiny object, perhaps thinking it was a weapon. There was the subtlest change in posture when he realized it was only a book. Then, his eyes grew wide, as if he recognized the tome.
Tempest opened his jaws as if to blast the book, but by now the book had reached his snout. It fell into his gaping mouth and landed on his tongue. A low, guttural whimper burst from his throat for the barest second as light filled the entirety of his body.
Cinder blinked. When she opened her eyes, the dragon was gone. The large book fell to the floor where he'd been standing, landing closed, looking completely unharmed by its fall.
Cinder shot back up the shaft. The Black Swan was still pinned to the wall.
"Are you back in control of your body?" she asked.
The Black Swan nodded. "How did you know he'd blast you with lightning? How'd you know the lighting would melt the silver from the One True Book, but not destroy the book?"
Cinder shrugged. "Sometimes, you have to spin the wheel."
She grabbed the spear and placed her feet against the Black Swan's torso. With a yank, she pulled the shaft free.
"Doesn't that hurt?" she asked, staring through the hole in the Black Swan's chest. She could see through to the wall on the other side.
"I haven't felt physical pain in a long time," said the Black Swan. "Now, let's hope those rings contain who I think they contain."
Cinder followed the Black Swan back down to the floor of the spire. Tempest was gone, but the giant rings he'd worn now lay scattered about. When they landed, the ring hoops were large enough for Cinder to walk through, with the diamonds nearly as big as a pygmy hut.
There were nine rings. The Black Swan studied their facets closely.
"We should be careful," she said. "We can't know what other souls are trapped in these rings. We don't want to free something horrible."
Cinder walked straight to one of the diamonds. The light flickering in its facets seemed to speak to her.
"This one," she said.
"Are you sure?" asked the Black Swan.
Cinder nodded, running her hands along the surface. "The glow feels like sunlight on my face. It feels like I've known it all my life. Stagger's inside."
"Then let's get him outside," said the Black Swan, leaning back, her arm outstretched. She swung her glorystone gauntlet with tremendous force against the corner of one of the planes of the diamond. With a snap, the diamond split into two halves, dropping its prisoner to the floor. It wasn't Stagger.
"Walker!" cried the Black Swan as a pale white pygmy rose on trembling legs.
"I was so sure!" said Cinder.
"You were deceived," said Walker. "I've some experience with lies, as the former lord of Hell."
"Current lord of Hell, you mean," said the Black Swan. "Tempest is dead."
Walker shook his head. "The Divine Author wrote me into the book to rule over the damned. As any author can attest, some characters have a mind of their own. Let Hell rule itself."
"That's all fine and good until someone like Tempest comes along to take over the place," said the Black Swan. "The living world's in ruin thanks to him. None of this would have happened if you'd not abdicated your responsibilities."
"You feel someone should have the task of running Hell in a way that protects the living world?" asked Walker.
"I most certainly do," said the Black Swan.
Walker bent down and placed his hand upon the golden ring he'd been trapped inside. The ring shrunk at his touch, until it was small enough to fit a human hand. Putting his tongue into the corner of his lip, he pressed together the two halves of the diamond, now the size of a quail's egg. The pieces stayed together as he set them back into the ring.
"What are you doing?" asked the Black Swan.
"Preparing a symbol of office, of course. Human kings have crowns. The Voice of the Law had a stave. The ruler of Hell has rings."
"Then, you'll rule Hell once more?"
"No," said Walker. "You will."
"Me?" squeaked the Black Swan.
"Her?" asked Cinder.
"She's got centuries of administrative experience," said Walker. "She's well practiced at managing cutthroats, thieves, and scoundrels." He handed the Black Swan the ring. "You'll be perfect for the job."
The pygmy walked toward another of the diamonds. He placed his hands upon it. "Stagger's in here. I wouldn't recommend opening the rest."
Walker kept walking, moving to the back of the huge diamond. Cinder followed him, wanting to ask more questions about Stagger's presence in the gem. She had no reason to trust Walker, given that he'd just admitted to lying to her.
She kept walking around the gem until she got back to the Black Swan.
"Where'd he go?" she asked.
"Leaving mysteriously is a habit of his," said the Black Swan, looking at the diamond in her palm.
"Can we trust him? Is he trying to trick us into opening the wrong diamond?"
"I don't think so," said the Black Swan. "I haven't had much dealing with Walker personally, but he's always seemed more of a philosopher than a troublemaker." She glanced at the One True Book, still sitting nearby. "Not that philosophers don't cause plenty of trouble."
"Then let's free Father and leave this place," said Cinder. "Mother may still be fighting Hush in Commonground. We should get back and help her if we can."
As she said this, Cinder thrust her knife at the edge of a facet. It bounced off without even scratching the stone.
"Let me help," said the Black Swan. "My mechanical eyes can see the subtle flaws in the crystal." She punched the diamond, which fell in two parts. A tall, thin human with long gray hair toppled out, landing limp on the floor.
"Stagger!" said the Black Swan.
"Is he alive?" Cinder asked, kneeling next to the withered figure. She could see his ribs through his skin. She turned him over. His face was skeletal, his eyes sunken. He moaned softly as she touched his throat to find a pulse. If he had one, it was too faint for her to feel.
"Give him the spear," said the Black Swan.
Cinder placed the spear into Stagger's palm. His fingers closed around it. The bright crystal turned black, then crumbled to sand. The Black Swan grabbed Cinder's shield and placed it into Stagger's grasping fingers. He still hadn't opened his eyes, but his face looked less pale as he drew the light out of the glorystone shield until it too went dark and crumbled away.
By now, the Black Swan had removed her gauntlets. Stagger's eyes flickered open as she brought them near. He raised his hands to touch them. Their energy flowed into him and his chest heaved as he drew a sudden breath.
He sat up, still gaunt, but his eyes now possessed an internal glow. "The sun," he whispered. "Tempest had me bend its light away from the world, then had me guide it toward the distant darkness."
"Can you bring it back?" asked Sorrow.
Stagger nodded. "I've already summoned it. Now that I'm free of the diamond, my soul is once more part of all glorystones, everywhere. I'll grow stronger as the sun draws nearer. Help me rise."
Cinder wrapped Stagger's arm across her shoulder. In the Sea of Wine, after his death, his body had reverted to crystal. Now, he felt like a living man, warm, slick with sweat, his breath stinking as if all his teeth were rotten.
"Where's Infidel?" Stagger asked.
"Back in Commonground. She's gone to save it from Hush."
"Alone?" asked Stagger, the lines on his face deepening.
"With the Romers, and Menagerie."
"Hush will slaughter them," said Stagger. "We have to get back."
"You're too weak to fight," said Cinder.
Stagger placed more of his weight on his own feet, standing straighter. "I'll revive once the rays of the sun reach me. But that won't happen in Hell. We have to get back to the living world."
"Take him to Commonground," said the Black Swan.
"Aren't you coming?" asked Cinder.
"I've got loose ends to tie up," she said.
Cinder nodded, then, feeling no need for further discussion, she and her father stepped forward, climbing through the spectral lands, passing from Hell to the Realm of Roots, and from there to the Bay of Blood. She paused, horrified. Ghosts were everywhere. It was as if all the city had died at once.
"Oh no," she whispered.
Stagger gazed out to sea. "I can see the shadows of the living world from here. I don't see Hush. I don't even feel her spirit."
"She's already killed everyone," said Cinder, unable to hide her despair.
"No," said Stagger. "You can see across the veil. Look around. Beyond all the dead, there are still hundreds of living souls. Thousands, perhaps."
Cinder took a calming breath. It was true. The sight of so many recently dead ghosts had shocked her, but now she could see living souls everywhere. Wanderer ships still bobbed upon the waves, their crews alive. Along the hills, she spotted dozens of pygmies who'd made it to safe heights.
"I sense a glorystone out there, just beyond the mouth of the bay," said Stagger. "It's your mother's helmet. Let's go."
With Stagger's arm still over her shoulder, they walked across the surface of the water. It was over a mile out to the mouth of the bay, and the terrain was ever shifting. The waters of the bay were full of corpses, broken ships, and uprooted trees, floating among huge chunks of ice. She saw the spirits of the dead wandering along the surface of the water, and others just beneath it. But she also saw strange shadows crawling up onto the ice floes, dark forms neither living nor dead.
"It's Tempest's army of the damned," said Stagger. "Just because he's gone doesn't mean they'll be eager to return to Hell. No living thing is safe until we drive them back."
"Maybe mother will have a plan," said Cinder.
"Smash and grab won't improve this situation," said Stagger.
They kept walking, leaving the bay. The glow of the glorystone became apparent, rising and falling on the deck of a ship that bobbed on the rolling sea.
"It's the _Circus_ ," said Stagger.
They quickened their pace. Stagger didn't say a word as they neared the ship. His face looked grim. They walked up through the air to the deck of the ship, then stepped through into the living world.
"Stagger!" a voice called out as they appeared from thin air.
Stagger turned to see a dwarf running toward him, his long blond hair hanging about his face in tangled ropes. "Hello, Bigsby."
The dwarf threw his arms around Stagger's thighs and gave him a big hug. "You're alive again!"
"Still technically dead," said Stagger. "But I appreciate the sentiment."
Cinder turned from the dwarf to find all the other Romers standing in a circle. They looked back toward her with sad eyes. The oldest girl, Sage, cradled the glorystone helmet against her chest.
Bigsby broke his grip on Stagger's legs and said, softly, "They say you see through every glorystone. So you know. You know. I'm sorry."
Stagger nodded.
Cinder marched toward the circle of Romers. "Sorry for what? What's happened?"
One by one, the Romers stepped aside. In the center of their circle, her arms folded neatly across her chest, was the still form of her mother on her back, looking as if she were sleeping.
But she wasn't sleeping.
# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
# THE DRAGON FORGE
The Black Swan watched Stagger and Cinder walk out of Hell. For a moment, she contemplated calling out to Cinder, but fought the impulse. She had a deep sense of dissatisfaction from her encounter with her younger self. This version of Cinder would forge her own path. She would never become the Black Swan. Still, the Black Swan couldn't help but feel that there was something she should have said, some bit of advice or wisdom to pass on, that might have made Cinder's life easier moving forward. She knew so much more now than she knew then, but, were there any lessons that could be learned without the pain of experience? Would her wisest advice be mere platitudes, seeds sowed upon the wind that would find no purchase in the soil of a soul lacking her experience?
As she thought of her own experiences, she looked down at the ring still in her palm. Queen of Hell. She wasn't exactly sure what she was going to do with her days now that they'd halted the dragon apocalypse, but the notion of spending eternity in this place held little appeal.
The Black Swan turned away from the point in space where Cinder had vanished, shaking off her reverie. Stagger could deal with Hush, if Hush was still a problem. She had a bigger challenge. How could she hide the One True Book someplace it would never, ever be found?
She froze as she studied the iron floor where the book had fallen. The space where it had sat seconds before was now bare. The book was gone.
She ground her iron teeth, suddenly knowing the one thing she should have told Cinder, though the girl would learn it on her own soon enough: _Nothing is ever easy._
"No," Cinder whispered, dropping to her knees. "She can't be dead. She can't be!"
Her mother's helmet had been removed, but she still wore the Immaculate Attire. The mystical armor looked pristine, and her mother's body showed no hint of injury. Cinder lowered her ear to her mother's lips, listening closely for the faintest breath.
Gale knelt beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"How did it happen?" asked Stagger, taking the glorystone helmet from Sage, who held it toward him.
"She flew at full speed into Hush," said Sage. "The blow killed them both. I saw Hush's spirit spiral up toward the stars, drawn to the Great Sea Above."
"Did you see Infidel's spirit?" asked Stagger.
Sage nodded. "She wandered off across the water, back toward the island."
Cinder rose. "I have to find her!" She ran toward the rail of the ship and leapt, letting her body shift from the living world into the Bay of Blood. She landed on the water and began to run.
The spiritual realm was still crowded with the spirits of the recently dead. She ran among them, looking at the lost and forlorn faces, hoping against hope she might find her mother. It proved futile. It was like hunting for a single leaf in the canopy of the jungle.
She gazed up the steep, forested slope of the volcano. Her eyes widened as she saw a light, flickering like a torch, climbing the slope, disappearing and reappearing as it moved among the trees. Cinder hadn't noticed the flaming sword with her mother's body. Could her mother's spirit still be carrying the blade?
She set off in pursuit of the light, running with all the speed she could muster.
"We've got a problem," said Mako, looking over the waves, still thick with large ice floes.
"Sage, get into the crow's nest," said Gail. "Rigger, to the wheel. We need to put some distance between us and the larger ice blocks before they stave us in."
"That's not the problem I was referring to," said Mako, pointing toward the waves. "The undead. Just because Hush is gone doesn't mean Tempest's army has given up. They've apparently got our scent. There are hundreds of them converging on the ship, swimming beneath the surface."
"I didn't know the undead could swim," said Bigsby.
"But you find it plausible that they walk around and get into swordfights?" asked Jetsam.
"I'll take care of the undead," said Stagger. "At least, I will in about an hour. I'm already guiding the sun back into its proper path. Once the sun comes up, the damned will retreat into the shadows of Hell.""
"Then we'd better get ready to fight," said Sage, scanning the waters with her spyglass. "It's not hundreds that have our scent. It's more like thousands. It's going to be a very long hour."
"It would make more sense not to fight," said Gale. "I'll guide us back to the Sea of Wine."
"We don't need to be afraid of waterlogged corpses," said Jetsam. "I can fight an army of them with one hand behind my back."
"We've nothing to gain by the fight," said Gale. "We're leaving."
"A wise strategy," said Stagger. He knelt over Infidel's body. "Leave once I've cleared the ship."
He studied the glorystone helmet in his grasp. In Hell, he'd drawn power from the glorystones to revive his soul. Now, he absorbed the physical structure of the stone, changing his body back into its crystalline state. He placed his hands under Infidel's shoulder and beneath her knees and lifted her, his eyes fixed on her pale, lifeless face. He pressed his lips tightly together. He wasn't in the habit of breathing anymore, but, without thinking, he took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly.
Stagger rose into the air, looked back at Gale Romer and said, "When the sun rises once more on the horizon of the Sea of Wine, it will be safe to return."
"Not that there's much to return to," Rigger grumbled.
"There's everything to return to," said Gale, looking over the waves toward the ruins of Commonground.
"We must be looking at different things," said Rigger. "Sure, we've beaten Hush and Tempest. But the whole dragon apocalypse thing that the Black Swan was trying to stop? Open your eyes. It's already happened."
"I still see ships floating in the bay," said Gale. "The jungles of the high slopes are still full of life. Abyss is free, and I've faith he'll restore the oceans to their former health. This isn't the end of the world, Rigger. It's a fresh start. It's a chance to build things even better than they were before."
"It's always darkest before the dawn," said Bigsby.
"I'm working on that," said Stagger. "Goodbye, old friend."
Bigsby returned the parting words as Stagger walked across the air toward the Isle of Fire. In the trees along the shoreline, he spotted a large, tattered sail tangled among the limbs. The canvas practically glowed in the starlight. Still holding Infidel in his arms, he willed a fist-sized chunk of glorystone to break free from the small of his back. The smaller stone reconfigured into a hand, floating independently. With this free hand, he tugged the canvas loose. It followed him as he walked on.
Twenty years ago, when he'd first become part of the sun, the idea of modifying his body in such an unnatural fashion would have caused him a great deal of unease. He'd spent most of his living years thinking of his body as his true self. Being human seemed like the most wonderful thing imaginable. Twenty years later, he accepted how limited his imagination had been.
Stagger found himself lost in memories as he walked along the shore, his eyes flickering over the dark jungle. Directly up the slope, he recalled, was one of the larger towns of the Vanished Kingdom, draped beneath vines. He and Infidel had spent weeks there, going at the ruins with picks and shovels, drenched in sweat in the tropical heat. In the end, all they'd gotten from their hard work had been a handful of jade beads and a clay tile glazed in bright purple and yellow, a fragment from some larger piece of art they'd never located.
In the evenings, they'd wash off in a nearby stream, then sit around a campfire eating mangoes. One evening they'd found a turtle and cooked it in its own shell. He remembered how bland and stringy the meat had been, and the off-putting, damp-boot smell it gave off while it cooked.
At night, they'd slept fitfully, plagued by mosquitoes and ants. The bugs couldn't hurt Infidel, of course, but she still swat them away when they'd crawl on her lips or ears.
Such misery. But they'd been miserable together. Such paradise.
Stagger crossed the very stream he'd just been thinking of. He followed it up the slope until he reached a small pool. He lowered Infidel's body onto the shore. Slowly, he undressed her. Given his own past as a tomb raider, he knew if he buried her in the Immaculate Attire, it would only be an invitation for some treasure hunter to disturb her final rest.
Once she was disrobed, he lowered her into the water and gently washed her, echoing the movements she'd gone through twenty years before as she readied his corpse for burial. Once he was done, he placed her body in the center of the sail and wrapped her carefully within the makeshift shroud. He lifted her once more and proceeded on his journey.
Minutes later, he reached the high, sandy bluff that had been his destination. He stepped down onto the turf. Looking at the scraggly grass that covered the area, there was no hint that, a few feet below the surface, his bones slumbered in their final rest.
He held Infidel tightly to his chest as more chunks of his body pulled free, taking on the shapes of picks and spades. He turned away to look at the starlit ocean as the grave was dug. The sky above was utterly dark, the stars crisp and vivid. She'd picked a wonderful place to bury him.
When the hole was finished, he whispered, "Sleep well, my love."
He pressed his crystalline lips against the shroud, feeling her cold lips beneath. After this final kiss, he lowered her gently into the grave. He threw in a handful of sandy soil, then turned away to allow his various tool selves to complete the burial.
He would never see her body again.
But her soul? As Gale had said, this wasn't an end, but a beginning.
Stagger crossed his arms behind his back, waiting patiently as the sky lightened. The orb of the sun rose above the horizon, turning the waves into gleaming jewels. He spread his arms to embrace the morning light.
Cinder dripped sweat as she climbed along the air to reach the volcano's rim. Though she didn't need to actually touch ground to move in the spiritual realm, rising up the entire length of the volcano had still been an effort. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn't stop to rest. She'd seen her mother's spirit cross the rim of the caldera only a moment before, moving at a slow but steady pace, like a sleepwalker.
As Cinder reached the rim, a blast of hot wind set her hair fluttering. Below her, the surface of the caldera was paved with dark stone, laced with cracks showing red. Perhaps a quarter mile away, her mother walked steadily along the black stones, showing no sign of discomfort from the blistering heat. Cinder ran toward her, panting loudly, her heart pounding in her ears.
When she was a few dozen yards away, she cried out, "Mother!"
Infidel looked over her shoulder. Her spiritual flesh was white as ivory, lacking the green hue of the pygmy dyes that that stained her physical form. The flickering flames of the burning sword highlighted her face and hair in shades of yellow and orange.
"Cinder," Infidel said, with a gentle smile. "I'd hoped to see you before I left."
"Where are you going?" asked Cinder.
Infidel stopped, looking puzzled. "You know I'm dead, right?"
Cinder caught up to her mother, placing her hands on her knees as she bent over, gasping for breath. "I know. But... this isn't the Realm of Roots. You don't belong in this place."
"No," said Infidel. She raised the flaming sword. "This does. When I woke up dead, the sword was in my grasp, aflame once more. Greatshadow must be back. I'm returning the blade to its rightful owner. Did you save Stagger?"
Cinder nodded. "He's safe. But, I wish I had been in Commonground with you. Maybe you—"
"Maybe we'd both be dead," said Infidel. "Things worked out for the best."
"No!" said Cinder. "Having you dead isn't for the best. There has to be a way to save you."
"It's too late for that," said Infidel. "I'm at peace with what has happened. I had a good run. I died like I lived, fighting something bigger than myself. Leaving you is my only regret."
Cinder shook her head. "It's never too late. The Black Swan... she said she could run back through time. That means I could go back a few hours, I could—"
Infidel placed the tip of the sword into a crack on the stone, then walked toward Cinder. Infidel placed her arms around Cinder, drawing her tightly against her. Cinder returned the hug, clinging to her mother fiercely, determined never to let her go.
But her mother finally broke the embrace, pushing away, but keeping her hands on Cinder's shoulders. They gazed into each other's eyes, and Infidel said, firmly, "The only way forward is forward."
"But—"
"Listen to me," said Infidel. "There never has been, and never will be, any event too tragic to endure, no matter what the scale. You've grown up in the ruins of the Vanished Kingdom. Would your life have been better if you could somehow go back and keep that empire from falling apart?"
"No," said Cinder, sniffling. "But I'm not talking about saving the world. I'm talking about saving _you_. You are my world."
"Oh, honey," said Infidel. "You'll build a new world. I've started over again and again. I used to be a princess. I put an end to that and became an outcast for a time, wearing my loneliness and anger like a suit of armor to scare away anyone who even thought of messing with me. Then I came to Commonground, met Stagger, and my life changed again, to something weirder and wilder than I'd ever imagined. Then Stagger died, and I thought I had nothing to live for, and I've never been more wrong. You were still in my future. Life is like a raging river. It sweeps you along, and sometimes it will slam you into rocks. But, if you stay afloat, it always brings you back to calm waters. The only way out is forward. Promise me you won't make the same mistakes the Black Swan made."
Cinder wiped tears from her cheeks. "I promise," she whispered. "Will I... will I see you again, in the Realm of Roots?"
"I don't think so," said Infidel. "When Stagger first died, he told me he felt his spirit disperse, spreading out into the infinite, not so much going anywhere as going everywhere. Despite all the supernatural things I've witnessed, I'm not really a believer in one afterlife. I've seen the Sea of Wine, the Great Sea Above, the Bay of Blood... I know there's more than one truth. Ultimately, I don't really believe any of them are the final truth. There's something bigger than the afterlife, something stranger, maybe, or something grander. I suppose, once I return this sword to Greatshadow, I'll finally learn what's really out there."
"You'll never return the sword to Greatshadow," said a low, rumbling voice.
Infidel spun around, her hand outstretched to snatch up the sword, but the sword was gone, vanished into a widening crack in the volcanic rock. Flames licked up from the crack. Cinder grabbed her mother and pulled her back, dragging her into the air, putting distance between them and the growing flames.
"Wait," Infidel cried out. "It's okay. He's not going to harm us."
Cinder wasn't sure what "he" her mother was referring to, until she saw the flames condensing, coalescing into a form that was almost solid, spreading wings of orange flame as it took the shape of a dragon.
"You're not Greatshadow," said Infidel, her eyes narrowing. "Yet, I still feel as if I know you."
"You know me well," said the dragon. "First as Relic, then as Brokenwing."
"Where's your father?" asked Infidel.
"Gone," said the dragon. "He used the last of his spiritual power to lead me to a place where I could assume the mantle of a new primal dragon. I was to be the new spirit of the forest."
"Then shouldn't you be green and leafy?" asked Infidel.
The dragon shook his head. "My father's spirit was distilled into a single remaining ember. I watched the ember fade, as my father's spirit perished. I breathed the ember into my own body, where the flames inherent in my blood flowed into it, opening the gateway for his elemental power to flow into me. I'm the rightful heir to Greatshadow, the new primal dragon of flame. My father had an uneasy relationship with mankind. He helped build cities, and he helped devour them. I've learned from his mistakes. I intend to be a benevolent partner of mankind, helping humanity reach new heights. I shall be known from this day forward as Forge."
"It's important to have goals," said Infidel. "Speaking of which, if you've got the sword back, I suppose my time here is done."
"Let's hope not," said Forge. "You see, before he died, my father led me to this." He held out a claw. Unlike the rest of his body flame, the claw looked to be made of scaly flesh. He opened his talons, palm up, to reveal a bright green ovoid the size of an almond.
"A nut?" asked Infidel.
"A seed," said Forge. "The distilled essence of Verdant."
"Verdant's been dead a long time," said Infidel.
"Until you blended her blood with yours. Your life gave her soul a renewed spark. You were the incubator. Now, you can be the vessel."
"The vessel?"
"Take the seed," said Forge. "Devour it. Become the new dragon of the forest."
"I've lived long enough in the jungle to know that the forests don't really need a dragon to survive."
"Perhaps. But beyond this island, the world has been scoured by ice. Restoring the world to health will not be an easy task. The forests have a better chance to thrive once more if there's guiding will behind them."
"Will you still be you if you eat the seed?" Cinder asked her mother. "Or will Verdant's personality overpower yours?"
Infidel shrugged. "I stayed in control for a long time with dragon blood in my veins. I'm not easy to overpower."
"Then you'll do it?" asked Forge. "You'll devour the seed?"
Infidel stretched out her hand, her fingers lingering for a few seconds above the green pod. She grinned. "The only way forward is forward."
Gale sat on the forecastle, wrapped in a blanket, sipping the warm drink laced with rum Brand had gotten for her. Her dive into the icy water had taken more out of her than she cared to admit. Ten years ago, perhaps even five, she could have shrugged off her chill quickly enough. Now, an hour later, her teeth still chattered.
Brand had his arm draped around her as they watched the horizon of the Sea of Wine grow steadily brighter. They sat in silence. What was there to say after a day like the one they'd witnessed? But it was more than that. Yes, she'd softened to Brand, felt her former attraction to him rekindle with his derring-do and confidence in recent days. But, long term? She was still old enough to be his mother. Would her infatuation with him survive in ten years? In twenty? She'd once regarded him as little more than an amusing toy. She now knew that behind his charm and good looks he possessed intellect, wisdom, and courage. Would these traits prove enduring in the trying days of rebuilding before them?
Brand finally spoke, as the horizon turned a fiery red. "Every other time I've been to the Sea of Wine, I thought I was looking at a sunset," he said. "From now on, we'll know we're looking at a sunrise."
"An eternal dawn," said Gale, feeling the optimism of those words draw her out of her funk. She turned and kissed him on the cheek. "A pity we can't stay to watch it." She stood, tossing aside her blanket. "Rigger! Get to the wheel! Time to get back to Commonground."
"Not yet," Sage called out. From the crow's nest, she pointed north. Gale followed her gaze, until she spotted black gulls flitting in the distance. "It's Sorrow. She's returned to the Sea of Wine."
"Is she still merged with Rott?" asked Mako, climbing into the rigging to get a better view.
"Yes," said Sage. "It's her aura within the dragon."
"What's she waiting for?" asked Mako. "Why doesn't she change back into her human form?"
"Do we even know if she knows how?" asked Brand.
"She only has to remove the nail," said Sage.
"If she became human now, she'd drown in the Sea of Wine," said Gale. She summoned a southern wind, and said, "Set the sails. We're going to her side."
Seconds later, the sails caught the wind and they smashed through the waves, at speeds that left the hull of the _Circus_ groaning. The ropes creaked as the ship climbed up swells and slid down them once more. The birds in the distance grew ever closer.
Gale stilled the winds and the sails fluttered slack as they pulled alongside the black, serpentine spine that crested the waves. The cacophony of sea birds whirling overhead was deafening.
"Sorrow!" Mako shouted, his voice booming from his oversized jaws. "Sorrow, we're here. You can change back!"
The dragon drifted silently, with no sign of awareness.
"Sorrow!" Mako bellowed again. This time, he was joined in the riggings by Jetsam, who added, "Wake up, sleepy head!"
Again, silence was the only response.
Now Cinnamon and Poppy came into the rigging beside Mako and Jetsam. They all began to call her name, and were soon joined at the rail by Brand and Bigsby. Gail didn't follow them to the rail. She suspected she knew more about Sorrow's heart than anyone else on board. She alone had lost beloved partners to death. Gale knew full well the heavy burden of grief, of how it could easily pull a soul down with its weight. She'd been fortunate, as her family had always been at her side to share her burden. No matter how depressed Gale had felt waking in bed all alone, sensing the vacancy on the pillow beside her, she'd always been pulled from beneath the covers by the needs of her children. From what she knew of Sorrow, now that Slate was gone there was no one left to pull her back from the depths of grief. Before she loved Slate, Sorrow's only purpose in life had been revenge against the father and his church. With her father dead and the church destroyed, was there anything left for her?
"No," a woman's voice whispered in Gale's mind. "There's nothing left."
"Did anyone else hear that?" asked Jetsam, craning his neck from side to side. "It sounded like Sorrow, but I can't tell where her voice was coming from."
"We all heard it, I'm guessing," said Sage. "The voice came from inside us. Dragons are telepathic."
"So you can hear us," said Brand. By now, the ship had pulled even with Rott's milky, unblinking eye. He gazed into the moonlike orb and said, "Hush and Tempest have been beaten. Stagger's free. You can let go of Rott's power now."
"I am where I am meant to be," the voiceless voice replied. "I am what I always was. Death. Destruction. _Sorrow_."
"Sorrow, we've always talked straight with each other," said Brand. "You've never sugarcoated a single thing you've said to me, and I've respected you enough to return that bluntness. Listen to me. I know you're hurting. We all share your grief that Slate is gone. But you can't surrender to despair. You're stronger than that."
"Despair always wins," the voice whispered. "In the end, sorrow claims all."
For the first time, the corpse-like body of Rott showed signs of movement as its head submerged into the water. Its back humped up for a moment, then, with a flick of its tail, it dove beneath the waves.
"No!" cried Mako, crouching, preparing to leap in to give chase.
"What are you doing?" Jetsam cried, grabbing his brother's arm. "You can't dive in the wine! Swallow a single drop and you'll go mad!"
Gale shook her head. "Sorrow's made her choice. We have to respect it."
"I respectfully disagree," Sage cried out, sliding down the ropes to the deck. "Sorrow gave me her word. We had a verbal contract! You don't break a contract with a Wanderer lightly."
"I'm not sure convening a sea court back in Commonground is going to help resolve this," said Brand.
Sage didn't answer, instead darting down the stairs into the ship's hold. Gale moved to the rail, watching the oily slick left by Rott's passing as it spread across the burgundy waves. She could still see Rott's form swimming beneath the surface, diving ever deeper.
Sage ran back up the steps to the deck. She carried a wine bottle with its bottom broken off. "Catch!" she yelled, tossing the bottle to Mako.
Mako snatched the bottle from the air and shoved it between his teeth. Then he tore free of Jetsam's grasp, leapt out from the ship, and plummeted into the waves.
"Mako!" Gale cried, stunned by her son's recklessness. She whirled to face Sage. "What did you do?"
"When Sorrow returned to the _Circus_ in Hell, she brought back the bottomless bottle. If Mako keeps it in his mouth, he can fill himself with fresh water instead of letting any of the wine through his lips!"
"Awesome," said Jetsam. "I should have thought of that."
"No one should have thought of this!" Gale said. "Sorrow's made her own choice. There's no reason Mako should risk his life to save someone who doesn't want to be saved."
"Mako can make his own choices, too," said Sage, putting her hands on her hips. "And Sorrow doesn't have a choice here. Verbal contract, remember?"
"You're as crazy as Mako," Gale said, tossing her hands in the air. "I've been in the Sea of Wine. It nearly broke me. Mako's never going to—"
She stopped, as everyone's eyes turned toward the wine, which began to churn.
Sorrow swished her tail once more, her limbs and wings pulled tightly against her body as she dove into the unending darkness. She felt no remorse, no sense of loss or surrender. In the silent darkness of the endless sea, she'd sleep without dreams in the cradle of oblivion.
Before her mind could settle into permanent peace, however, she felt the smallest tickle at the far tip of her tail. In scale, it was similar to when she'd worn a human shell and had an ant crawl across her toe. Reflexively, she twitched to shake off the annoyance. To her consternation, the insect that touched her held on and began to crawl along the length of her tail.
With her draconic senses, she didn't need to turn her neck to see that it was Mako who clawed his way along her scales. All dragons could hear the thoughts of others, and Mako's mind was like a shout. She could hear his fears, couldn't ignore his compassion, and recoiled at his anger. Anger? More like rage. What right did he have to rage against her? Who was he to feel betrayed or wronged by her choices?
She writhed, contorting her body violently, and still Mako held on. She fixed her jaws. Very well. He mattered nothing. He could ride her all the way into eternity for all she cared. Let him cling to her until hunger claimed him, let his body fail, then fall, then rot. Sooner or later, her victory would be complete.
She swallowed hard, staring into the unfathomable depths below. Once before, she'd stared into this void. As before, she found that something stared back, something beyond thought, a force beyond emotion, a primal thing, the primal truth, in fact. Before her lay nothing at all, the ultimate fate of all men, of all animals, all plants, the final sum of stones and stars, the complete value of all love, all hate, all fear, all hope. Everything was nothing. The void devoured all.
She was that void. It was her fate to devour Mako. Why delay? With but a thought, she could direct her nihilistic energies through the scales he clung to, could reduce him to gelatinous muck dissolving within the wine.
Sorrow closed her eyes. A single thought and she'd be free. A single thought. He climbed further, advancing along her spine. His persistence galled her. The courage that radiated from him, his refusal to respect her choice, his defiance in the face of complete defeat, jabbed into her conscience like needles. Or nails.
Sorrow recognized this courage. She knew this defiant rage. It had been part of her for most of her life, as constant as her heartbeat, as essential as breath.
Perhaps, at heart, she was the avatar of something primal. But at her core, stripped of everything else, her central truth bore no resemblance to the silent acceptance of oblivion and surrender.
The thing that stared at her from the void below knew this as well. In silence it judged her, then cast her out.
"I see them!" Poppy and Cinnamon cried out in unison, pointing toward the waves. Gale ran back to the rail. Ten feet down she saw a dark shape, much smaller than Rott. It rose swiftly through the waves, changing form, looking something like a misshapen octopus with limbs pointing in all directions. With a splash, Mako broke the surface of the wine. A second later the bald, nail-studded head of Sorrow emerged from the waves beside him, clinging to his back. She had a bloody, festering wound where the nail of Rott had once pierced her scalp, but the nail was gone.
Ropes snaked down from the deck and plucked Mako and Sorrow from the drink, setting them gently onto the deck. Sorrow was nude and Gale moved swiftly to her side to drape her blanket over her shoulders.
"You came back!" Sage cried.
"I thought for sure we'd lost you," Brand said, walking to Sorrow's side. "Did Mako pull out the nail?"
Sorrow shook her head. "I... I let go of the power. Or perhaps the power let go of me."
"What changed your mind?" asked Brand.
"This idiot," Sorrow grumbled, nodding toward Mako. "He would have killed himself trying to pull a dragon back to the surface. What a stubborn, hard-headed..." Her voice caught in her throat. She took a shuddering breath and said, softly, "Thank you."
"You'd have done the same for any of us," said Mako.
Sorrow nodded, pulling the blanket tightly around her as she looked toward the other Romers. "He's right, you know. I'm sorry to give you such a scare. But, if there's one thing I learned just now, with Mako ready to swim all the way to damnation to save me, it's that all of you are precious to me. You're the family I never had."
As she spoke, Cinnamon and Poppy ran up to hug her, joined swiftly by Sage and Gale. Mako came up behind his mother and sister and embraced them, and Jetsam drifted down to place his arms across the shoulders of his younger siblings.
"I guess we have a happy ending after all," said Brand, motioning toward Rigger. He spread his arms wide as he approached the others. "Care to join the group hug?"
Rigger smirked and rolled his eyes. "I'm not really the hugging type."
But a rope wrapped around the gathered family all the same.
# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
# THE FIRST CHAPTER
The Black Swan emerged from the icy ocean, walking through waves of slush up the dark beach toward the Keep of the Inquisition. Like the last time she made this journey, she found Equity Tremblepoint standing on a high rock amid the waves, waving her arms in wild gesticulations, shouting at the top of her lungs, though her words were washed away by the wind.
The Black Swan marched without pause toward the door of the keep. With her iron fist, she banged on the heavy oak. It proved no surprise at all when Vigor opened the door and leered at her iron body, his eyes lingering at her iron breasts.
"I have it on good authority the world will end in a matter of minutes," said Vigor. "What if I told you I could make those minutes the best of your life?"
"I'm a skeleton sheathed in iron," said the Black Swan, somewhat exasperated. "I can't even imagine what you think you might possibly do that would cause me pleasure."
"If you have imagination, nothing stands in our way," said Vigor. "All the physical sensations we associate with the body are, in fact, products of the mind. It's never too late to learn new tricks."
"I suppose it isn't," said the Black Swan, extending her hand to brush her fingers along the gray hair of his cheek. "Like this trick, for instance." With a snick, the poison needles beneath her fingernails sprung into his flesh. His eyes grew wide, then turned glassy. He fell to the floor, limp, foam flecking on his lips.
The Black Swan stepped over Vigor, his limbs still twitching. "Sorry. I'm on a deadline, and didn't have time to deal with you if you'd decided to turn into a dragon to keep me from reaching Zetetic."
She wasn't sure if he could hear her. In theory, the poison she'd given him wasn't lethal, but she'd never tested the dosage on a man his age. No matter. If she didn't reach Zetetic in time, Vigor and everyone else would be dead in a few minutes anyway. Worse than dead. Erased.
Her iron feet rang against the stone as she ran up the stairs, not pausing to look through windows. This time, there would be no armies of the dead storming the castle. This time, she wasn't here to save Zetetic from the damned, nor to plead for his aid against them. This time, at last, she finally grasped the truth of what she'd witnessed when last the world had reached its final chapter.
She reached the heavy oak door at the top of the chamber. Bracing herself with her arms spread across the passageway, she kicked the door again and again, until it splintered.
She marched into the room beyond. As before, it was covered in paper. This time, however, the paper was covered in squiggles. She'd seen these squiggles before, many times.
She paused. Though she'd stood on these pages before, was it safe to enter? Might she meet the same fate as Tempest and Ver if she tread upon the pages of the One True Book?
"Don't be afraid to come in," said Zetetic, from a point in the room she couldn't see. "These words aren't sacred here. Nothing is sacred here. This chamber is beyond the gaze of the Divine Author. I like my privacy."
The Black Swan entered the room. Though they were at the top of a tower, theoretically the smallest room, the space was vast, much bigger than she remembered. She turned and found the door she entered hanging in empty space. Beyond it, she saw Zetetic standing at a wall, contemplating the words before him, a paint can in one hand, a brush in the other.
"I've been expecting you," said Zetetic. "When I snatched the book from behind your back, I suspected you'd come looking for it."
"How could you touch the book without it killing you?"
Zetetic held up his hands. They looked a little too large when compared to his arms, and their tone didn't match the hues of his face. "I snatched the Omega Reader's hands after Menagerie killed him. It's taken a few hours to get used to using them." He wiggled his fingers. "Where is Menagerie, by the way? Hidden away as a mouse inside you?" He gave her a closer look. "Ah. I hear a hornet buzzing around inside your torso. Did you know that I have the power to keep Menagerie from changing form just by snapping my fingers?" He snapped his fingers.
He turned his gaze back to the paper before him. He dipped his brush in the can of white paint he carried and lifted the tip to the page.
"Don't," she said.
"Don't worry," said Zetetic. "I'm not erasing you. Not yet." He drew the paint along the script, leaving a pristine line of gleaming white. "All of history is created by these words. On one of my journeys into the past with Walker, I witnessed a woman burned at the stake by Stark Tower, the Witchbreaker. I've seen many unpleasant things in my time, as you might imagine. But there's something about the way her body writhed, the way she struggled against her bonds, that haunts me. Sometimes, when I'm on the verge of sleep, I see those movements as shadows at the edge of my sight. I always sit bolt upright, my heart racing. My bedroom seems to echo with her screams. The smell of burning hair takes forever to leave my lungs. And now..." He drew the brush along another line of text, "Now she's gone. Never born. Never burned."
"What are you planning to do?" asked the Black Swan. "Erase everything you found unpleasant? Wipe away any bad memory that torments you?"
Zetetic chuckled. "My dear Black Swan, you must know how impossible it would be to limit the erasures to only that. What if this poor witch had a child before she was burned? They're gone now. If we searched the pages, I've no doubt we'd find a hundred gaps in the prose created by this simple erasure of a single life. How many lines will I need to erase before the book is blank? I've done the math several times. One calculation has me erasing the world in a mere ninety-three strokes. But who knows? Perhaps some things will persist until the last word is erased."
"You know I can't let you do this," said the Black Swan, walking toward him.
"You know I have the power to stop you where you stand with just a glance," he said, glancing in her direction.
She stopped, dead in her tracks, unable to move forward.
"You also know I'm impervious to any of the various weapons you've got stashed in that hollow shell of yours," he said. "You can't hurt me. But having lived your life outside a fixed timeline, I imagine you'll be almost impossible to erase from history until the last words are blotted out. So, please, relax, and watch patiently as I rid the world of the past."
"Why would you do this?" asked the Black Swan. "What can you possibly gain by wiping out the past?"
"The future, of course," said Zetetic, running his fingers along the lines of text as he searched for the next point in time and space to paint over. "You know I'm a dreamer. I've got big plans for what's to come. Once I have a blank slate, I can write the world anew. Ah, such tales I'll tell. Aren't you eager to see what I put into the first chapter? "
He dipped his brush once more.
"You've no right to do this," she said.
"There's only one essential right in this world," said Zetetic, his fingers stopping on a line dense with cramped writing, as if the author had been in a hurry to convey something important. "The right to do as you wish until someone comes along to stop you. As we've established, you are not that someone."
"How can you hate the world so much you'd want to erase it?" she asked.
"This has nothing to do with hatred." Zetetic gave a gentle smile. "I've never seen my lies as an instrument of harm or destruction. Lies are the ultimate tool of creation. Without lies, life would be impossible."
The Black Swan weighed his words carefully. When last she'd been here, she'd thought he was insane. It was now important to discover whether or not this was so.
"I don't follow your logic," she said.
He nodded. "Few do. I've seen the world from a different perspective for a long time."
"Why?" she asked. "What changed you?"
Zetetic pressed his lips together as he walked to a different section of the paper, eying the words carefully. He drew his brush across a line of words, blotting them out. When he turned to her, the red D on his forehead was gone. "I don't know if you ever had any tattoos, but, I assure you, having one needled into your face while you're chained to a rack doesn't make for a pleasant evening. I just erased the Truthspeaker who, three hundred years ago, decreed that Deceivers were to be marked to warn others." He smiled. "He was, ironically, a very kind man, believing Deceivers could be redeemed. Before him, my kind was routinely put to death."
"Which might be a good idea," said the Black Swan. "It was a mistake to save you when the church tried to hang you."
He chuckled. "I appreciate that I owe my survival then to a lie. You asked how I came to see the world differently." He paused before a section of writing. "I've already located that part of the book. Would you like to hear the story?"
He'd gotten closer. She tried once more to move her limbs, but found she was still powerless to move in his direction.
"Tell me," she said.
"It's a simple tale. My father was a faithful adherent of the Church of the Book. Like many members of his faith, he desired to make the pilgrimage to the Temple of the Book on the Isle of Storm. He was a nobleman, a man of some wealth. So, unlike most pilgrims who make the journey on foot, he was able to hire a wagon, as well as a bevy of guards to protect it from bandits."
"A guarded wagon would make a tempting target compared to a pilgrim on foot with nothing but the clothes on his back," said the Black Swan.
"You've lived long enough in Commonground to think like a thief, I see," said Zetetic. "You're correct. Three days into our journey, our guards were cut down by arrows fired from higher rocks. When the bandits had killed our protectors, they seized my father, and demanded to know who else was in the wagon. He told them he traveled alone, that his wife and child had died of fever during the sea voyage. They searched the wagon, emptying every chest and satchel, taking anything of value, including the oxen that drew the wagon. When they were done, they slit my father's throat."
"But they spared you?"
"They never found me," said Zetetic. "The wagon had a false bottom, where my mother and I hid during the attack. Though the bandits found clothing belonging to a child and a woman, they must have believed my father when he said we were dead."
"So," said the Black Swan. "You owe your life to a lie."
"Two lies," said Zetetic. "The false bottom of the wagon also counts. My mother and I were found by other pilgrims. We completed our journey to the Temple of the Book. The Voice of the Law must have seen some hint of potential, because he asked my mother to leave me in his care, that I might become a Truthspeaker. For many years I wrestled with the truths taught by the church. In the end, I saw that everything they thought of as truth was simply a lie that couldn't be disproven. This simple revelation led me to become a Deceiver. Once I started down that path..." he gazed at the brush in his hand. "You must see how believing that there's no difference between lies and truth can be something of a slippery slope. You can see how logical it is that I'd want to wipe away this horrible perversion of reality that we all exist in and start afresh with something a bit more... rational."
"So, you're not insane," said the Black Swan.
"Not in the least," said Zetetic.
"Which means you're morally culpable for your actions."
"I suppose so," he said. "Though it's pointless to make me try to feel guilty. I thrive in the magnitude of the sins I've committed, and the greater sins still to come."
"Excellent," said the Black Swan. She raised her hand to the space between her breasts. She pressed a rivet there, popping open a secret panel.
"I told you no weapon you have can harm me," said Zetetic, noticing her movements, pausing with his brush held above the line he targeted.
"This isn't a weapon," said the Black Swan, as the hornet Zetetic had heard within her torso flew free. She reached into the compartment and pulled out a ring bearing a large, glittering diamond. She slid the ring onto her left hand, where it sat like a wedding band.
"Where have I seen that ring before?" Zetetic asked, his brow furrowing.
"In Hell, most likely," said the Black Swan. "It's where you'll be seeing it again."
Zetetic eyed the hornet as it landed on the paper beside his foot. He raised his boot to stomp it. "Menagerie isn't all that scary when I can squash him like a bug."
"That's not Menagerie," said the Black Swan, as the hornet darted from beneath Zetetic's stomping foot. It rose to a level above Zetetic's head. Suddenly, the hornet became two, then twenty, then a thousand hornets, then a million, coalescing into the muscular form of a winged demon with a hornet's nest for a head.
Zetetic shouted, "I'm immune—" but couldn't complete his sentence as hornets swarmed onto his tongue, sinking their stingers deep into the muscle. Zetetic howled in wordless agony. His eyes grew wide as the demon seized him by his shoulders. The creature squeezed hard, causing Zetetic to physically shrink beneath the pressure, first to the size of a child, then the size of a doll, before being squeezed to the size of an insect in the demon's palm.
"Excellent work, Foment," said the Black Swan, holding her hand toward him.
Foment held the struggling Deceiver carefully between his claws. Zetetic made squeaking, chirping sounds, his voice unintelligible thanks to his swollen tongue and miniscule lungs. Foment placed the Deceiver against the diamond set into the Black Swan's ring. The Deceiver sank into the stone.
The Black Swan studied the facets of the gem, seeing Zetetic's agonized face reflected in a tiny hall of mirrors. No hint of his voice escaped the ring.
She pointed to the doorway hanging in the center of the room. "Foment, this door leads back to the living world. I know Walker showed you the path in and out of Limbo when he had you rescue the Romers. Once I leave, take this door to Limbo. We can't risk anyone ever finding this room again."
"As you wish, my queen," said Foment, in a wet, fart-like voice.
_That will get old quickly,_ she thought as she left the room. But, Walker had trusted Foment, so she hadn't wanted to take a chance giving this mission to any of the other demons. No doubt, there were quite a few demons unhappy that she'd stayed on to rule over Hell. She was certain they'd test her strength in the coming days. But she'd tamed Commonground, more or less. Hell wasn't going to be any problem at all.
It was a year to the day since the end of the dragon apocalypse that the _Circus_ sailed into the bay of the Silver City. Cinder stood at the bow, looking over the jumble of broken buildings. It was just before dawn, with the horizon softly aglow. Bird songs rang out from the young trees sprouting in thick clumps along the ruined city walls.
Brand stood next to her. He pointed toward a dome half hidden by vines. Glints of metal reflected in the faint light.
"That used to be the Grand Cathedral," he said. "It will make a decent spot to set up a base camp."
Cinder looked back over the crowd of people gathered on the deck. These were brothers and sisters of the Church of the Flame, the exiles who'd fled to the Isle of Fire to live in the settlement founded by Brother Wing. The exiles were returning home, to rebuild from the ruins.
Cinder had been tasked with carrying the flaming sword given to her by Forge back to the settlement. Once there, she'd found herself regarded as a figure of authority, both because she carried the sword and because she wore the Immaculate Attire, the garb once worn by her distant ancestor, Queen Immaculate Brightmoon. She'd discovered the armor on her journey to the settlement, after stopping by the Jawa Fruit village to see that all was well with them in the aftermath of the storm. As she'd travelled through the jungle, she'd spotted an unusually bright beam of light piercing the canopy and followed it, half expecting to find her father. Instead, she'd found the Immaculate Attire neatly laid out. She'd known it was a gift from her father and tried it on despite her initial reservations about being so fully clothed. Fortunately, the armor fit like a second skin.
"I wish you all the best," said Brand, as Rigger lashed the ship to what was left of a mangled dock. "I'd like to see the city restored for sentimental reasons. Plus, it's a little rough to manage a trade ship like the _Circus_ when the only open port in the world is Commonground."
"We'll make it two ports soon enough," said Cinder. "When we've rebuilt here, we'll move on. There's a lot of the world I'd like to see."
"You might be bogged down here for quite a while," said Brand. "Some of the Wanderers that came here earlier told me their dry men were besieged by feral dogs in the ruins, not to mention rats as long as their arms. Also, there are still a few resourceful undead lurking in the sewers and catacombs."
"Stray dogs and dead men aren't something I'm worried about," said Cinder. "With this sword and this armor, I can clear the area swiftly."
"You've got your mother's confidence," said Brand.
"More than her confidence," said Cinder. "I have her blessing."
She pointed forward, and Brand's eyes moved toward the city walls. Cinder smiled as the sun crested the horizon, its gentle light caressing the honeysuckle that draped the walls. A million delicate yellow flowers opened slowly to embrace in the day. In the virginal glow of morning, all the world looked freshly born, and innocent.
# ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Maxey's mother warned him if he read too many comic books, they would warp his mind. She was right. Now an adult who can't stop daydreaming, James is unsuited for decent work and ekes out a pittance writing down demented fantasies about masked women, fiery dragons, and monkeys. Oh god, so many monkeys.
Readers interested in sampling Maxey's odd ramblings might enjoy his science-fantasy _Bitterwood_ series, the secondary world fantasy of his _Dragon Apocalypse_ novels, his superhero novels _Nobody Gets the Girl_ and _Burn Baby Burn_ , or the steam-punk visions of _Bad Wizard._ His short fiction has appeared in _IGMS, Asimov's_ , and over a dozen anthologies, with the best of his work appearing in the collection _There is No Wheel._
James lives in Hillsborough, North Carolina with his lovely and patient wife Cheryl and too many cats. For more information about James and his writing, visit jamesmaxey.net.
# ABOUT THE READER
Look, I know this is a bit presumptive, but if you've reached the end of the fourth book of the _Dragon Apocalypse_ , I feel like I know something about you. You've apparently got a taste for ill-tempered and occasionally homicidal heroines, crossdressing dwarves, the ghosts of rambling drunkards, dragons with the emotional depth of melodramatic teens, and wholesale, high-concept, flat-out weirdness. Excellent. If the half million words or so that comprise the _Dragon Apocalypse_ saga have satiated your desire for such things, may I recommend you now balance your literary diet with works of a more classical bent? I'm personally a fan of the novels of Thomas Hardy.
If, however, you're still hungry for super-powered women slapping around mountainous monsters, never fear. I'm happy to say that there's a lot more strange stuff still lurking in my skull waiting to see the light of day. Actually, happy isn't the right word. I'm kind of terrified and embarrassed by some of the crazy ideas that jump to the front of my mind anytime I stare at a blank screen and realize I need to cover it with words. I'm glad at least one of us is getting something out of my defective mental state. If you'd like to keep updated on future works, why not sign up for my email newsletter by dropping me a line at james@jamesmaxey.net?
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaBook"
}
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\section*{Artifacts}
We conducted all our experiments based on open source software and an open access testbed.
Source code and documentation are available on Github: \url{http://github.com/inetrg/ipsn-2022-lwm2mc2c}.
\begin{anonsuppress}
\begin{acks}
We would like to thank our anonymous shepherd and reviewers for their valuable feedback.
This work was partly supported by the \grantsponsor{BMBF}{German Federal Ministry of Education and Research (BMBF)}{https://www.bmbf.de/} within the project \grantnum{BMBF}{PIVOT}.
\end{acks}
\end{anonsuppress}
\balance
\bibliographystyle{ACM-Reference-Format}
\section{Third Party Authorization of LwM2M Clients} \label{sec-third-party-auth}
Clients are authorized by LwM2M server{s} that handle access rights and credential distribution. LwM2M server{s} are considered trusted third parties to the clients, as the LwM2M specification requires mutual authentication.
We introduce two new mechanisms to enable third party authorization of LwM2M clients.
\emph{Owner server hints} allow clients to discover the responsible server which can grant access to a resource.
The \emph{access request interface} is utilized by clients to request specific access rights and credentials to this responsible server.
If the server accepts the request, it distributes the access rights and credentials
through the regular device management interface.
\autoref{fig:access-req-flow} presents the complete sequence diagram of an unauthorized requesting client{} that requests access rights of a resource on a hosting client{}, utilizing the server as a third party.
The server distributes credentials, to establish a secure C2C communication, and access rights, to authorize subsequent operations among clients.
The credentials and access rights distribution is usually performed infrequently, this is, before the initial C2C interaction, but its frequency ultimately depends on the application requirements and security policies.
\subsection{Owner Server Hints}\label{subsec-owner-hints}
In multi-server LwM2M deployments requesting client{s} need to find out which server is in charge of processing a resource access request for a given node.
As LwM2M makes no assumptions as to whether servers belong to the same organization (\textit{i.e.,}~ they may not communicate with one another), this knowledge must be dynamically acquired by the nodes.
To achieve this functionality in our LwM2M extension, the hosting client{} provides server information contained in the owner server hints.
It is worth noting, that this discovery mechanism can be avoided in case there is out-of-band information that a deployment has a single server.
In a first step, the requesting client{} sends an \emph{unauthorized resource request} to the hosting client{} and attempts to perform an operation on a specific resource \circledOrange{1}.
This is commonly done on unsecured transport. We further analyse the security implications in \autoref{subsec-threat-model}.
The initial contact information is assumed to be learnt by a discovery mechanism, such as a resource directory \cite{draft-ietf-core-resource-directory-26}.
A hosting client{} that receives a request on an unsecured channel from the unknown requesting client{} rejects it. It responds with an unauthorized status code, and includes the owner server hints which contain the URI of the server that owns the resource, responsible to grant access \circledOrange{2}. The response optionally contains multiple server URIs that point to separate credential- and access management servers.
To prevent disclosing information about whether a resource is hosted by the client, returned codes are kept generic and at least one default owner LwM2M server{} is included in the response, until enough trust exists with the requesting client{} and a secured transport is established.
A requesting client{} must verify that the received server URI represents a known and trusted server with which a secure communication has already been established (\textit{i.e.,}~ on registration). The existing trust relation to the server is essential, since unsecured server hints could have been tampered by an attacker.
\subsection{Access Request Interface}\label{subsec-access-request-iface}
We introduce a new interface that allows clients to request servers for access rights and credentials.
The interface consists of a single operation initiated by the client: the \emph{access request}.
A client includes the intended access rights, the endpoint name of the hosting client{} it attempts to access, and a flag to indicate the need for credentials to establish secure communication \circledOrange{3}.
Utilizing \emph{endpoint client names}~\cite[Sect. 7.3.1]{oma-lwm2m-core-12} abstracts from the underlying protocol and allows to identify clients across LwM2M transport bindings. As a counterexample, URIs reveal different structures across transport bindings which complicates interoperability in heterogeneous deployments. It is noteworthy that this requires unique endpoint names for clients that participate in a network.
After reception of the access request, the server verifies if the client is entitled to obtain the requested access rights. This decision depends on the application-logic. Commonly servers follow pre-installed access policies or query the resource owner.
On acceptance, the server generates credentials and creates client accounts on both clients. Thereafter, it modifies the client access control object of the hosting client{} to enable the requesting client{} to access to the required resource \circledOrange{4}\,\&\,\circledOrange{5}.
Once clients are in possession of the credentials, if they are using (D)TLS-based security they perform the handshake \circledOrange{6}, and if they use OSCORE the derive locally the corresponding security contexts.
Finally, authorized client-to-client interactions can be performed \circledOrange{7}\,\&\,\circledOrange{8}.
We present a mapping of the access request interface onto CoAP transport, however, our approach naturally extends to other LwM2M transport protocols.
A requesting client{} performs an access request operation sending a \texttt{POST} request on the path \emph{/ac} to the LwM2M server{}.
The operation has two parameters passed as URI query strings:
({\em i})\xspace \emph{ep} is mandatory and holds the endpoint client name of the hosting client{}.
({\em ii})\xspace \emph{c} is optional and indicates if the requesting client{} requires credentials to be installed in order to initiate secure communications with the hosting client{}.
The requested access rights are included in the payload of the request, encoded in LwM2M CBOR \cite{rfc-7049} format.
A message can contain multiple access requests to multiple objects and instances.
\section{Direct~LwM2M~Client~Communication}\label{sec-direct-lwm2m-client-communication}
We now want to derive generic requirements for secure C2C communication in the common use cases that were analysed in the previous \autoref{sec-lwm2m-protocol}.
As data flowing between nodes is mostly sensitive, devices are expected to establish a secure communication channel (\textit{i.e.,}~ providing confidentiality, integrity, and replay protection to the messages), and to authenticate each other prior to any data exchange.
It is also desirable that resource owners are able to establish access policies to the resources (which may dynamically change at runtime), thus, some access control mechanism should be in place.
Additionally, to cope with changing deployments (\textit{e.g.,}~ new appliances added to smart homes), flexibility is desired. This implies that nodes need to make use of trusted and authenticated services to securely discover resources of interest, and to obtain the required credentials and rights to access them.
With these requirements in mind, we enable C2C communication in the case of LwM2M, by re-utilizing existing interfaces defined in the core specification, namely
({\em i})\xspace the device management and service enablement interface, and
({\em ii})\xspace the information reporting interface.
To avoid ambiguity when referring to LwM2M client{s} utilizing the interfaces, we define:
({\em i})\xspace \emph{hosting client{s}} host resources on which operations are performed, and
({\em ii})\xspace \emph{requesting client{s}} request the operations on said resources.
It is worth noting, however, that nodes will likely play both roles throughout their lifetimes.
Using the interfaces requires a secure communication channel, hence, clients need to establish secure transports among each other and to have adequate access rights.
For this, we introduce a new \emph{LwM2M client account} to organize the information clients need about each other,
including security credentials, URIs and connection configurations.
Similarly to LwM2M server accounts, LwM2M client{s} hold one account per client with which they communicate.
Three newly introduced LwM2M objects organize communication and access:
({\em i})\xspace the {\emph{client object}}, ({\em ii})\xspace the {\emph{client security object} -- a \emph{LwM2M client account} consists of instances of these two objects, and
({\em iii})\xspace a \emph{client access control object} to determine which operations a requesting client{} is allowed to perform.
\subsection{Client-to-client Objects} \label{sec-client-objects}
To ease code re-utilization and lower the implementation overhead, our newly introduced objects share many resources with existing objects, used to establish client-server communication.
\paragraph{Client Object}
An instance of this object holds parameters related to the communication with other clients, including the
client ID (an internal reference), the client endpoint name, the account lifetime, default values for observation periods, and the communication binding.
To mitigate a potential elevation of privilege when access revocation messages sent by the server do not correctly arrive to the hosting client{}, the lifetime parameter in this object determines for how long a requesting client{} account is valid.
After expiration, the hosting client{} disables it, closes existing connections to the requesting client{} and ignores subsequent operation attempts.
Hence, requesting client{s} access needs periodic refresh, unless disabled by configuring the lifetime to 0.
\paragraph{Client Security Object}
An instance of this object holds the URI of a specific client, security configurations, and the DTLS credentials or a reference to an object holding OSCORE credentials, depending on which secure transport is used.
Resources of this object exhibit the exact same identifiers and semantics found in the standard LwM2M security object.
It is worth noting, that only servers are allowed to operate on client security object instances, to install and modify credentials in a dynamic fashion during the device lifetime.
This allows for additional flexibility in contrast to deployments with static configurations.
These object instances can be created and modified by servers through the device management and service enablement interface, or bootstrapped by a LwM2M bootstrap-server{}.
\paragraph{Client Access Control Object}
An instance of this object holds the actual access rights which allows hosting client{s} to keep track of the permitted operations to requesting client{s}.
Each instance is associated to a particular instance of any other object hosted by the client, and indicates an \emph{access control owner} that is the responsible server to manage access rights for this object instance.
An instance contains an ACL that specifies which operations each requesting client{} is allowed to perform on the associated instance. This is indicated using flags (\textit{e.g.,}~ read, write).
For C2C access, we add an explicit `discover' access flag that controls whether a requesting client{} can explore resource attributes of an object, increasing the control granularity. This is in contrast to regular server based access, where it is always allowed to discover available objects.
Only servers can modify requesting client{s} access rights.
\begin{figure}[t]
\includegraphics[width=0.5\textwidth]{fig/obj_create.pdf}
\caption{Access control objects in a hosting client{}, before and after a requesting client{} instantiates the light control object (ID 3311).}
\label{fig:access-objects}
\end{figure}
\subsection{Extended Interfaces and Access Control}
Requesting clients can perform all operations defined by the device management and service enablement interface and the information reporting interface, provided they have the required access rights.
They use these interfaces to access resources in hosting client{s}, via operations like `read', `write' and `create'.
Resources may be accessible to multiple requesting client{s}, and concurrency should be handled the same way as for multiple-server access.
As per the LwM2M specification, atomicity is required when performing a `Write-Composite' operation.
All access control rules that apply to servers also do to clients.
This means that for each requesting client{} explicitly authorized to perform an operation on a resource, a corresponding ACL should be instantiated on the hosting client{}, otherwise the default access is granted.
The assignment of access control owners after a `create' operation, however, differs for C2C operations.
Whenever an object is instantiated via a `create' operation, a hosting client{} additionally creates new instances of the access control and client access control objects, to track server and client access rights respectively, for the new object instance.
In contrast to regular server operation, a requesting client{} that creates a new object instance does not become its access control owner, instead, the owner is the server indicated in the client access control object instance which authorized the `create' operation.
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth]{fig/access_request_flow.pdf}
\caption{Request and installation of LwM2M client access rights and authorized C2C communication.}
\label{fig:access-req-flow}
\end{figure*}
Figure \ref{fig:access-objects} illustrates a subset of the object instances on a hosting client{} $C_1$, before (yellow boxes) and after (blue boxes) a requesting client{} $C_3$ performs a `create' operation on the light control object (ID 3311).
$C_1$ hosts two server accounts ($S_1$ and $S_2$ with IDs 1 and 2), and one client account for $C_3$.
Instance 0 of the access control object holds access rights for the light control object 3311, and the ACL contains `create' access rights for both servers, whereas the LwM2M bootstrap-server{} is the access control owner.
Instance 0 of the client access control object holds `create' access rights for $C_3$, pointing to $S_1$ as the access control owner.
In both cases, as the `create' operation is performed on an object and not on a particular object instance, only the \emph{object reference} resource is set, and not the \emph{instance reference}.
When $C_3$ creates a new instance of the light control object on $C_1$, $C_1$ also creates locally new instances of both access control objects.
Instance 1 of the access control object indicates that $S_1$ (\textit{i.e.,}~ the server which allowed the instantiation) is the access control owner for the new instance of the light control object, and it grants `read' access to $S_2$.
In turn, instance 1 of the client access control object holds $S_1$ as access control owner respectively, and provides $C_3$ with `read' and `write' access rights.
\section{Conclusion and Outlook}\label{sec:conclusion}
In this paper, we started from the observation that device management and provisioning is challenging but required in the constrained IoT.
Popular solutions such as LwM2M avoid this challenge by involving servers when sensors need to communicate with actuators.
This triangular message forwarding requires upstream connectivity where local communication is sufficient.
We designed and implemented client-to-client communication.
Instead of starting completely from scratch, our solution purposefully extends LwM2M.
We provided a detailed security analysis, including an attacker and threat model, which showed that our proposal complies with LwM2M security requirements but abandons the server-centric perspective.
Our performance analysis, conducted in a multi-hop testbed, showed that client-to-client communication leads to shorter data arrival times (up to $\approx$ 90\% on single-hop topologies) and higher and reliable goodput ($\approx 8 \times$ when notifying resource updates) compared to the server-centric communication, but only introduces little overhead ($\approx$ 8\% in ROM and $\approx 0.9\%$ in RAM).
Our findings indicated that client-to-client communication may lead to almost optimal data delivery.
In the future, we plan to apply the principles derived in this work on other management protocols.
We also aim for further improvements of our proposal.
Link Bindings \cite{draft-ietf-core-dynlink} allow to dynamically link state updates between resources, allowing to define distributed behaviours.
By utilizing Group OSCORE \cite{draft-ietf-core-oscore-groupcomm} or its data-centric variants~\cite{gasw-gcorm-21} a LwM2M client{} could potentially reduce the number of outgoing notifications when multiple observations exist on the same resources.
The emerging lightweight authorization and authentication framework ACE OAuth may be deployed in parallel to the existing key distribution and access control mechanisms of LwM2M.
\section{Introduction}
\begin{figure}[t]
\includegraphics[width=0.5\textwidth]{fig/deployment}
\caption{Different LwM2M deployment models. This paper introduces b) client-to-client communication.}
\label{fig:deployment}
\end{figure}
The constant expansion of the Internet of Things (IoT) led to an increased deployment of proprietary ecosystems to interconnect resource constrained ``things'' via the global Internet.
Interoperability between an ever-increasing number of devices and vendors becomes paramount to avoid incompatibility silos.
Lightweight Machine to Machine (LwM2M) \cite{oma-lwm2m-core-12} is a widely deployed protocol that provides device management features, service enablement, and interoperability across vendors,
by defining an interaction model between LwM2M servers and clients, which operate on a uniform resource model.
In addition, the need for edge computing in IoT deployments~\cite{draft-irtf-t2trg-iot-edge} is rising,
driven by high data volume and constraints such as intermittent uplink connection to the server and low latency requirements.
In these scenarios, autonomous devices, executing distributed application logic are preferred.
LwM2M client-to-client (C2C) communication enables this, by allowing edge devices to perform operations directly, while dynamic resource discovery facilitates application logic specification on runtime without human intervention.
This requires a mechanism to dynamically distribute credentials and access rights to use resources of other clients securely.
LwM2M lacks such a direct client communication because it only allows servers to initiate transactions. Information always flows through servers, see \autoref{fig:deployment}a).
This work contributes to the research agenda of ``building an open, scalable, and secure Internet of Things'' that is accessible to all parties via standards. In particular,
we fill a design gap by introducing two extensions to the LwM2M core specification and providing an open source implementation on RIOT~\cite{bghkl-rosos-18}.
Our proposal enables a secure and authorized communication regime between clients, see \autoref{fig:deployment}b).
In detail, we make the following contributions:
\begin{enumerate}
\item a third party authorization mechanism
\begin{anonsuppress}
\cite{lksw-tpalc-21}
\end{anonsuppress}
that allows clients to dynamically request servers to gain credentials and access rights to resources hosted by other clients.
\item new LwM2M objects and the extension of existing interfaces allowing clients to use them. Both enable direct communication between clients and allow IoT deployment scenarios in which upstream connectivity is limited and local communication preferred.
\item a security analysis of our proposal, which shows that our approach
still complies with LwM2M security requirements. Our analysis considers remote
and local attackers separately and covers four common threats.
\item an empirical performance analysis conducted on real hardware and in different deployment scenarios. Our proposal outperforms a server-centric solution in terms of delay (90\%) and goodput (8$\times$).
\item open-source implementations of LwM2M client-to-client communication, which we make publicly available.
\end{enumerate}
Our extensions are carefully designed such that they reuse existing protocols defined by the LwM2M core specification.
This has two advantages.
First, our approach seamlessly integrates into the LwM2M ecosystem and, second, it allows for re-utilizing operational knowledge~\cite{gklpf-inpmm-21} and code, which is particularly important when deploying constrained devices.
The remainder of the paper is organized as follows.
\autoref{sec-lwm2m-protocol} provides the necessary background about LwM2M.
\autoref{sec-direct-lwm2m-client-communication} and \autoref{sec-third-party-auth} introduce our proposal for C2C communication and third party authorization, respectively.
\autoref{sec-security-analysis} provides a comprehensive security analysis of our proposed extensions.
Our experiments conducted on off-the-shelf IoT hardware are discussed in \autoref{sec:evaluation}, together with results revealing the advantages of C2C communication.
We present related work in \autoref{sec:related-work} and conclude with a summary and outlook in \autoref{sec:conclusion}.
\section{Background on LwM2M}\label{sec-lwm2m-protocol}
LwM2M \cite{oma-lwm2m-core-12} is a device management and service provision protocol
that provides bootstrapping, access control, semantic data interoperability, and software update features.
Clients run on constrained devices and register themselves to one or multiple LwM2M server{s}. Machine-to-machine applications, which usually run in the cloud, interact with clients via the servers.
Server information and credentials are either pre-provisioned on a client, or bootstrapped by a
dedicated LwM2M bootstrap-server{}.
Operation semantics and parameters are first defined generically and then mapped onto the lower layer.
LwM2M supports three transport bindings: CoAP \cite{rfc-7252} (over UDP, TCP, SMS, and other Non-IP transports), HTTP, and MQTT.
Interoperability is achieved by ({\em i})\xspace~a uniform resource model and ({\em ii})\xspace a RESTful interaction model \cite{ft-pdmwa-00}.
Objects are the building blocks of the resource model and specify how LwM2M client{s} group their hosted resources.
Occurrences of these groups, called object instances, contain the resources that servers access.
Multiple instances of a given object can exist on a client, each with different content but the same data structure.
Servers interact with client resources via interfaces that define operations, most of which follow a request-response scheme.
\paragraph{Overhead}
In spite of the features provided, LwM2M adds only relatively little overhead compared to CoAP-only applications.
When analysing the processing time, our measurements reveal only $3.4\%$ of the total $\approx2570\,\mu s$ required to compute a LwM2M Read operation (\textit{i.e.,}~ a GET CoAPS request).
In turn, the radio driver and the DTLS layer appeared as the dominant consumers, with $48.1\%$ and $22.4\%$ of the time respectively.
When looking at the memory footprint (see \autoref{sec:fw-size}), LwM2M represents less than $20\%$ and $33\%$ of total ROM and RAM requirements.
\if 0
\begin{table}[h]
\small
\setlength{\tabcolsep}{2pt}
\begin{center}
\caption{Computation time per layer of the network stack during a LwM2M Read operation.}
\begin{tabularx}{0.48\textwidth} {
@{}
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m}
\toprule
\begin{Turn}\textbf{Radio driver}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{IEEE 802.15.4}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{6LoWPAN}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{IPv6}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{UDP}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{DTLS}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{CoAP}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{LwM2M}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{Total [$\mu s$]}\end{Turn} \\
\midrule
\makecell[c]{$48.1\%$} & \makecell[c]{$2.6\%$} & \makecell[c]{$6.8\%$} & \makecell[c]{$8.5\%$} & \makecell[c]{$3.2\%$} & \makecell[c]{$22.4\%$} & \makecell[c]{$5.1\%$} & \makecell[c]{$3.4\%$} & \makecell[c]{$2570.2$}\\
\bottomrule
\end{tabularx}
\label{table:stack-times}
\end{center}
\end{table}
\fi
\paragraph{Security}
In multi-server scenarios, access control to client resources is required.
Each object instance hosted by the client has a corresponding access control object instance, that indicates the server access rights on it.
These are organized in access control lists (ACLs), where each element of the list reflects one particular server.
A single access control owner server manages the access rights and can modify policies for other servers dynamically.
LwM2M security requirements dictate clients and servers to authenticate each other, communication must be encrypted, and message integrity needs to be protected.
The protocol specifies different ways of securing communications (TLS/DTLS \cite{rfc-6347} and OSCORE \cite{rfc-8613}), for which clients need information such as URIs to uniquely identify servers, credentials (pre-shared keys, raw public keys, or certificates) and configurations (\textit{e.g.,}~ security mode, ciphersuite).
Two objects organize this information: the server and the security objects, which together reflect a server account.
After establishing secure communication, clients register to servers with a unique endpoint name. In contrast to the URI, the endpoint name is independent from the transport binding.
\begin{table}[t]
\small
\setlength{\tabcolsep}{2pt}
\begin{center}
\caption{Overview of features that are required/provided~(\faCircle), partly required/provided ~(\faAdjust), or not required/provided~(\faCircleO) in different IoT scenarios/paradigms.}
\begin{tabularx}{0.48\textwidth} {
@{}
>{\raggedright\arraybackslash}X
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m
>{\centering\arraybackslash}m}
\toprule
\begin{minipage}{2cm}\textbf{Scenario /\newline Paradigm}\end{minipage}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{Low latency}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{High bandwidth}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{Steady connection}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{Sen\-si\-tive data}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{Long range}\end{Turn}
& \begin{Turn}\textbf{Local actuation}\end{Turn} \\
\midrule
Smart metering & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faAdjust & \faAdjust & \faCircleO \\
\dhline
Smart farming & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircle & \faCircle \\
\dhline
Disaster first response & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircle & \faCircle \\
\dhline
Smart home & \faCircleO & \faAdjust & \faCircle & \faCircle & \faCircleO & \faCircle \\
\dhline
Smart transportation & \faAdjust & \faAdjust & \faCircleO & \faAdjust & \faCircleO & \faCircle \\
\dhline
Industrial emergency & \faCircle & \faCircle & \faAdjust & \faCircleO & \faCircleO & \faCircle \\
\dhline
Control systems & \faCircle & \faCircle & \faCircle & \faAdjust & \faCircleO & \faCircle \\
\midrule
server-centric & \faCircleO & \faAdjust & \faCircleO & \faAdjust & \faCircle & \faCircleO \\
\dhline
client-to-client & \faCircle & \faCircle & \faCircle & \faCircle & \faAdjust & \faCircle \\
\bottomrule
\end{tabularx}
\label{table:scenarios}
\end{center}
\end{table}
\paragraph{Shortcomings}
Despite the wide deployment of LwM2M, its server-centric paradigm presents shortcomings in certain types of use cases.
\autoref{table:scenarios} shows typical IoT scenarios, together with usually required features.
Applications such as smart agriculture and the tracking of---and interaction with---livestock present deployments at remote locations.
On the one hand, they require long-range communication (\textit{e.g.,}~ to report animal vitals), on the other hand, animals need to interact with local devices (\textit{e.g.,}~ gate control, food dispensing).
LoRaWAN appears as a popular long-range technology choice for this type of applications, but due to its long on-air times it applies strict duty cycles.
This quota is easily exhausted by deployments which involve control systems, as all information flows through servers even when---ultimately in many cases---a neighbour node is the recipient.
Similarly, industrial deployments involving closed-loop control systems have low latency requirements (10 -- 100 ms delays ~\cite{isa-wsiap-11}).
Such systems cannot afford a server-centric information flow due to its additional delays.
Instead, these scenarios would benefit from distributed applications based on direct local communication between LwM2M client{s}, which reduces latencies, while still being monitored by central servers.
Typically, the distributed logic is installed on the nodes after a resource discovery or a commissioning process.
Instead of a central application, nodes follow business rules (\textit{e.g.,}~ "whenever the light switch of room A is pressed, notify light bulb group 2").
As they only require knowledge of a subset of the whole application, this paradigm is scalable when adding new devices.
Changes in the logic are usually performed by management tools from the central servers.
Another example are lossy IoT networks present in smart transportation containers. Given their mobile nature, they have intermittent Internet access.
The constant need for communication with the managing server requires to be permanently online.
A similar situation is faced by disaster first-response devices, which usually have to build ad-hoc delay-tolerant networks.
In these environments a connection to a central server is sporadically available.
As an alternative, the deployment of autonomous devices which can communicate with one another would allow keeping local functionalities working even if upstream connectivity is lost.
Even in scenarios with steady connectivity and high bandwidth, a central cloud involvement may raise privacy issues.
Constantly utilizing central servers to store and analyse sensor values and to control domestic appliances can reveal usage patterns and disclose personal information.
Vendors could leverage LwM2M, and install devices that interact within the household following user-installed policies.
Summarizing, LwM2M acts as a semantics-unifying layer that enables machine-to-machine applications on the cloud not only to manage IoT devices, but also to implement business logic in a vendor-independent fashion (\textit{e.g.,}~ reading sensed data and activating actuators in consequence), while adding relatively small overheads.
In parallel, there is a clear need for direct node-to-node communication over a variety IoT deployments.
Consequently, we propose to extend LwM2M to allow clients to operate on each other resources, thus maintaining the benefit of its vendor interoperability and service enablement features.
\section{Performance Evaluation}\label{sec:evaluation}
In this section, we compare our proposal, client-to-client communication and authorization, with the current client-server architecture in LwM2M.
We analyze memory consumption, transmission delays, and maximum goodput, based on experiments on real hardware.
Our experiments are guided by the use cases of edge processing and distributed application logic in single- and multi-hop deployments.
\begin{figure*}[ht]
\centering
\begin{subfigure}[t]{0.48\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth]{fig/size.pdf}
\caption{ROM (left) and RAM (right) requirements of LwM2M client modules in a default configuration (Baseline), with client-to-client (C2C) and third party authorization (Auth) extensions. Relative values relate to the complete firmware image size.}
\label{fig:size-impact}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}[t]{0.48\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth]{fig/heap_usage.pdf}
\caption{Heap usage of a LwM2M requesting client{} (top) and a LwM2M hosting client{} (bottom) during initialization and registration, authorization request, and C2C access.}
\label{fig:heap-usage}
\end{subfigure}%
\caption{Memory requirements of LwM2M client modules (~\ref{fig:size-impact}) and heap usage by requesting client{} and hosting client{} (~\ref{fig:heap-usage}).}
\end{figure*}
\subsection{Experiment Setup}
\paragraph{Hardware and Software} We conduct our experiments by deploying real implementations on the FIT IoT-LAB testbed, using off-the-shelf class 2 IoT devices \cite{RFC-7228} that feature ARM Cortex-M3 MCUs running at 72 MHz,
with 64 KiB of RAM and 512 KiB of ROM, equipped with IEEE 802.15.4-compatible Atmel AT86RF231~transceivers.
The firmware that runs on the constrained IoT~devices is based on the operating system RIOT, version \texttt{2021.04}.
The LwM2M client{} is implemented using Wakaama version \texttt{1.0}, the heap, needed by Wakaama, with the Two-Level Segregated Fit (TLSF) allocator.
In terms of security support, we consider both OSCORE (the current main branch of uOSCORE) and DTLS (current development branch of tinyDTLS).
On the LwM2M server{} side, we use the implementation Leshan, version \texttt{1.3.1}, which runs on a Dell PowerEdge R6525 server with two AMD EPYC 7702 processors and 512 GB of~RAM.
\paragraph{Configuration and Startup} In all DTLS and OSCORE deployments, we use AES in CCM mode with a 128-bit key, an authentication tag of 8 bytes, and pre-shared keys (PSK) suites.
The testbed hardware does not feature a hardware random number generator.
To generate the initial CoAP message ID, we use the SRAM-based physically unclonable function (PUF) \cite{ksw-gpngi-21} as entropy source to seed the RIOT pseudo random number generator.
\paragraph{Deployment Scenarios} To compare the performance of C2C versus server-centric communication, we deploy multiple topologies running three scenarios:
({\em i})\xspace server-centric,
({\em ii})\xspace C2C using DTLS security,
({\em iii})\xspace C2C using OSCORE security.
In all scenarios, a hosting client{} produces a 5-bytes data every second, which should reach a requesting client{}.
We focused our experiments on the observation of resource updates, as it is, for the typically deployed low-power sleepy devices, a more common approach than constant polling.
In scenario ({\em i})\xspace, a centralized application interacts with the LwM2M server{} via an HTTP API and observes the sensor resource, writing new values to another client upon update notifications.
In scenarios ({\em ii})\xspace \& ({\em iii})\xspace, the application logic is decentralized, \textit{i.e.,}~ the requesting client{} observes the sensor resource in the hosting client{}, thus, receiving periodic notifications directly.
\subsection{Firmware Size}\label{sec:fw-size}
\autoref{fig:size-impact} presents memory requirements for three configurations of the LwM2M client firmware:
({\em i})\xspace~baseline (no extensions),
({\em ii})\xspace~C2C extension enabled, and
({\em iii})\xspace~C2C + Auth extensions enabled.
Measurements are separated into ROM, which considers the code segment and variables initial values (\texttt{text} + \texttt{data} segment), and RAM, which includes (un-)initialized global variables (\texttt{bss} + \texttt{data} segment).
ROM and RAM consumption of the LwM2M core module remain unaffected across configurations and require $\approx$ 11\,KiB ROM and 5\,KiB RAM, including the RAM memory pool used by the heap allocator.
Similarly, utilities modules are fundamentally constant, however, our Auth extension adds 460 bytes of ROM for introducing CBOR encoding which would also benefit the pure Wakaama baseline implementation.
Due to the functional similarities between the newly introduced LWM2M objects and their existing counterparts, we are able to reutilize most of the code (\textit{i.e.,}~ no extra C object files are compiled for the new LwM2M objects), only with slight size increments to accommodate the extra logic.
The size of security, access control, and server objects increase by $\approx$ 100~bytes, 110~bytes, and 200~bytes in ROM, and $\approx$ 40, 40 and 170 bytes in RAM, due to the additional states to handle client security, client access control, and client objects.
The client handling module is responsible for connections and requesting client{} operations, which adds 970 bytes in ROM within the C2C extension, and additional 310 bytes with the Auth extension, for additional logic of connection handling and client credential management.
The C2C and Auth modules use 1230 and 910 extra bytes of ROM, while no extra RAM in needed, since connection states are stored in the security and server objects.
Memory requirements that correspond to the OS, network stack, and drivers have a constant memory offset across configurations (not displayed in~\autoref{fig:size-impact}), however, we indicate the percentage of our LwM2M client modules to the total firmware size.
In summary, the LwM2M proportions conform $\approx$ 20\,\% of the ROM and $\approx$ 33\,\% of the RAM in comparison to the total image, which is around 125\,KiB in ROM and 31\,KiB in RAM.
We conclude that the pure overhead of our C2C extension increases total ROM image size by only $\approx$3.3\,\% and RAM by 0.9\,\%, while the Auth extension requires additional $\approx$ 5.0\,\% of ROM and no extra RAM. This is in line with our goal to maximize code re-utilization.
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth]{fig/packet_structure.pdf}
\caption{Packet structures of credential distribution and client-to-client read operation, using DTLS and OSCORE.}
\label{fig:packet-structure}
\end{figure*}
\subsection{Heap Usage}\label{sec:dyn-memory}
\autoref{fig:heap-usage} illustrates heap usage on two clients, separated into three phases: Initialization \& registration, authorization request, and C2C access. The top half of the figure corresponds to a LwM2M requesting client{}, and the bottom half to a LwM2M hosting client{}. We exclude the LwM2M server memory consumption, since it does not suffer from memory constraints.
Overall, heap requirements range from $\approx$ 300--1100\,bytes on constrained nodes.
The usage pattern during initialization \& registration (00.00--00.35\,seconds) is similar for both clients, however, the requesting client{} requires additional $\approx$ 80\,bytes to allocate a structure that holds initial information about the LwM2M hosting client{}. This memory is required for every hosting client{} to which the requesting client{} connects. In contrast, the host has no prior knowledge of a requesting client{}.
At 10\,seconds, the requesting client{} initiates an authorization request to the server which requires memory for the state of a CoAP request.
A spike in the graph at 10.03 seconds corresponds to temporary memory used for the CBOR message encoding.
Between 10.10--10.38\,seconds, spikes in both graphs correspond to read and write operations on the resources, performed by the server, which installs credentials and access rights.
After the authorization request has finalized, at 10.40 seconds, the requesting client{} de-allocates its state and memory usage returns to a new baseline slightly higher than the previous one, because of the new client information that Wakaama needs to allocate internally.
The requesting client{} starts a DTLS handshake with the hosting client{} at 14.02\,seconds. An increment of $\approx$ 100\,bytes reflects an active DTLS connection, that has to be allocated and kept for every host, until the connection closes.
Finally, at 14.28\,seconds, a C2C read operation allocates $\approx$ 200\,bytes state on the requesting client{}.
Upon reception, at 14.34\,seconds, the hosting client{} allocates heap memory for the new DTLS connection ($\approx$ 100\,bytes similarly to the requesting client{} on handshake) and utilizes temporary memory to format the response message.
\subsection{Packet sizes}
Now we dissect the packets that constitute the authorization request flow and a C2C read operation, using both DTLS and OSCORE security, as shown in \autoref{fig:packet-structure}.
The maximum data unit size of the IEEE 802.15.4 2.4 GHz physical layer is 127 bytes.
Considering the sizes of the 8-bytes destination and source hardware addresses,
2-bytes frame control field, 1-byte sequence number, 2-bytes personal area network (PAN) ID, and 2-bytes frame check sequence (FCS),
the MAC header adds to 23 bytes, which allows up to 104 bytes to be transmitted by the upper layers.
A total of 41 bytes are used by the 6LoWPAN layer, as it requires 2 bytes to accommodate the IP header compression, 1 for the hop limit, 32 for both IPv6 addresses, and 6 to encode the compressed UDP header.
The authorization request is for read access on one object instance, encoded in CBOR as detailed in \autoref{subsec-access-request-iface}.
During credential distribution the authorization request, client and access control object instantiation messages are common across transports.
On the other hand, the content of the security object instantiation message only holds credentials when using CoAP over DTLS (DTLS security), as OSCORE credentials are distributed separately in its own OSCORE object.
All messages in this process trigger 6LoWPAN fragmentation as they are bigger than the physical data unit.
The object instantiations and the content messages are encoded in LwM2M TLV, because of the current support in Wakaama.
The OSCORE read and content packets are respectively 15 and 21 bytes smaller than the DTLS counterpart, due to the bigger size of the DTLS record layer compared to the OSCORE header.
\subsection{Time to resource update}
\begin{figure}[]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.5\textwidth]{fig/experiment_deployment.pdf}
\caption{A variable number of forwarders to determine the impact of multihop on server-centric LwM2M deployments.}
\label{fig:topology-variable-forwarders}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure*}[]
\centering
\begin{subfigure}[t]{0.48\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{fig/completion_notification_cdf.pdf}
\caption{Notification arrival times in server-centric and C2C deployments.}
\label{fig:notification-completion}
\end{subfigure}%
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}[t]{0.48\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{fig/completion_authorization_cdf.pdf}
\caption{Authorization request and initial C2C operation completion times.}
\label{fig:authorization-completion}
\end{subfigure}
\label{fig:completion-times}
\caption{Temporal distributions of notification arrival (~\ref{fig:notification-completion}) and authorization request followed by first C2C operation (~\ref{fig:authorization-completion}).}
\end{figure*}
We analyse the times between the generation of a new resource value in a hosting client{} and its arrival at a requesting client{} on all deployment scenarios.
The topology for this experiment consists of LwM2M client{s} connected to the LwM2M server{} through a gateway and a varying number of intermediate forwarder nodes, as shown in \autoref{fig:topology-variable-forwarders}.
We vary forwarders to quantify the impact of extra hops when using the server-centric LwM2M deployment.
\autoref{fig:notification-completion} shows the results for C2C and server-centric communication for different amount of hops between the gateway and the clients.
To reduce the impact of the variable delay introduced by the Internet connection between the gateway and the LwM2M server{}, we first subtracted this time from the server-centric measurements,
and then offset them by the median Internet delay of across all experiments \mbox{($\approx$ 78 ms)}, which was measured by timestamping the packets from and to the gateway.
We observe a reduction of $\approx$ 90\% in the notification delay when using C2C communication compared to the server-centric single-hop scenario.
The extra time required in the latter scenario is explained by the overhead of the 'write' operations from the LwM2M server{} to the client and the delays of the connection between the gateway and the server.
The impact of additional hops is of $\approx$ 15 ms delay per hop when communicating through the server, which is consistent with typical 6LoWPAN times.
Now we consider a second setup where the requesting client{} first performs an authorization request to the LwM2M server{} and then a C2C read operation.
The entire credential distribution is composed of 5 operations:
({\em i})\xspace authorization request,
instantiation of
({\em ii})\xspace client object,
({\em iii})\xspace client security object and
({\em iv})\xspace client access control object in hosting client{},
({\em v})\xspace update of the client security object instance in requesting client{}.
\autoref{fig:authorization-completion} shows that $\approx$ 50\% of the DTLS credential distributions are completed in less than 1 second without needing CoAP retransmissions, while within 4 seconds most of the DTLS credentials distributions are successful.
We observe that distributing OSCORE credentials takes slightly longer and needs a second retransmission for $\approx$ 15\% of the cases, due to the instantiation of one more object compared to DTLS credentials (the OSCORE object).
We can observe a stair-case pattern caused by CoAP retransmissions that reflects the default configuration of a 2-seconds ACK timeout \cite{rfc-7252}.
Once credentials are distributed, the initial C2C read operation using OSCORE takes $\approx$ 10 ms, while the initial DTLS handshake raises this time to between 140 and 160 ms.
Next, we look at the effective goodput achieved across deployment scenarios, summarized in \autoref{fig:throughput}.
For this experiment, a hosting client{} sends 5.000 notifications at varying intervals, configuring the radios at 250 Kbit/s and 2000 Kbit/s (minimum and maximum available values respectively).
The resulting goodput measurements are depicted using box plots, next to the theoretical optimum (dashed lines).
For each interval the rate of successfully delivered notifications is plotted as well.
We can observe an almost optimal behaviour in both C2C scenarios, with a steady delivery rate close to 100\%, which only starts to degrade when approaching 10 ms intervals. This is in line with the times shown in \autoref{fig:notification-completion}.
On the other hand, the server-centric scenario reveals a maximum LwM2M payload goodput of $\approx$ 50 B/s, and a degradation of the delivery rate for intervals bellow 100 ms, which is in concordance with the notification arrival times we observed before. When utilizing a higher radio data rate we observe a slight improvement in the delivery rates and less dispersion in the goodput values.
We attribute this to a lower probability of packet collision.
Finally, to simulate a more realistic and less controlled topology, we construct six topologies of 20 randomly selected nodes each.
The constraints for the selection algorithm are a minimum distance of 2.2 m and a maximum of 6.6 m between nodes, which has resulted in a sufficiently reliable communication for our measurements.
For each topology, the hosting client{} and the requesting client{} are also randomly chosen.
\autoref{fig:topologies-notification} depicts the randomly built topologies and the number of hops between the nodes of interest.
We measure the notification completion times for the three previously-described deployment scenarios, and observe that C2C performs between 60\% and 90\% faster than server-centric communication.
\begin{figure*}[]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth]{fig/throughput.pdf}
\caption{Goodput of client-to-client (C2C) and server-centric deployments using different notification intervals.}
\label{fig:throughput}
\end{figure*}
\subsection{Energy consumption}
For the topologies depicted in \autoref{fig:topology-variable-forwarders} we now measure the energy consumption while sending notifications to a requesting client{}.
\autoref{fig:energy} shows the energy consumption aggregated through all nodes but the gateway, which was not considered energy-constrained due to its wired connection.
We observe that the main impact in energy consumption occurs when increasing the number of intervening nodes, and that C2C deployments, at $\approx$ 42.9 J, pay no energy overhead for the features, nor for the simultaneous utilization of DTLS and OSCORE.
Moreover, the right side of \autoref{fig:energy} shows that forwarder nodes require $\approx$ 12\% more power than hosts and requesters.
We can conclude that C2C communication helps relaxing the overall energy requirements in LwM2M deployments by reducing the amount of intermediate forwarder nodes.
\begin{figure}[]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.5\textwidth]{fig/energy.pdf}
\caption{Total energy consumption for different deployments (left), and the average with the standard deviation of power requirements for different node types (right).}
\label{fig:energy}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\begin{subfigure}{0.3\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth, height=4cm]{fig/m3-317xa4473081.pdf}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}{0.3\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth, height=4cm]{fig/m3-317x400cce5c.pdf}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}{0.3\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth, height=4cm]{fig/m3-317x16261b22.pdf}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}{0.3\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth, height=4cm]{fig/m3-317xae479b07.pdf}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}{0.3\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth, height=4cm]{fig/m3-317x9c68ce5b.pdf}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}{0.3\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth, height=4cm]{fig/m3-317xf7f70945.pdf}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\begin{subfigure}{\textwidth}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.75\textwidth, height=0.6cm]{fig/topologies_reference.pdf}
\end{subfigure}
\hfill
\caption{Temporal distributions of notification arrival times for randomly generated topologies.}
\label{fig:topologies-notification}
\end{figure*}
\section{Related Work}
\label{sec:related-work}
\paragraph{Edge computing and device-to-device communication}
IoT deployments have shown a shift from centralized cloud computing paradigms towards distributed architectures that augment the edge of the network \cite{sczlx-ecvc-16} by producing and consuming data locally in an autonomous fashion.
Edge Mesh~\cite{sczy-emnpd-17} proposes a paradigm where decision-making and task distribution are moved to edge devices.
Costa \textit{et al.}~\cite{cmmp-tltst-06} propose a middleware to share a tuple space among wireless sensors.
Following the same direction, Whitehouse \textit{et al.}~\cite{wscb-hnasn-04} and Lachenmann \textit{et al.}~\cite{lmmsg-vsend-07} present neighborhood programming abstractions for wireless sensor networks to share state among them.
Shang \textit{et al.}~\cite{swabz-ltmr-17} show how named data networking architecture allows building IoT applications with local trust management and inter-vendor interoperability, while staying independent of constant cloud connectivity.
Although these proposals focus on enabling decentralized IoT deployments, they define their own interaction and data models.
In this paper, we focus on LwM2M, as it is a highly deployed management protocol.
Tracey \textit{et al.}~\cite{ts-haits-13} propose a peer-to-peer architecture based on a distributed hash table, which they further develop in \cite{ts-udppa-19}.
Although they integrate the developed tuple-based library in a LwM2M implementation \cite{ts-lhait-17}, no analysis is performed on the performance impact of such integration on a LwM2M deployment.
\paragraph{LwM2M extensions}
The interoperability provided by the LwM2M protocol makes it an appealing solution for heterogeneous IoT deployments, thus, multiple extension proposals have been made to expand its capabilities and increase its performance.
Given the lossy nature of IoT networks and the reduced energy availability, there are proposals to reduce the traffic between clients and servers.
Karaagac \textit{et al.}~\cite{kvrjb-elice-18} define a LwM2M object that allows LwM2M server{s} to perform batched operations on clients, thus, reducing the amount of sent messages.
In addition, different LwM2M proxy entities \cite{rdbk-dgmcn-16} \cite{ptm-esllp-20} have been proposed.
They can perform group operations across multiple clients, cache and aggregate responses and apply compression mechanisms to the messages.
We argue that the addition of intermediate proxies in LwM2M networks increases deployment costs and complexity.
Although these solutions reduce the bytes transferred between client and server on certain scenarios, they do not provide direct interaction among clients, thus, they do not enable autonomous deployments with distributed IoT applications,
which is described by Jimenez in \cite{draft-jimenez-t2trg-coap-functionality-lwm2m-00} as a lacking feature in the LwM2M specification.
\paragraph{Authentication in the IoT}
With an increasing direct communication between constrained IoT devices, the need for mutual authentication and authorization \cite{rfc-7744} arises. Markmann \textit{et al.}~\cite{msw-feaci-15} propose a lightweight federation scheme that binds device authentication to network attachment.
Vučinić \textit{et al.}~\cite{vtrdd-osait-15} propose the OSCAR architecture, based on object security and the distribution of access secrets to request resources from other nodes.
However, the existence of a secret per access group imposes high memory requirements when a fine-grained access control is required. Moreover, the usage of the same secret access across consumers complicates access revocation. AoT \cite{nscnn-aot-16,npsco-abaac-18} proposes a suite of protocols to perform attribute-based access control and authentication throughout the life-cycle of IoT devices. Their analysis suggests that the imposed communication overhead may not be well-suited for limited bandwidth networks, as it would produce a big amount a packet fragmentation, which could lead to packet loss.
Xi \textit{et al.}~\cite{xqhzz-iraka-16} propose an authentication and key agreement mechanism to enable device-to-device communication, which allows deriving common secrets based on the radio environment. The IETF is developing ACE-OAuth \cite{draft-ietf-ace-oauth-authz}, an authentication and authorization framework based on OAuth 2.0 and CoAP, where devices request access tokens and credentials from authorization servers, which are used to access resources on other devices. This delegates access control and policies to centralized servers.
Although integrating such mechanisms into LwM2M may be feasible, in this paper we focus on reutilizing the already existing key distribution and access control mechanisms in LwM2M.
\section{Security Analysis}\label{sec-security-analysis}
\begin{table*}[]
\small
\setlength{\tabcolsep}{2pt}
\begin{center}
\caption{Threat model of the LwM2M client-to-client communication and third party authorization extensions.}
\begin{tabularx}{\textwidth}{cXccXcX}
\toprule
\textbf{No.}&\makecell[c]{\textbf{Threat description}} & \makecell[c]{\textbf{Asset}\\(\S\ref{subsec-assets})} & \makecell[c]{\textbf{Adversary}\\(\S\ref{subsec-attacker-model})} & \makecell[c]{\textbf{Surface}\\(\S\ref{subsec-attack-surface})} & \makecell[c]{\textbf{CIAA}\\(\S\ref{subsec-assets})} & \makecell[c]{\textbf{Mitigation}} \\
\midrule
T0
& \textbf{Information Disclosure}: Observing unprotected operations attackers can learn which resources may be hosted and which are of interest.
& \makecell[t]{App. config. /\\Client\\resources.}
& \makecell[t]{Local}
& \makecell[t]{Unauthorized request /\\Server hints.}
& CO
& Sensitive content should be avoided on unauthorized requests. \\
\midrule
T1
& \textbf{DoS}: Open DTLS port on a client is used for message amplification to perform a denial of service attack.
& \makecell[t]{Operational\\resources.}
& \makecell[t]{Remote}
& \makecell[t]{Open client DTLS port.}
& AV
& The DTLS server sends out a \texttt{HelloVerifyRequest} message during handshake. \\
\midrule
T2
& \textbf{Elevation of privilege}: A server cannot revoke client access to a resource, elevating its privilege, because incoming communication is jammed.
& \makecell[t]{Hosted\\resources.}
& \makecell[t]{Local}
& \makecell[t]{Extended device\\management interface}
& CO
& Lifetime parameter in the client security object defines maximum period of access. \\
\midrule
T3
& \textbf{Tampering}: A requesting client{} receives invalid server hints, which might point to a rogue or compromised server.
& \makecell[t]{Owner\LwM2M server URI.}
& \makecell[t]{Local}
& \makecell[t]{Server hints}
& IN
& LwM2M client{s} only consider for access requests LwM2M server{s} to which they are already registered. \\
\bottomrule
\end{tabularx}
\label{table-threat-model}
\end{center}
\end{table*}
Throughout the design of the proposed LwM2M extensions we followed an iterative threat-driven approach,
by performing a methodical four-steps analysis of the security and privacy aspects of the extensions:
({\em i})\xspace asset identification and security properties assignment (\autoref{subsec-assets}),
({\em ii})\xspace attacker model building (\autoref{subsec-attacker-model}),
({\em iii})\xspace attack surfaces analysis (\autoref{subsec-attack-surface}),
({\em iv})\xspace threat analysis, which lead to protocol improvements.
In this section, we present each step of the analysis and the outcome of the threat model, together with mitigations.
\subsection{Assets and Security Properties}\label{subsec-assets}
In this step we enumerate the resources with security properties that should be preserved, and that might be targeted by attackers.
We use the well known CIA(A) \cite{nist-fips199-04} descriptors as the space of security properties:
Confidentiality (CO), Integrity (IN), Availability (AV), and Authenticity (AU).
\paragraph{Application configuration (CO, IN)} Considers the node behaviours and their relations with other clients and servers, \textit{e.g.,}~ the interest of client $C_3$ in resource R hosted by client $C_1$.
\paragraph{Owner server URI (IN)} Identity of a resource owner, \textit{e.g.,}~ the server that assigns access rights. It is worth noting, however, that confidentiality of the owner server URI is not expected, as it is usually sent over un-protected communication channels between clients.
\paragraph{Client access rights (CO, IN)} Access grants of requesting client{s} to resources on hosting client{s}, \textit{e.g.,}~ permissions that the owner server grants a client $C_3$ on resources hosted by client $C_1$.
\paragraph{Client credentials (CO, IN, AU)} Key material used for secure communication, \textit{e.g.,}~ the pre-shared key of a client.
\paragraph{Hosted client resources (CO, IN)} LwM2M resources on a hosting client{}, \textit{e.g.,}~ the status of a light control object.
\paragraph{Device operational resources (CO, IN, AV, AU)} The preservation of networking-, computational-, battery-, and memory resources, \textit{i.e.,}~ a device that hosts/operates on a resource R remains in operation.
In addition to preserving the aforementioned asset properties, we must consider the LwM2M security requirements defined in \cite[Sect. 5.1]{oma-lwm2m-transport-12}, which apply across all transport bindings.
They state that
({\em i})\xspace messages must be replay protected,
({\em ii})\xspace requests and responses must be bound,
({\em iii})\xspace freshness must be verifiable for certain operations,
({\em iv})\xspace secure fragmentation must be supported,
({\em v})\xspace data from clients and servers must be encrypted and integrity protected and
({\em vi})\xspace clients and servers must be authenticated prior to data exchange.
\subsection{Attacker Model}\label{subsec-attacker-model}
Our attacker model assumes that adversaries are not in possession of valid credentials required for mutual authentication with the server or clients.
We identify two attacker groups:
\paragraphS{Remote attackers} access nodes remotely through the network.
They may be capable of eavesdropping messages transmitted between clients and servers but have no access to the local client network.
These attackers try to learn internals and use this information to compromise a device under attack.
Therefore, they impersonate hosting client{s}, requesting client{s} or LwM2M server{s} by sending malicious messages via the LwM2M interfaces.
Remote attackers usually leverage protocol or software vulnerabilities to manipulate sensitive processing tasks.
\paragraphS{Local attackers} have direct access to the local network.
Additionally to the capabilities of a remote attacker, local ones may intercept, modify and replay messages among clients on the local area network (usually wirelessly).
Attackers who apply advanced hardware access techniques to manipulate secret information directly from the silicon are not in the scope of this analysis.
\paragraph{On peer-to-peer attacks}
LwM2M deployments are commonly composed of heterogeneous embedded devices with specific capabilities, resources and tasks that are all part of a single administrative domain.
Even though we analyse direct communication between LwM2M client{s}, these networks are not equivalent to traditional peer-to-peer (P2P) systems, which run on independent responsibilities.
Consequently, we consider typical P2P attacks out of the scope for this analysis.
As an example, rational attacks would not apply because nodes participating in the LwM2M deployment are naturally cooperating (\textit{i.e.,}~ they expose their resources and share via the LWM2M server).
\subsection{Attack Surfaces}\label{subsec-attack-surface}
Attack surfaces are potential entry points that can be leveraged by adversaries to perform attacks against the system assets.
Here, we analyse the attack surfaces of the LwM2M extensions.
\paragraph{Open DTLS port on client} To allow secure DTLS-based transport among clients, these need to accept incoming session handshakes, similarly to LwM2M servers.
It is noteworthy, however, that OSCORE \cite{rfc-8613} as the alternative secure transport requires no handshake.
\paragraph{Extended device management interface} Not only servers, but also other clients, can access client resources.
The increased number of accessing devices, which can be potentially compromised, enlarges this attack surface compared to server-centric LwM2M deployments.
\paragraph{Unauthorized resource request} In order to learn which server owns access rights to a resource, requesting client{s} may perform unauthorized requests, which often occur over non-secured transports.
\paragraph{Server hints} In response to an unauthorized request, a hosting client{} responds with the owner server hints, which may be sent in clear text prior to establishing a secure transport.
\subsection{Threat Model}\label{subsec-threat-model}
\autoref{table-threat-model} presents a series of threats that we identify based on the former analysis of assets, adversaries, and attack surfaces.
To classify the threats we follow the STRIDE framework~\cite{kg-top-99} which defines six categories of security threats:
Spoofing identity (S),
Tampering with data (T),
Repudiation (R),
Information disclosure (I),
Denial of service (D) and
Elevation of privilege (E).
T0 describes a threat in which an attacker, who eavesdrops an unprotected unauthorized resource request, acquires information about a possible resource hosted by the LwM2M client{} and the interest of the requesting client{} on it.
An attacker learning this information may raise a privacy issue, thus, requesting client{s} should avoid sending sensitive payload on unprotected unauthorized request (\textit{e.g.,}~ only perform read operations), and hosting client{s} should keep response codes generic.
In cases where particular resource URIs must not be revealed, a requesting client{} can perform an initial request to a non-sensitive resource to get the owner server hints, from which it can request initial credentials.
After the secure channel has been established, the sensitive request can be performed.
T1 is identified as a threat introduced by the extensions, because in a server-centric LwM2M deployment clients would not play the server role during a DTLS handshake, and could be configured to simply ignore them, when using DTLS-based security.
One possible mitigation is to use the \texttt{HelloVerifyRequest} message with a stateless cookie, making the usage of spoofed IP addresses for DoS attacks difficult.
Another strategy is to establish a limit for incoming requests.
T2 and T3 are mitigated by design in the proposed LwM2M extensions. T2 considers a situation in which an access right revocation message does not arrive to the hosting client{}, either because an attacker blocks it or because of the lossy nature of the networks. This results in an elevation of privileges for the requesting client{}, who keeps the access beyond the intended period.
By assigning a lifetime to the distributed credentials the impact of such an attack is reduced, at the cost of an increased traffic generated by periodic authorization requests.
T3 considers the case of invalid server hints, which are sent to a requesting client{} (\textit{e.g.,}~ injected by a local attacker) and could point to a compromised or rouge LwM2M server{}. A requesting client{} should only consider known servers as valid owners to request access credentials.
Now we analyse the compliance of the extensions with the LwM2M security requirements (listed in \autoref{subsec-assets}).
As C2C communication is not considered in the specification, we give the requirements a broad scope to consider data exchanged among clients as well.
Requirements ({\em i})\xspace through ({\em iv})\xspace are fulfilled by the underlying transport bindings, as we utilize the same ones as in standard LwM2M deployments for C2C communication.
Messages exchanged over the extended device management and access request interfaces are encrypted and integrity protected (requirement ({\em v})\xspace) by both OSCORE and DTLS.
Moreover, these protocols also provide mutual authentication (requirement ({\em vi})\xspace) to clients when performing operations on the extended interface.
The only messages sent prior to mutual authentication, and that are not encrypted nor integrity protected, are the initial unauthorized resource request and the server hints.
We have already described the impact of this and provided mitigations to reduce the exposure through this surface. Only the URIs of the requested resource and LwM2M server{s} would be sent over unprotected transport, and no critical information would be disclosed.
In the case when a particular application cannot afford such disclosure, LwM2M client{s} can be pre-provisioned with credentials and still establish a C2C communication.
Thus, we conclude that the extensions comply with the LwM2M security requirements.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
}
| 4,294
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Art Everywhere
Art in California
Kids in Museums
Artist Studio Visits
Frame what you see…Look up and beyond…Learn about yourself
Meeting Nick Cave – Let Go, Weather or Not
Art/Art Everywhere/Art Therapy/Artist Studio Visits
Honoured to travel with the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art, I had the opportunity to lunch and look into Nick Cave's eyes last week.
With Nick Cave at Jack Shainman Gallery, NYC.
What struck me besides an incredible kindness, was the intensity of those eyes. They translate his double vision of the world perfectly: how intensely he sees and feels the divides plaguing our society and how resolute he is to shake this, with a dance and many Soundsuits.
Nick Cave, Soundsuit with an Hayv Kahraman piece in the background, at Jack Shainman Gallery, NYC.
First of all, why on Earth does this lovely man declares loving wearing his Soundsuits, as a place where he feels safe, where he can hide, where he can see the world without being seen, be judged or threatened?
Some of you may have watched the movie Wonder (my kids studied the books in 4th grade and we refer to it a lot) in which a young boy born with a rare facial deformity only feels "normal" and able to "fit in" on Halloween, this being the only day when he does not have to bear the cruel gaze of others and it is ok to wear a mask…or a soundsuit.
Nick Cave, Soundsuits at Jack Shainman Gallery, NYC.
This deformation affects 1 in 40,000 to 1 in 70,000 births: it is a terrible genetic injustice…so how come our society feels the need to burden millions of people, people of color, people of various sexual orientations, making them feel like they are better off hiding and avoiding being noticed at all cost?
What puzzled me with Nick Cave was that even though he may hide his identity when wearing a soundsuit, these suits are not quite the kind of dress to make you invisible or go unnoticed, Halloween or not.
Nick Cave Soundsuit, Bellagio, Las Vegas
I asked him about that and yes, in his mind, the push/ pull effect is constant: a soundsuit may be a hiding device but it screams "look at me" because becoming invisible is not an option nor a solution.
Nick Cave, Soundsuit at Jack Shainman Gallery, NYC.
Nick Cave's soundsuits may be suits of armour but they all speak of personality and individuality. All made in a variety of materials, they also talk of the painful hours of work these shields require.
Some made of toys, others stitched with recycled old sweaters, they may appear very autobiographical and comforting.
Some are elaborately embroidered on the front but worn out at the back, a metaphor for all of us showing a bright face when actually we are crumbling inside.
Many soundsuits have a target instead of a head: spiralling out to the world, spiralling into who we are but mostly referring to the social profiling Nick Cave denounces in a poetically crafted performance act and art.
Detail from Nick Cave Soundsuit, Bellagio, Las Vegas
For Nick Cave, it all started with Rodney King's beating by the LAPD in 1991. As a black man, this tragic event made him feel the need to protect himself, to hide his identity, to shield his being within a protective envelope: that is how and why the first Soundsuit was created. How sad that Nick Cave's art was unfortunately not isolated then, nor now.
Remember my post about Howardena Pindell? For her then, punching holes became key to achieving a grounding force, to make sense of how she – and we all – fit as small pieces (small hole-punched dots) within the wider universal frame we live in.
Howardena Pindell, Nautilus #1, 2014-15
Through her art, she remakes a social fabric where tolerance reinserts and stitches members of all colors and genders back together.
For Mark Bradford now, more recent events such as Fernando Castile being shot four times in his car by police officers under the eyes of his girlfriend and toddler girl, unfortunately provide abundant material to be thread into his incredibly layered Portrait Tone 150.
Mark Bradford, 150 Portrait Tone (2017), LACMA
Part of LACMA's collection, the title refers to the color code for the pink or flesh color seen throughout the painting but which, obviously, would not apply to paint Philando Castile's skin color.
With these incredibly talented artists, the techniques are as layered as the subject matter, and so it goes with Nick Cave soundsuits: not only are they painfully long to make, they take ages to put on, as witnessed during his Let Go performance.
Nick Cave, The Let Go, Park Avenue Armoury.
Within the surreal setting of an old armory, incredibly moving voices from Sing Harlem Choir are given the opportunity to shine and rise. Nick Cave hires from communities, uncovers talents in the process and brings them on stage to put on an unforgettable show: on until July 1st at the Park Avenue Armory.
As the choir sings of hope and never giving up, fighting to be seen for who we are, a group of men are stoically helped to get dressed and built into soundsuits made of colorful mylar – those rainbow glittering threads which can only put one giant smile on your face.
The time it takes to fully transform, to reach a time, a place where all signs of identity are sufficiently covered by a rainbow of colors is incredibly moving. I wondered if dancing would be on the cards.
The weight of countless weightless elements must add up, in the same way each derogatory comment, lack of respect or full blown insult do. Would there be too much bulk? A lack of visibility?…Oh no, dance they did! Expressing the joy of being free, never to be judged…fully letting go!
And the beauty of it is how contagious this was as the audience joined in after…Dancing together, forgetting gender, race and all the divides!
Before leaving, seeing the Soundsuits pieces all packed up ready for the next performance, neatly displayed within the formal rooms of Park Avenue Armory proves to be another stroke of genius…
Because the guns that the Armory still stands for are the big underlying issue all along yet Nick Cave' Soundsuits give the old Armory space a big run for its money. Nick Cave's message is loud and clear: colors and art fight guns.
On stage, backstage and at the art gallery, Nick Cave fights back with a song, a dance and the magical Tondos at Jack Shainman gallery.
Nick Cave, Weather or Not, Jack Shainman Gallery, NYC.
Superimpositions of extreme weather patterns with brain scans from black youth affected by gun violence, these tondos once more show the underlying target of racial profiling yet the colorful rainbow fur prevails.
It spirals out to your eyes and layers your brain: rest assured, Nick Cave will keep on finding colorful ways to fight for change.
The Let Go is on at Park Avenue Armoury until July 1, 2018.
Nick Cave'stondos are part of his Weather or Not show, on view at Jack Shainman Gallery until June 23, 2018.
My heartfelt thanks to Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego for this unforgettable experience with Nick Cave.
Learn more about the art of Howardena Pindell here and Mark Bradford here.
© 2018 Ingrid Westlake
All pictures by Ingrid Westlake, unless otherwise stated.
Tags ArtContemporary ArtMeet the ArtistNew YorkPerformance ArtTextile Art
Ingrid Westlake
Qualified gemologist (FGA, DGA, GG), I have enjoyed tutoring online gemmology students for the past 11 years. Being a strong believer that education never stops with a diploma, I am currently enrolled as CertHE in History of Art and Architecture with Oxford University, catching up with a field I have always been passionate about but never studied until now.
Adam Belt – Almost There
Miriam Cabessa – The Art of Breathing
Fontana : On The Threshold
Vasarely Time
Lapis Lazuli and Art Materiality
Robert Rauschenberg – The ¼ Mile
Interesting and very exited experience for you, thanks for sharing Ingrid! I like colorful art.
Nathalie MANOURY - June 18, 2018
You would have loved it! Both the art and the performance! Maybe we can try to find something similar for when we meet in Paris. Wait, I already have 😂
Ingrid Westlake - June 18, 2018
Very interesting. Bravo ! Catherine Daymard
Daymard - June 19, 2018
Merci Catherine! I am so glad you enjoyed this. Nick Cave is truly a multi- faceted artist and a true gem! I hope everything is well with you and your family! All the best, Ingrid
touching article
yvonne senouf - June 19, 2018
Thank you, Yvonne!🙏🏼
Nick Cave's art is so layered. On the surface, very visually attractive but then so much deeper once you explore what drives him to make these soundsuits, performance and tondos🙏🏼
Beautifully written post, Ingrid. Those Soundsuits are such a joy to look at! I love their vibrancy, intricacy and their double role as an armor against discrimination and a loud, creative statement about making sense of one's identity. And I got extra happy when I saw you included Hayv Kahraman too.
Gabriela - June 19, 2018
Thank you, Gabriela. The push pull effect is constant with Nick Cave. It's amazingly clever with the undertone of social injustice and racial profiling.
You're the only one to have noticed the Hayv Kahranan 😉
I am learning about soundsuits.Happy for you to have met this talented Artist."Wonder" describes exactly the need to hide
himself and wear a mask.
Big subject.
DOMINIQUE DORE - June 21, 2018
Thank you! It's a subject that too many people experience in our society… 🙁 but art will help for sure, little by little, the layers will be peeled so we can all shine free.
How impressive ! hiding in soundsuits is still the protection solution when society does not want to include people with "abnormal" physics like WONDER ! I saw the movie "Wonder" human adventure out of the ordinary !
"Wishing that we look at you as a" normal "person despite your difference is still a great war !!!"
And yet the soundsuits catch the eye, impossible to go unnoticed ? (inaperçu)
It's a paradox !
it's a wonderful job ! so many talents for testimonies of an often cruel society !
I see a lot of humanity in the eyes of Nick Cave !!!
Marie annick Bonraisin - July 8, 2018
That's exactly why I can't stop thinking about much we need more meaningful and colorful art like his🙏🏼
Ingrid Westlake - July 8, 2018
Previous Posts Select Month May 2019 (1) March 2019 (1) February 2019 (2) January 2019 (1) December 2018 (1) November 2018 (2) October 2018 (1) September 2018 (2) August 2018 (1) July 2018 (2) June 2018 (3) May 2018 (3) April 2018 (3) March 2018 (2) February 2018 (2) January 2018 (2) December 2017 (4) November 2017 (3) October 2017 (3) September 2017 (4) August 2017 (5) July 2017 (4) June 2017 (4) May 2017 (5) April 2017 (5) March 2017 (4) February 2017 (4) January 2017 (6)
My blog is about my constant reinvention, also called living a full life as long as you are prepared to never stop looking. It's about sharing an aesthetic love of life and how using art as a filter or prism enables me (and hopefully you!) to reach a more grounded state of mind.
© 2018 - ReinventingGrid.com. All Rights Reserved.
|
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Laser Tag is a fun, team based game of skill appropriate for players from 6 years of age on up. You can think of it as high tech flashlight tag or paintball without the pain and mess. In the standard game, players are challenged to make the most "tags" on the other team. The team with the most amount of "tags" wins! We provide the latest in state-of-the-art vests with sensors, phasers, and a two level play area with lots of fun special effects, including strobe and black lights, and amazing decoration.
Coming Soon! Check back for news of our laser tag membership program, where you'll be able to see your points, establish your handicap, establish your position in a laser tag league, and more!
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{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
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| 1,662
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import { FullScreenPokemon } from "../../../../FullScreenPokemon";
import { Transition } from "./Transition";
/**
* Flash battle transition animation used by FullScreenPokemon instances.
*/
export class FlashTransition<TGameStartr extends FullScreenPokemon> extends Transition<TGameStartr> {
/**
* How much to change the visible opacity each change.
*/
private readonly change: number = .33;
/**
* Colors to flash in.
*/
private readonly flashColors: string[] = ["Black", "White"];
/**
* How many times to flash.
*/
private readonly flashes: number = 6;
/**
* How many game ticks between each opacity change.
*/
private readonly speed: number = 1;
/**
* How many flashes have been completed.
*/
private completed: number = 0;
/**
* Plays the transition.
*/
public play(): void {
this.flash();
}
/**
* Flashes to and from a color.
*/
private flash(): void {
if (this.completed >= this.flashes) {
this.settings.onComplete();
return;
}
const color: string = this.flashColors[this.completed % this.flashColors.length];
this.completed += 1;
this.gameStarter.actions.animateFadeToColor({
color,
change: this.change,
speed: this.speed,
callback: (): void => {
this.gameStarter.actions.animateFadeFromColor({
color,
change: this.change,
speed: this.speed,
callback: (): void => this.play()
});
}
});
}
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 3,668
|
Wilhelm Braun, född 13 juli 1897 i Baiersbronn, död 15 november 1969 i Baiersbronn, var en tysk längdåkare. Han var med i de Olympiska vinterspelen 1928 i Sankt Moritz och kom på tjugonionde plats på 18 kilometer.
Källor
http://www.sports-reference.com/olympics/athletes/br/wilhelm-braun-1.html
Födda 1897
Tyska längdåkare
Tävlande vid olympiska vinterspelen 1928 från Tyskland
Män
Avlidna 1969
Personer från Baiersbronn
Tävlande i längdskidåkning vid olympiska vinterspelen 1928
Tyska idrottare under 1900-talet
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 7,881
|
package name.imatsko.tinyrenderer;
import java.io.BufferedReader;
import java.io.FileInputStream;
import java.io.IOException;
import java.io.InputStreamReader;
/**
* Created by rigel92 on 03.03.15.
*/
public class ObjModelLoader {
private ObjModelLoader() {}
public static Model loadFromFile(String file) throws IOException {
Model model = new Model();
FileInputStream fstream = new FileInputStream(file);
BufferedReader br = new BufferedReader(new InputStreamReader(fstream));
String strLine;
//Read File Line By Line
while ((strLine = br.readLine()) != null) {
if(!strLine.startsWith("#")) {
String[] parts = strLine.split(" ",4);
if(parts[0].equals("v")) {
double a = new Double(parts[1]);
double b = new Double(parts[2]);
double c = new Double(parts[3]);
model.addVert(new Model.Vert(a,b,c));
} else if(parts[0].equals("f")) {
int a = new Integer(parts[1].split("/")[0]);
int b = new Integer(parts[2].split("/")[0]);
int c = new Integer(parts[3].split("/")[0]);
model.addFace(new Model.Face(a,b,c));
}
}
// Print the content on the console
}
//Close the input stream
br.close();
return model;
}
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 144
|
The son of family of the Hungarian gentry, Sándor Weöres continued the great intellectual tradition of Hungarian poetry of Babits, Kosztolányi, and Milán Füst. He was still a teenager when his first poems appeared in the major Hungarian literary review, Nyugat. By this time he had discovered Eastern philosophy and studied several ancient cultures and mythologies, all which appeared subjects in his earliest books, particularly A kő és az ember (1935, The Stone and the Man) and A teremités dícsérete (1938, In Praise of Creation).
Over the next several decades he continued to explore new areas in his poetry, despite criticism for his "nihilism" from Marxist critics, and produced over fifteen collections. His A hallgatás tornya (The Tower of Silence) of 1956 established as one of the major Hungarian poets of his generation. In 1970 he was awarded the Kossuth Prize.
During the Rákosi era of Hungarian government, Weöres supported himself primarily as a translator and a writers of children's verses, although these verses were read by adults as well. As a translator he published numerous Chinese and Japanese poets, and created the oeuvre of the imaginary 19th century poet, Erzsébet Lónyai, who, one woman poet of day wryly remarked, represented "the best feminine poetry in Hungary."
Weöres' intellectual pursuits also took him into metaphysics, producing a book, A lélek idézése (1958, Conjuring the Soul). He also wrote plays, the most recent, A kétfejú fenevad (The Double-Headed Beast), being produced in 1982.
and the scarlet carpet you step on: your tongue.
and catch sight of still another face of God.
God's face is all bloody, like Veronica's napkin.
God is old, bent over a book.
and the earth trundles over the soles of his feet.
has sleepless eyes he cannot take from man.
he stuffs himself with hen-droppings and finds what's sweet.
heaven's in sight there. Everything circles round.
Man lays down easy roads.
The wild beast stamps a forest track.
itself a road, to everywhere!
"My God, I don't believe in you!"
"But I believe in you: are you satisfied?"
English language translations copyright © by Allan Dixon and Edwin Morgan.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 2,210
|
{"url":"https:\/\/www.physicsforums.com\/threads\/a-breakdown-in-simultaneity.221966\/","text":"# A Breakdown in Simultaneity\n\n1. Mar 14, 2008\n\n### vachan\n\nThree enemy spacecraft have been causing trouble in the asteroid belt. They always travel in a line, evenly spaced apart, attempting to chase down local spacecraft to steal their goods. The local asteroid colonists have decided to set a trap to capture these three spacecraft. They'll get them to chase one of their fastest ships into an asteroid with a large hole in it and, once the three enemy ships are inside, close two giant trapdoors on each side of the asteroid to catch them. These spacecraft all travel close to the speed of light so the locals will have to take relativity into account. Intelligence about the enemy spacecraft reveals that, in their reference frame, they always travel 90 m behind their teammate, each spacecraft is 10 m in length, and their maximum velocity is 90% the speed of light (relative to the asteroids). The asteroid tunnel is only 215 m in length. In this problem we will analyze whether the locals will be able to capture the enemy spacecraft after taking into account relativity.\n\nIf the spacecraft are traveling at 90% the speed of light, what is the total length of the three-spacecraft team as observed from the asteroid?\n\nMy attempt was putting the number in the L=Lo( 1\/$$\\sqrt{}1-v2\/c2$$\n\nThen i add them up... but wasnt right... anyone has idea?!!!?! please!!\n\n2. Mar 14, 2008\n\n### HallsofIvy\n\nStaff Emeritus\nWhat do you mean by \"the number\" and \"add them up\"? Are you calculating contraction in the length of each space ship separately? Are you calculting the contraction in the space between the ships? There are a total of 5 length numbers here: three ships and two distances between them. But it would be simpler to take the total distance, from the head of the first ship to the tail of the last ship and calculate the contraction of that.\n\nOh, and notice that I am talking about contraction. Since v< c, 1- v^2\/c^2< 1 and dividing by it makes L larger than Lo. Is that what you want?\n\n3. Mar 14, 2008\n\n### vachan\n\nim not so sure how you do that...... could you please show me?!","date":"2017-03-25 12:17:34","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.34362804889678955, \"perplexity\": 1181.4708567944172}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2017-13\/segments\/1490218188924.7\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20170322212948-00347-ip-10-233-31-227.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"}
| null | null |
Kaur est un kabupaten (département) de la province de Bengkulu en Indonésie ;
Kaur est, chez les Sikhs, le pendant féminin du patronyme Singh ;
Patronyme
Amrit Kaur (1993-), actrice canadienne ;
Man Kaur (1916-2021), athlète indienne ;
Manjeet Kaur (1982-), athlète indienne ;
Mâtâ Sâhéb Kaur (1681-1747), personnalité du sikhisme ;
Snatam Kaur (1972-), chanteuse américaine.
Homonymie de patronyme
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 2,516
|
package com.sagar.easylock.screenlock;
import eu.chainfire.libsuperuser.Shell;
/**
* Created by aravind on 1/7/15.
*/
public class RootHelper {
private RootHelper(){}
public static boolean hasRootAccess(){
return Shell.SU.available();
}
public static boolean lockNow() {
if(!hasRootAccess()) {
return false;
}
Shell.SU.run("input keyevent 26");
return true;
}
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 9,035
|
{"url":"http:\/\/yutsumura.com\/find-a-basis-for-the-null-space-of-a-given-2times-3-matrix\/","text":"# Find a Basis For the Null Space of a Given $2\\times 3$ Matrix\n\n## Problem 132\n\nLet\n$A=\\begin{bmatrix} 1 & 1 & 0 \\\\ 1 &1 &0 \\end{bmatrix}$ be a matrix.\n\nFind a basis of the null space of the matrix $A$.\n\n(Remark: a null space is also called a kernel.)\n\nContents\n\n## Solution.\n\nThe null space $\\calN(A)$ of the matrix $A$ is by definition\n$\\calN(A)=\\{ \\mathbf{x} \\in \\R^3 \\mid A\\mathbf{x}=\\mathbf{0} \\}.$ In other words, the null space consists of all solutions $\\mathbf{x}$ of the matrix equation $A\\mathbf{x}=\\mathbf{0}$.\n\nSo we first determine the solutions of $A\\mathbf{x}=\\mathbf{0}$ by Gauss-Jordan elimination. The augmented matrix is\n\\begin{align*}\n\\left[\\begin{array}{rrr|r}\n1 & 1 & 0 & 0 \\\\\n1 & 1 & 0 & 0\n\\end{array} \\right].\n\\end{align*}\nSubtracting $R_1$ from $R_2$, we reduce the augmented matrix to the reduced row echelon form matrix as follows.\n\\begin{align*}\n\\left[\\begin{array}{rrr|r}\n1 & 1 & 0 & 0 \\\\\n1 & 1 & 0 & 0\n\\end{array} \\right] \\xrightarrow{R_2-R_1}\n\\left[\\begin{array}{rrr|r}\n1 & 1 & 0 & 0 \\\\\n0 & 0 & 0 & 0\n\\end{array} \\right].\n\\end{align*}\nThus the solution $\\mathbf{x}=\\begin{bmatrix} x_1 \\\\ x_2 \\\\ x_3 \\end{bmatrix}$ of $A\\mathbf{x}=\\mathbf{0}$ satisfies $x_1+x_2=0$, or equivalently $x_1=-x_2$.\nSubstituting the last equality, we see that solutions are of the form\n$\\mathbf{x}=\\begin{bmatrix} -x_2 \\\\ x_2 \\\\ x_3 \\end{bmatrix}=x_2\\begin{bmatrix} -1 \\\\ 1 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}+x_3\\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 1 \\end{bmatrix}.$ Therefore the null space is\n\\begin{align*}\n-1 \\\\\n1 \\\\\n0\n\\end{bmatrix}+x_3\\begin{bmatrix}\n0 \\\\\n0 \\\\\n1\n\\end{bmatrix} \\text{ for any } x_2, x_3 \\in \\R \\right \\}\\6pt] &= \\mathrm{Sp} \\left\\{ \\, \\begin{bmatrix} -1 \\\\ 1 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}, \\, \\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 1 \\end{bmatrix} \\, \\right\\}. \\end{align*} Thus, the set \\left\\{ \\, \\begin{bmatrix} -1 \\\\ 1 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}, \\, \\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 1 \\end{bmatrix} \\, \\right\\} is a spanning set for the null space \\calN(A). Now, we check that the vectors \\begin{bmatrix} -1 \\\\ 1 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}, \\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 1 \\end{bmatrix} are linearly independent. Consider a linear combination \\[a_1\\begin{bmatrix} -1 \\\\ 1 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}+a_2\\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 1 \\end{bmatrix} =\\mathbf{0}. This is equivalent to\n$\\begin{bmatrix} -a_1 \\\\ a_1 \\\\ a_2 \\end{bmatrix}=\\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}.$ Hence we must have $a_1=a_2=0$.\nSince the linear combination equation has only the zero solution, the vectors $\\begin{bmatrix} -1 \\\\ 1 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}, \\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 1 \\end{bmatrix}$ are linearly independent.\n\nTherefore the set $\\left\\{ \\, \\begin{bmatrix} -1 \\\\ 1 \\\\ 0 \\end{bmatrix}, \\, \\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\\\ 0 \\\\ 1 \\end{bmatrix}\\, \\right\\}$ is a linearly independent spanning set, thus it is a basis for the null space $\\calN(A)$.\n\nLet $V$ be the following subspace of the $4$-dimensional vector space $\\R^4$. \\[V:=\\left\\{ \\quad\\begin{bmatrix} x_1 \\\\ x_2 \\\\ x_3 \\\\...","date":"2020-02-25 06:38:04","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 2, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 1.0000100135803223, \"perplexity\": 106.74231690781247}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 20, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2020-10\/segments\/1581875146033.50\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20200225045438-20200225075438-00451.warc.gz\"}"}
| null | null |
import { combineReducers } from 'redux'
import { handleActions } from 'redux-actions'
import reduceReducers from 'reduce-reducers'
import uuid from '../../utils/uuid'
import {
ITEM_CREATE_NEW,
ITEM_ADD,
ITEM_LOAD,
ITEM_COMMIT
} from '../../constants/item'
import {
ITEM_ATTRIBUTES_ROLLBACK,
ITEM_ATTRIBUTE_TOGGLE
} from '../../constants/attributes'
import { selectType, selectId, selectData, selectKey, selectMeta } from '../../selectors/action'
import createAttributesReducer from '../attributes'
import createRelationshipsReducer from '../relationships'
import metaReducer from './metaReducer'
import get from 'lodash.get'
const identityReducer = (initialState = {}) => (state = initialState) => state
const itemReducer = handleActions({
[ITEM_CREATE_NEW]: (state, action) => {
const type = selectType(action)
const id = selectId(action)
const data = selectData(action)
const item = { ...data, meta: data.meta || {} }
if (!item.id) {
item.id = id || uuid()
item.meta.hasAutogeneratedId = true
}
if (!item.type) { item.type = type }
item.meta.isNew = true
return item
},
[ITEM_ADD]: (state, action) => {
const type = selectType(action)
const id = selectId(action)
const data = selectData(action)
const item = { ...state, ...data, meta: { ...state.meta, ...get(data, 'meta') } }
if (!item.id) {
item.id = id || uuid()
item.meta.hasAutogeneratedId = true
}
if (!item.type) { item.type = type }
return item
},
[ITEM_LOAD]: (state, action) => {
// TODO: functionally identical to add
const type = selectType(action)
const id = selectId(action)
const data = selectData(action)
const item = { ...state, ...data, meta: { ...state.meta, ...get(data, 'meta') } }
if (!item.id) {
item.id = id || uuid()
item.meta.hasAutogeneratedId = true
}
if (!item.type) { item.type = type }
item.meta.isLoaded = true
return item
},
[ITEM_COMMIT]: (state, action) => {
const { changedAttributes } = state.meta
const item = {
...state,
attributes: { ...state.attributes, ...changedAttributes }
// relationships are handled by a separate reducer
}
return item
},
[ITEM_ATTRIBUTES_ROLLBACK]: (state, action) => {
const { changedAttributes, deletedAttributes } = get(state, 'meta', {})
const hasChangedAttributes = !!changedAttributes && !!Object.keys(changedAttributes).length
const hasDeletedAttributes = !!deletedAttributes && !!deletedAttributes.length
const newState = { ...state }
if (hasChangedAttributes) {
delete newState.meta.changedAttributes
}
if (hasDeletedAttributes) {
delete newState.meta.deletedAttributes
}
newState.meta.isSaved = true
return newState
},
[ITEM_ATTRIBUTE_TOGGLE]: (state, action) => {
const key = selectKey(action)
const value = state.attributes[key]
const newAction = {
...action,
meta: { ...action.meta, value }
}
return { ...state, meta: metaReducer(state.meta, newAction) }
}
}, {})
// wraps a reducer, skips actions in the constants array
const skipActions = (constants = []) => reducer => (state, action) => {
if (!constants.includes(action.type)) {
return reducer(state, action)
}
return state
}
export default (state = {}, action) => {
const type = selectType(action)
const actionMeta = selectMeta(action)
const options = get(actionMeta, 'options')
if (!type) { return state }
return reduceReducers(
itemReducer,
combineReducers({
type: identityReducer(type),
id: identityReducer(''),
attributes: createAttributesReducer(options),
relationships: createRelationshipsReducer(options),
meta: skipActions([ITEM_ATTRIBUTE_TOGGLE])(metaReducer)
})
)(state, action)
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 1,864
|
Blackburn R.1 Blackburn
LR, e-mail, 23.11.2020 07:07
Klaatu:
I don't think you should discount Blackburn's talent for ugliness. Compare the R.1 to the Fairey IIIF which replaced it, or even to the Fairey IIID which was its contemporary. If it was really necessary to provide a place for the radio operator to take a stroll, I'm sure a more corpulent Fairey III still wouldn't be that hard on the eyes.
Daniel Kaplan, e-mail, 03.12.2014 03:08
I've been an avid aviation enthusiast for decades and never seen this before. It must have been very impressive seeing that huge plane operate from a carrier deck.
The Blackburn Blackburn was certainly a strange-looking machine, but there were valid reasons why it looked the way it did. In judging aircraft such as this one must maintain a perspective as to the period in which they were developed and the mission that they were expected to fulfill.
During the 1920s the Navy's principal weapon was considered to be the big guns of the battleships, and aircraft carriers were regarded as no more than mere auxiliary support to them. With that in mind, this aircraft was designed specifically to serve as a carrier-based observation platform from which to spot for the guns of the battleships. That was the reason it looked the way it did.
The requirement for which this airplane was designed stipulated a place from which an observer could obtain a good view of the fall of shot, as well as a large enclosed cabin from which a radio-operator could transmit the information to the battle-fleet. The pilot's cockpit also needed to be placed as far forward as possible, and clear of the wings, in order to afford a good view for landing onto the carrier deck. In spite of it's ungainly appearance, the Blackburn Blackburn did everything it was designed to do, and was considered to be a successful airplane.
Sgt.KAR98, 11.02.2009 19:38
No,it�s the Nimrod.
NICO, e-mail, 27.08.2008 14:34
I was searching for the ugliest aicraft ever. This is the one!
Cheers, Nico
Matt Collins, 02.09.2007 05:36
BLEH!!!
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 655
|
Act professional even when customer is wrong
By Kenneth Kowald
If the word had been in use when I was a child, the phrase "The customer is always right" would have been called a mantra.
It probably was coined by an American, Harry Gordon Selfridge, who founded the high-end department store, Selfridges, on Oxford Street in London in 1909.
I heard it all the time in my young days and it may have had an effect on how I see the world not only in its commercial aspects but in other ways. I imagine it is still in accepted use today, although I have come across some denunciations of it and its implications on employees who have to deal with disgruntled patrons.
The first time I was able to put the notion to use was when I edited a weekly newspaper in Forest Hills. I tried to be a stickler for accuracy, but if errors were pointed out to us, we corrected our mistakes. I believed our readers were our customers — they helped pay our salaries — and they were entitled to have their views listened to.
Schneps Connects
https://podcasts.schnepsmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Samara-Karasyk.mp3
When I was secretary to the city Department of Air Pollution Control — a highfalutin title for a PR guy — I ascribed to the quaint notion that all city residents were our bosses and deserved to have their views valued. I believe our small department did a good job about that.
I took the same position when I worked for nonprofits and for a large corporation in Manhattan.
Those who used our services deserved the best possible responses from us. The corporation CEO mandated that all customer comments were to be answered within five working days and all problems resolved within 10 working days, if at all possible. Reasons for any delay had to be made clear to the customers.
But this is not always an easy thing to do. The customers are not always right. They can be something less than honest and forthright in complaining. But those complaints deserve attention, even if it hurts.
Similarly, citizens who complain about government services — whether they are right, wrong or in between — deserve prompt and professional attention. It does not help to be "smart-alecky" about taxpayers.
I think Mayor Michael Bloomberg, whom I hold in high regard in many ways, had a tendency to forget the mantra. Certainly, New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie was not "customer-oriented" when called to task about taking a vacation when the blizzard of 2010 hit this area. "Being there" is part of serving the public.
But both of them, and many other public officials, showed true leadership during Hurricane Irene and especially after Hurricane Sandy.
Perhaps both of them went online and found out more about Selfridge and his highly successful methods of dealing with the public. They might have noted that Selfridge said this: "The boss fixes the blame for the problem, the leader fixes the problem." And this: "The boss knows how it is done, the leader shows how."
When a crisis occurs, Christie, Mayor Bill de Blasio and other public servants may want to read again an extraordinary scene in Shakespeare's "Henry V." Henry, in disguise, visits his troops the night before the decisive Battle of Agincourt, one of history's military turning points. He hears their hopes, fears and gripes — some about him — and makes some comments of his own.
Above all, Henry realizes, once again, the enormity of his role as a leader, especially of those who may die or be wounded the next day, fighting on his behalf. But, as the chorus in the play points out, the troops, knowingly or not, had felt "A little touch of Harry in the night," and that meant a great deal.
"The customer is always right" may be a cliche, but what makes a cliche endure, as this one has, is the basic truth behind it. To this day, Selfridges is still one of the great department stores in the world.
I should note that I began this column before Bridgegate. Christie, in addition to learning what Selfridge and Henry V had to say, may now want to add King Henry II to his list. He famously said, "Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?" Three knights who heard him did so, a few days later, murdering Archbishop Thomas a Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
The climate of an institution is set by the leader of it.
Please read my blog "No Holds Barred" on timesledger.com.
Podcast: The future of Hudson Square with Samara Karasyk, president and CEO of the Hudson Square BID
Home health aides laud Queens lawmaker for exposé, call for accountability
LaGuardia Community College launches free training to expand clean energy workforce
Queens lawmaker hails inaugural weekend of online sports betting in New York
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 4,004
|
Allmaier ist der Familienname folgender Personen:
Barbara Allmaier (* 2003), österreichische Rennrodlerin
Michael Allmaier (* 1969), deutscher Redakteur und Autor
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 4,382
|
PRICE REDUCED! MOTIVATED SELLER! Build your dream home on this 21.61 acre lot. just over the spotsy line in Orange County. perked years ago for a 4 bedroom. Will need to get new perk. Raw land. Awesome wooded lot with mature tree. Uuse directions below or put Gary Wayne way in GPS that will get you near lot.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
}
| 4,535
|
using UnityEngine;
using System.Collections;
using System.Collections.Generic;
/// <summary>
/// A simple abstract class to enforce implementation of the subject pattern.
/// note: only abstract so that this class must be used as a base class.
/// </summary>
public abstract class SubjectMonoBehaviour : MonoBehaviour
{
// Set of observers
private List<ObserverMonoBehaviour> mObservers;
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
// Observer Pattern Implementation
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
/// <summary>
/// Subscribe an observer to this subject.
/// </summary>
/// <param name="observer">a MonoBehaviour which implements ObserverMonoBehaviour</param>
public void Subscribe(ObserverMonoBehaviour observer)
{
if (observer != null)
{
if (mObservers != null)
{
mObservers.Add(observer);
}
}
}
/// <summary>
/// UnSubscribe an observer to this subject.
/// </summary>
/// <param name="observer">a MonoBehaviour which implements ObserverMonoBehaviour</param>
/// <returns>true if the unsubscribe was succesful</returns>
public bool UnSubscribe(ObserverMonoBehaviour observer)
{
if (observer != null)
{
if (mObservers != null)
{
return mObservers.Remove(observer);
}
}
return false;
}
/// <summary>
/// Notifies all subscribed observers that the state of this subject has changed.
/// </summary>
public void Notify()
{
int obsCount = mObservers.Count;
for (int i = 0; i < obsCount; i++)
{
mObservers[i].Message(this);
}
}
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
// MonoBehaviour Implementation
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
protected virtual void Awake()
{
mObservers = new List<ObserverMonoBehaviour>();
}
}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 1,026
|
Murray's smooth-head (Conocara murrayi), also called Murray's slickhead, is a species of fish in the family Alepocephalidae.
Description
Murray's smooth-head is black in colour. It is described as "moderately elongate, deep bodied, and posteriorly compressed, with a relatively long, acute snout", with scales along its length. Its maximum length is . It has a lateral line.
Habitat
Murray's smooth-head lives in the north Atlantic Ocean and Gulf of Mexico;
References
Alepocephalidae
Fish described in 1927
Taxa named by Einar Laurentius Koefoed
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
}
| 9,852
|
{"url":"http:\/\/mathhelpforum.com\/advanced-algebra\/172393-nilpotent-matrix.html","text":"Math Help - Nilpotent Matrix\n\n1. Nilpotent Matrix\n\nHi,\n\nIs my working and answer to the following question correct?\n\nQuestion: Show that matrix A is nilpotent and state the index of nilpotency k\n\n$A = \\begin {pmatrix}\n-2 & 1 \\\\\n-4 & 2\n\\end {pmatrix}$\n\nDefinition of Nilpotent: A matrix A is said to be nilpotent if $A^k=0$ for some positive integer k. The smallest k is called the index of nilpotency for A\n\n$A^2 = \\begin {pmatrix}\n-2 & 1 \\\\\n-4 & 2\n\\end {pmatrix}$\n$\\begin {pmatrix}\n-2 & 1 \\\\\n-4 & 2\n\\end {pmatrix}$\n\n$= \\begin {pmatrix}\n0 & 0 \\\\\n0 & 0\n\\end {pmatrix}$\n\nA is nilpotent, k=2\n\n2. Looks good to me!\n\n3. Thanks Ackbeet\n\n4. You're welcome.","date":"2014-07-13 12:23:56","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 5, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.6301147937774658, \"perplexity\": 1002.76187780476}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": false, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2014-23\/segments\/1404776438008.40\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20140707234038-00079-ip-10-180-212-248.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"}
| null | null |
{"url":"https:\/\/socratic.org\/questions\/what-is-the-domain-and-range-of-f-x-sqrt-3-x-2","text":"# What is the domain and range of f(x)= sqrt (3+x-2)?\n\nMar 15, 2018\n\nDomain: $x \\ge \\left(- 1\\right)$. Using interval notation:$\\left[- 1 , \\infty\\right)$\n\nRange: $f \\left(x\\right) \\ge 0$. Using interval notation:$\\left[0 , \\infty\\right)$\n\n#### Explanation:\n\nGiven:\n\ncolor(red)(f(x)=sqrt(3+x-2)\n\nDomain:\n\nThe domain of a function refers to a set of input values for which the function is real and defined.\n\n$\\sqrt{f \\left(x\\right)} = f \\left(x\\right) \\ge 0$\n\nWe solve $\\left(3 + x - 2\\right) \\ge 0$\n\nWe will keep the like terms together as a group.\n\n$x - 2 + 3 \\ge 0$\n\n$x + 1 \\ge 0$\n\nAdd $\\left(- 1\\right)$ to both sides to simplify.\n\n$x + 1 - 1 \\ge 0 - 1$\n\n$\\Rightarrow x \\ge \\left(- 1\\right)$\n\nHence, the domain is $x \\ge \\left(- 1\\right)$.\n\nUsing interval notation we can write the domain as color(blue)([-1,oo)\n\nRange:\n\nThe range of a radical function is $f \\left(x\\right) \\ge k , k = 0$\n\nHence,\n\nRange: $f \\left(x\\right) \\ge 0$\n\nUsing interval notation the range can be written as color(blue)([0, oo)\n\nHope it helps.","date":"2019-11-21 11:39:14","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 17, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.8899097442626953, \"perplexity\": 1147.7535894539064}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-47\/segments\/1573496670770.21\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20191121101711-20191121125711-00274.warc.gz\"}"}
| null | null |
Q: Array to binary format I will implement a function that exports one of three arrays to a binary .mat file in double format. The .mat file must be able to be loaded by MATLAB.
int exportMAT(const char *filename, const char var, const double result[], int length)
{
typedef struct
{
uint32_t type;
uint32_t mrows;
uint32_t ncols;
uint32_t imagf;
uint32_t namelen;
} Fmatrix;
Fmatrix header;
header.type=0;
header.mrows=length;
header.ncols=1;
header.imagf=0;
header.namelen=2;
FILE *fileptr;
fileptr=fopen(filename, "w");
char temp ='\0';
// I understand the code but this is a bit unclear to me. What happens in the 4 rows bellow and can you tell me whats inside the brackets?
fwrite(&header, sizeof(Fmatrix),1, filptr);
fwrite(&var, sizeof(char), 1, filptr);
fwrite(&temp, sizeof(char), 1, filptr);
fwrite(result, sizeof(dubble), length, filptr);
fclose(fileptr);
return length;
}
// Thanks for your help!
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
}
| 5,970
|
'Cultivate', Little Wittenham, South Oxfordshire Website Street Map Google Map Photos
'Cultivate', Little Wittenham
OS grid reference:
SU 562 927
Nearest postcode:
OX14 4QZ
Usual work:
Cultivate is a new cooperative social enterprise that will bring fresh, local, organically-grown food directly from farmers to the city and surrounding area. One aspect of the project focuses on growing produce, which Cultivate will sell via its VegVan to support the cooperative and further its social aims.
Cultivate will begin growing in early 2012 on five acres of land, based at the Earth Trust in Little Wittenham. Best practices will be used for growing, including using a range of crops and trialling heritage varieties, working to conserve crop diversity. Cultivate will also be working with the Earth Trusts to improve the land (which has been traditionally cultivated) and increase biodiversity on the site. There will be crop rotations (good for the soil and reduces pathogen buildup); hedges for nesting birds; wood piles for invertebrates and hedgehogs; and a lovely compost heap which will be great for worms!
The site will be run in a way that both protects and works with the wildlife in a traditional and organic manner. Bird boxes will provide shelter for wild fowl that may also help keep pests at bay, while wood piles and compost heaps will provide warmth and shelter for invertebrates. OCV will be assisting at this site in order to create fences that will protect the organically-grown food.
Leave Oxford on the A4074 towards Wallingford and Reading. At the roundabout for Berinsfield turn right towards Abingdon. In Clifton Hampden take a left at the second set of traffic lights towards Long Wittenham, following the brown Project Timescape signs up to Long Wittenham. Then ignore the next Project Timescape sign which takes you a long way round and instead carry on across the crossroads in Long Wittenham following signs to Little Wittenham. Take a right at the T-junction and follow the road round the bend. The car park is at the Northmoor Trust.
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
}
| 8,297
|
<?
class Filesystem {
public static function path2array($path,$excludingRegEx='/^$/',$maxDepth=999,$nodesAsSplFileInfo=false) {
//$path='./binaries/';
$path=realpath($path)."/";
$result=$arrDirs=$arrFiles=array();
$arrFilenames = scandir($path);
foreach($arrFilenames as $filename) {
if ($filename=="." || $filename=="..") {continue;}
$fileFullPath=$path.$filename;
$exclude=false;
if (preg_match($excludingRegEx, $fileFullPath)===1) {
$exclude=true;
}
if ($exclude) {continue;}
if ($nodesAsSplFileInfo) {
$objSplFileInfo=new SplFileInfo ($fileFullPath);
$isDir=$objSplFileInfo->isDir();
} else {
$isDir=is_dir($fileFullPath);
}
if ($isDir) {
$newPath=$fileFullPath;
$newDepth=$maxDepth-1;
if ($newDepth>0) {
$children=self::path2array($newPath,$excludingRegEx,$newDepth);
if ($nodesAsSplFileInfo) {
$objSplFileInfo->children=$children;
$arrDirs[$fileFullPath."/"]=$objSplFileInfo;
} else {
$arrDirs[$fileFullPath."/"]=$children;
}
unset ($children);
} else {
if ($nodesAsSplFileInfo) {
$arrDirs[$fileFullPath."/"]=$objSplFileInfo;
} else {
$arrDirs[$fileFullPath."/"]=$filename."/";
}
}
} else {
if ($nodesAsSplFileInfo) {
$arrFiles[$fileFullPath]=$objSplFileInfo;
} else {
$arrFiles[$fileFullPath]=$filename;
}
}
}
$result=$arrDirs+$arrFiles;
return $result;
}
public static function array2list($array, $cssClass='ulFiles', $recursiveCall=false) {
$ulStyle='';
if ($recursiveCall) {$ulStyle.='display:none;';}
$result='<ul class="'.$cssClass.'" style="'.$ulStyle.'">';
foreach ($array as $key => $value) {
$nameForList=basename($key);
if (is_array($value)) {
$liStyle="cursor:pointer;";
$liContent='<i class="fa fa-folder-o"></i> '.$nameForList.self::array2list($value,$cssClass,true);
$liClick='
$(this).children(\'ul\').toggle();
$(this).children(\'i\').toggleClass(\'fa-folder-o\');
$(this).children(\'i\').toggleClass(\'fa-folder-open-o\');
arguments[0].stopPropagation();
';
} else {
$liStyle="cursor:default;";
$liContent='<i class="fa fa-file-code-o"></i> '.$nameForList;
$liClick='';
}
$result.='<li style="'.$liStyle.'" onclick="'.$liClick.'">'. $liContent.'</li>';
}
$result.="</ul>";
return $result;
}
public static function array2zip($array,$destino,$zip=NULL) {
if (is_null($zip)) {
if (!extension_loaded('zip')) {
return false;
}
$zip=new ZipArchive();
if (!$zip->open($destino,ZIPARCHIVE::OVERWRITE)) {
return false;
}
}
$scriptDir=dirname($_SERVER['SCRIPT_FILENAME']).'/';
foreach ($array as $key => $value) {
$fileToZip=str_replace($scriptDir, '', $key);
if (is_array($value)) {
$zip->addEmptyDir($fileToZip);
$zip=self::array2zip($value,$destino,$zip);
} else {
$zip->addFile($fileToZip);
}
}
if (is_null($zip)) {
return $zip->close();
} else {
return $zip;
}
}
public static function folderSearch($folder, $pattern) {
$fld = new RecursiveDirectoryIterator($folder);
$ite = new RecursiveIteratorIterator($fld);
$files = new RegexIterator($ite, $pattern, RegexIterator::GET_MATCH);
$fileList = array();
foreach($files as $file) {
$fileList = array_merge($fileList, $file);
}
return $fileList;
}
public static function pharSearch($phar, $pattern) {
$phar=new Phar($phar);
$ite = new RecursiveIteratorIterator($phar);
$files = new RegexIterator($ite, $pattern, RegexIterator::GET_MATCH);
$fileList = array();
foreach($files as $file) {
$fileList = array_merge($fileList, $file);
}
return $fileList;
}
public static function copyDir ($source,$dest) {
if (!file_exists($dest)) {
mkdir($dest, 0755);
}
foreach (
$iterator = new RecursiveIteratorIterator(
new RecursiveDirectoryIterator($source, RecursiveDirectoryIterator::SKIP_DOTS),
RecursiveIteratorIterator::SELF_FIRST) as $item
) {
if ($item->isDir()) {
mkdir($dest . DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR . $iterator->getSubPathName());
} else {
copy($item, $dest . DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR . $iterator->getSubPathName());
}
}
}
/**
*
* Find the relative file system path between two file system paths
*
* @param string $frompath Path to start from
* @param string $topath Path we want to end up in
*
* @return string Path leading from $frompath to $topath
*/
public static function find_relative_path ( $frompath, $topath ) {
$from = explode( DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR, $frompath ); // Folders/File
$to = explode( DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR, $topath ); // Folders/File
$relpath = '';
$i = 0;
// Find how far the path is the same
while ( isset($from[$i]) && isset($to[$i]) ) {
if ( $from[$i] != $to[$i] ) break;
$i++;
}
$j = count( $from ) - 1;
// Add '..' until the path is the same
while ( $i <= $j ) {
if ( !empty($from[$j]) ) $relpath .= '..'.DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR;
$j--;
}
// Go to folder from where it starts differing
while ( isset($to[$i]) ) {
if ( !empty($to[$i]) ) $relpath .= $to[$i].DIRECTORY_SEPARATOR;
$i++;
}
// Strip last separator
return substr($relpath, 0, -1);
}
public static function delTree($dir) {
$files = array_diff(scandir($dir), array('.','..'));
foreach ($files as $file) {
(is_dir("$dir/$file")) ? Filesystem::delTree("$dir/$file") : unlink("$dir/$file");
}
return rmdir($dir);
}
}
?>
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
}
| 9,381
|
\section{Introduction}\label{intro}
Henize 2-10 (\objectname[He2-10]{He\,2-10}) is a blue compact galaxy with
quite interesting properties.
It is a nearby starburst galaxy with a heliocentric distance of
$9\pm5$ Mpc \citep{johansson87,tully88}. In this paper we adopt a distance
of 9 $h^{-1}$Mpc, with $H_0=75$ km/s, which yields a scale of
$\sim$45pc/arcsec. The galaxy shows spectroscopic Wolf-Rayet features
which indicates the presence of a very young starburst region
\citep{hutsemekers84,vacca92}, and has a slightly sub-solar metallicity
\citep{kobulnicky99b}.
Figure~\ref{figKs} shows a RGB-composite image (in color in electronic version
only) of the central $18\arcsec\times27\arcsec$ ($800\times1200$\,parsecs)
of He\,2-10, where most
of the current star formation occur. The blue and green channels are
0.3\arcsec-convolved HST WFPC archive in $F555W$ and $F814W$. The red channel
is our $0.3\arcsec$-seeing $K_S$ taken with VLT/ISAAC. The bright central
nucleus, generally referred to as region A, is an arc of UV-bright super-star
clusters \citep{vacca92}. It is surrounded by two presumably older
star-forming regions. Region B on the east shows
a mixed population of blue and red clusters (only detected in $K_S$
and longer wavelength bands). Region C, on the north-west side, has a long
tail containing bright red clusters as well.
Dust is clearly apparent in this image, as shown by the red filaments
observed to the south-east side between A and B. These appear
to be blown away from the central region, rapidly dissolving in He\,2-10's
interstellar medium. Assuming for the dust clouds a velocity equal to the
typical sound speed in the ISM, i.e. 10
$\sim 10$ km$\cdot$s$^{-1}$, hence a growing rate of $\sim10$pc$/$Myr,
the present radii of curvature of the filaments $\sim 50-100$\,pc yield
dynamical ages of $~5-10$Myr.
Region A is also flanked by two compact red sources that
are only visible at $K_S$ and longer wavelengths.
These two sources get brighter with longer
wavelengths, as shown in Figure~\ref{figmulti}. The various colors of the
sources hint at a highly heterogeneous dust content, and possibly age
differences among the cluster population.
Recent observations in the optical, IR, and radio, have brought new exciting
facts.
First, the youth of the starburst event in the center was confirmed by STIS
analysis of the brightest UV/optical knots by \citet{chandar03} which yielded
a coeval formation age of 4-5 Myr for all optical clusters.
Second, the presence and importance of dust in the central region was
confirmed by high-resolution mid-infrared observations
\citep{sauvage97,beck01,vacca02}: the majority (60\%) of the MIR emission
is confined to a $\sim5"$ region, compatible in size with the location of
the observed starburst. However the intrinsically large uncertainties in MIR
astrometry prevented a clear identification of the MIR sources.
Finally, the radio observations of \citet{kobulnicky99,kobulnicky00}
evidenced 5 compact radio sources (hereafter called the radio knots)
characterized by mostly thermal spectra. The striking morphological
resemblance between the radio knots and the MIR emission allowed to tie
down the location of the MIR sources precisely \citep{beck01}.
Furthermore, comparing with HST images, \citet{kobulnicky99,kobulnicky00}
argued that most of these radio-MIR sources were off-centered, in the
dusty area between region A and B. They thus attributed this emission to
young ($1<$Myr) ultra dense (UD) HII regions with ongoing star formation
hidden in dense molecular clouds. Following this interpretation,
\citet{beck01}, from $11.7\mu$m observations, derived that up to
$10^4$ O7V stars (equivalent to $10^{49}$ Lyman photons$\cdot$s$^{-1}$)
must be hidden in these dense cocoons, and \citet{vacca02},
from $10.8\,\mu$m observations, computed that $10^7 M_\odot$ of dust and
gas must be surrounding the UD HII regions and estimated the bolometric
luminosity of the brightest MIR region overlapping with radio knot 4 to be
as much as $2\times10^9 L_\odot$. \citet{johnson03} extended the radio
observations and refined the measurement of physical properties
of the UD HII regions, in particular an anomalous low mass HII content
of 2-8$\times10^3 M_\odot$ was found, attributed to the extreme youth
of the objects.
Therefore, as of today, He\,2-10 appears as a spectacular case of a starburst
galaxy where a large fraction of its most current star formation activity
lies completely buried in dust, and has absolutely no visible counterpart.
We present here high-resolution observations in $K_S$ ($2.2\mu$m)
with VLT/ISAAC (\dataset[270.B-5011(A)]{under ESO program 270.B-5011(A)}),
$L'$ (3.8$\mu$m), and $M'$ (4.8$\mu$m) bands with the Adaptive Optics
VLT\,/\,NAOS\,-\,CONICA (\dataset[71.B-0492(A)]{under ESO program 71.B-0492(A)})
that give the highest resolution to date of the nucleus of He\,2-10
in the NIR, a wavelength regime adequately located between the
stellar optical regime and the dust thermal regime. The high quality of the
observations allows the identification, for the first time, of bright $L'$
regions which correlate with radio knots \citep{kobulnicky99}, and $K_S$
regions that correlate with the optically bright cluster, thus bridging the
existing wavelength gap.
\section{Observations and data reduction}\label{observations}
\begin{figure*}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=\textwidth]{fig1.eps}
\caption{\footnotesize He\,2-10 is shown in a RGB composite image (in color
in the electronic version only) of
$18\arcsec\times27\arcsec$ ($800\times 1200$\,pc at a distance of 9\,Mpc).
North is up and East is left. The blue and green
channels are $0.3\arcsec$-convolved HST WFPC archive images in $F555W$ and
$F814W$. The red channel is a $0.3\arcsec$-seeing $K_S$ image taken with
VLT/ISAAC. The red filaments correspond to absorption regions in HST images,
hence appear red by contrast. The region on the left shows a mix of bluish
clusters and red clusters, hinting at a highly heterogeneous dust content,
and possibly age differences. The bright red sources on each side of the
nucleus are detected only from $K_S$ and up to radio bands (cf. text).
\label{figKs}}
\end{center}
\end{figure*}
We observed He\,2-10 in $K_S$ using ISAAC at the ESO VLT/Antu
under 0.3$\arcsec\,$ seeing (Figure~\ref{figKs}), and in $L'$ and $M'$ with
the adaptive optics system NAOS-CONICA at the ESO VLT/Yepun, reaching a
corrected PSF full width at half maximum (FWHM) of 0.12$\arcsec$.
The observations were obtained in service mode in 2003-2004.
We used standard observing strategies. In $L'$, we alternated exposures
between the object and the sky in 15 ABBA sequences with a throw of 40\arcsec.
Object cubes (respectively sky cubes) consisted of 220 (110) random 0.175\,s
jitter for a total exposure time of 1155\,s (577.5\,s). In $M'$, as NACO was
still in early operation, we used the only allowed chopping mode with
pre-defined exposure time and a 30\arcsec chopping throw. Typical strehl
ratios of validated exposures were in the range 20-25\% for both filters.
The ABBA sequences were combined/substracted using custom iraf scripts.
We performed accurate astrometry reconstruction and photometry as described
in the following sections.
\subsection{Astrometry}\label{astrometry}
In order to compare the astrometry of our NAOS-CONICA images with
previous multiwaveband observations, we performed an accurate calibration
of the NAOS-CONICA to the USNO-B based J2000 epoch.
We first calibrated the astrometry of the $K_S$ image using 23 field
stars catalogued in the USNO-B \citep{monet98}, and applied general
transformations using the NOAO iraf routine geomap.
The positional accuracies of the transformations are
$\Delta\alpha_{rms} = 0.008$\,sec and $\Delta\delta_{rms} = 0.08\arcsec$.
We then derived the transformations between
the $K_S$ USNO-calibrated image and $L$ image using four common
sources in the central region (two field stars and two bright clusters).
The number of available common sources is too small to derive a robust
general transformation but the clear morphological similarities between
the $K_S$ and $L$ images (Figure~\ref{figmulti}) make us confident that
the reconstructed $L$ astrometry has an accuracy equivalent to that of
the $K_S$ image.
The positional accuracies of the transformations are
$\Delta\alpha_{rms} = 0.001$\,sec and $\Delta\delta_{rms} = 0.012\arcsec$.
The resulting astrometry, computed for all $L'$ sources, is shown
Table~\ref{tabastro}.
\begin{deluxetable}{lcclcc}
\tablewidth{0pt}
\tablecaption{He\,2-10: astrometry of the $L'$ bright sources of the nucleus (Fig.~\ref{figLp})\label{tabastro}}
\tablehead{\colhead{Name\tablenotemark{a}}&\colhead{R.A. (J2000)}&\colhead{Dec. (J2000)}&\colhead{Name\tablenotemark{b}}&\colhead{R.A. (J2000)}&\colhead{Dec. (J2000)}\\
\colhead{Band $L'$}&\colhead{h~min~sec}&\colhead{$^\circ~\arcmin~\arcsec$}&\colhead{Band 2\,cm}&\colhead{h~min~sec}&\colhead{$^\circ~\arcmin~\arcsec$}\\
&\colhead{$\pm$0.003sec}&\colhead{$\pm$0.02sec}&&\colhead{$\pm$0.007sec}&\colhead{$\pm$0.1sec}}
\startdata
L1 & 8~36~15.032 & -26~24~33.90 & knot 1 &8~36~15.014 &-26~24~33.81\\
L2 & 8~36~15.066 & -26~24~34.03 & knot 2 &8~36~15.060 &-26~24~33.98\\
L3a & 8~36~15.131 & -26~24~34.24 & knot 3 &8~36~15.127 &-26~24~34.13\\
L3b & 8~36~15.153 & -26~24~34.10& knot 3 &8~36~15.127 &-26~24~34.13\\
L4a & 8~36~15.218 & -26~24~34.00& knot 4 &8~36~15.234&-26~24~34.00\\
L4b & 8~36~15.247 & -26~24~34.35& knot 4 &8~36~15.234&-26~24~34.00\\
L4c & 8~36~15.251 & -26~24~34.83& knot 4 &8~36~15.234&-26~24~34.00\\
L4d & 8~36~15.265 & -26~24~34.39& knot 4 &8~36~15.234&-26~24~34.00\\
L5 & 8~36~15.310 & -26~24~35.11& knot 5 &8~36~15.308&-26~24~34.61\\
L6 & 8~36~15.183 & -26~24~34.06&&&\\
L7 & 8~36~15.191 & -26~24~34.60&&&\\
L8 & 8~36~15.217 & -26~24~34.50&&&\\
\enddata
\tablenotetext{a}{FWHM $0.12\arcsec$ (This work).}
\tablenotetext{b}{Beam size $\sim0.4\arcsec\times0.8\arcsec$ (\citet[Table~3]{kobulnicky99}). The astrometry is from \citet{kobulnicky99}.}
\end{deluxetable}
\subsection{Photometry}\label{photometry}
\begin{figure*}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[height=5.7cm]{fig2.eps}
\hfill
\includegraphics[height=5.7cm]{fig3.eps}
\caption{\footnotesize Left: He\,2-10 nucleus is shown in $L'$,
with VLT/NAOS-CONICA, FWHM 0.12 arcsec, Field of view $\sim7\arcsec$, with labels referring to the source naming convention used in this paper.
The apertures are $0.5\arcsec$~wide, or $22.5\,$pc at $9\,$Mpc.
Right: He\,2-10 is shown in Ks + finding chart of
outer source with $M_V<-6.5$ detected in $V$, $I$,\& $K_S$. Source 18 to 25
belong to region~B, sources 4 to 7 to region~C.\label{figLp}}
\end{center}
\end{figure*}
We extracted $L'$- and $M'$ fluxes
of all detected sources of the inner core of He\,2-10 in aperture sizes
of 0.5$\arcsec$ (the finding chart in $L'$ is given Figure~\ref{figLp}, left panel),
the good match between VLT-NACO and HST
resolutions allows us to compute consistent aperture photometry
over the entire optical and near-infrared (NIR) range.
We measured the $F555W$, H$\alpha$, $F814W$ fluxes from the
HST calibrated archive images, on the same positions and aperture sizes,
including a systematic centroid position mismatch in the error computation.
All photometric measurements were then calibrated to Vega magnitudes
using IR standards provided by ESO service observing team. All ancillary
data may be found in \anchor{http://archive.eso.org/eso/eso\_archive\_main.html}{http://archive.eso.org/eso/eso\_archive\_main.html},
under Program ID 71.B-0492(A). Typically,
$L'$ errors on zeropoints are ca. 10\%, because of a highly variable
background. Additional uncertainties are due to the anisoplanetism of
the FOV of view and the different strehl ratio between the photometric
standard and the science observations. Both effect are difficult to quantify,
but we assume that, because of our large apertures ($5\times$FWHM),
the strehl difference will not dominate the systematics
and most of the error will actually come from background subtraction.
Unfortunately NACO's response was not fully known when the $M'$
data were taken and the standard stars were observed with high ADU counts.
They possibly reach the non-linear regime of the detector and the derived
zero-points from different nights disagree to $\pm0.25$\,mag.
Hence the $M'$ data are mostly useful for morphology and only deliver a crude
photometry.
HST $F555W$, $F658N$/H$\alpha$, and $F814W$ images were analysed following
standard recipes detailed by \citet{holtzman95}. We extracted the sources of
the nucleus
with the full-resolution images in order to compare with $L'$ data, and
we convolved the HST data with a $0.3\arcsec$ gaussian in order to compare
with $K_S$ data.
We derived H$\alpha$ equivalent width interpolating the continuum between
$F555W$ and $F814W$ following \citet{johnson00}.
We recover the original magnitudes and similar H$\alpha$ equivalent widths
of \citet{johnson00} and the V magnitude of knot 4 \citep{chandar03} using
different strategies with smaller apertures within photon and aperture
position errors.
All Vega calibrated magnitudes were corrected for the
galactic extinction of $E(B-V)=0.11$ \citep{schlegel98} yielding
$A_V=0.369$, $A_{\mbox{H}\alpha}=0.298$ $A_I=0.216$, $A_K=0.04$, $A_L=0.017$,
and $A_M=0.0$.
We also extracted all sources detected in $K_S$, $F814W$ and $F555W$
in the outer 1\arcmin\,of He\,2-10 (0.5$\arcsec\,$ aperture size,
see Figure~\ref{figLp} right panel).
A special care was taken to check the effect of the larger PSF in $K_S$
and HST convolved resolution, compared to HST original resolution.
We computed the total flux lost between unconvolved and
convolved point sources for 0.5$\arcsec\,$ apertures.
The loss amounts to $0.31\pm0.05$ mag in $F814W$ and $F555W$.
Although substantial in absolute, the correction is negligible in color,
hence the color-color diagrams are not affected by
the correction applied to the sources of the outer 1\arcmin.
Finally, another photometric extraction was done on the brightest $L'$
and $M'$ sources in order to build the full spectral energy distributions
of these
regions.
We convolved $L'$ and $M'$ images with 0.3\arcsec~and extracted fluxes
around the brightest radio knots in 1\arcsec~apertures.
The largest source of uncertainty comes from the diffuse background in the
inner core of He\,2-10. We adopted different strategies to estimate the
background in the different bands, in order to account for the variable
resolutions and field crowding of the data.
The HST images were sky subtracted using sky annuli of radius
0.3-0.5$\arcsec\,$ around the objects located in the inner 10$\arcsec\,$ of
the nucleus, and using annuli 0.4-0.6 pix for outer sources (also for $K_S$).
In $K_S$, $L'$ and $M'$, we computed the diffuse emission background in annuli
of radius 0.3-1$\arcsec$ around the objects located in the
inner 10$\arcsec\,$ of the nucleus. We additionally computed
2 sky annuli (0.3-0.5$\arcsec$, and 0.3-2$\arcsec$) in order to estimate
the systematic errors resulting from the measured flux differences.
Sytematic errors of $0.15$ mag were typical. The $M'$ magnitudes
have higher systematics due the uncertainty on the zeropoints.
Finally the background around the 1\arcsec~apertures was measured
in annuli of 0.5-1.5\arcsec.
\begin{deluxetable}{lccccc}
\tablewidth{0pt}
\tablecaption{0.5\arcsec\,aperture photometry of He\,2-10 (Fig.~\ref{figLp})
\label{tabcmd}}
\tablehead{\colhead{Source \#}&\colhead{$F555W$}&\colhead{$F814W$} &\colhead{$K_S$}&\colhead{$L'$}&\colhead{$\log($EW[H$\alpha$])}\\
&\colhead{Vega}&\colhead{Vega}&\colhead{Vega}&\colhead{Vega}&\colhead{log(\AA)}}
\startdata
L1 & 19.48$\pm$0.08 & 18.53$\pm$0.06 & 15.61$\pm$0.03 & 13.53$\pm$0.01 & 2.60\\
L2 & 19.21$\pm$0.05 & 18.36$\pm$0.04 & 15.80$\pm$0.02 & 14.09$\pm$0.90 & 2.66\\
L3a& 16.94$\pm$0.07 & 16.53$\pm$0.07 & 14.79$\pm$0.08 & 14.07$\pm$0.01 & 1.39\\
L3b& 16.61$\pm$0.03 & 16.19$\pm$0.02 & 14.53$\pm$0.03 & 14.08$\pm$0.03 & 0.74\\
L4a& 16.16$\pm$0.04 & 15.77$\pm$0.03 & 13.92$\pm$0.03 & 13.04$\pm$0.04 & 1.69\\
L4b& 16.68$\pm$0.02 & 16.38$\pm$0.01 & 14.65$\pm$0.02 & 13.49$\pm$0.01 & 2.32\\
L4c& 16.71$\pm$0.05 & 16.38$\pm$0.03 & 14.76$\pm$0.04 & 13.48$\pm$0.02 & 2.39\\
L4d& 17.62$\pm$0.17 & 17.06$\pm$0.13 & 15.06$\pm$0.13 & 13.78$\pm$0.08 & 2.38\\
L5 & 18.99$\pm$0.17 & 18.14$\pm$0.14 & 15.29$\pm$0.06 & 13.34$\pm$0.02 & 2.37\\
L6 & 16.65$\pm$0.02 & 16.30$\pm$0.02 & 14.55$\pm$0.02 & 14.10$\pm$0.06 & 1.23\\
L7 & 17.67$\pm$0.04 & 17.04$\pm$0.03 & 14.75$\pm$0.02 & 13.83$\pm$0.02 & 2.21\\
L8 & 17.26$\pm$0.03 & 16.77$\pm$0.03 & 14.64$\pm$0.02 & 13.68$\pm$0.02 & 2.28\\
\enddata
\end{deluxetable}
\section{Results}\label{results}
\subsection{Optical to radio identification of the central sources}
\label{secident}
\begin{figure*}
\begin{center}
\plotone{fig4.eps}
\caption{\footnotesize The nucleus of He\,2-10 is shown from blue to radio
wavelengths, from top-left to bottom-right. Each panel shows the central
region observed with VLT/NAOS-CONICA in $L'$-band. Three bright regions
are gradually emerging from the dust from $K_S$ to radio bands. {All images are now plotted on a common, identical, astrometric grid, the vertical markers replicate the position of the brightest $L'$ sources in all panels.}\label{figmulti}}
\end{center}
\end{figure*}
\begin{figure*}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=8cm]{fig5.eps}
\includegraphics[width=8cm]{fig6.eps}\\
\caption{\footnotesize Left: $L'$ gray-scale image overplotted
with Gemini $N$ contours. Right: $L'$ gray-scale image overplotted
with VLA 2-cm contours.
The $N$ sources are named using the identification of \citet{vacca02}.
The radio knots are named according to \citet{kobulnicky99}.
The brightest $L'$ sources are named following the radio knots (cf. text
and Fig.~\ref{figLp}).\label{figcontour}
}
\end{center}
\end{figure*}
\begin{figure}
\begin{center}
\plotone{fig7.eps}
\caption{\footnotesize NACO $L'$ gray-scale image overplotted
with HST $F658N/H\alpha$ contours.\label{figHa}}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
Figure~\ref{figmulti} shows the entire series of
high-resolution observations of the nucleus of Henize 2-10,
in $F555W$, $F658N/H\alpha$, $F814W$, $K_S$, $L'$,
$M'$ (shifted to USNO-B absolute astrometry, see
section \ref{astrometry}), $N$ and $2$\,cm. The $M'$ image is much shallower
than the $L'$ image, and only the three reddest sources are robustly detected.
As is evident from this figure, and also from Table~\ref{tabastro}, the $L'$
and $M'$ sources are clear counterparts to some of the radio knots, and
because of the strong morphological and physical association between the radio
and MIR emissions, to the MIR sources as well.
Figure~\ref{figcontour} shows a precise comparison
of the $L'$ images (gray scale) with $N$ GEMINI/OSCIR $N$ contours
\citep[left, the $N$ source associations to the radio knots are
according to ][]{vacca02}, and with VLA 2-cm contours \citep[right, with the
radio knots identification of ][]{kobulnicky99}. It is striking to see, on
Fig~\ref{figcontour}, how well sources L1 and L5 correlate with the N-band
sources.
Furthermore Figure~\ref{figmulti} also demonstrates the association of L4a
with the brightest source in F814W, and of L6, L3a and L3b with the string
of three clusters detected west of the brightest source in F814W. Therefore,
in constrast to the statement of \citet{kobulnicky99,kobulnicky00},
we see a clear connection between the structures observed from 0.5\,$\mu$m
to 2\,cm.
At this stage it is important to stress that the positional association
from the optical to the radio that we present here is not a new proposition
that we are making, but is a fact imposed by the astrometry. The HST,
$K_S$, $L'$, and $M'$ images are now tied to the same astrometric reference,
which is the USNO-B astrometry. This is accurate to $\pm0.3\arcsec$ which
will be the dominant positional uncertainty in this wavelength regime
(for instance the relative astrometric accuracy of NAOS-CONICA is
$\pm0.02\arcsec$). The absolute astrometry of the VLA is accurate to
$\pm0.1\arcsec$. With these accuracies, it becomes impossible to accept
the relative positions of the HST and MIR/radio sources as presented
in \citet{kobulnicky99,kobulnicky00,vacca02}, i.e. a shift of 1.2\arcsec\
in $\alpha$, even taking into account the beam size of the VLA, which is
0.4\arcsec\ in $\alpha$. In fact, the main source of astrometric error in
previous papers was an incorrect astrometry in the HST data used at the time.
This is now corrected in the archived versions of the same data. Therefore
Figure~\ref{figmulti} now reveals for the first time the correct evolution
of the central region of He\,2-10 from the optical to the radio. This allows
now to present a much firmer identification of the different components
across the spectrum.
L1 is clearly detected in $M'$ and can now be associated to
the western N band source. It has a rather faint counterpart in $K_S$
and is no longer detected in the optical bands, and shows a clear
anti-correlation with H$\alpha$ (Fig.~\ref{figHa}).
Figure~\ref{figcontour} shows that L1 appears to fall between the radio
knots 1 and 2, however this time the shift is too small to be significant.
Since L1 is accompanied by a faint source L2, we propose to associate the
two sources L1 and L2 with knot\,1 and knot\,2 in the radio map. L2 has
no counterpart in the optical bands, an anti-correlation with H$\alpha$
(Fig.~\ref{figHa}), much like L1, but is much fainter. Source L3a and L3b
have clear optical and H$\alpha$ counterparts west of the brightest optical
source (cf. Fig.~\ref{figHa}). They fall in a region of diffuse N-band
emission and their association with knot\,3 is unclear.
The brightest $L'$ source L4a is the counterpart of the main source
in the F814W image. It is fainter in the H$\alpha$ image but reappears
strongly in the F555W image. Again L4a appears displaced from its possible
radio and MIR counterpart knot\,4. In fact it is quite likely that knot\,4
and the associated brightest MIR source are the counterparts of the group L4b,
c and d. These sources are easily detectable in the optical wide bands and
are quite strong in H$\alpha$. L5 is another bright source that has no
optical or H$\alpha$ counterpart (Fig.~\ref{figHa}) but is cleary detected
in $K_S$, N and radio and can be associated with knot\,5. L6 has no clear
radio or MIR counterpart but is associated to the optical cluster just west
of the brightest F814W source. Finally L7 and L8 have no definite counterparts
but are associated with diffuse emission in all bands.
We emphazise that the fact that we detect spatially correlated sources
accross the spectrum doesn't mean that we actually detect the \emph{same}
sources. An error of 0.2\arcsec\ translates to 9\,pc at He\,2-10's distance,
while the compact sources are not expected to have sizes much larger
than 1-2pc, hence the $L'$ sources and radio knots could belong
to contiguous yet distinct star forming regions.
A robust identification will have to wait for deeper $L'$ observations
and higher resolution radio observations. Nevertheless, it is interesting
to follow the working hypothesis that association between radio and NIR
sources is indeed a physical one.
\subsection{Near-infrared/optical colors of He\,2-10 nucleus}
\begin{figure}
\plotone{fig8.eps}
\caption{\footnotesize Color-color diagrams of all 12 sources detected in $L'$
with VLT-NACO in Henize 2-10 central nucleus (squares; sizes proportional
to errors), and of 21 sources visible in the VLT/ISAAC $K_S$ covering
the outer 1\arcmin\, around the nucleus (open circles are for the most
remote sources, filled triangles are sources surrounding the nucleus, mostly
from so-called regions B and C). The outer sources are visible only up to
$K_S$ hence they are present only in the top-left diagram. Only sources
brighter than $M_V<-8.5$ are included.
V and I magnitudes were extracted from HST archive images (cf. text).
The thin solid lines are dust free STARBURST99 track of solar metallicity,
Salpeter IMF of instantaneous bursts from 0-1Gyr (low $V-I$ to high $V-I$).
The thick arrow shows the amplitude and direction of $A_V=1$\,mag internal
extinction. Bottom graph shows the H$\alpha$ equivalent width
(Log(EW[H$\alpha$]) of the 12 $L'$ sources computed from an HST $F658N$
archive image (cf. text).
\label{figcmd}}
\end{figure}
We selected the sources likely to be clusters at 9~Mpc with a magnitude
threshold of $M_V<-8.5$ \citep{whitmore99,johnson00}. Table \ref{tabcmd}
shows the corresponding Vega magnitudes of the 12 central sources
(Fig~\ref{figLp}).
All 12 sources seen in $L'$ would still be too bright to be supergiant
stars if Henize 2-10 was at a distance of 6~Mpc, but 2 sources out of the 21
outer sources detected in $V$, $I$ and $K_S$ would fall below the threshold.
We plot $V-I$ vs $V-K$, $V-I$ vs $I-L'$ and $V-I$ vs $K-L'$ colors in
Figure~\ref{figcmd} along with the dust free STARBURST99
\citep[SB99]{leitherer99} tracks of solar metallicity instantaneous bursts,
with Salpeter IMF, from 0 (low $V-I$) to 1\,Gyr (high $V-I$).
The sharp turnoff seen in $V-I$ vs $K-L'$
correspond to 6.3\,Myr, after which nebular emission ceases to be important.
The 12 sources of the nucleus are plotted as squares the size of which relate
to the total errors. The source of the outer 1\arcmin are plotted as filled
triangles for the sources belonging to the regions B and C of the north-east
and west/north-west (Fig.~\ref{figKs}), and as circles for sources falling
at least 1\arcmin\,away from the nucleus (all circles happen to be in the
southern part of He\,2-10, visible as bright blue [probably foreground]
clusters in Fig.~\ref{figKs}). Photometric errors are typically contained
within the size of the symbol, but systematics related to the diffuse
background subtraction can be of the order of 15\%.
The solid arrows show the direction and the amplitude of a
screen extinction of $A_V=1$ mag (assuming a Calzetti form instead of the
canonical galactic extinction curve does not change the values by more than
3\% in the range 0.55\,$\mu$m-3.8\,$\mu$m).
All diagrams show the well-known age-extinction degeneracy of optical
colors (here $V-I$), as well as the gradual decrease of the extinction
impact on colors as one goes to the infrared. All show that most of the
data points cannot be explained by reddenning any point of the models
by any amount of screen extinction, especially for the diagrams including
the $L'$ photometry. This is a rather common observation in starburst regions
\citep{johnson04,vanzi04,cresci05}.
On the top left panel, the squares and the triangles seem to occupy the
same locus whereas the circles are shifted up by $V-I\simeq0.3\pm0.1$\,mag.
This shift can be due to a systematic effect in the background subtraction
although unlikely because the colors of triangles and squares were derived
with independent methods (cf section \ref{photometry}) and still lies on top
of each other, hence do not seem to be dominated by systematics.
The shift more likely comes from an infrared excess affecting the central
sources of He\,2-10.
This conclusion finds some support in the large excesses of
$I-L'$ and $K-L'$ colors observed for the 12 central sources in the other
two color-color diagrams.
These infrared color excesses can have a number of explanations that will
be explored later. But let us first characterize
the magnitude of the extinction affecting the central sources. This will
help us setting constraints on clusters ages as well as on their actual
infrared excess from their location in the color-color diagrams.
As expected in a complex region such as revealed by Figure~\ref{figKs},
extinctions measured at different wavelengths do not agree well with one
another. First \citet{allen76b} measure $A_V$=2.3 from optical
observations while \citet{johansson87} correcting for the contribution of
stellar absorption features obtain $A_V=0.86$. Then we can use the observation
of \citet{vanzi97} to derive the extinction of the central part of He\,2-10
from the H$\alpha$ to Br$\gamma$ ratio.
\citeauthor{vanzi97} measure a Br$\gamma$ flux of
6.3$\times10^{-14}$\,erg$\cdot$s$^{-1}\cdot$cm$^{-2}$ over an aperture of
2.4x15.6\arcsec centered on the K bright nucleus. From the HST H$\alpha$
image we measure the H$\alpha$ flux on the same aperture and obtain a value
of 1.86e-12 erg/s/cm2. Assuming an intrisic H$\alpha$/Br$\gamma$ ratio of
155.4 corresponding to Te=7500\,K, ne=1000cm$^{-3}$ \citep{storey95}
we find $A_V = 1.25$.
Finally, from the ratio Br$\gamma$/Br10 of Vanzi \& Rieke we obtain
$A_V$=10.5 which is in full agreement with the extinction derived using
the Br$\alpha$, Br$\gamma$ fluxes of \citet{kawara89}. We thus observe a
clear trend of increasing extinction from the optical to the IR which is
typical of a system where the absorbing material, gas and dust is mixed
with emitting sources. It is worthwhile to note here that correcting the
clusters for extinction will bring them closer to the youngest part of
the SB99.
But this correction cannot explain the significant red excess observed
in $V-K$, $I-L'$ and $K-L'$ for all the central sources. This red excess
was also observed in a similar diagram built for NGC\,5253
\citep{vanzi04,cresci05} and for Haro\,3 \citep{johnson04}, and most likely
has the same origin: a contribution of hot dust in the NIR bands.
Indeed as the earliest evolutionary phase
of star clusters occurs deep in molecular clouds, we can expect to find dust
and molecular clouds in the immediate vicinity of these clusters. Dust close
to its sublimation temperature would be able to contaminate the $L'$ band.
Using radiative transfer models, \citet{vanzi04} showed that
the location of the reddest clusters in the ($V-I$,$K-L'$) diagram of
NGC\,5253, could be explained by a combination of extinction, scattering and
emission by dust in a shell around the cluster. This is likely what we
observe here as well. In that respect, it is noteworthy that the three
reddest sources in $K-L'$ are L1, L2 and L5, the sources with no visible
counterparts and associated with thermal radio knots. If we apply to the
12 central sources of He\,2-10 color corrections such as those derived
from the modeling of the red cluster in NGC\,5253, this will bring all
the sources to the bottom left of the diagrams, indicating ages of less
than 6.3\,Myr.
\subsection{Physical properties}
We study now the physical properties of the sources which dominates the
$L'$ emission of the nucleus (Fig.~\ref{figLp}).
The bright $L'$ sources L1+L2, L4 and L5 are not or barely resolved
with radii $\sim0.1\arcsec$ or 4.5~pc, L5 is not isolated,
there is a faint diffuse emission extending as far as 3 FWHMs (10~pc)
(the apertures shown on Fig.~\ref{figLp} are 22.5pc wide). These sources
are not resolved in $M'$ either (radii$\la0.12\arcsec$).
Fig.\ref{figcmd} bottom panel shows the histogram of the H$\alpha$
equivalent width Log(EW[H$\alpha$]) of the 12 central sources in units
of Log[\AA] (from Table \ref{tabcmd}) and the associated ages
according to \citet{leitherer95}. The histogram peaks at ages $\la6$~Myr in
agreement with recent works \citep{johnson00,chandar03} and with age trends
inferred from previous section color analysis. We emphasize that the
H$\alpha$ equivalent width measurements are prone to strong systematic
effects. We substracted out the [NII] $\lambda 6584$ measured to be 31\%
of H$\alpha$ in an unpublished high-resolution spectrum covering the
1.6\arcsec~around source $L4a$.
But the main source of error is a poorly-known continuum level. Our method to
derive the continuum by interpolation of the contiguous broadband filters
continuum for lack of a better estimator is crude and the
quoted Log(EW[H$\alpha$]) should be carefully used.
The measured Log(EW[H$\alpha$]) centered on the sources L1, L2
and L5 are 2.60, 2.66 and 2.37, yielding ages$\la5$\,Myr.
But the H$\alpha$ emission shows remarkable anti-correlations with the
source L1+2 and L5 and no emission in $F555W$, $F658N$ and $F814W$ can
be clearly associated with source L1, L2 and L5. Hence the measured
Log(EW[H$\alpha$]) is probably more related to He\,2-10 foreground
medium rather than the $L'$ emitting clusters.
An interesting check on the age derived from Log(EW[H$\alpha$])
comes from the sources L3a, L3b, L4a and L6 because all three have
unambiguous $F555W$, $F658N$ and $F814W$ counterparts.
Log(EW[H$\alpha$])$<1.5$ and the brightest source in $L'$
(L4a of Fig.~2) have Log(EW[H$\alpha$])$<1.5$ (Table \ref{tabcmd}),
consistent with the measurements of \citet[Fig.~9]{johnson03}, yielding
ages$>$6\,Myr, whereas \citet{chandar03} derived ages of 4-5\,Myr fitting
single-burst SB99 templates to a de-reddened UV/STIS spectrum of the same
sources. Thus there appears to be an age dichotomy, with source L1, L2
and L5 being younger than 5\,Myr and the other $L'$ source being older.
On the basis of the new identification of the components accross the
spectrum (see Section~\ref{secident}), it is important to review previous
assumptions on the nature of He\,2-10 radio knots emission.
The presence of UD HII in He\,2-10 is primarily inferred from observed
turnovers from flat radio spectra ($F_\nu = \nu^{-\alpha}$ with $\alpha=0$,
characteristic of an optically thin ionized gas), to thermal
spectra ($\alpha=2$, signature of a free-free optically thick gas)
\citep{kobulnicky99}. This feature is common in galactic HII regions.
These UD HII regions were presumed to be extremely young, e.g. less than one
million year, mostly because of their compactness, their high electron
densities, and of their lack of counterpart in the NIR and below. Indeed
only HII regions buried extremely deep in dust, i.e. right at the start of
their expansion, would remain invisible in the NIR. Since most of the radio
sources now have counterparts, the interpretation of the radio knots must be
updated.
Among the 5 radio sources, we would only classify knot 1+2 and knot 5, as
bona fide UD HII regions. They have counterparts in the NIR but not in the
visible. This implies a significant optical depth (typically $\ga$\,10 if
we follow existing models of embedded super-star clusters), and thus a young
age although possibly not as young as previously postulated.
The radio knot 3 was already known to be a different type of source than
other radio knots from a strong non-thermal signature \citet{johnson03},
(very likely a supernova remnant). We also propose that the radio knot 4,
associated with diffuse $L'$ emission (L4b,c,d) and showing strong
correlations with bright optical and H$\alpha$ sources, is not an UD HII
region but a complex mix of {\em normal} HII regions and supernova remnants.
Knot 4 does show a non-thermal signature with a slightly
negative spectral index $\alpha$.
The proposed re-classification of the radio sources would lower the
total mass of hidden $O$ stars (as deduced from the radio) by a factor
of $\sim$2 \citet{johnson03}.
Detailed modelling of the spectral energy distributions is essential
to have a deeper understanding of the star formation process ongoing
in He\,2-10, especially of sources L1+L2 and L5 which represent the best
candidate for very young dust-enshrouded super-star clusters.
This is however a long endeavour that we differ to a later paper.
Nevertheless the present observations outline the importance of
high-resolution multiwavelength datasets to disentangle the intrinsically
complex nature of star forming regions.
\section{Conclusions}\label{Conclusion}
We detected compact sources in the nucleus of Henize 2-10
with $K_S$, $L'$ and $M'$ observations using ISAAC and NAOS-CONICA on the VLT.
The sources are compact ($<4.5$~pc), highly correlated with
radio and mid-infrared ultradense HII regions, previously thought
to be optically thick.
The color-color magnitude diagrams show the presence of strong
red-excess in $K_S$ and $L'$. Such red excesses point at highly
heterogeneous dust distribution and at the presence
of a hot dust component emitting and scattering down to $L'$ and $M'$.
We tentatively review the previous classification of the radio
knots by identifying two bona fide UD HII (knot 1+2 and knot 5)
and propose that knots 3 and 4 are non-thermal radio sources,
akin to supernova remnants.
These new high-resolution data uncover a complex structure in infrared.
We suggest that to understand He\,2-10 star forming history,
a detailed model of the radiative processes is needed.
This model should include all known components of the galaxy in a
consistent way in order to fit the spectral energy distribution from
radio to UV.
\acknowledgements
RAC wish to acknowledge an ESO grant for visiting scientist in Santiago,
and thank Chip Kobulnicky for sharing his VLA 2-cm data and Kelsey Johnson
for useful comment on the first version of the paper.\\
Facilities: \facility{VLT(ISAAC)} \facility{VLT(NAOS-CONICA)}
|
{
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
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Q: ScrewTurn Wiki SQL data provider plugin? Here you can download either a SQL server based, compiled solution, or the source code which stores data in a rather primitive way (file-system data storage). I want to use the source code since I intend to modify it, but I still want to store the data in SQL Server, in their site I couldn't find any "plugin" which would do this, so I was wondering if anyone has developed a version that already interfaces with SQL server AND is open source.
A: As leppie mentioned, everything is open-source, including the SQL Server providers, which are included in the source package.
Note: you should use our forum to ask questions, as it surely gets more attention from us.
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Вальибона () — муниципалитет в Испании, входит в провинцию Кастельон в составе автономного сообщества Валенсия (автономное сообщество). Муниципалитет находится в составе района (комарки) Лос-Пуэртос. Занимает площадь 91,4 км². Население — 100 человек (на 2010 год). Расстояние до административного центра провинции — 27 км.
Население
Примечания
Ссылки
Официальная страница
Instituto Valenciano de Estadística
Federación Valenciana de Municipios y Provincias — Guía Turística
País Valencià, poble a poble, comarca a comarca
Asociación "Amics de Vallibona"
Asociación Cultural "Col·lectiu Avinsilona"
Муниципалитеты Кастельона
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The above comes from an early fifteenth-century history pretentiously (or optimistically) called The Canarian, which concerns two French noble adventurers, Jean de Bethencourt and Gadifer de la Salle, who in 1402 set out to take the Canary Islands for the glory of Christianity and themselves, and who failed, because of the astonishingly effective resistance of the Canary Islanders–perhaps no people were ever better at throwing rocks–and especially because of their own squabbling, recorded by the monk Pierre Bontier and the priest Jean le Verrier in all its sordid, gossipy, and embarassing detail.
After opening with intonations of high adventure, Bethancourt and Gadifer (barely) convince their sailors not to abandon them, then scavenge an anchor and boat from a captured ship, which they barely make off with, and which nearly get them arrested on accusation of piracy at their next port. Then a chunk of their sailors run away. "Les estranges choses," to be sure, but not ones we'd likely to see Roland, Erec, or Lancelot suffer.
They land at Lancerote where "Monsieur de Bethencourt went inland and made great efforts to capture some of the people of Canary, but without sucess, for as yet he did not know the country: so he returned to Port Joyeuse [their pretentiously named landfall] without doing anything more." The history is crammed with such incidents, which demand a script by Joseph Heller (RIP) and a production by the Werner Herzog (also RIP, sort of) of Fiztcarraldo and Corba Verde.
I'll leave it to you to read it, to learn about the treachery of the wicked sailor Berthin, a slaver indifferent to the treaties his masters draw between themselves and the Canary Islanders, and who leaves Gadifer to starve on the island of Lobos; the Canarian king–a much better subject for a chivalric chronicle!–who breaks free from the slavers six times; and especially the two chaplains' attempt at writing a handbook on belief for the use of future Canarian missionaries.
In a rummage sale catechism, a true Summa, disordered and containing all they could imagine, the fundamental knowledge of the faith includes the characteristics of bitumen, used to seal Noah's ark (only menstrual blood can dissolve it); the paleness of Jews, "descoulourez" by fear; and whether the Host should be made of leavened or unleavened flour (useful knowledge for a people who made no bread!). At the end (p. 90), they say they've done this "as simply as we could according to the knowledge which God has given us" (good job, God!) and they hope that someone later can "explain the Articles of the faith better than we have been able to do." I doubt it.
Only sardonic or disgusted laughter is really appropriate here, as the Canarians were among the first victims of the great age of Exploration. The two chaplains did want the islands conquered (in part because "here one may easily learn news of Prester John"). Within 90 years, all would be, not just the three least-populated ones Gadifer and Bethancourt managed to grab; and shortly after, the remaining populations would be dispersed, mostly to slave labor in Madeira. There's much else to deplore: the frequent battles, increasingly won by the Europeans; the conversions, essentially coerced; the Canarian mother hiding from slavers who strangles her infant, perhaps to keep it from giving away her refuge.
I can't hold it in, though, at the the grotesque difference between the high style of crusade and the domestic squabbling that follows Bethencourt's wife unfavorably comparing his age to that of his brother. We can take this historically, if we like, as a symptom of the twlight of the Middle Ages (but we'd be better off not doing this) and the end of private armies, or psychoanalytically, if we think of crusade histories and chivalric romance as the mirror in which our two heroes (mis)recognize themselves, or some other way, to be determined by you.
Put it on your syllabus and see what happens.
This entry was posted in MedievalBlog and tagged Canarian, Canary Islanders, colonialism, Gadifer de la Salle, Jean de Bethencourt, postcolonial by medievalkarl. Bookmark the permalink.
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\section{Introduction}
In recent times, investigations of the nuclear surface have revealed
marked distinctions between exotic nuclei and their stable counterparts.
For example, halos \cite{Tanihata85,Tanihata13,Bagchi20}
and skins \cite{Suzuki95} have been seen in nuclei
far from the valley of stability.
The density profile of such exotic nuclei have been an abundant source
of information on the nuclear surface.
Recently, indication of the core swelling phenomenon
was observed for neutron-rich Ca isotopes,
suggesting that it crucially affects
the density profile near the nuclear surface~\cite{Tanaka20,Horiuchi20}.
Another exotic phenomenon,
a central depression of nuclear density profile,
was reported~\cite{Grasso09,Li16}.
The vacancy in the $s$-orbit plays an essential role
in bubble formation, resulting in a depletion of the central part
of the nuclear density profile. Recently, the present authors
reported that nuclei with bubble-like structure could
have small nuclear surface diffuseness~\cite{Vishal20}.
The nuclear diffuseness
is closely related to the occupation probability near the Fermi level
and increases when the nucleons occupy the low orbital angular momentum state.
This suggests that nuclear surface diffuseness is very sensitive
to the occupation of the nucleons in the distinct nuclear orbits
and therefore a systematic investigation of the nuclear surface
diffuseness is worth pursuing.
It has been known in the literature that in the medium mass region
there exists a so called ``island of inversion''~\cite{Warburton90},
where intruder configurations with particle-hole excitations
across $N=20$ shell gap in their ground state
result in large deformation. Consequently, deviations from standard shell model
estimates are expected in this region.
The exotic structure is strongly correlated
with shell evolution and deformation in the island of inversion.
The nuclear deformations of Ne and Mg isotopes using
the fully microscopic antisymmetrized molecular dynamics (AMD)
with the Gogny-D1S interaction have been analyzed
in Refs.~\cite{Minomo11,Minomo12,Takenori12,Watanabe14}. The ground state properties
(total binding energy, spin parity and one neutron separation energy)
and matter radii of the Ne and Mg isotopes are well reproduced
by the AMD calculation. They reported a sudden rise
in the quadrupole deformation, $\beta_{2}$,
as the Nilsson orbitals originating from the spherical
$0f_{7/2}$ shell gets filled for both the Ne and Mg isotopes,
for $N=19$--28. Given that deformation
would change the nuclear density profile at
or near the nuclear surface, the nuclear radius would
also see a correlated increase.
This was confirmed experimentally
in systematic studies of the total reaction or interaction cross sections
of Ne and Mg isotopes on a carbon target in
Refs.~\cite{Takechi10,Takechi10b,Takechi13,Takechi14}.
We remark that in addition to the AMD approach with the
Gogny-D1S interaction~\cite{Minomo11,Minomo12,Takenori12,Watanabe14},
Refs.~\cite{Horiuchi12,Horiuchi15}
investigated the nuclear radii by using Skyrme-type effective interactions
and showed that large quadrupole deformation is essential to
describe those nuclei.
The extraction of the nuclear density profile is indeed a challenging issue.
Traditionally, electron scattering has been used to measure
the proton density profile~\cite{deVries87}
but it is difficult to extract the neutron density
distribution even for stable nuclei~\cite{Abrahamyan12}.
In this context, proton-nucleus scattering
has been applied successfully~\cite{Sakaguchi17}
to deduce the matter density distribution.
Ref.~\cite{Hatakeyama18} discussed the high-energy
nucleon-nucleus scattering as an effective tool to analyze the nuclear surface
diffuseness. They showed that the information about the half-radius of
the nuclear density profile is encoded in the first diffraction peak
of the nucleon-nucleus elastic scattering differential cross section.
Another extension of proton-nucleus scattering is to deduce
the information about matter density distribution of unstable nuclei
using inverse kinematics~\cite{Matsuda13}. Therefore, this motivates
us to investigate the relationship between the nuclear surface diffuseness
and the spectroscopic information of nuclei,
in the island of inversion, utilizing high-energy nucleon-nucleus scattering.
In this paper, we deduce the nuclear surface diffuseness
of Ne and Mg isotopes in a systematic way.
For this purpose, we use the two-parameter Fermi density (2pF) distribution,
which defines the nuclear diffuseness~\cite{Hatakeyama18}.
The radius and diffuseness parameters in the 2pF distribution
for neutron-rich Ne and Mg isotopes
are determined so as to reproduce a realistic density distribution
calculated with the antisymmetrized molecular dynamics (AMD).
We then perform a systematic analyses
to find the correlation between the nuclear surface diffuseness
and various structure information of the neutron-rich Ne and Mg isotopes.
Feasibility of extracting the diffuseness parameter using the proton-nucleus
elastic scattering~\cite{Hatakeyama18}
is verified for this mass region by using the Glauber model.
This paper is organized in the following way.
In Section~\ref{formalism.sec},
we give the requisite details of the AMD model relevant for our calculations.
We also briefly explain the formalism of nucleon-nucleus collision
at high incident energy within the Glauber model,
wherein the elastic scattering differential cross sections are evaluated.
The results and discussions on the neutron-rich Ne and Mg isotopes
appear in Sec.~\ref{Results.sec},
followed by the conclusions in Sec.~\ref{Conclusions.sec}.
\section{Theoretical formalism}
\label{formalism.sec}
\subsection{Density and occupation numbers
from antisymmetrized molecular dynamics}
\label{amd.sec}
We use AMD as a nuclear structure model to calculate the density and occupation numbers of Ne and Mg
isotopes. We start with an $A$-body Hamiltonian
\begin{align}
H=\sum_{i=1}^At_i - t_{\mathrm{cm}} + \sum_{i<j}^A v_{ij},
\end{align}
where $v_{ij}$ denotes the Gogny D1S density functional plus Coulomb interaction. The center-of-mass
kinetic energy $t_{\mathrm{cm}}$ is subtracted without approximation.
The variational wave function is the parity-projected Slater determinant of nucleon wave packets
\begin{align}
\Phi^\pi = P^\pi\mathcal{A}\set{\varphi_1\cdots\varphi_A},
\end{align}
where $P^\pi$ denotes the parity ($\pi=\pm$) projector. The nucleon wave packets has a Gaussian form
\begin{align}
\varphi_i =& \prod_{\sigma=x,y,z}\exp\set{-\nu_\sigma(r_\sigma - Z_{i\sigma})^2}\nn\\
&\times\left(a_i\chi_{\frac{1}{2},\frac{1}{2}} + b_i\chi_{\frac{1}{2},-\frac{1}{2}}\right)(\ket{p} \mathrm{or} \ket{n}).
\end{align}
The centroids $\bm Z_i$, width $\bm \nu$ and the spin direction $a_i$ and $b_i$ of the wave
packets are variational parameters. They are determined by minimizing
the following energy with $\beta$ constraint term
\begin{align}
E(\beta) = \frac{\braket{\Phi^\pi|H|\Phi^\pi}}{\braket{\Phi^\pi|\Phi^\pi}}
+ v_\beta(\braket{\beta} - \beta)^2,
\end{align}
where the strength of the constraint $v_\beta$
is chosen as sufficiently large value to obtain the
optimized wave function $\Phi^\pi(\beta)$,
which has the minimum energy for each given value of
the deformation parameter $\beta$.
The optimized wave functions are projected to the eigenstate of the angular momentum and superposed
to describe the ground state
\begin{align}
\Psi^{J\pi}_{M}=\sum_{iK}g_{iK}P^J_{MK}\Phi^\pi(\beta_i),
\end{align}
where the deformation parameter $\beta$ is employed as a generator coordinate. The coefficients
$g_{iK}$ and the ground state energy are obtained by solving the Hill-Wheeler
equation~\cite{Hill53}.
The point nucleon densities are calculated from the ground state wave functions as
\begin{align}
\rho_{JM}(\bm r) &=
\braket{\Psi^{J\pi}_{M}|\sum_i\delta^3(\bm r_i - \bm r_{cm} -\bm r )|\Psi^{J\pi}_{M}} \nn\\
&=\sum_{l}C^{JM}_{JMl0}\rho^{l}_{J}(r)Y_{l0}(\hat r),
\end{align}
where $\bm r_{cm}$ denotes the center-of-mass coordinate. The $l=0$ component of the density
$\rho^l_J(r)$ has been used as an input for the Glauber calculation, although the odd-mass nuclei
can have the non-spherical densities with $l\neq 0$.
The occupation numbers of the $sd$ and $pf$-shells are evaluated in the same manner with
Ref.~\cite{Vishal20, Yoshiki21}.
First, we choose the single Slater determinant $\Phi^\pi(\beta)$ which has the
maximum overlap with the ground state wave function
$|\braket{P^J_{MK}\Phi^\pi(\beta)|\Psi^{J\pi}_M}|^2$ , and regard it as an approximate
ground state. This approximation may be reasonable as the maximum value of the overlap were larger
than 0.90 for all nuclei. Then, we calculate the neutron single-particle wave functions
$\widetilde{\varphi}_i$ of the approximate ground state wave function, and consider the multipole
decomposition
\begin{align}
\widetilde{\varphi_i}(\bm r) = \sum_{jlm}\widetilde{\varphi}_{i;jlm}(r)
\left[Y_l(\hat r)\times\chi_{\frac{1}{2}}\right]_{jm}.
\end{align}
The norm of $\widetilde{\varphi}_{i;jlm}(r)$ gives us an estimate of the neutron occupation
numbers. The number of the neutron particles in $pf$ orbit is given as
\begin{align}
m(p),\ m(f) = \sum_{ijm}\braket{\widetilde{\varphi}_{i;jlm}|\widetilde{\varphi}_{i;jlm}}
- n_{\mathrm{core}},
\end{align}
where $n_\mathrm{core}$ is taken as $n_{\mathrm{core}}=6$ for the $1p$ $(l=1)$ orbit
and 0 for the $0f$ $(l=3)$ orbit
as we assume the complete filling of the $0p$ orbits
by the inert core. In the same
manner, the number of holes in the $sd$ orbits relative to the $N=20$ shell closure is given as
\begin{align}
n(sd) = n_{\mathrm{core}} -
\sum_{l=0,2}\sum_{ijm}\braket{\widetilde{\varphi}_{i;jlm}|\widetilde{\varphi}_{i;jlm}},
\end{align}
where $n_{\mathrm{core}}=14$ for the assumption of the complete filling
of the $0s_{1/2}$ and $0d_{5/2}$ orbits.
\subsection{Nucleon-nucleus reactions with Glauber model}
\label{reaction.sec}
A powerful description of high-energy nuclear reactions
was introduced by Glauber~\cite{Glauber}.
In the collision of a nucleon-nucleus system
within the eikonal and adiabatic approximations,
the elastic scattering amplitude of the Glauber model
including the nuclear ($e^{i\chi_N}$)
and the elastic Coulomb ($e^{i\chi_{C}}$) phase-shift functions
can be calculated by \cite{Suzuki03}
\begin{equation}
F(\bm{q}) = \dfrac{iK}{2 \pi}\int d\bm{b}\,e^{-i\bm{q}\cdot\bm{b}}
(1-e^{i\chi_{N}(\bm{b})+i\chi_{C}(\bm{b})}),
\end{equation}
where $\bm{q}$ is the momentum transfer vector, $K$ is incident relativistic wave number
corresponding to the projectile-target relative motion, and $\bm{b}$ is the impact parameter vector.
The elastic scattering amplitude can be further simplified as
\begin{eqnarray}
F(\bm{q}) = && ~ e^{2i\eta \ln(2Kr_c)}\Bigg[ F_{c}(\bm{q})+ \nonumber\\
&&\dfrac{iK}{2 \pi}\int d\bm{b}\,e^{-i\bm{q}\cdot\bm{b}+2i\eta \ln(\bm{b})}
(1-e^{i\chi_{N}(\bm{b})})\Bigg],
\end{eqnarray}
where $r_c$ is the distance beyond which the Coulomb potential
is switched off, whereas incidentally the differential cross section
does not depend on $r_c$, the Rutherford scattering amplitude
\begin{equation}
F_{c}(\bm{q}) = -\dfrac{2K\eta}{\bm{q}}e^{-2i\eta \ln(\sin(\theta/2))+2i\sigma_{0}},
\end{equation}
with $\theta$ as the center of mass scattering angle, $\eta$ as the Sommerfeld parameter, and $\sigma_{0}$ = arg$\Gamma(1+i\eta)$.
The elastic scattering differential cross section can then be calculated using
\begin{equation}
\frac{d\sigma}{d\Omega} = |F(\bm{q})|^{2}.
\end{equation}
In general, the evaluation of the nuclear phase-shift function
is demanding because it contains multiple integrations. However, we employ the optical-limit approximation (OLA)~\cite{Glauber, Suzuki03}
for the sake of simplicity.
In the OLA, the multiple scattering effects are ignored by
taking only the leading order term of the cumulant expansion
of the original phase-shift function.
In the case of proton-nucleus scattering, the OLA works well, as demonstrated
in Refs.~\cite{Varga02,Ibrahim09,Hatakeyama14,Hatakeyama15,Nagahisa18,Hatakeyama18}.
The optical phase-shift function for the nucleon-nucleus scattering
in the OLA is given by
\begin{equation}
e^{i\chi_N(\bm{b})} \approx \exp\left[
-\int d\bm{r} \rho_{N}(\bm{r}) \Gamma_{NN}(\bm{b}-\bm{s})\right],
\end{equation}
where $\bm{r} = (\bm{s},z)$, and $\bm{s}$ is
the two-dimensional vector orthogonal to the incident beam direction $z$.
$\rho_{N}(\bm{r})$ denotes the density distributions
of the target nucleus. The profile function $\Gamma_{NN}$
for the nucleon-nucleon scattering
is incident energy dependent and
is usually parameterized as given in Ref.~\cite{Lray}:
\begin{eqnarray}
\Gamma_{NN}(\bm{b})=\dfrac{1-i\alpha_{NN}}{4 \pi \beta_{NN}}
\sigma_{NN}^{\rm tot}\exp\left(-\dfrac{\bm{b}^2}{2 \beta_{NN}}\right),
\end{eqnarray}
where $\alpha_{NN}$ is the ratio of the real part
to the imaginary part of the nucleon-nucleon scattering amplitude
in the forward direction,
$\beta_{NN}$ is the slope parameter of the differential cross section,
and $\sigma_{NN}^{\rm tot}$ is the nucleon-nucleon total cross section.
Standard parameter sets of the profile function
are listed in Refs.~\cite{Horiuchi07,Ibrahim08}.
\subsection{Nuclear diffuseness}
Let us now define the nuclear surface diffuseness used in this paper.
We assume that the nuclear matter density profile with the mass number $A$
being approximated by a two-parameter Fermi (2pF) distribution as
\begin{equation}
\rho_{2pF}(r) = \dfrac{\rho_{0}}{1+\exp\left[(r-R)/a\right]},
\end{equation}
where $R$ and $a$ are the radius and diffuseness parameters, respectively.
The $\rho_{0}$ value is uniquely determined for a given $R$ and $a$ by
the normalization condition, $\int \rho(r)d\bm{r} = A$.
Note that nuclear deformation
induces in general more diffused nuclear surface compared
to a spherical one~\cite{Horiuchi21}
and most of the Ne and Mg isotopes considered here
are deformed~\cite{Takenori12, Horiuchi12, Watanabe14}.
As prescribed in Ref.~\cite{Hatakeyama18},
the nuclear surface density profile,
even though they are deformed,
can be described fairly well by taking the $R$ and $a$ values
so as to reproduce the first peak position and its magnitude of the
elastic scattering differential cross section.
Later we will verify that approach for the application to the
neutron-rich Ne and Mg isotopes.
Meanwhile, we evaluate the diffuseness parameters directly
from any structure model densities by minimizing the quantity as
\begin{equation}
\dfrac{4\pi}{A}\int_0^{\infty} |\rho(r)-\rho_{\rm 2pF}(r)|r^2 dr,
\label{minimize.eq}
\end{equation}
where $\rho$ is the point matter density distribution obtained
with a structure model calculation.
Figure~\ref{density_Ne.fig} shows an example of
the point matter density distribution of $^{29}$Ne
obtained with AMD, which exhibits
large quadrupole deformation $\beta_2=0.445$~\cite{Takenori12}.
Though the 2pF distribution deviates in the internal region
at $r \lesssim 2$ fm,
it nicely describes the AMD density distributions
around the nuclear surface from $\approx 2$--4 fm.
Hereafter we use the diffuseness parameters obtained directly from
the AMD densities unless otherwise mentioned.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{dens_29Ne.eps}
\caption{Nuclear matter density distributions of $^{29}$Ne by AMD and the one approximated by the
2pF function. } \label{density_Ne.fig}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\section{Results and Discussions}
\label{Results.sec}
\subsection{Evolution of the nuclear surface diffuseness for Ne and Mg isotopes}
\label{2pF_mini.sec}
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{diff_NeMg.eps}
\caption{Nuclear surface diffuseness of Ne and Mg isotopes as a function of neutron number.}
\label{diff_NeMg.fig}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\begin{table*}[ht]
\caption{Occupation numbers of Ne and Mg isotopes with $N\geq 18$. See text for details.}
\label{occ.tab}
\begin{ruledtabular}
\begin{tabular}{cccccccccccc}
&&& \multicolumn{4}{c}{Ne}&&\multicolumn{4}{c}{Mg}\\
\cline{4-7}\cline{9-12}
$N$ & $J^\pi$ && $m(p)$ &$m(f)$&$m(pf)$&$n(sd)$
&& $m(p)$ &$m(f)$&$m(pf)$&$n(sd)$\\
\hline
18 &$0^+$ &&$-$0.03&0.08&0.05&2.12&&0.24&0.27&0.50&2.66\\
19 &$1/2^+$&& 0.82&1.16 &1.98&3.26&&0.76&1.18&1.94&3.36\\
20 &$0^+$ && 0.84&1.14 &1.97&2.26&&0.76&1.21&1.97&2.27\\
21 &$3/2^-$&& 0.97&1.93 &2.91&2.28&&0.92&1.95&2.87&2.39\\
22 &$0^+$ && 0.97&1.72 &2.69&1.07&&1.12&2.70&3.81&2.39\\
23 &$3/2^+$&& -- &-- &-- &-- &&1.01&2.86&3.87&1.26\\
24 &$0^+$ &&1.02&2.90 &3.91&0.22&&0.98&2.94&3.92&0.24\\
25 &$5/2^-$&&-- &-- &-- &--&&1.07&3.82&4.89&0.24\\
26&$0^+$ &&-- &-- &-- &--&&1.40&4.46&5.87&0.30\\
28 &$0^+$ &&-- &-- &-- &--&&1.97&5.78&7.75&0.35\\
\end{tabular}
\end{ruledtabular}
\end{table*}
\begin{figure}[ht]
\includegraphics[width=\hsize]{ph.eps}
\caption{Schematic illustrations of the $m$p$n$h configurations relative to the $N=20$ shell
closure. The circles indicate the particles in $pf$ shell while the crosses indicate the holes in
$sd$ shell.}
\label{mpnh.fig}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[ht]
\includegraphics[width=0.8\hsize]{nilsson.eps}
\caption{A schematic Nilsson diagram for prolate deformation.}
\label{nilsson.fig}
\end{figure}
Figure~\ref{diff_NeMg.fig} plots the surface diffuseness of Ne and Mg isotopes extracted from the
densities obtained by AMD. Reflecting the similarity in the nuclear
deformations~\cite{Takenori12,Watanabe14},
the diffuseness parameter of Ne and Mg isotopes also
show similar dependence on neutron number.
We found that the neutron occupation of the weakly bound
$1p_{3/2}$ orbit strongly influences the global behavior of the diffuseness parameter. To elucidate
this point, Table~\ref{occ.tab} lists the number of neutrons in the
$pf$ orbits and holes in the $sd$ orbits for nuclei with $N\geq 18$,
and Figure~\ref{mpnh.fig} illustrates the dominant particle-hole configuration of each nucleus
estimated from Table~\ref{occ.tab}.
The nuclei up to $N=18$ have approximately zero particles in $pf$ orbits, which is the normal filling
expected from the ordinary shell structure. Consequently, their diffuseness parameters are
close to the standard value of 0.54 fm~\cite{BM}. The particle-hole configuration is drastically
changed in the island of inversion because of the loss of the magic number $N=20$.
The ground states of $N=19$ nuclei,
$^{29}{\rm Ne}$ and $^{31}{\rm Mg}$, are dominated by a 2p3h configuration in which two neutrons
are promoted into the $pf$ orbits across the $N=20$ shell gap. This intruder configuration induces
strong quadrupole deformation and the mixing of the $f$- and $p$-waves. Consequently, these nuclei
have sizable occupation numbers of the $1p_{3/2}$ orbit
(0.82 in $^{29}{\rm Ne}$ and 0.76 in
$^{31}{\rm Mg}$) as well as $0f_{7/2}$. Note that the $1p_{3/2}$
orbit is located above the $N=28$ shell gap
in stable nuclei. Therefore, the occupation of the $1p_{3/2}$ orbit means that the magic numbers 20
and 28 are simultaneously lost in the island of inversion. Since the $1p_{3/2}$ orbit has large
diffuseness, the density
distributions of the $N=19$ nuclei are also diffused compared to $N=18$ nuclei. This situation may
be more simply explained by the Nilsson orbits illustrated in Fig.~\ref{nilsson.fig}. In the $N=19$
nuclei, the two neutrons occupy an intruder orbit with the asymptotic quantum number
$[N,N_z,\Lambda,\Omega]=[3,3,0,1/2]$, which originates in the spherical $0f_{7/2}$ orbit. Because of
the deformation and weak binding, this orbit is an admixture of the $p$- and $f$-waves. So, the
intruder orbit $[3,3,0,1/2]$ is the cause of large diffuseness of $N=19$ nuclei.
The isotopes from $N=19$ to $N=21$ ($^{31}{\rm Ne}$) and $N=22$ ($^{33}{\rm Mg}$) are also
regarded as the nuclei in the island of inversion because their ground states are also dominated by
the intruder $m$p$n$h configurations with $m,n >0$. Similarly to the $N=19$ nuclei, strong
deformation mixes the $f$- and $p$-waves and increases the diffuseness. In terms of the Nilsson
orbit, the intruder $[3,3,0,1/2]$ and $[3,2,1,3/2]$ orbits are playing a role for diminishing the
$N=20$ and 28 shell gaps and creating the island of inversion.
At $^{35}{\rm Mg}$ $(N=23)$, the intruder orbits $[3,3,0,1/2]$ and $[3,2,1,3/2]$ are fully
occupied, and the holes in the $sd$ orbits start to be filled. Because the $sd$ orbits are deeply
bound, they partially cancel out the diffuseness increased by $1p_{3/2}$. As a result, the
diffuseness parameter slightly reduces toward $^{37}{\rm Mg}$ $(N=25)$. At $N=24$, the holes in
$sd$-shell are completely filled, and hence one may regard $^{36}{\rm Mg}$ as the border of the
island of inversion.
In the $N=26$ and 28 nuclei, another intruder orbit $[3,2,1,1/2]$ which originates in the spherical
$1p_{3/2}$ orbit comes down and is inverted with the orbit $[3,0,3,7/2]$ leading to the explicit
loss of the $N=28$ magicity~\cite{Yoshiki21,Hamamoto09,Hamamoto16}.
Since this intruder orbit is also an admixture of the $p$- and
$f$-waves, the occupation number of $1p_{3/2}$ gradually increases resulting in the growth of the
diffuseness toward $^{40}{\rm Mg}$. Thus, the global behavior of the diffuseness parameter can be
explained by the occupation of $1p_{3/2}$.
Let us now comment on the structure and diffuseness parameters of these isotopes. Firstly, we note
that $N=22$ nuclei, $^{34}{\rm Mg}$ and $^{32}{\rm Ne}$ have slightly different diffuseness
parameters in the present calculation. We found that $^{34}{\rm Mg}$ is dominated by a 4p2h configuration, while $^{32}{\rm Ne}$ is an admixture of a 4p2h and a 2p0h configurations. Hence,
$^{34}{\rm Mg}$ has larger diffuseness parameter than $^{32}{\rm Ne}$. Secondly, we note that the
spin-parity of $^{29}{\rm Ne}$, $^{35}{\rm Mg}$ and $^{37}{\rm Mg}$ have not been firmly determined
yet. For example, our calculation suggests the $1/2^+$ ground state of $^{29}{\rm Ne}$,
while a shell model calculation suggests the $3/2^+$ ground
state~\cite{Tripathi05,Tripathi06}. Contrary to these theoretical results, the $3/2^-$ ground state
was suggested by a Coulomb breakup experiment~\cite{Kobayashi14}. As different spin-parity means
different particle-hole configurations, we expect that more detailed analysis of the diffuseness
will identify the spin-parity of these nuclei. However, to make our discussion transparent, we only
adopted the spin-parity calculated by AMD.
\subsection{Single-particle model analysis for nuclear diffuseness}
Based on the spectroscopic information obtained from the AMD wave function,
here we attempt to understand the large nuclear diffuseness values for $N>18$
through a single-particle model approach.
Assuming that an $N=18$ isotope is a core nucleus
with 0p2h configuration,
we consider multi-particle-multi-hole ($\bar{m}$p$\bar{n}$h) configurations
for the valence neutrons according to the dominant configurations
illustrated in Fig.~\ref{mpnh.fig}.
The normalized valence neutron orbits $\phi(nl_j)$
are generated by the following
core-neutron potential~\cite{BM}
\begin{align}
U=V_0f(r)+V_1r_0^2 \bm{l}\cdot\bm{s}\frac{1}{r}\frac{d}{dr}f(r).
\end{align}
The Woods-Saxon form factor $f(r)=\{1+\exp[(r-R_c)/a_c]\}^{-1}$
is employed. We take $R_c=r_0A_c^{1/3}$, where
$r_0=1.25$ fm, $A_c=28$ (30) for the Ne (Mg) isotopes with $N\geq 19$,
and $a_c=0.75$ fm. The spin-orbit strength is taken to follow
the systematics~\cite{BM} $V_1=18.0$ (19.2) MeV for the Ne (Mg) isotopes.
This parameter set reasonably reproduced
the level structure at around the island of inversion~\cite{Horiuchi10}.
We generate the single-particle wave functions
by varying $V_0$ and construct the nuclear density as
\begin{align}
\rho&=\rho_c(N_c=18)+\rho_v(N_v),
\end{align}
where $\rho_c (N_c=18)$ is the density distribution of $^{28}$Ne
or $^{30}$Mg obtained by the AMD calculation,
and $\rho_v(N_v)$ is the density distribution of the valence neutrons
defined by
\begin{align}
\rho_v&=\bar{m}\left[\alpha|\phi(1p_{3/2})|^2+
(1-\alpha)|\phi(0f_{7/2})|^2)\right]\notag\\
&-\bar{n}|\phi(0d_{3/2})|^2.
\label{rhov.eq}
\end{align}
In this model, the number of the valence neutrons
satisfies $N_v=\bar{m}-\bar{n}$.
The $\bar{m}$ is the number of particle states
that shares the $1p_{3/2}$ and $0f_{7/2}$
orbits with mixing probability $\alpha=m(p)/m(pf)$ listed in Tab~\ref{occ.tab}.
The $|\bar{n}|$ describes the number of the hole ($\bar{n}>0$)
or particle state ($\bar{n}<0$)
measured from the core nucleus ($N=18$). The particle
or hole state in the $sd$ shell is assumed to be $0d_{3/2}$.
Here we take the most plausible configuration for each isotope,
which corresponds to the $\bar{m}$p($\bar{n}-2$)h
configurations drawn in Fig.~\ref{mpnh.fig} according
to the spectroscopic information of the AMD wave function.
More specifically,
we take $(\bar{m},-\bar{n})=(2,-1)$, (2,0), (3,0), (3,1), and (4,2)
for $^{29-32,34}$Ne, and
$(\bar{m},-\bar{n})=(2,-1)$, (2,0), (3,0), (4,0), (4,1), (4,2),
(5,2), (6,2), and (8,2) for $^{31-38,40}$Mg, respectively.
Finally, the potential strength $V_0$
is fixed for each isotope so as to reproduce
the root-mean-square (rms)
matter radius obtained by the AMD (They are tabulated
in Tab.~\ref{diff.tab}). This is reasonable because
the behavior of the single-particle wave function
near the nuclear surface crucially depends on its binding energy
and will reflect in the nuclear radius.
This effect can be incorporated in this model
through the adjustment of $V_0$.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{diff_NeMg_WS.eps}
\caption{Nuclear diffuseness parameters
extracted from density distributions obtained by
the single-particle model for $N> 18$. The AMD results
(Fig.~\ref{diff_NeMg.fig}) are also
plotted for comparison.
}
\label{diffWS.fig}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{vdens_29Ne.eps}
\caption{Valence neutron density distribution
and its decomposition into particle $1p_{3/2}$ and $0f_{7/2}$
states and $0d_{3/2}$ hole state. See text for details.
A vertical thin dotted line denotes the radius parameter
value 3.13, extracted from the density distribution
obtained by the single-particle model.
}
\label{densWS.fig}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
Using those calculated density distributions of the Ne and Mg isotopes
for $N\geq 19$, we extract the diffuseness parameters
directly from the model density by using Eq.~(\ref{minimize.eq}).
Figure~\ref{diffWS.fig} draws these extracted diffuseness parameters
for $N\geq 19$. We find overall underestimation of the absolute value.
This is partly because the AMD wave function is expressed by Gaussian
wave packets and thus the density distribution at nuclear surface
changes more sensitive to the occupation numbers.
On the other hand, the isotope dependence is fairly well described:
a sudden increase from $N=18$ to 19 and showing a zigzag pattern
for $N$ increases further.
Basically, the nuclear diffuseness grows as an increase of
the number of the particle in the $pf$ shell
and the hole of the $sd$ shell.
We will now discuss this feature in detail.
Figure~\ref{densWS.fig} plots the density distributions
of the valence neutrons $\rho_v$ of $^{29}$Ne
obtained by the single-particle model analysis.
We also plot the decompositions of the valence neutron density
into the particle $1p_{3/2}$, $0f_{7/2}$ and hole $0d_{3/2}$
components, which correspond to the first to third terms
in Eq.~(\ref{rhov.eq}), respectively.
The diffuseness parameter describes a slope around the
radius parameter~\cite{Kohama16}
and is also plotted as a vertical line at 3.13 fm.
As expected, the single-particle density
with the $1p_{3/2}$ orbit exhibits the most extended
distribution just beyond the nuclear radius.
The peak positions of the $0f_{7/2}$ particle and $0d_{3/2}$ hole states
are different. The $0f_{7/2}$ particle state
contributes the increase of the density around the nuclear radius,
while the $0d_{3/2}$ hole plays to reduce the density
below the nuclear radius. Summing up all those contributions, as a net,
the valence neutron density reduces (increases) the density below (beyond)
the nuclear radius, leading to
the large diffuseness of the nuclear surface at $N=19$
compared to $N=18$.
This is consistent with the finding of
Ref.~\cite{Horiuchi21b}, in which contributions of the single-particle
orbits to the nuclear surface diffuseness were discussed in detail.
We also tried to make the same analysis by assuming
the particle $0d_{3/2}$ configuration for the valence neutron
following the spherical shell model filling.
No bound $0d_{3/2}$ orbit was obtained to satisfy the condition of
this single-particle model, and thus this assumption
appears to be unrealistic.
At $N=20$, the diffuseness parameter is reduced from $N=19$
because the hole $0d_{3/2}$ state is filled by addition of a neutron.
It again increases at $N=21$ due to the occupation
of a neutron in the $pf$ shell.
At $N=22$, where the configurations of $^{32}$Ne and $^{34}$Mg
are different. The diffuseness of $^{32}$Ne decreases compared to $^{31}$Ne
due to the occupation of the particle $0d_{3/2}$ state, whereas
for $^{34}$Mg it increases due to the $pf$ shell filling.
For $N>22$, since the $sd$ shell is fully occupied,
the nuclear diffuseness gradually increases towards $N=28$,
showing a small kink at $N=25$.
Though the present single-particle model analysis
is somewhat qualitative, the evolution of the nuclear diffuseness
tells us a variety of the structure information.
A systematic determination of
the nuclear diffuseness is interesting
as it includes the spectroscopic information,
which is essential in describing the exotic nuclear states
in the island of inversion.
\subsection{Extraction of the nuclear diffuseness from the reaction observables}
Here we extract the nuclear diffuseness from the elastic scattering
differential cross sections for the Ne and Mg isotopes.
The unknown radius and diffuseness parameters
are evaluated by using the elastic scattering differential
cross section of a nucleus-proton reaction calculated with
the Glauber model following the prescription given in Ref.~\cite{Hatakeyama18}.
First we compute the elastic scattering differential cross sections using
realistic density distributions calculated with AMD.
We then demand the $R$ and $a$ values
of the 2pF distribution reproducing both the first peak position and
its magnitude of the elastic scattering cross sections.
Table~\ref{diff.tab} lists the resulting $a$ values obtained
at various incident energies.
We use a set of the parameters of the profile function
in Ref.~\cite{Horiuchi07} and choose the incident energies
of 325, 550, and 800 MeV, where the isospin dependence of the nucleon-nucleon
cross section is neglected~\cite{Hatakeyama18}.
As was shown in Ref.~\cite{Hatakeyama18}, the extracted
$a$ values do not depend much on the incident energy.
We also did the same analysis
without the elastic Coulomb contribution.
The results are listed in parentheses in Table~\ref{diff.tab},
and indicate that the elastic Coulomb contributions are negligible,
as expected.
To verify this approach for the neutron-rich Ne and Mg isotopes,
we compare the diffuseness parameters obtained directly from the AMD densities (see section \ref{2pF_mini.sec}).
As shown in Table~\ref{diff.tab},
the resulting diffuseness parameters indicated by ``AMD''
also agree with those obtained by the elastic scattering diffraction.
The nuclear diffuseness of the neutron-rich Ne and Mg isotopes can be extracted
as a robust quantity by measuring the nucleus-nucleon elastic scattering
differential cross sections at the first peak position.
Table~\ref{diff.tab} also lists the rms point matter radii simultaneously
obtained by the analysis of the elastic scattering cross section.
We also see good agreement between the results extracted
from this analysis and the ``AMD'' results.
However, it should be noted that
the rms matter radius of the 2pF distribution tends to overestimate
that of the original AMD density distributions (shown as AMD$^*$ in Table~\ref{diff.tab}) at most by $\approx 0.1$ fm
or typically in $\approx 3$\%.
Since the tail of the AMD density drops as a Gaussian,
the 2pF model density is not very appropriate to describe the tail
regions of the AMD density, which contributes the rms radius.
Actually, in the analysis of the single-particle model using the correct
asymptotic tail, the deviation of the rms matter radii
between the original and 2pF density distributions
is reduced typically in $\approx 1$\%.
In principle, both values can be determined more accurately
by the 2pF distribution obtained from the first peak position
and its magnitude of the elastic scattering
differential scattering cross section
as the rms radius and diffuseness are nicely
reproduced when the density distributions of the Hartree-Fock
method on grid points within $\approx 1$\%~\cite{Hatakeyama18}.
In a practical experimental situation,
where only the peak position and its magnitude of
the elastic scattering cross section is known,
the matter radius and diffuseness can be determined by the 2pF
model density within a certain accuracy.
\begin{table*}[ht]
\centering
\caption{Nuclear surface diffuseness, $a$,
and rms point matter radii, $r_m$, of Ne and Mg isotopes
extracted from the elastic scattering differential cross sections
at various incident energies $E$ in MeV. The values in parentheses
are the results without the elastic Coulomb phase.
The $a$ values extracted directly by minimizing the difference between the AMD and 2pF density distributions (see section \Ref{2pF_mini.sec}) are listed as AMD for comparison.
AMD$^*$ shows the rms point matter radii calculated with the original AMD density distributions.
}
\label{diff.tab}
\begin{tabular}{ccccccccccc}
\hline\hline
&\multicolumn{4}{c}{$a$ (fm)}&& \multicolumn{5}{c}{$r_m$ (fm)}\\
\cline{2-5}\cline{7-11}
nucleus & $E=325$ & 550 & 800 & AMD && $E=325$ & 550 & 800 & AMD &AMD$^*$ \\
\hline
$^{20}$Ne & 0.579(0.582) & 0.578(0.579) & 0.571(0.570) & 0.574&&3.049(3.044)&3.039(3.040)&3.031(3.025)&2.984&2.925\\
$^{21}$Ne & 0.586(0.590) & 0.585(0.586) & 0.577(0.577) & 0.582&&3.088(3.089)&3.078(3.079)&3.066(3.066)&3.023&2.962\\
$^{22}$Ne & 0.579(0.582) & 0.577(0.578) & 0.570(0.570) & 0.577&&3.104(3.099)&3.088(3.090)&3.082(3.081)&3.043&2.983\\
$^{23}$Ne & 0.552(0.554) & 0.551(0.551) & 0.544(0.544) & 0.554&&3.076(3.071)&3.071(3.067)&3.060(3.059)&3.030&2.977\\
$^{24}$Ne & 0.520(0.522) & 0.519(0.519) & 0.514(0.514) & 0.528&&3.041(3.042)&3.039(3.036)&3.035(3.034)&3.013&2.967\\
$^{25}$Ne & 0.533(0.536) & 0.531(0.532) & 0.524(0.524) & 0.539&&3.094(3.091)&3.083(3.085)&3.076(3.076)&3.049&2.996\\
$^{26}$Ne & 0.558(0.563) & 0.557(0.558) & 0.547(0.547) & 0.560&&3.174(3.172)&3.164(3.164)&3.150(3.151)&3.123&3.049\\
$^{27}$Ne & 0.566(0.571) & 0.565(0.566) & 0.555(0.555) & 0.568&&3.235(3.235)&3.226(3.226)&3.212(3.211)&3.184&3.114\\
$^{28}$Ne & 0.582(0.586) & 0.580(0.581) & 0.570(0.570) & 0.584&&3.317(3.310)&3.302(3.302)&3.288(3.288)&3.265&3.191\\
$^{29}$Ne & 0.658(0.663) & 0.658(0.669) & 0.647(0.647) & 0.656&&3.435(3.429)&3.424(3.423)&3.404(3.405)&3.352&3.282\\
$^{30}$Ne & 0.662(0.669) & 0.661(0.663) & 0.648(0.648) & 0.655&&3.490(3.485)&3.470(3.473)&3.449(3.449)&3.410&3.315\\
$^{31}$Ne & 0.684(0.692) & 0.684(0.686) & 0.670(0.670) & 0.676&&3.563(3.559)&3.547(3.549)&3.525(3.529)&3.475&3.374\\
$^{32}$Ne & 0.633(0.638) & 0.632(0.633) & 0.621(0.621) & 0.633&&3.509(3.504)&3.499(3.498)&3.482(3.482)&3.450&3.370\\
$^{34}$Ne & 0.646(0.652) & 0.645(0.646) & 0.634(0.635) & 0.652&&3.583(3.582)&3.572(3.571)&3.559(3.565)&3.526&3.438\\
\hline
$^{24}$Mg & 0.581(0.585) & 0.581(0.582) & 0.574(0.574) & 0.582&&3.164(3.161)&3.158(3.158)&3.150(3.149)&3.109&3.049\\
$^{25}$Mg & 0.547(0.550) & 0.546(0.547) & 0.540(0.541) & 0.550&&3.121(3.118)&3.112(3.113)&3.105(3.110)&3.073&3.028\\
$^{26}$Mg & 0.522(0.524) & 0.521(0.522) & 0.515(0.515) & 0.531&&3.099(3.094)&3.093(3.095)&3.083(3.083)&3.072&3.018\\
$^{27}$Mg & 0.530(0.534) & 0.530(0.530) & 0.524(0.524) & 0.535&&3.135(3.138)&3.134(3.129)&3.128(3.127)&3.095&3.051\\
$^{28}$Mg & 0.533(0.537) & 0.532(0.533) & 0.526(0.526) & 0.542&&3.174(3.173)&3.165(3.165)&3.161(3.161)&3.130&3.082\\
$^{29}$Mg & 0.565(0.571) & 0.565(0.567) & 0.556(0.556) & 0.566&&3.280(3.273)&3.265(3.270)&3.254(3.253)&3.233&3.166\\
$^{30}$Mg & 0.560(0.565) & 0.559(0.560) & 0.550(0.550) & 0.566&&3.305(3.297)&3.290(3.289)&3.278(3.278)&3.258&3.191\\
$^{31}$Mg & 0.646(0.653) & 0.646(0.648) & 0.637(0.637) & 0.649&&3.452(3.453)&3.439(3.442)&3.429(3.428)&3.387&3.315\\
$^{32}$Mg & 0.647(0.655) & 0.647(0.650) & 0.637(0.637) & 0.647&&3.485(3.482)&3.466(3.474)&3.453(3.455)&3.419&3.336\\
$^{33}$Mg & 0.688(0.697) & 0.689(0.692) & 0.677(0.677) & 0.687&&3.603(3.598)&3.585(3.592)&3.569(3.568)&3.519&3.428\\
$^{34}$Mg & 0.691(0.701) & 0.692(0.695) & 0.679(0.680) & 0.690&&3.639(3.634)&3.620(3.625)&3.603(3.604)&3.550&3.450\\
$^{35}$Mg & 0.636(0.644) & 0.637(0.638) & 0.626(0.627) & 0.635&&3.545(3.547)&3.539(3.536)&3.522(3.528)&3.482&3.408\\
$^{36}$Mg & 0.648(0.654) & 0.648(0.649) & 0.638(0.638) & 0.653&&3.602(3.595)&3.591(3.588)&3.579(3.579)&3.542&3.466\\
$^{37}$Mg & 0.608(0.614) & 0.607(0.608) & 0.600(0.600) & 0.616&&3.557(3.552)&3.544(3.543)&3.540(3.534)&3.510&3.441\\
$^{38}$Mg & 0.636(0.642) & 0.635(0.637) & 0.628(0.628) & 0.644&&3.646(3.639)&3.632(3.636)&3.622(3.622)&3.590&3.511\\
$^{40}$Mg & 0.680(0.688) & 0.679(0.681) & 0.666(0.666) & 0.687&&3.779(3.776)&3.763(3.765)&3.745(3.745)&3.711&3.620\\
\hline\hline
\end{tabular}
\end{table*}
\section{Conclusions}
\label{Conclusions.sec}
The island of inversion, in the medium mass region of the nuclear chart, is characterized by intruder configurations in the ground state of nuclei. Apart from resulting in large deformations the change in occupation of nucleons in different energy levels will impact the nuclear density profile, and in particular the nuclear surface diffuseness. In this work, we have discussed the relationship between the nuclear diffuseness and the spectroscopic information of nuclei at or close to the island of inversion, specifically for Ne and Mg isotopes with $N = 19$ to $28$.
We have calculated the structure of Ne and Mg isotopes using the antisymmetrized molecular dynamics (AMD). We then construct a phenomenological two-parameter Fermi (2pF) density distribution, which has adjustable radius and diffuseness parameters. These parameters are then estimated by minimizing the difference in densities obtained by AMD and the 2pF density distribution. In a complimentary approach the radius and diffuseness parameters, of the 2pF density distribution, are also determined so as to reproduce the first peak position and its magnitude of elastic scattering differential cross section obtained with the AMD densities in the Glauber model. The results obtained with these two approaches mostly agree within a limit of 1\% to 3\%.
The AMD results reveal that there is a drastic increase in the occupation number of neutrons in the $pf$ orbit from $N=19$ onwards, compared to $N=18$, in Ne and Mg isotopes. This intruder configuration induces a strong deformation owing to the mixing of the $p$- and $f$-orbits and signals the onset of the island of inversion in this mass range. We observed that the occupancy of the neutron in weakly bound $1p_{3/2}$ orbit has a significant impact on the overall behavior of the nuclear diffuseness. Given that the $1p_{3/2}$ orbit has a large diffuseness, nuclei with a sizable neutron occupation number in this orbit is also characterized by a large nuclear surface diffuseness. An estimate of the valence neutron density distribution using a single-particle model, with $^{29}$Ne as a test case, also confirms this conclusion.
The breakdown of the $N=20$ magic number changes the particle-hole configuration notably in the island of inversion. The 2p3h configuration, is dominant in the ground state of $N=19$ nuclei, in which two neutrons occupy the $pf$ orbits above the $N=20$ shell gap. A similar behavior also observed for the loss of $N=28$ ($^{40}$Mg) magic number due to increasing admixture of the $p$- and $f$-intruder orbits resulting in the increase of diffuseness in $^{38-40}$Mg. However, in $^{35-37}$Mg the filling up of the holes in the $sd$-shell for $N=23$ to $25$ results in the relative reduction of the diffuseness.
We have also shown that the information on nuclear diffuseness of neutron-rich Ne and Mg isotopes can be obtained by calculating the first diffraction peak of nucleon-nucleus elastic scattering differential cross section. As expected, at high energies, the Coulomb contribution, in determining the surface diffuseness and matter radii of these isotopes is very small, typically less than 1\%.
Finally, let us remark that a large surface diffuseness in neutron rich Ne and Mg could have consequences in determining the abundance of these nuclei in explosive nucleosynthsis. In fact, properly accounting for the structure of these exotic medium mass isotopes is a prerequisite in subsequently determining the r-process path in neutron star mergers and in the post-collapse phase of a type II or type Ib supernova \cite{Terasawa01,Shubhchintak13}.
\acknowledgments
This work was in part supported by
JSPS KAKENHI Grants Nos. 18K03635 and 19K03859,
the collaborative research programs 2021,
Information Initiative Center, Hokkaido University and the
Scheme for Promotion of Academic and Research Collaboration
(SPARC/2018-2019/P309/SL), MHRD, India. V.C. also acknowledges MHRD,
India for a doctoral fellowship and a grant from SPARC to visit
the Hokkaido University.
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#
Milo stuffed the handkerchief back in the pocket of his tan pants. "The deceased wasn't a local," he said in his laconic voice. "According to Marlow Whipp, he came into the grocery store just before closing, about five to seven. He tried to say something, and then collapsed." Never a fast talker, Milo slowed to a snails pace. The little cluster of neighbors drew closer. "His name is Kelvin Greene, from Seattle. He was twenty-seven years old and lived somewhere out in the Rainier Valley area. It looks as if he'd been shot in the head." Milo's long face wore a disgusted look. "Marlow called us. Marlow swears he didn't shoot him, though he keeps a gun under the counter. Kelvin died before the ambulance could get here. He was black. Any more questions, or can I get the hell out of here and do my job?"
#
By Mary Daheim
_Published by Ballantine Books:_
THE ALPINE ADVOCATE
THE ALPINE BETRAYAL
THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS
THE ALPINE DECOY
THE ALPINE ESCAPE
THE ALPINE FURY
THE ALPINE GAMBLE
THE ALPINE HERO
THE ALPINE ICON
THE ALPINE JOURNEY
THE ALPINE KINDRED
THE ALPINE LEGACY
THE ALPINE MENACE
THE ALPINE NEMESIS
THE ALPINE OBITUARY
# Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Copyright
# Chapter One
THERE'S NO FOOL like an old fool, unless it's a middle-aged fool. Like me.
The letter from the Washington Newspaper Publishers Association was very businesslike; the invitation to the seminar on advertising revenue was suitably formal. So why was my heart racing like an out-of-control dishwasher?
The answer was simple, and so was I. According to the program schedule, the panelists included Tom Cavanaugh of San Francisco, former reporter and editor, currently owner of seventeen weeklies and four small dailies throughout the western United States and Canada. According to my pudding-like head, Tom Cavanaugh was my former lover and permanent father of my only son, Adam. I hadn't seen Tom in almost two years. The prospect both thrilled and terrified me.
"Your sleeve's on fire," said Vida Runkel, my House & Home editor. "Be careful, you're going to burn your arm."
I jumped, slapping at my beige linen jacket. Sure enough, I'd scorched the fabric on the coffeemaker in _The Alpine Advocate's_ editorial office.
"Damn!" I exclaimed, wincing at the heat that seared my fingers. "I don't exactly have a lavish spring wardrobe."
Vida was sitting at her desk, peering at me over the rims of her tortoiseshell glasses. "Trim the sleeves, then roll them back. That look came in a few years ago and it's still around. I ought to know—I get all the fashion handouts." She returned to her typing, a wonder of two-fingered wizardry on a machine almost as old as she was.
Removing my singed jacket and pouring a cup of coffee, I studied the WNPA letter more closely. "I should send Ed Bronsky to this. They're holding the summer meeting at Lake Chelan."
"You should hold Ed under water at Lake Chelan. I don't know why you put up with him. He's the worst ad manager I've ever met." Vida didn't pause in her typing.
It wasn't the first time that Vida and I had argued over Ed Bronsky's ineptitude. Indeed, Ed wasn't inept so much as he was negative. In a town like Alpine, Washington, with four thousand souls held hostage by semi-isolation on Stevens Pass, Ed couldn't see any reason why local retailers needed to advertise in the first place. There was one furniture emporium, one pharmacy, one sporting goods store, one bakery—and, until the past year, one source of food. A few months back Safeway had opened to give the Grocery Basket a run for everybody's money.
"Maybe the seminar would motivate Ed," I said, but sounded dubious to my own ears.
"Dynamite wouldn't motivate Ed," Vida replied, and this time she did stop typing, not to concentrate on our conversation or her latest story, but because she was finished. She whipped the paper out of the ancient upright and gave me her gimlet eye. "Why don't you go, Emma? Chelan is a short drive from here. Why, you wouldn't even have to spend the night if you didn't want to."
Her innocent look didn't fool me, and though I hate to admit it, I blushed. The mail had just arrived. Vida couldn't possibly have seen the WNPA invitation. It was addressed to me: Emma Lord, Editor and Publisher. I had opened it a mere five minutes ago with my own two hands. But somehow Vida knew. She always knew. It was her way.
"I shouldn't take the time," I mumbled. "It's in mid-June, and I was away for almost a week at Easter. That was just a month ago."
"So? It's another month until mid-June." Vida shook her broad shoulders, making her lime, magenta, and white striped blouse ripple in various directions across her impressive bosom. "You know it's worthless to send Ed. He'll pooh-pooh any innovations. But if you go, you can collect all sorts of new ideas and insist that he knuckle down. Really, Emma, it gets my goat how you turn a blind eye to his laziness and indifference. Just because your predecessor hired Ed, doesn't mean you have to keep him."
My predecessor, Marius Vandeventer, had founded _The Alpine Advocate_ back in the Thirties and sold it to me at the start of the Nineties. I'd inherited Vida and Ed from Marius, but had hired my sole reporter, Carla Steinmetz, and our office manager, Ginny Burmeister, on my own. Carla was eager, but dizzy; Ginny was methodical, but diligent. I felt I was batting about five hundred, which wasn't bad. The thought put me on the defensive.
"Ed has a wife and children," I said, resorting to my usual weary defense. "With the logging business gone to hell, there are enough people out of work in Alpine without adding Ed to the list. Besides, he's improved. Really, he has."
With a toss of her unruly gray curls, Vida snorted. "That's only because you watch him like a hawk and Ginny helps so much."
Even though Vida was right, I would have argued further if Carla Steinmetz hadn't burst into the office, carrying a white paper sack from the Upper Crust Bakery.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, waving the sack at Vida and me. "Here, it's glazed twisters. You'd better eat them before Ed gets back from the Rotary Club breakfast meeting."
I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten. Ed should have returned by now. And Carla was definitely tardy.
"Where were you?" I asked, hoping against hope she'd been out getting a hot story.
Carla passed the bakery bag first to Vida, then to me. "At the doctor's. You know I've had an earache for three days. Libby, my new roommate, said I couldn't go on like this."
In all probability, neither could Libby. Carla had hardly talked of anything else since coming in Monday morning, holding her head. I could imagine how she'd complained at home. Libby—Liberty, actually—Boyd was a brash young woman who drove a Ford pickup truck, lifted weights, and had recently been posted to the ranger station at Icicle Creek. She and Carla had moved in together May first. I wondered how long the wholesome, athletic, down-to-earth Libby would survive in the company of my flighty, ebullient, comfort-loving reporter. I'd met Libby only once. She struck me as long on valor, but short on patience.
Carla had swept her long black hair back and leaned forward just enough to show off the wad of cotton stuffed in her left ear. "See? Dr. Flake put drops in it. I think they've helped already."
"Good," I said, not without sympathy. "Earaches can be nasty."
Carla and I munched on our twisters. Vida, however, let hers sit on the desk, untouched. It wasn't like her. She was gazing at Carla, expectancy written all over her majestic figure.
"Well?"
Carla was getting herself a mug of coffee. "Well, what?"
Vida made a face. "Well, what about the new nurse?"
With another flip of her long locks, Carla hopped into the chair behind her desk. "The new nurse?" Her black eyes were very round. "Why, Vida, you must know all about her. Your niece is the receptionist, after all."
Vida's nieces, nephews, and other relations, by family and by marriage, were everywhere. The tribal network of Runkels on her late husband's side and Blatts by blood formed the basis of her limitless knowledge of Alpine. She narrowed her eyes at Carla.
"Marje has been on vacation for two weeks, and you know it. She went to Mexico to get sick."
At first Carla looked surprised, then she turned smug. "That's right, I didn't see her this morning. Doc Dewey's wife was working the desk." Carla took a big bite of her twister. "What do you want to know, Vida?"
Vida's right hand closed over the twister that lay on her desk in a gesture that suggested it might have legs and try to escape. Or, perhaps, that she would like to do the same to Carla's neck. "I'm curious, of course," she replied with dignity. "Marilynn Lewis is the first black person we've ever had living in Alpine. I think she's either very brave or very foolish."
Carla was still looking smug, even superior. "You're supposed to say African-American," she declared. "I think Dr. Dewey and Dr. Flake were very brave to hire her. I gather it was Dr. Flake's idea, since he's more progressive than Doc Dewey."
There was almost twenty years' age difference between Alpine's two physicians, but the town's perception was based on more than the generation gap. Peyton Flake was a recent arrival and new to private practice. Gerald Dewey was a local, the son of Alpine's late and much-beloved Cecil Dewey, who had attended three generations of Skykomish County residents. During the years that the father and son had practiced together, they were known as Young Doc and Old Doc. Gerald Dewey was still called Young Doc by most Alpiners, and it appeared that for good or for ill, his indigenous roots were perceived as making him far more hidebound—and thus more reliable—than the upstart newcomer. But the senior Dewey hadn't felt a need to build his practice; his son relied on the clinic's virtual monopoly. Peyton Flake was much more aggressive: He foresaw potential patients defecting along the Stevens Pass corridor, driving to doctors in Sultan, Monroe, Snohomish, and even as far away as Everett. Flake worked actively to keep current patients and recruit new ones. Consequently, the active chart file was growing, and with it, the need for a new nurse.
"I just happened to see Marilynn Lewis leaving work the other night," Vida remarked. "The clinic is right on my way home." The explanation may or may not have been an excuse for satisfying Vida's rampant curiosity.
Having devoured her twister, Carla settled down to deliver serious information. "She's young, maybe my age or a little older, pretty, seems sharp, and very nice. I heard she's rooming with the Campbells, at least until she finds a place of her own."
Swiftly, Vida digested Carla's account. "Yes, Jean and Lloyd Campbell have taken her in." She made it sound as if they'd acquired a stray cat, but I knew better. While Alpine abounded in prejudiced people, Vida wasn't one of them. "I'm not sure how they're all managing, with Cyndi living at home and Shane back from Seattle."
I racked my brain as I often did when Vida started rattling off families and their histories. One of the hazards of moving to a small town is learning who's who. It's bad enough for the average newcomer, but for somebody like me with a job where names are not only news, but the primary source of income, it's overwhelming. After three years in Alpine, Vida and the other natives can still stump me. Small-town dwellers throw out unfamiliar names like a challenge. Recent arrivals drown in a sea of first, last, maiden, and married names. As well as nicknames. Meanwhile, the true-born smirk, reminding the newcomers of their outsider status.
At least I'd been around long enough to know that Lloyd Campbell owned Alpine Appliance and was close to sixty. His wife, Jean, worked part-time at the Presbyterian church, which numbered Vida among its members. Cyndi was their daughter, also around Carla's age, and the receptionist at the Public Utilities District office. Shane, I assumed, was their son, but I knew nothing about him.
Vida guessed as much. "Shane is the middle Campbell child," she informed me, licking twister glaze off her fingers. "He's been living and working in Seattle for the past two or three years. I think he was with Fred Meyer. I heard he moved back here because the chain planned to open a store at the Alpine Mall."
"They keep putting it off," I noted. "I had Ed call their Oregon headquarters just last week." As a former Portland resident and employee of _The Oregonian_ , I was well acquainted with the Fred Meyer stores; they featured everything from apparel to groceries to electronics to jewelry. While I would welcome their convenience as well as their advertising, I realized that they might be hesitant about a new venture in a town as economically depressed as Alpine. I also realized that our local merchants would be upset. The small specialty stores featuring books, CDs, china, jewelry, stereos, and shoes wouldn't welcome the competition.
Carla was going through her in-basket. She stopped and called to me just as I was heading back into my small, cluttered office. "Emma—should we do a story on Marilynn Lewis? I mean, it _is_ news that she's here—and that she's African-American."
I considered the idea. "No, not yet. She's been here—what? A couple of weeks? Let's give her a chance to get settled in. I don't want to draw attention to her and make her a target of any bigots. Let's face it, the news isn't that she's here; it's that she's African-American. I'm not sure Marilynn would regard that as a positive story angle. If you want to do a newcomer feature, interview Libby Boyd. Isn't she the first female forest ranger to be posted up here?"
Vida confirmed that she was. Carla, however, gave an in-different shrug. "Women doing what used to be men's work isn't news anymore. Besides, she hasn't been in the job long enough to know how it feels. She had an office assignment in Seattle."
Carla, however, didn't press the Marilynn Lewis story, and Vida didn't comment. I took the scorched jacket into my office along with my coffee and went back to work. Briefly, I thought about Marilynn Lewis. She _was_ very brave, perhaps a trifle foolish. I wondered why she'd exchanged the relative anonymity of the Big City for the scrutiny of a small town. But I didn't think about it too long. I had problems of my own, and at the moment, they were all named Tom Cavanaugh.
"Those Anasazi Indians have got ruins older than you are, Mom," said my son over the phone. "Uncle Ben thinks he can get me on a dig. Aren't you hyped?"
"Sure, I think it's great." I reached for my take-out burger. I gathered that Ben thought it was great, too. My brother had seemed enthused that his nephew was going to join him for the summer in Tuba City, Arizona. Naturally, I would have preferred that Adam spend at least some of his time helping Ben out at the mission church on the Navajo reservation, but it seemed that my only child's interests were centered on the artifacts in the ancient tribal villages. At least, I chided myself, he _had_ an interest. There were times when I felt Adam was drifting, from one university to another, from one girlfriend to the next, from one professed major to the latest career of the week....
But Adam had maintained his enthusiasm for Native-American culture ever since Ben's visit to Alpine in December. My son had been determined to join my brother in Tuba City, and would fly from the University of Alaska at Fairbanks directly into Phoenix in June. He would then take a bus to Flagstaff where Ben would meet him. Adam would come to Alpine at the beginning of August, about the same time the temperature hit a hundred and twenty in northern Arizona. With any luck, Ben might get away for a week or so then, too. But as the only Catholic priest in the vicinity, it was possible that he'd be stuck until his regular vacation came due at the end of the year.
While Adam waxed on about digging in the digs, I contemplated telling him about his father's scheduled appearance at the WNPA conference. But Adam had seen Tom since I had. After twenty years of estrangement, they had finally met in San Francisco last November. The meeting had gone well. If Adam had resented his father's absence from the scene, it hadn't showed. Maybe my son—our son—understood that Tom's defection hadn't been voluntary. Twenty-two years ago, when I discovered I was pregnant by a married man, I'd told Tom to get lost. Reluctantly, he'd complied. After all, he had a family of his own. It wasn't his fault that his wife was crazier than a loon. At the time, I wasn't feeling entirely stable myself.
But Tom had stayed married. His wife, Sandra, had stayed crazy. And Adam and I had created our own little world. It was only by coincidence that Tom had showed up in Alpine a year ago last autumn. At least it _seemed_ a coincidence at the time. He had given me invaluable advice about running a weekly newspaper, and I had given him my pardon for a crime he never committed. But I still wasn't willing to give him Adam. That had only happened after much soul-searching and many letters from Tom, asking to see his illegitimate son.
"You know," said Adam, as if reading my mind, "I've got enough money to fly into Seattle and come up to Alpine before I go to Arizona."
The money had come from Tom, providing airfare for Adam to visit me and Ben and the pope, if he wanted to. Tom had been very generous, trying to make up in one year for two decades of paternal absenteeism.
"Well," I hedged, "that's up to you. I'd love to have you come, of course. But if you're returning to Fairbanks next year, you'll need to save up."
"I don't know about that," Adam replied. "I'm thinking about transferring to Cal-Berkeley. They don't have an archaeology major up here. Or is it anthropology?" As ever, Adam sounded vague on the subject of his future.
"What's wrong with the UDUB?" I demanded, referring to the University of Washington in Seattle which had been good enough for me.
"There's WAZZU, too," Adam remarked. The nickname stood for Washington State University, some three hundred miles away in Pullman. "But I like the Bay Area. San Fran is cool."
San Fran was indeed cool. It was also home base for Adam's father. I had mixed feelings about that. "Talk to Ben. He gives good advice."
To my mild surprise, Adam agreed. We talked some more, about his classes, which bored him, about his latest girlfriend, who thrilled him, about his part-time job with the state highway department, which fatigued him. He was still trying to convince me it would be terrific for him to stop off in Seattle and Alpine en route to Tuba City. I didn't argue further; I'd be too glad to have my only son with me to squelch the idea.
I had just hung up when Milo Dodge loped into my office. Since it was Thursday, the day after our weekly publication, I wasn't as frantically engaged as usual. So far there had been only a dozen irate phone calls from readers. This week they pounced on two issues. One was Vida's account of the perennially controversial Junior Miss Alpine competition. The other was my recent editorial devoted to resurfacing the county road that led out of town to the ranger station. It was pretty tame stuff, but some of our subscribers felt that any public work demanded new taxes. They weren't entirely wrong.
Milo is the sheriff of Skykomish County, and just because we are both single and share the same decade of birth, people often think we should be madly in love. We are not. Milo is involved with a potteress from Startup named Honoria Whitman who gets around in a wheelchair, courtesy of her late husband who once threw her down a flight of stairs. I am involved with my newspaper. Or so I like to tell myself.
"People sure are dumb," Milo declared as he settled his shambling body into one of the two chairs positioned on the opposite side of my desk. "Are you eating that salad?"
"I sure am," I retorted, stabbing at the lettuce with a plastic fork. "If you were so hungry, why didn't you call? We could have gone out to lunch."
Milo scratched at something on his neck. "I thought about it, but we got a call from that new nurse at Dr. Flake's. Some jerk is writing her threatening letters."
I swallowed quickly. "Marilynn Lewis? We were just talking about her this morning."
Milo's long face grew longer. "She's gotten three of them. Two are obviously from the same nutcase, but the third may be from somebody else."
"Antiblack?" I asked, polishing off the burger dip.
Milo nodded. He is a few years older than I am, in his midforties, with graying sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a laconic manner that fools a lot of people. I am not one of them. "It's to be expected. There haven't been any minorities around Alpine since the Orientals worked the mines back before World War I. Oh, we get tourists who aren't lily-white, but they don't stick around, so the locals tolerate them. But this Lewis woman seems inclined to stay. Some of the reactionaries resent that."
"You're right: they're dumb." I pushed the plastic container of salad at Milo. "Here, have some. I'm getting full." It wasn't exactly true, but bigotry has a way of taking the edge off my appetite. "Do you know who sent them?"
Milo shook his head. "It could be anybody. Ms. Lewis isn't all that upset, but after the third one, she felt she ought to notify us. I'm afraid we can't do much about it."
I sat back and watched Milo finish my salad. Absently, he drank my Coke. Unconsciously, he gobbled up the last four milk chocolate Easter eggs I'd been saving for a month. I sighed.
"It's not a story," Milo asserted, mistaking my reaction.
"You mean 'Sheriff Charged With Piggery'? Damn it, Milo, I've been keeping those chocolate eggs in the refrigerator since Easter."
"Oh." Milo had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking. You didn't figure I came here to see about running something on those letters, did you?"
I shook my head. "I assumed you came her to steal my lunch. It's too bad, because I was thinking about asking you and Honoria to dinner tonight."
"Honoria's in Seattle until Sunday," Milo replied. "There's some kind of ceramic and pottery show at the Center. I could come, though."
Not having been serious about the dinner invitation, I found myself hoisted with my own petard. I surrendered with good grace. "You're right," I agreed as Milo eased himself onto his feet. "It's not a story."
Milo nodded. "The letters'll go away. People'll get used to having a black person around. I guess she's a pretty good nurse."
"She'll offer Alpine a positive image of African-Americans," I said, wondering if Carla had any twisters left over. It was unlikely, since Ed had returned from breakfast and stuffed himself at Carta's expense. "I'm glad she's here. With so many commuters from Everett and even Seattle, it's about time we got some racial mix."
Milo inclined his head. Somehow, I wished he'd given me a vigorous nod instead.
Ed Bronsky was trying to explain why we didn't need to publish a special section on the new bowling alley. I saw the event as an occasion for various Alpine merchants and organizations to take out ads congratulating the Erdahl family on opening Alpine's Fast Lanes; Ed saw it as a nuisance.
"Do you know how long it takes me to lay out a four-page insert?" Ed looked as if he was first oarsman on a Roman slave galley.
"Actually, Ed," I persisted, "Ginny gives you all kinds of help. If we get enough ads, we could actually turn a profit for the first week of June."
Ed's heavy face fell at the sound of an obscenity like _profit_. He was about my age, not quite medium height, wide of shoulder, and broad of beam. The only person I knew who had a worse shape than Ed was his wife, Shirley.
As if on cue, Ginny Burmeister entered the news office. She expressed mild enthusiasm over the proposed insert, which was about as excited as Ginny ever gets. Ed didn't take kindly to her positive stance.
"You're still young, Ginny," he said in his lugubrious voice. "You can stand hard work and long hours. You don't have to go out and beat your feet on the sidewalks, hustling every day."
"Like who?" Vida looked up from proofing the obituary of ninety-three-year-old Axel Swensen, who had worked the big cut-off saw in the original Alpine mill. "Ed, the last time you hustled was when Carla cut Ginny's birthday cake. You slipped in a puddle of punch and landed right in the frosting. Carla took a picture to prove it, but as usual, she forgot to load her camera."
It was going on five. I didn't feel like listening to my staff wrangle anymore for the day. "We're going to do the insert, and that's that," I declared firmly. "You know, Ed, maybe it's time you rethought your career. I sometimes get the impression you don't really like advertising."
Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I regretted them. I rarely took a staff member to task, and when I did, it was always in private. I was dismayed as I watched Ed redden and seem to creep inside the collar of his rumpled raincoat.
"I _love_ advertising," he protested. "My father was a salesman for John Deere. It's in my blood. Free enterprise, the American way, the whole idea of _commerce_ —why, I wouldn't know how to do anything else!"
I didn't doubt that for a minute. But I refrained from saying so. "Then try changing your attitude," I said, making my voice sound less harsh. "You give the wrong impression. It's very frustrating for me sometimes." I smiled, if a bit feebly.
Seemingly placated, Ed rummaged around his desk, made incoherent noises about pursuing the insert idea, and then left. Twenty minutes early. Ginny returned to the front office to finish her daily chores, and Vida announced she was heading home, too. In her case, I didn't mind. I knew she had to cover a party up at the ski lodge that night. One of the county commissioners was retiring due to ill health or perennial intoxication, or both.
Just as Vida left, Carla returned, holding her head. "My ear is hurting again. I went over to the high school to interview the music teacher about the Methodist Church's ban on rap recordings, and I got the most awful stabbing pains. Do you think I should see Dr. Flake before he leaves for the day?'
I advised her to go. "Are you sure the music teacher didn't make you listen to some of those recordings?" I asked dryly.
Carla didn't find my remark amusing. "Are you kidding? The Methodists—and some of the other churches, too—are making sure Platters on the Sky won't carry any of the recordings with those stupid explicit-lyrics stickers on them. Whatever happened to free speech and all those amendments? Ouch!" Carla grabbed her ear.
Back in my office, I made a note to write an editorial on censorship. I also made a quick grocery list. Milo was strictly a meat-and-potatoes man so I jotted down rib steak, which I knew was on special at the Grocery Basket, the fixings for a Caesar salad, and a bottle of red wine. I'd make my own french fries and pick up dessert at the Upper Crust.
The phone rang just as I was debating whether or not I should wear my damaged linen jacket. Milo Dodge's laconic voice was on the other end of the line.
"I may be late," he said. "Closer to eight than seven."
"That's fine," I assured him. "I have to shop and cook first." I could have been ready for Milo by seven o'clock, but if he came later I wouldn't have to rush. I might even have time to check the mail and phone messages at home.
Milo, however, didn't hear my reply. He was off the line, speaking to one of his deputies. I thought I recognized the usually chipper voice of Jack Mullins. Except Jack didn't sound so chipper.
"What's that, Emma?" Milo said into the phone. "Sorry, I got interrupted."
"What's going on?" I asked, exchanging my role as hostess for that of journalist.
Milo let out a groan. "More dumb stunts. It's just as well I don't say anything. You might be tempted to run it in the paper."
The sheriff of Skykomish County knows better than to pull that line on me. All I had to do was walk down the street to his office and check over the daily log. "Okay, Milo," I sighed, "what happened?"
He hesitated, then gave in. "It's our new nurse. She got a little surprise in the mail today." Again, he paused, and I could picture his long face grimacing. "Somebody sent her a black crow. Dead. Now that's pretty ugly, Emma."
It sure was. But could it be news? I was afraid so. Nevertheless, I made a judgment. "I'm not running that," I said, on a note of outrage.
"Good," Milo said. "But it could get worse."
I sighed again. Milo was right. It could, and it did.
# Chapter Two
HALFWAY DOWN AISLE 2-A at the Grocery Basket, I realized that Carla might be about to make one of her classic journalism mistakes. Having gone to see Peyton Flake, she would probably hear the story of Marilynn Lewis and the dead crow. It was likely that my eager young reporter would grill the new nurse about her experience. While I could easily veto the article before it got into print, I felt it was equally important to spare Marilynn the embarrassment of Carla's questions.
Tossing salad oil and anchovies into the cart with the rest of my groceries, I raced to the checkout stand. I cut short the usual pleasantries with fellow shoppers, the checker, and the courtesy clerk. Five minutes later, I was at the clinic where Nancy Dewey was closing the office for the day.
Young Doc Dewey's wife was closer to fifty than forty, but well preserved, mainly due to good bones and fine gray eyes that retained a youthful sparkle. She had helped put Gerald Dewey through medical school by working at the University Book Store in Seattle. Now that her two children were raised and married, Nancy Dewey filled her leisure hours by alternating as a backup at her husband's clinic and as a salesperson at her father's stereo store at the Alpine Mall.
"You looking for Carla?" she asked, with a smile that was a trifle pinched.
I said I was. Carla, however, was in the back, being examined by Peyton Flake. She wouldn't be long, Nancy assured me.
I leaned on the counter that separated the receptionist's station from the waiting room. "Is Marilynn Lewis still here? I haven't officially met her." I tried to keep my expression bland.
Nancy Dewey gave me a sharp look. My attempts at subterfuge almost always fail. "She went home about an hour ago." Nancy paused, apparently waiting for me to blurt out the real reason for my visit.
I capitulated. "Was she upset?"
"Wouldn't you be?" Nancy gave the day calendar an angry flip to the next page. "Imagine, the gall of some people! Oh, I know we've got plenty of rednecks and bigots in this town. But to go out of your way to make somebody miserable—that takes a real mean streak. We had four patients waiting when Marilynn opened that blasted box."
As usual, I mentally calculated how long it would take the four onlookers to pass the news around Alpine. Whatever the time frame, the gossip mill would work faster—and more efficiently—than we could at _The Advocate_. Maybe my concern about sparing Marilynn embarrassment was in vain.
"What did she do with it? The box, I mean. And the crow," I added, as an afterthought.
Nancy switched the phone to the answering service before she replied. "I made her give box and bird to the sheriff. No return address, of course, and the handwriting was crude. A local postmark, but sufficient stamps so that it wouldn't have to go across the post office counter. Cowardly, as you might expect." Her fine eyes snapped with anger.
Sadly, I shook my head. I didn't know what to say. It was doubtful that Marilynn Lewis had ever experienced such an insult in Seattle. Not that there weren't bigots in the Big City, but Marilynn wouldn't be singled out. In Alpine, it was different. She was, in effect, a pioneer. She must have realized that when she moved to town. I said as much to Nancy Dewey.
Nancy shrugged. "I suppose she was prepared for the worst, but she probably expected better. You know how most people are: eternal optimists." It was clear from Nancy's tone that life had taught her otherwise. She leaned across the counter, lowering her voice as if the waiting room were filled with eager listeners. "Gerry wasn't crazy about the hiring. In fact, Flake didn't tell him Marilynn was black. He interviewed her in Seattle, so my husband never saw her until she showed up for work."
I hated to ask the question, but I couldn't avoid it. "And Gerry was upset?"
"Oh, no!" Nancy shook her head with vigor. "Not for himself, that is. Heck, Gerry had a black roommate in college. It was the Sixties, for heavens' sake! But that's the point, Emma—people like Gerry, who've lived away from Alpine, usually aren't prejudiced. Unfortunately, most of the locals have spent ninety-nine percent of their lives in Skykomish County. Then there are the newcomers who moved up here to get away from urban problems. That combination makes up our practice. I can't blame Gerry for worrying about local reactions."
"He should only worry about Marilynn's qualifications as a nurse," I noted in my primmest voice.
Nancy nodded. "Which are excellent. Though," she added, "it's mostly hospital experience. Orthopedics and emergency room. But if you can handle the E.R., you can do anything."
Carla came out from the examining room area with Peyton Flake at her heels. My staff reporter is barely five feet tall; Flake is six-four. They made an odd pair. Carta's long black hair fell over her shoulders, while Flake's wavy brown locks were held back in a ponytail. As ever, his professional attire was more than casual. It was almost disreputable. His blue jeans were ragged at the cuffs, his flannel shirt was rumpled, and the white coat he wore in deference to Gerald Dewey needed both cleaning and pressing.
"Bastards," said Flake, yanking the stethoscope from around his neck. "If I find out who did that to Marilynn, I'll kill the sons-of-bitches." He wheeled on Nancy who was coming out of the receptionist's area. "I've already told your husband that if this crap keeps up, I'm quitting. I won't live in a lame-assed town where people aren't treated like people."
Nancy Dewey didn't even blink. I gathered she was accustomed to Peyton Flake's outbursts. "You've got surgery at eight tomorrow," she said calmly. "Mrs. Whipp, knee replacement."
Flake's face fell. "I've never done a knee. Oh, well." He shrugged and went out the door.
Carla was staring at me. "What are you doing here? I've got to go to the pharmacy and get some antibiotics."
I asked her if she'd seen Marilynn, but the nurse had left before Carla arrived. Relieved, I bade Nancy Dewey good night and accompanied Carla outside. As it turned out, Carla didn't know anything about the dead crow. No surprise there—my reporter is often the last to know anything. She expressed dismay, but in a detached sort of way. It was obvious that Carla's priority was her aching ear. I watched her hurry across Pine Street and head for Parker's Pharmacy two blocks away, between Third and Fourth on Front.
Coincidences in Alpine often aren't very remarkable. With only four thousand people, it isn't unusual to run into somebody you've just been talking about. Or at least to meet up with one of their cousins. In this case, it was an Alpine Appliance van parked across the street at the community hospital. A young man with straw-colored hair was coming out of the emergency entrance as I unlocked the door to my green Jaguar. I wondered if he might be Shane Campbell, whose parents were providing board and room for Marilynn Lewis.
I used my guise as journalist to find out. "Equipment problems?" I shouted.
Startled, the young man stopped in the act of locking the rear doors of the van. He said nothing, but gazed at me while two cars and a pickup truck passed between us on Third Street.
I crossed to meet him and identified myself. "I thought there might be a crisis at the hospital," I explained. "You know—electricity, heat, water. That's news in a small town."
"It is?" The young man obviously didn't think so. "No, nothing like that. Mrs. Whipp just checked in and insisted on renting a VCR. I dropped it off on my way home." He gave me a halfhearted smile and headed for the driver's side of the van.
"Are you Shane?" I called after him.
Turning to look over his shoulder, he nodded. "Right. Do you need something? We've got a sale on gas barbecues this week."
I gaped. "You do? How come your dad didn't take out an ad?"
Shane lifted his broad shoulders, which were covered by a brown jacket with ALPINE APPLIANCE emblazoned in crimson letters. "I thought he did. Come to think of it, I didn't see it in the paper yesterday."
I hadn't seen it, either. Inwardly, I cursed Ed Bronsky. Had he forgotten to run the ad? Had he discouraged Lloyd Campbell from placing it in the first place? Had Ed made it so small that he could have mounted it on the head of a pin? I vowed to call Ed as soon as I got home.
My original intentions had been sabotaged by my ad manager's apparent dereliction of duty. Whatever tactful approach I had devised flew right out of my head. I considered offering my sympathy to the Campbell family's boarder, but held back. If Shane had been out delivering appliances all afternoon, he might not have heard about Marilynn Lewis and the dead crow. My feigned innocence hadn't fooled Nancy Dewey, so I tried acting dumb with Shane Campbell. Having had more practice at the latter than the former over the years, I was sure of success.
"How's Marilynn Lewis doing? I still haven't met her. Is she settling in okay?"
My queries seemed innocuous, but Shane Campbell's fair skin flushed. "She's doing all right," he mumbled, suddenly absorbed in the clipboard he was carrying. "She's anxious to get her own place. That's not easy in a little town like Alpine."
It wasn't. Carla had roomed in two different private homes before finally getting an apartment in a new, but pricey complex. Ginny Burmeister had given up trying to find affordable housing, but as a native, she had the option of living at home with her parents. I was aware that it might be more difficult for Marilynn Lewis to find a permanent niche. While it would be illegal for anyone in Alpine to discriminate, it wouldn't be impossible. It never was.
"You must be kind of crowded," I remarked, edging away from the curb and closer to Shane. "Your sister still lives with your folks, doesn't she?"
The flush faded. Shane apparently felt he was on safer ground discussing his sister. "Cyndi? Yeah, she's the only one of us who's never left the nest. Our older sister, Wendy, got married five or six years ago. She teaches at the high school."
Quickly, I made the connection. Wendy Campbell must be Wendy Wilson: English, lit, speech, and debate. Her husband, Todd, was the local Public Utilities District manager. Cyndi obviously worked for her brother-in-law as the PUD receptionist. I'd met Wendy at several high school functions and talked to Todd on many occasions. I had also seen Cyndi at the PUD office. The Campbell family portrait was coming into focus.
It was apparent that Shane was anxious to shove off. It was also evident that he wasn't entirely comfortable discussing his family's boarder. I felt sad about that. Stupid me, I keep hoping that each upcoming generation will be more tolerant. If the sixtyish senior Campbells were broad-minded enough to invite an African-American woman to share their roof, I would have thought their son would be even more progressive. But children often take the opposite course, if only to be perverse.
Shane Campbell drove off, and so did I. The afternoon sun was low over the evergreens that surround my cozy log house high on the hill above Alpine. I found no surprises in either my mail or on my answering machine. Ed Bronsky, however, sounded flabbergasted when I called to ask him about the ad for Alpine Appliance.
"Now that's the darnedest thing, Emma," he said, in an uneasy voice. "I had that dummy all laid out and looking spiffy. But there was this typo—well, not a typo, really, a mistake—something about the price. I put it down as $29.99, but it was $299.99. When Lloyd Campbell told me to fix it, I said, 'Gee, Lloyd, what kind of a sale is _that?_ Three hundred bucks to cook something you could do on your stove? What happens if it rains? Which it will, because it always does.' Then he got mad and said to forget it. So I did."
I groaned. Ed was impossible. I would have to call Lloyd Campbell first thing in the morning and try to talk him into running another ad, probably at a drastic discount, just to keep him happy. Better yet, I'd go over to Alpine Appliance in person.
"The next time that happens, tell me right away," I snarled into the phone. "I mean it, Ed. We can't afford to upset our advertisers. If you keep this up, I can't afford _you."_ I slammed down the phone and fumed for almost two minutes.
I was trying to settle my nerves with a stiff bourbon and my recipe for Caesar salad when Ed's wife, Shirley, called.
"Ed's in tears," she announced in her squeaky voice, which always reminded me of one of the Three Little Pigs. In fact, Ed and Shirley looked like two of the pigs; their children looked like five more. "I hate to interfere, Emma, but you've been coming down awfully hard on him lately."
Shirley was right—it was only in recent weeks that Ed had begun to wear away my patience. But she was wrong if she thought I was going to relent. Ed had a responsibility not just to me, but to the rest of the staff—and to the community. If _The Advocate_ didn't carry the message from local retailers, there was a very real danger that a weekly shopper could move into the area. Shoppers, with their glossy ads and neglect of news, were the journalist's nightmare. I had seen them in my dreams, resting on front porches, stuffed in mail boxes, lying on sidewalks, covering the earth like a toxic blanket.
But there was no arguing with Shirley, who always met reason with a whine. "Look," I said, keeping control of my temper, "Ed and I will sort this out at work. Go dry his tears, and while you're at it, put some starch in his backbone. I've got to get dinner."
"So do I," Shirley replied, the whine now in place. "Seven mouths to feed. Do you know how it feels to get _threats?"_
I sure did. As an editor and publisher, they were part of the job description. But for once, I didn't dwell on myself. Rather, I thought of Marilynn Lewis and the ugly letters and the dead crow. There was real menace in those kinds of threats.
I, however, was a paper tiger, and Shirley Bronsky knew it.
Milo Dodge ate everything but the plates. While his lanky frame didn't look it, he could have given the porcine Bronskys a run for their money when it came to forking up food. Still, I wasn't displeased. Sometimes I get bored cooking for only myself.
It was over coffee that I finally broached the subject of Marilynn Lewis. I would have done it sooner, but Milo had undergone a more recent crisis, caused by our local loony, Crazy Eights Neffel, who had poured kerosene all over the statue of town founder Carl Clemans and attempted to ignite it with an empty cigarette lighter. The lighter wasn't the only thing that didn't work; Crazy Eights's brain had been haywire for years. At seventysomething he refused to retire from mischief-making. Some said he was simple-minded; others, that he was a genius gone awry. Vida would say no more than that he was a nut, but always added in a protective tone that he was _"Alpine's_ nut." She had taken a picture, passing by on her way to the ski lodge. Milo had taken Crazy Eights to jail and locked him up for the night.
"Nancy Dewey's right," Milo said as we sat in the living room, with the front door open to allow the mild spring breeze inside the house. "No return address, mailed through a corner box, postmarked yesterday."
"Did the handwriting match any of the letters Marilynn received earlier?"
"Hard to tell. We'd have to get a handwriting expert to figure that out." Milo sipped his coffee.
"Will you?" I had a feeling Milo might be inclined to let the entire episode off the hook.
The sheriff considered, his long legs propped up on my coffee table. "That depends. On Marilynn, mainly."
I was quiet for a moment, wondering if Milo were wishing Marilynn and her dead crow and her threatening letters out of his life. Crazy Eights Neffel might be mad as a hatter, but Milo was used to him. And Crazy Eights was white.
"What's the connection?" I finally asked. Seeing Milo's justifiably baffled look, I elucidated: "Between Marilynn and the Campbells. Their appliance store does fine, so they don't need the money. They aren't in the rooming house business. In fact, they must be all jammed up with Shane back home."
Milo rubbed the back of his neck. "Not really. I suppose Marilynn has Wendy's old room. The Campbell house is pretty big. You know the place? It's in that block with the cemetery on one side and the high school on the other."
1 recognized the street, which featured a half-dozen large frame homes, at least two stories tall, with spacious yards. The bank president lived there, as did the owner of Barton's Bootery and the local optometrist.
"Still," I argued, "why the Campbells? They've never taken in boarders before."
Judging from the blank look on Milo's face, the thought had never occurred to him. "Maybe Dr. Flake asked them. The woman has to live somewhere." He continued to look blank, so I dropped the subject. It was apparent that Milo wasn't overly concerned with Marilynn Lewis's place of residence.
The sheriff and I had our usual evening, which, as usual, did not include a sexual orgy. He talked of steelheading, which was—as usual—poor. I regaled him with my tales of Ed Bronsky's ineptitude. He countered with a sloughing off on the part of his deputies. I pointed out that Carla wasn't improving as fast as I wished. We agreed that people in general don't take pride in their work. Then Milo went home.
Keeping true to my own work ethic, the next morning I went straight to Alpine Appliance. Although the store doesn't open until ten o'clock, Lloyd Campbell shows up at eight. When I arrived, he was in his small office drinking coffee and leafing through a television manufacturer's manual.
"Emma," he said, getting up and offering his hand. "I haven't seen you since the high school band concert last month at Old Mill Park. How's it going?"
Fine, I told him, sitting down and accepting his offer of coffee. Lloyd's hair had faded to silver, but may have once been the same straw color as his son's. His blue eyes crinkled at the comers, and his stocky figure showed only the slightest signs of flab. He was a genial man, as befitted a salesman who had gotten his start selling Fuller Brush products door-to-door in neighboring Snohomish County. We exchanged general pleasantries before we got down to the specifics of Ed Bronsky. Lloyd accepted my apologies, but refused to deal further with Ed.
"The sale ends Tuesday," Lloyd pointed out. "I couldn't change the date—the manufacturer helped pay for the ad. It was a co-op deal, part of a national campaign. I shouldn't have let Ed get me so riled up—I guess I shot myself in the foot, but he can be pretty aggravating."
Unfortunately, I understood. Ed certainly could aggravate a body. I coaxed, I soothed, I sucked up. Lloyd listened patiently, occasionally making a pertinent comment or complaining about the local economy.
"People aren't buying unless it's something they absolutely have to have," he informed me. "A stove, a water heater, a washer. In all these years, I've stayed open from ten until five-thirty, five days a week. You know the motto around here: if you can't make it in five, you won't make it in six. But so many wives are working, even in Alpine. I'm thinking about opening up on Saturdays, at least until one o'clock."
Lloyd Campbell's philosophy about the workweek wasn't new to me. I'd heard it from most of the local merchants. Indeed, before I'd arrived in Alpine, there had been a titanic battle over whether the Alpine Mall would be open on Sundays. It wasn't for the first six months, and the radical change occurred only after the Christmas season when the store owners discovered that they could actually sell merchandise to paying customers on the Sabbath.
After ten minutes, Lloyd and I had hammered out an advertising compromise, which involved a free quarter page in the bowling alley special and putting Ginny Burmeister on the Alpine Appliance account. Ginny should be pleased, and Ed would be relieved. I supposed I was getting off cheap.
"Now when Marius Vandeventer owned the paper..." Lloyd had leaned back in his chair and was gazing up at the tube lighting in the ceiling.
I've lost count of the times I've heard that phrase. Since Marius Vandeventer sold _The Alpine Advocate_ to me three years ago and retired to Santa Fe, he's achieved sainthood. It was not always so. In his early years, Marius's left-wing leanings were despised by people of a more conservative nature; as a senior citizen, his rampant Republicanism had choked most of Alpine's more liberal thinkers. And throughout his reign over _The Advocate_ , it was said that an editorial endorsement of any local candidate, regardless of party affiliation, was tantamount to the kiss of death.
But now that Marius was gone, local attitudes had changed. I might not be able to fill his shoes, but I was wearing them. It wasn't much consolation to know that when I retired or left town or died, I, too, would become sanctified.
So I let Lloyd Campbell ramble on, my mind wandering to other ideas for the bowling alley special, to the School's Out edition, even to the Fourth of July promotions. I came up short when I heard Lloyd mention Marilynn Lewis's name.
"... wouldn't have put up with treating Marilynn like that for a minute." Lloyd smacked his fist on the desk for emphasis. "What do you think, Emma?"
I could hardly tell Lloyd what I was thinking. What I surmised was that he had been talking about Marius Vandeventer's policy on prejudice. To cover my lapse of attention, I hedged:
"I think these things have to be weighed carefully. I'd have to speak with Marilynn first. I haven't met her yet, you know." I sat back in the captain's chair and tried to look pensive.
Lloyd squinted at the calendar on the near wall. It showed a picture of Mount Baldy, covered with snow. The calendar was sponsored by Alpine Appliance. "What's today? Friday? How about coming over for dinner? You can meet Marilynn. Let me call Jean and see if she can rustle up something edible."
I started to protest, but Lloyd was already punching in his home phone number. Or so I assumed. As it turned out, he had called the Presbyterian church. Jean Campbell didn't answer, but whoever did managed to put her on the line almost at once.
Lloyd's conversation was brief and to the point. Replacing the receiver, he beamed at me. "There. You're on for seven o'clock. Don't worry, I didn't have to twist Jean's arm. I forgot, Wendy and Todd are coming over tonight. Jean says it's no trouble to toss another spud in the pot."
I started to convey my appreciation when the phone rang under Lloyd's hand. Never taking his eyes off me, he listened, smiled, and nodded. "Good idea," he said. Then he hung up.
"That was Jean. She wants to know if you'll invite Vida, too. Jean and Vida are quite the chums at church," he explained.
While I knew that my House & Home editor was a staunch Presbyterian, I wasn't aware that she and Jean Campbell were particularly close friends. But that was typical of Vida—she knew everyone, people told her everything, she went everywhere. Yet she was basically a very private person. Those closest to her were virtually all family members. Given the vast number of Runkel-Blatt kin-folk, there was hardly room for outsiders in Vida's crowded world.
Vida, however, was perfectly willing to join the Campbells for dinner. "Jean got new Oriental rugs after Christmas," she said, circling photos on a sheet of contact prints. "I haven't seen them yet. Grace Grandle said the Campbells paid more for the rugs than they did for their house when they bought it in 'fifty-nine. Of course, we were in a recession that year." She licked at the end of her grease pencil.
"You'll also get to see Marilynn Lewis up close," I pointed out.
Vida looked at me over the rims of her glasses. Her face was impassive. "So will you."
I spent the next half hour with Ed and Ginny. Ed professed to be still upset, but judging from the number of jelly doughnuts he devoured, I doubted it. Ginny was mildly pleased by being assigned to the Alpine Appliance account. I wondered if she realized she was building quite a little empire in addition to her front office duties. I also wondered when she'd get around to asking for a raise.
I was halfway through my public swimming pool editorial for next week when Carla sauntered into my office and announced that she was feeling much better.
"I even went jogging this morning," she said, draping herself over the back of one of my visitors' chairs. "Libby tells me that I'm not in good shape. Guess what I saw."
"Milo let Crazy Eights Neffel out of jail?"
After almost three years in Alpine, Crazy Eights was old news to Carla. "He's always in jail or some place like that," she sniffed. "What's so funny about an old man wearing his underwear outside of his clothes? Or walking around with a live duck on his head? I don't think he should be allowed to ride a tricycle down the middle of Front Street. It isn't safe."
"It sure isn't," I agreed, "especially with drivers like Durwood Parker driving everywhere but in the legal lane." In his own way, Durwood was as great a menace as Crazy Eights. But Durwood wasn't crazy; he was merely the worst driver I'd ever had the misfortune to run into—or _almost_ , having made a quick left turn to avoid him in the Alpine Mall parking lot.
Our digression had steered me away from Carla's morning run. But since the topic was herself, Carla picked up where we'd left off. "So there I was, going around the track up at the high school field, and he came out from behind the scoreboard. He saw me and hurried away. Weird, huh?"
I blinked. "Weird? Why? Who was it?"
Carla shrugged, allowing her long black hair to tumble over the front of her sleeveless chambray shirt. "That's just it—I didn't recognize him. Would you expect me to?"
Yes. No. Maybe. I was all at sea. Was my mind going? I'd already managed to lose track of Lloyd Campbell's conversation; now I was foundering with Carla. But reason—and experience—told me that this time it wasn't my fault.
"Wait a minute, Carla—you've left something out. We got distracted," I added, lest she think me too critical. "If you don't know who this guy is, why are you telling me about him?"
Slowly, Carla stood up straight. She looked puzzled, then put her hands to her head. "Oh! I get it! I forgot!" She gave me her big, infectious smile. "I didn't describe him! He wasn't that close, but I've been practicing my powers of observation. You know, what you keep telling me about paying attention with the journalist's eye?" She spoke very fast and I nodded. "He was fairly young, twenties, I'd guess, five-ten, maybe six-foot, average build, really short hair—a fade, I think you call it—Stussy shirt, baggy khaki pants, probably tennis shoes, but I couldn't be sure." Carla looked very proud of herself, then her face fell. "Oh! I almost forgot!" She gave me an apologetic smile. "He was black. That's the part I left out."
# Chapter Three
MY FIRST REACTION—other than an urge to kick Carla—was that the stranger had come to Alpine High School to recruit for a college sports team. Or that he was a tourist, out to join Carla for a morning jog on the track. Perhaps he was a teacher, interviewing for a job in the upcoming school year. He might be a forest ranger, newly posted to the area, or sent from one of the state agencies on a fact-finding mission. He could even be a nature lover, making sure that nobody was taking potshots at the spotted owl. I couldn't think of a more endangered species in Alpine than an African-American environmentalist.
But on second thought, I feared that he was probably none of the above. Never mind that my initial responses made perfect sense. My gut reaction told me that the black man at the high school field wasn't in town on official business. I hoped I was wrong.
"So he hurried away?" I asked, remembering to transfer and save my swimming pool editorial before we had one of our frequent power failures.
Carla nodded. "Yeah, you know, sort of furtive. As if he didn't expect anyone to be there except him. I knew Coach Ridley had scheduled track-and-field practice for this afternoon because I interviewed him about the big meet coming up in Seattle. Of course, it _was_ early—just after seven o'clock. I wouldn't dream of being late two days in a row." Carla had assumed an air of virtue.
I let Carla's assertion pass. Seven A.M. wasn't all that early for activity at the high school field. Practice for various sports often took place before classes started. But this particular Friday in May wasn't one of those days. I confessed that I was at a loss for an explanation.
After Carla drifted away, I resumed regaling my readership with the need for a bond issue to build a public pool. The site was ready and waiting, right on Alpine Way, where the original bowling alley had stood, and a series of enterprises, including a pool hall, a swap shop, and a buffet-style restaurant, had tried and failed to make a go of it.
I was attempting to dispel the myth that swimming in the river was good enough for Alpine's founders, even in January at fifteen below, when I heard Vida arguing heatedly over the phone. By the time I entered the news office, she'd banged down the receiver.
"Edina Puckett! Honestly!" Vida raised her arms and flexed her muscles like a weight lifter. I suspected she wanted to put a hammerlock on Edina. "Why can't people use _sense?_ This Junior Miss controversy has all these parents at each other's throats!"
I knew the story behind the story of the previous weekend's local Junior Miss pageant. As usual, Vida had covered it and taken some rather fuzzy photos. Also as usual, Vida had discreetly chosen to report only the bare bones of what had actually happened. According to her, the annual competition brought out the worst in Alpine's mothers, fathers, and children, too. Hair pulling, name-calling, and hysterics could set the stage for family feuds that lasted a lifetime.
This year the talent segment had featured everything from whisking eggs to hand puppets made out of milk cartons. The most serious incident had been caused by fifteen-year-old Kerri Rhodes, daughter of the Venison Inn's bartender, Oren, and his wife, Sunny, the resident Avon Lady. Kerri's talent was tap-dancing with a pig named Kash. Wearing matching yellow tutus, Kash and Kerri had hoofed their way through "Old MacDonald Had a Farm." On the last "E-I-E-I-O," Kash had become overly excited and wet the boards. No one seemed to notice, thus setting the stage—literally—for Trisha Puckett and her unicycle. Trisha, sixteen, skidded four feet before crashing in full view of the audience. Only her dignity had been seriously hurt, but her parents, Edina and Clayton Puckett, were threatening to sue Oren and Sunny Rhodes. Naturally, _The_ _Advocate_ would say nothing until formal charges had been filed.
The disaster would never have occurred, argued Pageant Chairman Stilts Cederberg, if the contestants had stuck to the rules that banned the use of wheels.
"Wheels?" I asked, somewhat dazed.
"Wheels," Vida responded firmly. "The rule was originally made for musical instruments. In the old days, some of the contestants played tunes on mill machinery. You know, band saws, donkey engines, re-covered oil drums. Back in 'forty-five, Veda Kay MacAvoy won for her rendition of 'The White Cliffs of Dover' on the original mill whistle."
"On wheels?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face.
"No, of course not. Why would you put the mill whistle on wheels? It was the handcar that was a problem that year. The Gustavson twins stole it from the railroad tracks, and it flew off the stage and landed in the audience while they were singing 'Tea for Two.' Millard O'Toole suffered three fractured ribs, and Mrs. Pidduck's glasses got broken." Looking severe, Vida returned to her typewriter.
The rest of the day was uneventful. Over the phone, I interviewed a state official in Olympia about the latest plan for selective logging, talked to Mayor Fuzzy Baugh concerning his new antilitter program, and spent almost half an hour listening to a highway department engineer drone on about the problems involved in resurfacing the road to the Icicle Creek campground. Shortly before five, I found myself staring at the WNPA invitation. The deadline for registration was May 21, a week away. I had seven days to jitter and dither.
Putting the information aside, I grimaced. My brother, Ben, had problems making decisions. His indecisiveness irked me. But I was no better. Indeed, I often excused my own waffling on the grounds that journalists aren't supposed to take sides, except on the editorial page. I grimaced some more. This wasn't politics or a social issue or a matter of morality—this was my life. I was Emma Lord: forty-two years old, five-foot-four, brown haired, brown eyed, passably good-looking, reasonably intelligent, a mother, a journalist, a homeowner, a university graduate, a Roman Catholic, a Democrat, a voting resident of Alpine, Washington, Skykomish County. And I couldn't make up my mind about going to Lake Chelan. I turned off my word processor and decided to go home.
Vida was standing by her desk, adjusting her gold straw hat with its matching gold piping on the brim. It was new, and looked ridiculous, though no more so than most of Vida's headgear. She was gazing into a small mirror affixed to the door of her filing cabinet.
"I got this through a catalogue," she said. "Isn't it smart?" I was chasing an answer when she went on talking. "Tommy called. You were on the phone, so I took it."
I gaped at Vida. She was the only person I knew who dared to call Tom Cavanaugh "Tommy." "Tom called? Today?"
Satisfied with the set of her straw hat, Vida gave me a nonchalant look. "You were on the phone with that long-winded engineer. Tommy just bought a newspaper in the San Fernando Valley. His daughter auditioned this week for a part in a play. His son wants to join a soccer team in Europe. Sandra robbed a bank." Vida reached for her worn alligator handbag and a copy of _The Seattle Times_. "Are you going to pick me up or shall I walk? The Campbells live only three blocks from my house."
"Vida!" I was leaning on Ed's desk, gritting my teeth. "I haven't talked to Tom since February! Why didn't you tell me he called?"
Digging into her purse, Vida pulled out her car keys. "You were busy," she answered reasonably. "Besides, he had to go someplace. The Pacific Union Club? Something like that. And visit Sandra. She's been institutionalized again. The robbery, you know."
I didn't know who to feel sorry for: Tom, Sandra—or me. While Tom's wife had been involved in a number of shoplifting incidents, bank robbery was new. I could hardly believe it. In fact, I didn't.
"Vida—are you talking armed and dangerous? When did this happen? Where? What did Tom say?"
Vida had started for the door. Over her shoulder, she threw me a faintly exasperated look. "I didn't ask for details, Emma. You know I don't like to pry. Besides, Ginny was signaling that Ellie Pierce from the Burl Creek Thimble Club was on line three. They had their annual election last night."
I let Vida go. But before she pulled her big Buick away from the curb, I ran after her, shouting that I'd pick her up at five to seven. She gave a toot of her horn in acknowledgment and headed up Fourth Street toward her home on Cascade.
In the sanctuary of my log house, I considered calling Tom. But Vida had said he was going out. I'd wait until morning. The rates would still be down, and it sounded as if he were alone in his handsome brick mansion high above the bay. Or so I imagined it, never having seen the place.
But I had seen the Campbell house, many times. I hadn't, however, assigned an owner to the big, three-story white home on the corner of Seventh and Tyee. A white picket fence, a wraparound porch, and a widow's walk lent a gracious New England air. The garden was abloom with azaleas, rhododendrons, mountain laurel, wallflowers, Dutch iris, and tulips.
Jean Campbell greeted us warmly. She was a big woman, as tall as Vida, but heavier without being fat. Her graying brown hair was swept back into a french roll with little wispy curls dancing at her high forehead and smooth temples. In her sensible two-inch heels, she was almost a head taller than her husband.
"We're having London broil," she announced. "Safeway had a special on flank steak. I saw it in _The Advocate."_ She gave me a big smile, showing off the slight gap between her front teeth. "Come, sit, we'll have a drink while we wait for the poor working stiffs. Shane had a late delivery of the Tolbergs' new gas range, and Todd got tied up at the PUD."
Jean Campbell's idea of a drink was sparkling cider, which was fine with me and appropriate to the family's standing as staunch Presbyterians. I had considered having a bourbon and water when I got home, but didn't want to show up at the Campbells' reeking of alcohol and thus perpetuating the myth that all Catholics are die-hard drunks.
If many Alpiners are prejudiced against people of color, they also have some pretty strange notions about other religions. While the Scandinavian Lutherans dominate the local population, I'm aware that Baptists don't trust Methodists, Congregationalists look askance at the Pentecostals, and everybody thinks the Episcopalians are almost as strange as the Catholics. I keep waiting for somebody to figure out that Carla is a Jew.
Cyndi Campbell was the first of the younger set to appear. She greeted Vida and me with subdued enthusiasm. A pretty young woman with her father's fair coloring and naturally pink cheeks, Cyndi wore a tan tunic top over a matching crocheted skirt. To my surprise, she smoked like a chimney. I envied her, having quit shortly before buying _The Alpine Advocate_. I was sure I'd made the right decision about the newspaper; I wasn't sure I should have given up the cigarettes.
"How long have you been at the PUD?" I asked, in an effort to make conversation and to avoid snatching the pack out of her small, graceful hands.
"Three years," Cyndi replied, crossing her legs under the short skirt and exhaling deeply. "I went to Shoreline Community College in north Seattle for a couple of years and got my associate of arts degree. I tried the UDUB for two quarters, but it didn't feel right. Too big." She exhaled some more.
I gave Cyndi a sympathetic smile. "It can seem that way, if you're not used to crowds. You like living in Alpine, I take it?"
Cyndi's green eyes darted from father to mother. "I guess. Seattle's too big. I visited on weekends while Shane was living there. I thought I might like it better when I wasn't going to school, but I didn't. Still, I wouldn't mind living in a bigger town than Alpine—like Bellingham or Everett." Her attitude suggested she was throwing out a challenge to her parents.
Jean Campbell's response was to head for the kitchen. "The flank steak ought to be marinated by now," she said, over her shoulder. "Fifteen minutes until dinner." I gathered she had paused in the hallway, perhaps to call upstairs. "Shane! Are you up there? Come down, have some cider! Marilynn?"
But no one appeared. The aroma of garlic wafted into the comfortable living room with its pink flowered drapes and matching sofa. Vida was ogling the Oriental rugs. Her expression was a mixture of admiration and envy. Lloyd Campbell tossed a travel brochure at her.
"Spain," he said. "We're thinking of going there this fall."
"Spain," Vida repeated, tearing her eyes off the carpeting. "My daughters insisted I go. It's very hot. Sort of like an old Montana in the summer."
Lloyd didn't seem discouraged. "Scads of history, though. Art, too. And I hear the beaches are terrific. We went to England and France six years ago."
Scanning the brochure, Vida nodded. "I know. I did the story after you got back. The English were stuffy and the French were rude. But you liked Oxford and the Loire Valley." She tossed the brochure back to Lloyd. "Who doesn't? It's criminal to hate either of them. Why don't you go to Italy instead of Spain? Rome is fascinating and Florence has all sorts of art treasures."
But Lloyd shook his head. "Too many Catholics. You know, the Vatican, and all those priests." He glanced at me and flushed. "Sorry, Emma, but I hear those people over there aren't like Americans. It's different."
"That's probably because it's Europe." My tone was dry.
We were saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of Wendy and Todd Wilson. Wendy was taller than her sister, not quite as pretty, but more outgoing. Her dark blonde hair hung in a carelessly combed pageboy; the hem of her blue wrap skirt was uneven; her navy jacket was draped at an odd angle. Her clothes looked expensive, yet everything about Wendy Campbell Wilson seemed off balance. She almost tripped over the magazine rack that stood next to the flowered sofa.
"Well!" Wendy lunged first at Vida, then at me. "Surprise! Mom said we were having unexpected company. Vida, do you remember the wedding story you wrote about us? You said I wore a borrowed blue _farter."_ Wendy threw back her head and laughed in a gusty manner.
Vida drew back, her eyes narrowed. "I got my bifocals that week. I couldn't read proof properly." She shifted her gaze in my direction, as if daring me to make an untoward comment.
Todd Wilson had slumped into a rose-colored armchair. "God, Wendy," he said, in a tired voice, "you women remember the damnedest things! That was seven years ago."
His wife gave him a sharp glance. "Eight, come June. I'll bet you don't even remember which day."
Todd didn't contradict Wendy. "I don't remember yesterday. Life at the PUD wipes out my memory. It wipes me out, too. That wind last weekend knocked down a bunch of branches on the line to the fish hatchery. I spent all afternoon sawing down trees and trying not to deck that mouthy guy from the State Fisheries Department." Todd's close-set brown eyes traveled across the room to his sister-in-law. "Was today a bitch or was it not, Cyndi?"
Cyndi let her head loll back on the sofa. "It always is. The middle of the month, all those cutoff dates for the deadbeats. I get tired of answering the phone and listening to their excuses. They won't wait until I can connect them to Danielle in credit."
"Not them." Todd waved a freckled hand in dismissal. He was a pleasant-looking fellow in his midthirties, with wavy brown hair highlighted by hints of red. His forehead, however, was prematurely creased. "I mean the complaints about the water-shortage surcharge. We either got water or we don't. This year's not as bad as last, but you'd think we were personally responsible for the lack of rain. Hell, this last February was the driest on record for—"
Todd's complaint was cut short by the appearance of Shane Campbell, now wearing blue jeans and a pale blue shirt. He greeted us all with a diffident wave, then went directly to the kitchen. I saw Wendy's gaze follow her brother out of the room. She didn't look pleased.
"Shane should go back to Seattle," she declared. "He's the perfect example of the you-can't-go-home-again syndrome."
"Shut up," snapped Cyndi. "Shane's doing fine. He's waiting for Fred Meyer."
Wendy leaned forward in the white leather club chair, all traces of her earlier good humor gone. "You shut up, Cyndi. Why do you and Shane always take sides against me? I'm only thinking about what's best for him. You haven't thought about anybody but yourself since the day you were born."
In his recliner next to the fireplace, Lloyd Campbell chuckled. "Come on, kids, knock it off. We've got company." He turned his genial face to Vida and me. "Siblings. They never get over squabbling. What about your three girls, Vida?"
Vida considered. "They debate. They also live in different towns. That helps."
Lloyd inclined his head, conceding the point. Before he could ask for my opinion, Jean returned from the kitchen. "We're almost ready," she said, a bit breathlessly. "Shane is watching the meat. Would anyone care for more sparkling cider?"
"More?" Todd made a face. "Wendy and I haven't had _any_. You got a beer? I've had a hell of a day."
Jean frowned at her son-in-law, but Lloyd got up from his recliner. "Believe it or not, Todd, I have a six-pack stashed away in the woodshed. I was saving it for a fishing trip."
Moments later, Todd Wilson was caressing his can of beer as if it were a family pet. His wife ignored him. His sister-in-law looked envious. Lloyd Campbell made another trip into the kitchen and disappeared. I wondered if he'd liberated a second beer for himself and was drinking it in the backyard.
Our hostess could be seen through the French doors that separated the living room from the dining room. Jean had brought out two serving bowls; she returned with a bread basket; on the third trip, she carried a large platter.
"Dinner," she called, then went back into the kitchen.
Wendy led us into the dining room with its solid oak table and chairs, a big breakfront jammed with china, and a buffet decorated with a pair of brass candlesticks and a bouquet of tulips.
Swiftly, I counted the place settings. There were nine. Eight of us had already shown up. Marilynn Lewis was missing. Shane carried in a big bowl of salad; Jean brought a ladle for the gravy. We were still in the act of sitting down when we heard the sirens.
Vida craned her neck in the direction of the double window that looked out onto Seventh Street. It was still broad daylight. "That's the sheriff," she said.
Lloyd eased himself into his chair at the head of the table. "Probably a wreck out there at the four-way stop. Damned fools come tearing down First Hill Road and don't bother to see if anybody's coming off Highway 187. Kids, I'll bet." He passed the potatoes to Wendy on his left.
Wendy pursed her lips. "We need a real traffic light there. We've had two assemblies on traffic safety already this year at the high school, but nobody listens. Drivers' ed, yes—that works pretty well. But not everybody takes it..."
Her voice trailed off as another siren sounded nearby. "Ambulance," said Vida, taking the meat platter from Shane. Her eyes flickered around the table, lighting on the vacant chair between Cyndi and Todd. "Where's Marilynn?"
The question had been on my mind ever since we arrived half an hour earlier. Glances seemed to fly around the table: Lloyd at Jean, Jean at Shane, Shane at Cyndi, Cyndi at both Wendy and Todd.
It was Shane who finally spoke. "She was going to be late. She said not to wait for her."
Wendy gave a little snort. "Well, we didn't." She spooned green beans onto her plate.
The awkward lull that ensued was broken by Jean Campbell, who urged us not to skimp on the meat. "It isn't often that flank steak's on special, so I always get plenty of it. And I hate having leftovers. Lloyd won't eat them." She gave her husband a benevolent smile.
The mood seemed to relax, though I noticed that Vida was leaning back in her chair, as if listening for further action from outside.
Apparently, Lloyd also noticed her attitude. "You should have brought your camera, Vida. Front-page car crashes always get readers' attention, I'll bet."
But Vida shook her head. "Those sirens didn't go all the way to the intersection. In fact, they didn't even go past your house. It sounded to me as if they stopped a couple of blocks up Spruce."
Spruce was the next east-west artery, between Tyee and my own street, Fir. It went past the high school field before petering out at Highway 187 and First Hill Road. I felt a wave of uneasiness creep over me. I didn't know why.
No one argued with Vida's pronouncement about the sirens, Instead, Wendy began to talk about the essays her American lit students had handed in that day. Her parents wore interested expressions; her siblings looked bored; her husband left the dining room, possibly searching for his father-in-law's stash of beer.
"They can't get it through their heads that science fiction isn't literature. Neither are romances or spy stories or those thrillers that make your hair stand on end." Wendy was pontificating, using her fork for emphasis. "I'm not asking them to read Hawthorne or Henry James—I'd settle for Hemingway, even J. D. Salinger. I had one kid who turned in a paper on a comic book version of _Call of the Wild!"_
Jean Campbell wore a look of concern. "Salinger? I remember when you and Shane and Cyndi read his book. It was awfully frank. I don't think Hemingway is suitable, either. What's wrong with Sir Walter Scott and Louisa May Alcott?"
"The smokers' grocery." It was Vida who spoke, tapping her fingers on the linen tablecloth.
Everyone, including Todd, who had returned from the kitchen beerless, stared at Vida.
"The what?" asked Jean, diverted from her diatribe against immoral literature.
"That little store across from the high school," Vida explained. "You know, where the students go to smoke. And do heaven knows what else these days." Her face puckered in disapproval.
Wendy buttered a chunk of sourdough bread. "They don't go there anymore except to buy candy and pop. After old Mr. Whipp retired, his son cleaned the place up. That's probably why he's going broke."
Shane was looking out the window, though there was nothing to see except the backyard and a large blue house across the alley. Dark clouds were moving in over the mountains. Our fine spring weather seemed about to break. "Do you suppose the store got robbed?" Shane asked in an apprehensive voice.
Lloyd Campbell chuckled. "You've spent too much time in Seattle, son. We haven't had a real robbery in Alpine since the 7-Eleven got held up three years ago. Even then, the robbers were from Everett."
"A robber wouldn't get much from Marlow Whipp," Wendy asserted with authority. "I go in there once in a while to buy gum or a can of diet pop, and there's never anybody around. I'd guess he loses as much to the kids who shoplift as he makes off the ones who pay."
Jean Campbell was pressing more food on all of us. Her forehead creased as she offered Vida a second chance at the potatoes. "I hope Marlow hasn't had a heart attack. He's not a kid anymore. We went to school together. He was always nice, rather quiet, and not much of a scholar. He couldn't spell, and he was even worse at math. I wonder how he manages to keep his accounts straight."
"Math!" Vida sniffed. "As I recall, Marlow flunked shop twice. No mechanical aptitude. Still, he may be dumb as a bag of sawdust, but he comes from sturdy stock. His parents are still alive and kicking. Reva Whipp got a new knee this morning, and she's well over eighty."
"Vida and I were in school together," said Lloyd Campbell, giving me a wink. "Of course she was a couple of years ahead of me."
"Light-years," snapped Vida, "in more ways than one."
Everyone laughed, though not without a trace of awkwardness. The Campbell family wasn't as accustomed as I was to Vida's tart tongue.
We all grew silent as the front door opened. My eyes watched the doorway into the long hall that led from the living room, past the dining room, and on into the kitchen. A moment later, a dream came walking out of Africa. Shane Campbell looked as if he were awed by the sight, and I couldn't blame him. Marilynn Lewis wasn't merely young, slim, and pretty, as Carla had mentioned. She was dazzling, with classic high cheekbones, wide-set limpid brown eyes, and sculpted features that might have adorned royalty from Ethiopia. I thought of the Queen of Sheba, of Aïda, of all the goddesses I'd seen portrayed in African art exhibits over the years. She moved with grace; she dominated the room. Yet it struck me that she was scared to death.
"I'm so sorry," she apologized breathlessly, pushing her heavy dark hair away from her face. "I had to look at an apartment in that building across from the clinic." She sat down between Cyndi and Todd.
Lloyd introduced Vida and me to Marilynn Lewis. Her smile was charming, if tremulous. Jean urged her to eat, then asked if she liked the apartment.
Marilynn frowned as she speared a slice of London broil. "It's an old building, you know, but it's certainly convenient since I don't have a car. I told the manager I'd consider it." She kept her brown eyes on her plate.
Vida finally leaned forward in her chair. "The manager? Isn't that Dolph Terrill? He's a nincompoop, Marilynn. Don't agree to his first offer. He won't remember what he said, and it will be too expensive anyway. Dolph doesn't do a thing to keep that place up. He's lazy and drinks too much."
Over the bowl of green beans, Marilynn gave Vida a shy, nervous look. "Mr. Terrill drinks? Maybe that's why he seemed... odd."
"Odd!" Vida tossed her head, almost losing her straw hat in the process. "Pay no attention to anything he says. There aren't that many apartments available in Alpine, so you have to take what you can get, but you don't have to take it at Dolph Terrill's first price. Do you want me to talk sense into him?"
Marilynn's face relaxed a bit. It was clear that she was surprised by Vida's offer. "That's awfully nice of you, Mrs.... Runkel, is it? You know Mr. Terrill well?"
"Certainly," Vida replied. "I used to baby-sit him. He was a horror even then. You wouldn't believe what I caught him doing to the family collie. Her name was Venus. Do I need to say more?" Vida's gray-eyed gaze ran darkly around the table. Everyone but Todd looked away.
"Say, Marilynn," Lloyd put in to mercifully change the subject, "you didn't happen to walk home on Spruce Street, did you?"
Marilynn frowned some more. "No, I came up Tyee. Spruce is the next block over, isn't it? That would have been out of my way."
"Of course it would," Lloyd replied in his genial voice. "I just wondered. We think there's been some kind of ruckus over on Spruce. Sirens and such. You hear them?"
Marilynn considered. "Maybe. I heard the train whistling. I don't remember. I was thinking about the apartment."
Vida got to her feet, straightening her straw hat in the process. "Excuse me. I can't stand it another minute. I'm going over to Spruce and see what's going on." She glared at me in reproach. "Newspaper people have to keep abreast of current events. They owe it to their readers. Are you coming, Emma?"
Not for the first time did I feel as if our roles were reversed. I might be the editor and publisher, but Vida was the heart and soul of _The Alpine Advocate_. Her nose for news was as great as her natural curiosity. Indeed, they walked arm-in-arm through the streets of Alpine. Feeling rebuked, I also got to my feet.
"Vida's right," I said in an apologetic voice. "We ought to at least check out what's happening. We'll be right back."
Jean Campbell's voice floated behind us: "I'll hold off on dessert. It's cherry cheesecake."
Going down the front walk, Vida announced that it would be faster to go on foot than to take my car. The threat of rain didn't deter her in the least. "Unless I'm crazy, those sirens stopped less than two blocks away." She marched ahead of me in her splayfooted manner. "They haven't left yet. If they had, we'd have heard the sirens again."
As usual, Vida was right. The city's only ambulance, along with one of the four county sheriff's cars, was parked in front of the Spruce Street Grocery. I also recognized Milo Dodge's Cherokee Chief. Whatever had happened was important enough to take the sheriff away from his official off-duty hours.
Marlow Whipp was out on the sidewalk, talking earnestly with Milo and Deputy Bill Blatt, Vida's nephew. Several neighbors were also there, exchanging apprehensive remarks. At least a dozen perspiring teenagers carrying track shoes were craning for a better look. Vida was heading straight for Bill Blatt when the ambulance attendants and another deputy, Dwight Gould, emerged from the little grocery story with a stretcher. It was covered with black canvas. I suppressed a small groan.
Milo saw us, but kept talking to Bill Blatt and Marlow Whipp. Vida, however, was undaunted.
"Well?" she demanded, seizing her nephew by the collar of his regulation jacket. "What happened? Who's that?" She gestured at the covered stretcher, which was now being wheeled past us to the ambulance.
It was Marlow who answered, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I never saw him before. I swear it." Marlow Whipp was a small man, in his midfifties, with faded brown hair and protuberant blue eyes, which now appeared dazed. "He came into the store, tried to say something, and collapsed. Honest to God!"
Milo Dodge put a hand on Marlow's shoulder. "It's okay, relax. Go inside and sit down. But don't touch anything." Realizing the ambiguity of his words, Milo grabbed Marlow more firmly. "On second thought, Dwight'll drive you down to the office. We'll get a statement and make you some coffee."
The ambulance doors were closed; Marlow Whipp was led away by Dwight Gould. With an apologetic look for his aunt, Bill Blatt followed his fellow deputy to the squad car. Milo Dodge pulled out a red bandanna handkerchief and blew his nose.
"Damned allergies," he muttered, as the first drops of rain began to fall. "Doc Dewey says it's the cottonwoods. I never used to have any problems."
"Your system changes every seven years," Vida responded, somewhat crossly. "Now what on earth's going on, Milo? Was that person dead?"
The ambulance pulled away from the curb, but at legal speed. The siren didn't go on; the lights didn't flash. Vida's question was answered. Several of the onlookers shook their heads. Most of the high school athletes began to drift away.
Milo stuffed the handkerchief back in the pocket of his tan pants. "The deceased wasn't a local," he said in his laconic voice. "According to Marlow Whipp, he came into the grocery store just before closing, about five to seven. He tried to say something, and then collapsed." Never a fast talker, Milo slowed to a snail's pace. The little cluster of neighbors drew closer. "His name is Kelvin Greene, from Seattle. He was twenty-seven years old and lived somewhere out in the Rainier Valley area. It looks as if he was shot in the head." Milo's long face wore a disgusted look. "Marlow called us. Marlow swears he didn't shoot him, though he keeps a gun under the counter. Kelvin died before the ambulance could get here. He was black. Any more questions, or can I get the hell out of here and do my job?"
# Chapter Four
VIDA AND I were torn. We both felt the professional urge to follow Milo to his office, but we had to consider our social obligations, too. We reasoned that since the paper wasn't due out again until Wednesday and the sheriff would prefer that we make ourselves scarce until he had control of this latest tragedy, we might as well go back to the Campbells' and eat dessert.
"When in doubt, eat cheesecake," Vida asserted as we briskly walked away from Marlow Whipp's little store. Though her words were flippant, her face was grim.
The rain was coming down quite hard by the time we reached our destination. Jean Campbell, looking worried, met us at the door. "What's happening?" she asked as we shook off raindrops and stamped our feet on the welcome mat.
"There's been a shooting," Vida replied, heading for the dining room. She paused at the foot of the table by Jean's vacant chair. Her gray eyes skimmed the other diners. Perhaps I imagined that her glance lingered just a trifle over-long on Marilynn Lewis. "It's no one we know. We might as well enjoy that delicious cheesecake."
We did, though naturally the others pressed us for details. As ever, Vida was regarded as the source of all knowledge. Only Marilynn, another outsider, fixed her curious gaze on me.
"I thought small towns were supposed to be quiet," she murmured at me behind Cyndi's back. "Does this kind of violence happen very often?"
Vida had honed her hearing on whispered comments during roll call at social clubs, on discreet remarks four rows away at high school band concerts, on breathless seduction attempts at cocktail parties. Even across the table, her keen ears caught Marilynn's words. Vida shot me a warning glance.
"Well," I mumbled, "Alpine has its share of... problems. People are people, after all. Sometimes they go haywire."
Marilynn's beautiful face remained troubled. "But who was killed? I mean, if it's no one we know, it's still _somebody."_
Vida turned away from her tête-à-tête with Shane. "The sheriff will release the name of the victim in due course. Right now, he doesn't know any details. That's why Emma and I came back here." She shrugged her wide shoulders. "There's no real news yet."
At the other end of the table, Lloyd Campbell was passing sugar and cream for coffee. "That's the trouble—we push for growth to pump up the economy, but when newcomers move in, there's often trouble. It seems to me we don't know what we're asking for."
"Lloyd!" Jean's voice was low and sharp. Her eyes darted in Marilynn's direction.
Lloyd blanched. "Oh, good Godfrey, Jean, you know I don't mean Marilynn here. Or Emma," he added, smiling sheepishly at both of us. My inclusion, I felt, was a nice touch. Consciously or otherwise, it was as if Lloyd were making the point that strangers come in all hues. "I mean all the riffraff that drifts in and out of a town like Alpine. It always has. Look how the hoboes used to ride the rails through here in the Twenties and Thirties."
"Goodness," Jean laughed, her manner a bit stilted, "that was before _my_ time! Speak for yourself, Lloyd."
"I remember," Vida declared. "I was a small child during the Depression, but I certainly recall how my father and some of the other men kept an eye out for any vacant buildings where the hoboes might move in and start a fire. We were always so afraid of fire—especially in the forest. There just wasn't the means to fight a blaze in those days."
The conversation eased forward along the lines of danger, progress, and rumors of a new bond issue to increase the size of Skykomish County's emergency facilities. By the time we had finished dessert and moved back into the living room, we were once again on safe ground. Wendy had resumed airing her complaints about teenage illiteracy; Lloyd expounded on the wonders of high-definition TV, which he insisted was just around the corner; Cyndi critiqued the romantic comedy playing at the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre; Todd asked Shane if he'd like to go fly-fishing on Sunday up at Surprise Lake; Jean and Vida discussed Pastor Purebeck's stance on marital infidelity that, happily, did not include any hanky-panky on their minister's part, but did display a surprisingly broad-minded attitude. At least for a Presbyterian. Or so it seemed to me. But then I had my own set of prejudices.
"I'm a Methodist," Marilynn Lewis confided. "I haven't been to church since I got here, but I understand the local minister is very respected. I've heard that from some of Dr. Flake and Dr. Dewey's patients."
I'd met the Reverend Minton Phelps on several occasions, and he seemed both respected and respectable. At least he hadn't dropped his pants in public, which was more than could be said for the previous Pentecostal minister—who had done just that shortly before I arrived in Alpine. My perverse, puckish sense of humor dictated that I relate the incident to Marilynn, who laughed merrily at the anecdote, some of which I made up since I hadn't been an eyewitness.
"Really, Ms. Lord," she said, still giggling, "I think I'm going to like it here in Alpine. I've met several awfully nice people." Abruptly, she sobered and lowered her dark eyes. "Of course, there are some jerks, too. But that's true everywhere, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so." I, too, had turned serious. "You mustn't mind them. In some ways, this town is kind of backward: Isolated. Ingrown. Some of the locals need educating. And call me Emma."
Marilynn's smile resurfaced, though it was a little lopsided. "You aren't from here, either, I guess."
"No." Briefly, I recounted my history. Born and raised in Seattle, three years at the University of Washington, an internship at _The Times_ , a journalism degree from the University of Oregon, eighteen years in Portland on _The Oregonian_. Parents killed in an auto accident, brother a priest in Arizona, son a student in Alaska. I omitted the part about my married lover and my unmarried pregnancy.
Marilynn reciprocated. She had been born in Oakland, but her family had moved to Seattle just before she entered high school. Her father was dead; her mother had remarried and moved back to California. After graduating from the UDUB's School of Nursing, she had gone to work at Virginia Mason Hospital. Four years later, she had decided she needed a change, both personally and professionally. I had the feeling she had omitted something, too.
"It's an adjustment," I said, referring to small-town life. "I still miss the city in many ways."
Marilynn nodded. "I do, too. I think." Her gaze traveled around the living room, taking in the Campbell family and Vida, who was regaling Wendy and Jean with an account of last year's Memorial Day ceremonies wherein Crazy Eights Neffel had decorated the town's World War I monument with balloon animals. Shane was at the window, peering into the rain. He struck me as edgy, especially when a solicitous Cyndi approached him from behind, and made him jump. "The first few weeks are the hardest, I suppose," Marilynn remarked, her forehead creasing.
I waited for her to go on, but she didn't. "People in Alpine have to adjust, too," I said, hoping my voice was compassionate. "They're not used to minorities living here."
Marilynn's eyes narrowed for just an instant. "No. But they don't have to be so mean. You heard about the crow? And the letters?"
Relieved that she had finally broached the subject, I nodded. "I get to hear just about everything in my line of work. Naturally, I'm appalled. But I can't say I'm surprised. You have no idea who sent them?"
"No." She stared down at the glass-topped coffee table. "I've met quite a few people already. You do, in a doctor's office. But they seemed... okay. Oh, some of them looked shocked when they walked in and saw me the first couple of days." Suddenly, she laughed. "I felt like wearing a sign that read, 'Yes, I'm a person of color. No, you're not.' It's kind of weird, being an object of curiosity. And fear."
"Fear," I echoed. "Yes, you're right. It _is_ fear. Irrational, but it's there."
Marilynn's laughter faded. "It's ridiculous," she declared, sounding quite severe. "What on earth is there to be afraid of?"
"Nothing," I replied. Naturally, I meant it. And, of course, I was wrong.
Vida and I left the Campbell house just before nine. As I expected, she insisted that we drive down to the sheriff's office. Vida couldn't contain her curiosity another minute. Neither could I.
The rain had stopped. It was dark now, with a scattering of stars above the mountain ridges that ringed the town. Milo Dodge, Bill Blatt, and Dwight Gould were on the job as expected. Doc Dewey had joined them, in his capacity as the Skykomish County coroner. The body, I assumed, had been taken to the morgue, which was located in the basement of Alpine Community Hospital.
"... Fio Rito, down in Kittitas County, outside of Ellensburg," Doc Dewey was saying as he poured his apparently cold coffee onto an artificial fern. "I took my brother-in-law from Seattle there for opening day, and we did all right."
Dwight Gould was shaking his head. "You got to go farther than that for any real fishing. I'm heading up north to British Columbia in August. We'll camp out, and you'd better believe I'll come back with so many trout you guys'll..." Dwight stopped, his square face looking vaguely embarrassed. "Hi, Mrs. Runkel, Mrs. Lord. We're just winding down."
"Well, wind up," Vida demanded. "What's going on? Have you got any information about the victim, or are you four fools just trading fish stories?"
Milo, who had his feet up on his metal desk, reached for a computer printout. "Simmer down, Vida. We're doing our job. This Kelvin guy was a doper, at least he'd been picked up for dealing. I figure he came here to corrupt the locals. Seattle's getting too crowded."
Vida made an impatient gesture with her hand. "The locals are already corrupt enough without having outsiders help them along. As long as you've got an Elks Club, you're going to have corruption. Now tell us the real reason he came to Alpine."
Milo—and his deputies—looked blank. "Hell, Vida," Milo replied, passing a weary hand over his high forehead, "how do we know? Maybe he was just passing through. We haven't started our investigation. Doc here has to do an autopsy."
Vida turned to Gerald Dewey, whose round face evinced ignorance—or was it innocence? I had the feeling that our law enforcement and medical officials weren't exactly falling all over themselves to figure out who had killed Kelvin Greene. The assumption was disturbing.
"Well?" Vida had her fists on her hips. "What are you waiting for, Gerry? Did you freeze-dry the corpse so you could natter away with Milo and his merry band of lamebrained men?" She whirled around to fix her nephew with a withering stare. "This man was shot. What kind of bullet? What sort of gun? When? Where? Who? The press—and the public—needs to know."
"Shit." Milo removed his feet from the desk. He looked at Doc Dewey. "Do your stuff, Doc. Lois Lane here is about to make us crazy."
Vida snorted. Doc Dewey headed for the exit. "Your father wouldn't have been so negligent," she called after him. "Doc Dewey Senior was an admirable man."
Milo was now standing up. "It's after nine," he announced. "I'll start my questioning in the morning." With his jaw set, he gazed first at me, then at Vida. "Given the ethnic roots of the victim, we'll begin with Marilynn Lewis."
I had a sudden urge to pour cold coffee over Milo.
It's rare that I have a weekend all to myself. News is made seven days a week. If Vida and Carla can't cover events on Saturdays or Sundays, I take over. On this third weekend of May, the Lutheran church was holding its annual Spring Food and Fun Festival, which required Vida's attendance. She was also going to Axel Swensen's funeral in the morning. Carla was scheduled to take pictures of the high school baseball game between Alpine and Sultan. I assigned myself the task of keeping tabs on Milo Dodge and the murder investigation.
Figuring that it would take Milo until midmorning to come up with anything substantial, I used the time to clean house. I was vacuuming the living room when I thought I heard the phone ring. I picked up the receiver just before the call was switched over to my answering machine.
My voice was breathless when I said hello; it didn't get any better when I heard who was at the other end.
"Well, hello there, Emma," said Tom Cavanaugh in his usual mellow tones. "I thought you might be outside working in your yard."
"I should be," I replied, sitting down with a plop on the chair next to my desk. "I'm housecleaning." I giggled. I could have strangled myself.
"Adam called this morning," Tom said. "He may be flying down to the Bay Area for a few days after school gets out."
I stopped giggling. I felt my face take on a stern expression. I still wasn't used to sharing Adam. "That's up to him. He likes San Francisco." I knew my voice had turned stiff.
"Most people do," Tom said, sounding not quite as casual as usual. "I'll be able to take some time off to show him around. He'd probably like to stay down at Fisherman's Wharf again."
I bit back the urge to ask why Tom didn't invite him to bed down in one of what I assumed to be a plethora of spare rooms at the Cavanaugh mansion. Adam had not yet met his half siblings. I figured Tom hadn't broken the news to them that he had another child.
"Adam finishes up just before the Memorial Day weekend," I noted, trying to relax. "I expect you'll have plenty of leeway before you head up here for the conference at Lake Chelan."
"Definitely," Tom assured me. "I don't plan on coming until the day before it starts. Are you attending?"
Hearing the new formal note in his voice, I bristled. "I doubt it. It's a busy time. Maybe I'll send Ed Bronsky."
The slight pause at the other end evoked a mental picture of Tom on the verge of delivering a flippant barb, but thinking better of it. "Ed could use some helpful hints. Maybe he and I could have a drink together."
"How thoughtful." Now I'd sunk to sarcasm. I literally kicked myself. "I mean, it probably won't do any good. Ed's a mess."
"Then why are you sending him?" Tom sounded reasonable, but I knew better.
"It'd make more sense to send Ginny Burmeister," I replied, and realized that was true.
"The conference isn't aimed at underlings, Emma." Tom also could be stem.
"Well... I've got almost a week to think about it." I shrugged, obviously for my own sake rather than Tom's. It was time to move away from the hostile topic of the WNPA. "How's everything going down there?"
"Terrific," Tom answered. "The kids are fine, Sandra's great, business is booming. How about Alpine?"
"Wonderful," I replied. "I get to like this town more every day. The people are so warm and friendly, and after a rocky first quarter, the economy is really roaring now that spring is here." I, too, could lie through my teeth.
"It sounds like you've found a real niche for yourself." Tom's voice held no expression. "I'll have Adam call you when he gets here. _If_ he gets here."
"Thanks." Wildly, I cast around for a way to keep Tom on the line while still saving face. "Are you flying up?" The question was idiotic. How else would a wealthy newspaper magnate cover the seven-hundred-plus miles between San Francisco and Alpine? "I mean, into Sea-Tac—or...?" Where? I didn't have the foggiest idea if there was an airport at Lake Chelan. A real airport, as opposed to a landing field.... My brain was disintegrating before its time.
"I'm driving," Tom replied, and I thought I caught the hint of amusement in his words. "I own a couple of weeklies in northern California and one in central Oregon. I haven't called on any of them in almost a year. It should be a nice trip. I can do it in three days if my local folks don't present me with any big problems."
I thought of Tom, driving alone through the rolling farmland north of the Bay Area, on to the Siskiyou Mountains, and across the high desert country of central Oregon. He was right—it would be a wonderful trip. It would be even better if I were with him....
"I miss Oregon," I said. "It was home for almost twenty years."
"Take a vacation down there," Tom suggested, his voice again casual before it dropped an octave: "Give yourself a break, Emma. Life's too short."
"I know." I sounded wispy.
"I've got to go. I'll see you, kid."
"Right. Bye."
_He'd see me_. Did Tom mean that literally? I hoped so. I thought not. I kicked myself again.
"She's lying," Milo Dodge stated flatly. "I'd bet my badge that Marilynn Lewis knew Kelvin Greene."
I grimaced at Milo over my schooner of beer. The sheriff was officially off duty, and therefore entitled to drink himself stupid, if he wanted to. Fortunately, Milo doesn't do that very often. "You're jumping to conclusions," I said in a peevish voice. "Good grief, Milo, there are thousands of African-Americans in Seattle. They don't all know each other. Why _should_ Marilynn know this Kelvin Greene?"
Milo stifled a sneeze, then waved in a vague manner at a couple of workmen in overalls who had just entered Mugs Ahoy. "Why should Kelvin Greene come to Alpine? Face it, Emma, when was the last time a black guy came here without a backpack or a wife and kiddies? We get tourists, campers, hikers, skiers—maybe somebody on business from the state. But casual visitors who are black? I don't recall a one."
I wasn't convinced. But neither would I argue further with Milo. My eyes scanned the gloomy interior of Mugs Ahoy, where a dozen customers sat at tired tables drinking domestic beer and watching an NBA play-off game. An early Saturday afternoon doesn't bring out the best of the tavern's atmosphere. The truth is, there isn't any. But Milo had been thirsty. Autopsies, he said, had that effect on him.
"Tell me about the bullet," I said. Seeing Milo give me a quizzical look, I elaborated. "You know what I mean—the ballistics stuff. Where was he shot? With what? Where and when?"
Milo ran a big hand through his graying sandy hair. "Hell, Emma, this isn't television. We don't have any lab reports yet. Monday, I expect." He signaled to the owner, Abe Loomis, to bring another round.
Milo's beeper went off before Abe could draw our new schooners. "Damn," the sheriff muttered, waving at Abe to desist. As Milo headed for the wooden phone booth next to the rest rooms, I contemplated the decor. A generous soul might have called it minimalist; I opted for cheap. Most of the art was neon beer signs, touting local brands, including a couple of microbreweries. Two fading photographs of Alpine's early logging days hung on each side of the mirror behind the bar. A rack of elk antlers dipped crookedly over the entryway to the telephone and rest rooms. The most unusual item was on the far wall by the booths: a crosscut saw had been painted in oils, showing a tranquil mountain valley, complete with sparkling stream, cozy cabin, and a prancing pony. If such a place existed around Alpine, I'd never seen it. But the thought was nice—for a saw painting.
Milo returned at a faster gait than his usual lope. He was wiping his nose and didn't look pleased. "Your ace reporter has a hot tip. Do you want to tag along?"
"Carla? About what?" I grabbed my handbag as Milo tossed a five-dollar bill onto the grooved table.
"Not Carla. Vida." Milo gave Abe Loomis a semisalute.
"Vida's my House & Home editor," I asserted, racing to keep up with the sheriff's long strides. "Really, Milo, you ought to know the difference by..."
But Milo wasn't listening. His Cherokee Chief was parked outside in the loading zone. The afternoon was sunny and warm, with only a faint breeze stirring the curtains in the open windows of the apartment house across the street. It was, I knew, the building Marilynn Lewis had visited the previous evening. Filling the block, the Alpine Arms was four stories of sturdy, if unimaginative, brick. I guessed it was probably put up shortly after World War?.
"Where _is_ Vida?" I demanded after we were heading east on Pine Street, past the Baptist and Methodist churches, past John Engstrom Memorial Park, and past the golden arches of McDonald's. Above the town, Baldy was still covered with snow, as if to remind us that here among the mountains, we were never far from winter.
"Vida called from the funeral reception at the Lutheran church, but she said to meet her at the cemetery." Milo braked for the arterial at Pine and Highway 187. "She'd better not be having one of her harebrained ideas."
"Vida's ideas are never harebrained," I countered. "She merely thinks beyond the ordinary."
Milo didn't reply. Two minutes later, we were winding up the cemetery road. Alpine's dead are buried as they lived, on a hillside. The older section, with its elaborate granite tombstones and marble monuments, is located next to the laurel hedge that separates the graveyard from the highway. Here lie the miners, the millworkers, the movers and shakers who founded the town. Farther up are their children, with more modest markers, and a few American flags to commemorate the veterans from two World Wars, Korea, and Vietnam. High on the hill are the new burial sites for those who came to Alpine in the Age of Aquarius, and found not Paradise, but a long commute to Everett. To my surprise, it was here that Axel Swensen had been laid to rest.
Attired in a black nylon swing coat and a wide-brimmed black straw hat, Vida stood under a green canopy next to the freshly turned mound of earth. Sprays of flowers covered the ground. Vida was reading the enclosure cards.
"The Gustavsons," she murmured. "That would be Harold and Tessa. Duane and Evelyn Gustavson didn't know Axel that well." The Gustavsons, as I was aware, were somehow related to Vida. "Erdahls—lovely glads. The Petersens sent a wreath." Briskly, she straightened up. "Delphine Corson did very well off of old Axel," Vida noted, referring to the local florist and owner of Posies Unlimited. She saw my curious gaze and, as often is the case with Vida, read my mind. "Axel outlived everybody in his family. They ran out of room in the original plot. That's why he's up here."
"Right, right," Milo said, with a trace of impatience. "Now what's your big news, Vida? Emma and I left a couple of tall cold ones to haul our butts over here."
Vida pursed her lips. "Really, Milo, sometimes you're very crude. I happen to know that Emma isn't all that fond of beer."
It was true. I would have preferred a large turkey sandwich with a side of potato salad. But sometimes I have to make great sacrifices for my career in journalism. Trying not to smile, I watched Vida give Milo one last glare, then stalk over to the canopy's edge and stand by a stone marker with raised brass letters.
"Art Fremstad," Vida said, now gazing somberly at Milo. "Your late deputy."
Milo reached for his hat, realized he wasn't wearing one, and took off his sunglasses instead. "Poor Art." He stared down at the grave. Deputy Fremstad had met a violent end six years ago. He had not yet turned thirty.
Standing next to Vida, I said a silent prayer. And waited for Milo to speak. Or for Vida to make her point. The spring breeze caused Vida's lightweight coat to flutter around her thighs. She held onto her hat with one hand, then pointed at the marker with the other.
"Well? Don't you see it?"
Milo did. He bent down, peering at the headstone. I took a couple of steps to look over his shoulder. "What is it?" I asked, afraid that I could guess. "Blood?"
Vida jerked her head in assent. "I should think so. You'll need a scraping, Milo."
The sheriff bolted upright, his rear end banging into my hip in the process. "Of course I will! Damn it, Vida, you act as if I don't know my own business! Sorry, Emma." He gave me an apologetic look.
But I had turned to Vida. "Hold it—are you saying you think Kelvin Greene was shot here at the cemetery? Why?"
Vida shrugged. "I'm guessing, naturally. But the man must have been shot somewhere in the vicinity. He couldn't run very far with a bullet in his head. Where else?" Vida swept a hand at our surroundings: All I could see was the cemetery, but beyond the far reaches of the laurel hedge on the south was the high school, the football field, the track, and the handsome older homes that included the Campbell residence. To the east, the Icicle Creek development lay on the other side of Highway 187. North, across Cedar Street, was a neighborhood of more modest houses. The cemetery was a good guess, but it wasn't the only possibility. I said as much.
"The track and the football field are right across the street from Marlow Whipp's store. The shooting might have taken place there."
Vida shook her head. "No, no. Coach Ridley had his track team practicing until early evening, remember? I heard Carla mention it." She turned to Milo. "I assume you've spoken to Coach. Did he or any of the athletes see anything unusual?"
Milo didn't meet Vida's unblinking gaze. "They were just leaving when I got there. Bill and Dwight had shooed most of them away." His voice was a bit of a mumble.
"You really ought to ask Coach," Vida declared, giving Milo another disapproving look. "Honestly, I feel you're dragging your feet on this, Milo. If the rest of us can work on a weekend, why not you?"
Vida's reproach clearly stung. "Hell, I've worked more weekends than anybody else in Skykomish County! I can't make miracles. We need the lab work before we can start coming to any conclusions. It isn't as if this is Mayor Baugh or one of the county commissioners. The dead guy's a stranger, maybe a drifter, certainly a small-time perp. Do you see anybody marching on my office to demand that we make an immediate arrest?"
Vida's expression turned very bland. "No." Under her straw hat and behind her glasses, she looked faintly owlish. "That's precisely what I'm saying. Nobody cares about Kelvin Greene. Including you." With a swish of her coat, Vida stalked off from under the shade of the canopy and headed for her car.
# Chapter Five
AN HOUR LATER, I caught up with Vida by accident. I was heading for Dutch Bamberg's video store while she was coming out of the children's shop across the street. Still attired in her funeral wear, Vida was now lugging a large bag emblazoned with crimson letters that read KIDS' KORNER. It had taken two and a half years of living in Alpine before I realized that the capital letters weren't just a random attempt at cuteness, but actually spelled out the first name of the proprietor, Ione Erdahl.
"Roger's birthday is week after next," Vida announced, tapping the shopping bag. "I bought him clothes. He wants a chemistry set, but he's still too young."
And dangerous, I reflected, as visions of Vida's terrifying grandson exploded in my mind's eye. At almost ten, Roger's potential for mischief rivaled that of several Middle East dictators. I was still reeling from his St. Valentine's Day escapade when he'd played Cupid and shot an arrow into Darla Puckett's backside. Unfortunately, Mrs. Puckett was bending over my desk at the time, choosing a photograph of her late husband. Darla landed in my lap, Roger fled into Front Street, and traffic came to a screeching halt. A Blue Sky Dairy truck rear-ended Averill Fairbanks's Chevy Caprice, and Durwood Parker drove onto the sidewalk, demolishing a city planter, a lamp standard, and the Venison Inn's lunch-special sign. Vida blamed Darla for offering Roger such a tempting target.
I preferred to keep Roger not only out of sight, but completely out of mind. "I was going to rent a movie for tonight," I said, having no pride when it came to admitting to Vida that my Saturday evenings were dull indeed. "How about going out for dinner? Café de Flore, maybe?"
Vida wrinkled her nose. French cuisine wasn't her favorite. "Well... I suppose I could get something sensible," she allowed, proving that as usual, she was a good sport.
"My treat," I said impulsively, and was immediately sorry. A full-course dinner for two at the French restaurant a few miles west of Alpine on Highway 2 could cost a bundle.
"Nonsense," Vida replied, rescuing me from my own generosity. "We'll go dutch. Sevenish?"
I nodded. "My car, if not my treat?"
Vida agreed, then headed for her Buick, the shopping bag swinging at her side. I watched her pull out from the curb. With a sense of alarm, I noted that she was heading not for home, but toward the mall. The toy store was located there. It carried chemistry sets. With a shudder, I hurried to the sanctuary of my green Jag.
I didn't get far. Carla and Ginny were coming down Pine Street, apparently headed for Videos-to-Go. Despite the asset of youth, their Saturday nights weren't much more exciting than my own. I sympathized. There was definitely a dearth of eligible men in Alpine.
But when I started to commiserate, my two nubile, young employees proved me wrong.
"We went out last night to the Icicle Creek Tavern," Carla said, flipping her long black hair over one shoulder. She glanced at Ginny. "It was kind of fun, huh?"
Ginny's serious face turned even more thoughtful than usual. "I guess. _You_ had fun, anyway. I told you, you should have had Libby go instead of me. Your new roommate could put up with anybody."
Carla giggled, always a jarring sound. I suppressed a smile, thinking that Ginny was right—Libby Boyd was putting up with Carla, after all. "Libby has a boyfriend," Carla countered. "So what if Rick Erlandson's hair _is_ weird? I mean, bright orange isn't his color. But he works at the bank, Ginny. He can't be a complete dweeb."
"Maybe not." Ginny gave me a persecuted look. "Carla always gets the real guys. I get what's left."
Curious, I turned to Carla. "Who was it? Crazy Eights Neffel?"
Carla giggled again, and I was sorry I'd asked. "No, no, _no_!" More giggles. I didn't know if I could stand it. "Peyton Flake. He's really pretty cool. For a doctor."
I all but reeled. Somehow, Peyton Flake's eligibility had eluded me. Yes, I knew he was single. Yes, I realized he was in his early thirties. Certainly I was aware that he was well educated and that his potential for income was excellent. But I had seen him strictly in his professional capacity, as a physician. As for Carla... I was dumbfounded. She was pretty, more than pretty, really, and while I considered her dizzy, she was basically intelligent. At least she was a university graduate. Her social skills were adequate, and her interests were reasonably wide. But I had viewed her, too, as a vocation, not as a person. She was a journalist, and didn't always live up to expectations. At least to _mine_. Now I was the one to giggle.
"Well, for heaven's sake! I had no idea I was watching romance blossom under my very nose!"
Ginny sneered; Carla scoffed. "Not really," Carla replied. "Not yet," she added, a bit smugly. "But we did have fun."
Ginny didn't seem so sure. "It was interesting. Especially the part about Cyndi Campbell." She darted a sidelong look at Carla.
"Oh!" Carla bounced on the sidewalk, drawing the attention of a couple of passersby. "That's right! Guess what, Emma? Cyndi had been in the Icicle Creek Tavern that afternoon with a black dude. Everybody was talking about it. What do you want to bet it was the guy who got shot last night?"
My happy face turned down. "Kelvin Greene? Wait—who told you this?"
Carla started to answer, then turned again to Ginny. "Who was it? That Rafferty guy who tends bar? Or our waitress, Denise Petersen?"
"Denise," Ginny answered after careful consideration. "She was kind of thrilled about it. But she waited until Peyts went to the men's room to mention it You know, because he has a black nurse for him. I guess she didn't want to embarrass Peyts."
I wasn't sure if I was more stunned by the news of Cyndi Campbell drinking beer with an African-American or by my staff's nickname for Dr. Peyton Flake. Shock was coming upon shock. I felt like clinging to the nearby lamppost.
"Now hold on here," I admonished, sounding more like the boss than just another female engaging in girl talk. "When was Cyndi at the tavern with this person who may or may not have been Kelvin Greene?"
"Kelvin Greene?" Carla gave me her most wide-eyed stare. "Is that his name? Gee—I don't know. It was in the afternoon. Isn't that what Denise said?"
Ginny nodded. "They just talked. I mean, it wasn't like a _date."_ My office manager seemed aghast at the mere thought, then tried to explain herself: "I mean there's nothing wrong with Cyndi dating a black man. Lots of celebrities do it. I see them in _People_ magazine all the time. They even intermarry." Ginny's fair skin was flushed.
But romantic implications weren't my primary concern. Milo seemed convinced that Kelvin Greene had come to Alpine because he knew Marilynn Lewis. But what if he had been acquainted with Cyndi Campbell instead? I had to admit it was a strange coincidence that both young women lived under the same roof.
My staffers started off down the street, but Carla stopped before they reached the corner. "I got the baseball pictures," she called over her shoulder. "We won, eight to five, but the Buckers' mascot got stolen."
I visualized the high school mascot, a large, lumpy stuffed dummy named Swede in a plaid shirt and brown pants. Except for appearances at games and pep rallies, the ersatz sawmill bucker resided in the trophy case at the high school.
"Sultan poor sports?" I inquired.
"Probably," Carla replied. "They must have taken it during the night because Coach Ridley said it was gone when they went to get it this morning."
"Great." I could foresee a series of incidents between the two student bodies, with mascots, trophies, uniforms, and possibly even innocent freshmen being hauled up and down Highway 2 between Alpine and Sultan. The school year was ending, and with it, a certain madness always set in. I would have to run a small story, though I hated to encourage further mayhem. With any luck, Swede would be returned by deadline.
I called Milo as soon as I got home, but he was out. I left a message on his machine, then spent the rest of the afternoon weeding my garden. Out with the dandelions, the thistles, the clover, the buttercups, the bindweed, the nightshade, even the common vetch, which blooms prettily enough in late May, but chokes everything else. By five-thirty, I had filled a huge plastic garbage bag and was feeling exceedingly virtuous. I even had the wounds to show for my efforts. Several scratches marred my arms, and I'd gashed a finger with a rose thorn. It was still bleeding, but I felt impervious to pain. I stood back to admire the fruit of my labor. The rhododendrons were at their peak, the azaleas were brilliant, the iris and poppies looked lush. Like most Pacific Northwest gardens, mine reveled in the spring. Summer would be more sparse, with sporadic bursts of roses, two weeks' worth of gladioli, and, if I got lucky, enough dahlias to make a small splash.
I was envisioning the months to come when a horn honked in my ear. I turned to see an official Forest Service pickup parked by my mailbox. The back was jammed with tools and brush. I wondered if there was room for my trash bag. The city charged extra for yard collection.
Libby Boyd leaned out of the cab. "Hey—Ms. Lord! Are you ready to run an engagement story yet?"
Brushing dirt off my hands, I approached the truck. Libby's olive skin glowed with good health. Her strawberry blonde hair was cropped close to her head, with what I assumed to be natural curls dancing around her heart-shaped face. She had a sunny smile and sparkling blue eyes, the aura of a charming cherub. Libby's radiant vitality made me feel like a slob. A _dirty_ slob, given my grubby clothes and earth-ladened flesh.
"Are you talking about Dr. Flake and Carla?" I asked, somewhat flabbergasted.
Libby laughed, an infectious sound. "Aren't they a pair? I'm kidding, of course. At least, I think I am. Hey, you're bleeding! What happened?" She sobered, her white, even teeth coming down on her lower lip.
I dismissed my injury, which I'd already forgotten. But Libby was insistent, rummaging in the glove compartment. "You could get an infection. I've got a first-aid kit in here. At least, I thought I did. That's odd—it's gone."
Libby's concern touched me. I had visions of her trailing Carla around their apartment, making sure my dizzy reporter had brushed her teeth, turned off the stove, and wouldn't leave without her keys. Carla needed someone like that in her life.
My impression was bolstered by Libby's next words: "You know, I worry about Carla. She's man-starved. I'm afraid she'll fall head over heels for the first guy who pays her any attention around here."
I, too, turned serious. Carla's emotional state hadn't troubled me in the least. I gave Libby Boyd a hard stare. "Peyton Flake's a decent man," I asserted, hoping to ease my conscience.
"Oh, sure, he's cool," Libby replied, turning away to search for something on the passenger seat. "I don't know Carla as well as you do, so I ought to keep my mouth shut. But she seems sort of vulnerable to me." Libby reached out through the window to hand me a sheet of paper. An inch of pale skin around her left wrist indicated that she'd already acquired an early tan. Maybe she cheated, and it was induced by the electric beach. But that didn't seem to fit Libby's healthy image. "Here, this is the summer fact sheet for the campgrounds," she explained. "I should have given it to Carla, but I forgot last night. You might as well have it because she'll probably lose it if I give it to her over the weekend."
I glanced at the official U.S. Forest Service heading. "Thanks, Libby. And thanks for being concerned about Carla."
Libby lifted her shoulders, which were covered in the tan uniform of a park ranger. Obviously, she had drawn Saturday duty. "Carla's okay. I'm not knocking Peyts. He's probably good for her. Every couple needs balance. One partner is always stronger than the other. That's what makes it work. Stability is the key to life." She gave me a worldly smile.
The pickup roared off down Fir Street, where it made a deft turn onto Third. I was moved by Libby Boyd's compassion. If Peyton Flake was good for Carla, so was Libby. I wondered if Carla realized that she had been lucky in her choice of a roommate. I hoped she'd be as lucky in love.
Milo had called while I was outside. After hauling the trash bag to the garbage can next to the carport, I applied a Band-Aid to my finger and opened a can of Pepsi. Then I phoned Milo back, telling him about Cyndi Campbell and her rendezvous with an African-American male at the Icicle Creek Tavern. The sheriff asked if I'd gotten a description.
"I heard this secondhand," I retorted in a vexed voice. "Go ask Denise Petersen. Better yet, talk to Cyndi Campbell."
Milo said he would, come Monday. It was his poker night. They were playing their monthly game in the back room at Harvey's Hardware and Sporting Goods. Huffy and not sorry for it, I hung up.
Vida and I drove down Stevens Pass among tall corridors of evergreens, bathed in the late day's golden sunlight. Traffic was fairly heavy both ways, with weekend travelers going between the western and eastern halves of the state.
The Café de Flore was also busy, and I was glad that I'd thought to call in a seven-fifteen reservation. We sat next to a window that overlooked Anthracite Creek. A Downy woodpecker hammered at the trunk of a tall cedar. Out by what I guessed was a storehouse, a gray squirrel rooted in the ground by a clump of blue speedwell. I ordered a vodka gimlet and tried to put aside all thoughts of murder and mayhem.
Of course, with Vida as my companion, that was impossible. On the short drive to the restaurant, I'd told her about the sighting of Cyndi Campbell at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Vida's interest far exceeded that of Milo. Now, stirring her Tom Collins with a swizzle stick, she made a face. "Honestly, Emma, Milo is being unusually impossible, even for a man." Before I could respond, she swiveled in her chair, taking in the rest of the dining room. "I thought so," she murmured. "At the long table, against the far wall—Wendy and Todd Wilson, with some of the high school faculty."
Vida was right. The Wilsons had been joined by Coach Rip Ridley and his wife, Dixie; the principal, Karl Freeman, whose spouse, an elementary teacher, was named Molly; and Steve and Donna Wickstrom. Steve taught science and math; Donna's first husband had been Art Fremstad, on whose headstone Vida thought she'd spotted blood. The four couples seemed to be relishing at least two different types of wine and a large tray of hors d'oeuvres.
Vida, however, was ready to cut to the chase. "If I remember my French, I recognize roast chicken and potatoes. That sounds safe." She put the menu aside and tried again to turn discreetly in her chair. "More wine for the high school faculty," she said in an undertone, though there was no possibility of being overheard from across the room in the busy restaurant. "The waiter is positively _fawning_. My, my!"
"That's the owner," I said. "He's French. His wife is from California."
If I thought I possessed a fragment of information that Vida didn't know, I was wrong. "So it is," she agreed, removing her glasses to stare. "Jean-Nicol Saint-Something-or-Other. His wife is Becky. She's four months pregnant."
I sighed. "Marje Blatt?"
Vida nodded. "Of course. My niece knows how I like to hear about new babies. The Saint-Whoevers live between Index and Gold Bar, but Becky finds it easier to see Dr. Flake than someone farther down the highway because she can come in on her way to the restaurant."
Vida declined a second drink. So did I, though I couldn't resist ordering a slice of the liver pâté. Vida sneered. "It does taste like paste, you must admit. Now what awful thing are you ordering for dinner?"
I'd decided on the oysters in cider. Vida professed indifference. "Panfried or raw—I wouldn't eat oysters any other way. Really, Emma, you're like so many Americans—if the French baked a gopher and stuck sprigs of parsley in its ears, you'd think it was delicious."
"It might be," I allowed. "The gang from the high school is certainly enjoying their meal. They just brought the fish course."
Vida swiveled again. "Honestly, I should have sat where you're sitting. This is so awkward! Why don't they have a mirror on that wall behind you?"
"Why don't you go over and say hello?" I was serious. "You know all of them. Maybe they're celebrating something. It could be a news item."
"I already thought of that." Vida gave me a reproachful look. "I'll wait until they're having dessert. They'll be full and sleepy then. Their guard will be down."
I felt my eyes open wide. "You're not going to ask Wendy what her sister was doing at the Icicle Creek Tavern with a man who is probably dead, are you?"
Vida looked affronted. "Certainly not! That's hardly the sort of thing to mention in the middle of a social gathering. I'll drop by tomorrow and offer her some hyacinth bulbs. I dug a few up by mistake last week. Extra bulbs always come in handy. So do tubers."
Somehow, Vida and I managed to avoid analyzing the recent murder during the rest of our dinner. The meal was excellent, and even she had to admit that the roast chicken was properly cooked. Despite her carping over French food, Vida's performance in the kitchen is, at best, uneven. She gardens much better than she cooks.
We were finishing our demitasses when Vida announced she was going to drop by the Wilson table. "I'll commiserate about the kidnapped mascot. On my way to the rest room," she added, as if needing to excuse herself to me as well as to Wendy and the other diners. I sat back and watched as Vida worked the room. The high school faculty weren't the only people she knew. Though I recognized only one other couple who happened to be my fellow parishioners at St. Mildred's, Vida made four interim stops: two older women, who laughed uproariously at her greeting; a family of five, with mother, father, and three adult children exchanging what I presumed to be birthday presents; a handsome older couple whose sophistication seemed out of place for Skykomish County; and three men of Vida's own age, one of whom either turned his hearing aid up or off when she approached.
Vida hit the Wilson gathering on her return from the rest room. Molly Freeman kissed her on the cheek. Karl Freeman hugged her warmly. Coach Ridley vigorously shook her hand. Dixie Ridley gave a languid wave. I couldn't see the Wickstroms, who were temporarily hidden by the arrival of Jean-Nicol and a silver wine bucket at the next table. Wendy and Todd Wilson seemed polite, if not effusive, in their greeting. Vida chatted for a full five minutes, leaving only after the waitress had presented the bill.
"Well!" she gasped, sitting back down and polishing off her demitasse in a gulp. "Five hundred and eighty-four dollars and twelve cents! It's not even a special occasion, just a chummy night out! And Todd Wilson insisted it was his treat! Why, with a generous tip, that's almost seven hundred dollars!"
I, too, was stunned. "What does it mean? Job security for Wendy at the high school? That must be close to two weeks' take-home for a teacher. What do you think Todd earns at the PUD?"
Vida turned thoughtful. "We ran those salaries awhile back. I think his would be around forty thousand by now. That's certainly not the kind of salary to splurge on seven-hundred-dollar dinners. The Wilsons live high on the hog in general, when you think about it. Wendy has lovely clothes, though she doesn't wear them well, and they both drive nice cars. In fact, they have three."
"No kids," I pointed out.
"True." Vida chewed on her lower lip. "Still, their home in the Icicle Creek development is one of the more expensive houses."
Across the room, I saw the Wilson party laughing over their after-dinner drinks. I wondered what the more straightlaced parents would think about the principal and three of his teachers tossing off goblets of French wine and stuffing themselves with Bretagne delicacies. If someone raised the issue at the next PTA meeting, it wouldn't be the first time. Only last January, there had been a protest about several faculty members drinking champagne, dancing with other people's spouses, and wearing silly hats on New Year's Eve.
"Maybe," I ventured, after we had paid our own comparatively modest bill of sixty-five dollars plus tip, "Lloyd has been generous with his earnings from Alpine Appliance. He seems to have done quite well over the years."
Vida was grappling with her cotton jacket. "Don't even think about it. Lloyd is a Scot, and you know how tightfisted they are. Oh, they travel now and then, they spend money on their house, but they're careful. Bargains, cut-rate, wholesale. To give an example, consider the flank steak."
I was scarcely qualified to argue with Vida. We made our exit just ahead of the Wilsons and their guests. I was relieved, preferring to be ahead of them on the highway. After only one drink and a dozen oysters, I could lay a solid claim to sobriety.
Nor was I sorry. Vida and I had enjoyed a delicious meal, and as she would have put it, "a nice visit." We were home before ten o'clock. If my Saturday night hadn't been fraught with excitement, it had been replete with friendship. I could ask for nothing more.
After changing into my bathrobe, I took the WNPA registration form out of my briefcase and filled it in. I would mail it on the way to Mass in the morning. Somewhere between the Café de Flore and the bridge over the Skykomish River, I had made up my mind to go to Lake Chelan.
# Chapter Six
THE VISITING PRIEST from Monroe made short work of Sunday Mass. Not only did he keep his homily to under ten minutes, but he was seen pulling out from behind the rectory while the rest of us were still chatting in the vestibule.
"I miss Father Fitz," Francine Wells lamented, referring to our former pastor who had suffered a series of strokes the previous December and was now in a nursing home for priests.
"I hear we're getting someone new when the Chancery makes the assignments in June," Roseanna Bayard confided. "I'm glad. It's one thing to run a parish as a mission church, but it's another matter when there's a school."
I had to agree with both Francine and Roseanna. We had seen at least a half-dozen different priests on the altar of St. Mildred's since New Year's. I was about to say as much when Francine jabbed me in the arm and lowered her voice:
"Say, Emma—what's this about that black man who was shot at Marlow Whipp's store the other night? Was he really robbing the place? I wouldn't figure Marlow to have more than small change in the register."
Roseanna nodded vigorously. "I guess it was just awful. The robber was armed, and Marlow wrestled him to the ground to get the gun. Then he shot the guy as he was running out of the store. Gee!"
As expected, the gossip mill had been busy. And wrong. Both Roseanna and Francine were intelligent women. In addition to helping her husband, Buddy, run Bayard's Picture-Perfect Photography Studio, Roseanna tutored children with reading problems. Francine owned her own business, an upscale women's apparel store that did remarkably well in a beer-and-bowling town such as Alpine. Yet my fellow parishioners were quite willing to accept hearsay as gospel truth.
I attempted to clarify the matter, choosing my words with a journalist's care. "It wasn't an attempted robbery. The victim came into Marlow's store and collapsed. Apparently, he'd already been shot somewhere else. He died inside the store. Marlow insists he'd never seen the man before in his life."
Francine bent her carefully coiffed head closer; Roseanna leaned in my direction, her blonde pageboy swinging at her wide shoulders. Buddy Bayard had also joined our little group, along with a half-dozen other parishioners.
"Somewhere else?" Roseanna breathed. "You mean... he was murdered?"
I fell back on Milo's lame excuses. "The sheriff doesn't know the details yet. He's waiting for the lab report."
Roseanna and Francine exchanged quick glances. "He was a black man, right?" Roseanna saw my faint nod. "Edna Mae Dalrymple said she saw him hanging around Old Mill Park Friday morning on her way to work at the library. Now where on earth did he come from—unless he was a friend of that new nurse's?"
"A boyfriend, I'll bet," Francine said, straightening up and smoothing the lapels of her Anne Klein jacket. "He's probably from one of those gangs in Seattle. I lived there for almost fifteen years before I divorced Warren. I never went near the Central District." She gave a little shudder.
The Central District is Seattle's version of a ghetto, and while it has its share of inner-city crime, it is considered an up-and-coming neighborhood in many ways. Most Seattleites have no qualms about going there, and often do, if only to get their teeth into Fran's chocolates and Ezell's chicken.
Roseanna was nodding. "The last time I was in downtown Seattle, three black kids followed me down Fourth Avenue after I left The Bon Marché. I just knew they were going to grab my purse. I all but ran around the corner and went back in the Pine Street entrance. I waited until they were gone."
I tried to refrain from rolling my eyes. I'd heard the Big City horror stories before, always capped with the great sigh of relief uttered when the out-of-towners finally reached the safety of Highway 2. Indeed, their paranoia was contagious. On a trip to Seattle the previous February, I had stopped at a cash machine before heading home. The bank was closed, the parking lot was deserted, and it was almost dark. An African-American man in his early thirties was lingering near the cash machine, ostensibly reading something from a small notebook. I became so nervous that I botched my PIN number twice. While the automatic teller finally spewed out my forty bucks, the man went up to a pay phone a few feet away and made a call. He turned out to be a real estate agent, scheduling an appointment to show a two-hundred-thousand-dollar condo on Queen Anne Hill. I felt so silly that I departed as furtively as if I'd been passing counterfeit money at the bank.
It was pointless to argue with Roseanna, Francine, or any other Alpiners who regarded Seattle as a den of iniquity. The city's evil justifies their very existence as small-towners. So there they stay in their splendid rural isolation, absolved of guilt for the wider world's social ills.
But I stay there, too, so I kept my mouth shut. When I speak out, it's usually through the editorial page. I state my opinions professionally, not personally. I have to get along; I have to make a living. And I don't want to get run out of town.
Extricating myself from the little group, I headed for the Jag and home. With no pressing plans for the day, I thought about calling Marilynn Lewis. Perhaps she'd like to have lunch or go for a short hike. After finishing the Sunday paper, I phoned the Campbell house. Jean answered on the fourth ring. I thanked her again for a lovely dinner, then asked for Marilynn.
"She went to church—the Methodist church," Jean answered in a voice that suddenly had grown stilted. "We just got back. The phone was ringing when we came in the house. I imagine she'll be along shortly. She walked."
Marilynn returned my call about fifteen minutes later. She expressed surprise at my invitation. "I'd like to see Deception Falls," she said, sounding rather shy. "It's not far, is it?"
It wasn't, being only a couple of miles up the pass. Nor would we have to hike, which was fine with me. I told her I'd pack a lunch. There were picnic tables at the falls, and we could eat there. Marilynn sounded very pleased.
An hour later, I was in front of the Campbell house, waiting for Marilynn. Cyndi was out in the yard, cleaning off the lawn furniture. She came over to the Jag and said hello.
"What's new on that guy who got killed Friday night?" she asked, leaning against the door of my car.
The question seemed natural; her body language did not. Cyndi appeared to be bracing herself on the Jaguar. "Not much," I replied, wondering how to tactfully broach the subject of her rendezvous at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Vida, of course, would use blunderbuss tactics. Encouraged by her example, I threw caution to the winds. "Did you know him?"
Cyndi's green eyes widened and she backed away a couple of steps. "Heavens, no! How could I?" She stared at me, and I could almost see the wheels spinning in her head. Cyndi knew as well as I did that if she'd been spotted with Kelvin Greene at the tavern, most of Alpine had heard the story by now. She uttered a nervous laugh. "Oddly enough, I ran into a black man that afternoon. I had to deliver something for Todd to the Icicle Creek Tavern, and there was this guy who wanted to know how to get to the ski lodge. I gave him directions." Her gaze had shifted to the hood of my car.
I had two choices: to believe or not to believe. I didn't know which to take. "I wonder if he ever got there," I remarked, trying to leave my options open.
Visibly relaxing, Cyndi shrugged. "I don't know. That was about three o'clock, maybe even four. It took forever to make him understand. I guess he wasn't too bright."
"Do you think he was the one who got shot?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marilynn Lewis walking down the garden path.
My query seemed to surprise Cyndi. "Well... yes, I suppose. There couldn't have been two of them, could there?"
Somehow, her reply made me want to smile. But I didn't. And while two African-American males descending upon Alpine was clearly beyond Cyndi's comprehension, it certainly wasn't a laughing matter.
But Marilynn's arrival cut our conversation short. Cyndi wished us a good time, and we drove off down Tyee Street to Alpine Way. For starters, I kept to neutral topics, such as Marilynn's search for housing. She was undecided about Dolph Terrill's apartments, since the unit she'd looked at was in need of repair. On the other hand, there weren't many rentals for single people in Alpine.
"The Campbells are very kind about letting me stay on as long as I want," Marilynn said as we crossed the bridge over the Skykomish River. "But I don't like to impose."
I told her I'd have Ginny check out this week's classifieds before we went to press. If there was a new listing, Marilynn would get first dibs.
"That's awfully nice of you, Ms.... Emma." She gave me a soft smile.
"It's not easy to find a place," I replied. "Carla, my reporter, has moved three times in three years. She's still not terribly happy where she is now." It was true, since Carla's ideal apartment didn't exist in Alpine. The unit she shared with Libby Boyd was in the town's newest complex, across Alpine Way from The Pines—or Stump Hill, as the development was known before three dozen handsome houses were built among the trees. Indeed, Carla could not have afforded the monthly rent for The Pines Village if she hadn't found a roommate. "I could ask Carla if there are any vacancies coming up," I said. "I think they have some one-bedroom units."
Marilynn seemed pleased by that offer, too. Indeed, Marilynn seemed pleased with any small act of kindness. I wondered if she'd spent her entire life being ignored or rebuffed. It didn't seem likely, not in the city. But perhaps Alpine had dealt her a quick lesson in rejection.
The six picnic tables at Deception Falls were filled. Most of the visitors were families, some with teenagers, others with babies in backpacks, and the rest with children in between, clustered around the picnic tables and the stationary grills. The mountain air was tinged with wood smoke and barbecue aromas.
Other visitors studied the historical display that described James?. Hill's determination to complete the railroad link between the Twin Cities and Puget Sound. At the trail head, groups milled about with cameras, video recorders, and eager children. The license plates in the parking lot covered the map: Washington, Oregon, Idaho, California, British Columbia, Alberta, North Dakota, Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Vermont. We decided to visit the falls first.
Marilynn reveled in the tall evergreens, the lingering patches of snow caught among the cliffs, the birds that hopped over the ground in search of a handout. She particularly liked the falls, with the tumbling white water dashing over the rocks and cascading down the mountainside. At the upper falls, which roared under the highway itself, the spray dashed against our faces. We saw a pair of water ouzels, dipping their trim gray bodies atop a boulder as round as a basketball. We noted the recent blowdown, which struck me as excessive. But there had been some severe windstorms in the past few months. It was no wonder that so many trees had been toppled.
Along the path to the lower falls, we paused to read the informational panels. No trees in this forest were older than two hundred and eighty years. Somewhere around the beginning of the eighteenth century, a great fire had wiped out everything, including the giants that were said to be over six hundred years old. I gazed upward, awed by the western red cedar, the Douglas and Pacific silver firs, and the western hemlock. These were mighty trees, venerable trees, wearing soft emerald moss and gray-green lichen.
Back at the picnic area, a camper from Burnaby, British Columbia, was being loaded. With friendly smiles, Marilynn and I snagged the Canadians' table as soon as they removed their plastic cloth. I had selected a modest menu of chicken sandwiches, macaroni salad, potato chips, and lemonade. Marilynn, however, seem delighted.
"I haven't been on a picnic since I was a Girl Scout," she exclaimed as we unpacked the hamper. The view was of the highway, not the falls, but we couldn't complain. "When I lived in Seattle, I hardly ever got outside the city," she mused, gazing at our fellow nature lovers. "I'll bet a lot of people in town never come to places like this."
It was certainly possible. Growing up in the city, I'd been lucky. My family had enjoyed regular outings in the country. By chance, my parents, my brother, and I had picnicked several times at Deception Falls. My happy memories may have played a part in my decision to buy _The Advocate_. The stopoff hadn't been so busy in those days. Now, it bustled with car and foot traffic. In vain, I scanned the other tables for an African-American. The only ethnic group represented was a Japanese family, who, judging from their boisterous behavior, probably were three generations removed from the Orient. Two leggy teenaged daughters were hassling their somewhat younger, whining brother; Mom and Dad were arguing over whether the hamburgers were cooked through. It seemed to me that East had met West, and West had won. It also seemed that I was making some ethnic judgments of my own.
We were finishing our lunch when Marilynn broached the subject of the harassment. "I thought I might hear from the sheriff about the letters and that awful crow, but I haven't so far. I suppose none of it can be traced."
"It's the weekend," I pointed out. "Nothing else has happened, I hope?" I couldn't help but wonder if the death of a black man might trigger new forms of harassment against Marilynn.
But she shook her head, the big gold hoop earrings swinging. "Nothing in the mail yesterday. Today's Sunday, though. I suppose some show of racism is inevitable."
Unfortunately, it was. "Does it bother you?" I asked bluntly.
Marilynn considered, her dark eyes staring at the ground. "Not too much. It was the whispering that bothered me. I know some of those people were trying to connect me with the man who was shot."
"But there's no connection?" To my dismay, I couldn't keep the question out of my voice.
"No." Marilynn got up from the bench, wandering over to the dormant grill. A sudden silence fell between us. I shifted uneasily on my side of the bench. I'd berated Milo for trying to tie Marilynn Lewis to Kelvin Greene. Yet I realized I was equally guilty. Surely the arrival of a black woman in town and the appearance of a black man was a coincidence. Watching Marilynn's tall, slim, graceful form, I couldn't imagine her involvement in anything sordid. But, of course, I'd felt that way about other people—and been quite wrong. Vida wouldn't be so naive.
"I'll have to try hiking," Marilynn announced, facing me again and looking serene. "Skiing, too, next winter. Do you ski?"
"I used to, but I sort of quit." I gave Marilynn a lame smile. "I wasn't very good at it. My coordination stinks."
"I like to swim," Marilynn said, watching a nutcracker swoop down to forage for picnic leftovers. My father had always called the handsome, noisy birds Camp Robbers. The nutcracker found his snack and flew off into a huge hemlock. "There's no public pool here, is there?" Marilynn asked, shielding her eyes as she followed the bird's flight.
"No, there isn't." I explained my campaign to build a pool on the former bowling alley site. "Carla's apartment has a small pool," I added.
"Carla seems nice," Marilynn commented, sitting back down at the picnic table. "Is it true she's dating Dr. Flake?"
Marilynn already seemed tuned into the rumor mill. "They've gone out," I hedged. "I'm not sure it's a romance. Yet."
"He's a wonderful man," Marilynn said, watching a chipmunk scurry past. "In some ways, I think he's more upset about the hate mail than I am."
I didn't doubt it. Peyton Flake struck me as the type who would take such intimidation personally. In Flake's case, it was ego as much as righteousness. He had hired Marilynn Lewis; he would be outraged if anyone questioned his judgment.
Our talk turned to more mundane matters, including a comparison between working in hospitals and private practice. Marilynn commented on the differences in treating big-city versus small-town patients. The most unusual case she'd had so far was Ellsworth Overholt who had brought in his guernsey cow to be examined by Doc Dewey. Doc had urged him to see the vet. Ellsworth refused, saying that he and Dr. Medved hadn't spoken in fifteen years after a dispute at a Grange Hall potluck and dance. The cow was driven off to a less controversial vet in Monroe.
We were loading the picnic hamper into the Jag when Libby Boyd approached us. She was wearing her ranger's uniform, and I realized that I'd never seen her in the classic wide-brimmed hat. Maybe Vida had stolen it.
"Have you met Marilynn Lewis, Dr. Flake's nurse?" I inquired, taking Marilynn by the arm.
Libby's blue eyes shrewdly assessed the other woman. "No. In fact, I've only met Dr. Flake a couple of times, when he came to pick up Carla. Hi, you're working for a fine doctor, I hear. Are you still living with the Campbells?"
A bit stiffly, Marilynn allowed that she was. Libby's calculating manner retreated. Marilynn's tension remained. To cover what I sensed as awkwardness, I asked Libby if she had to work through the weekend.
"I sure do, six days in a row," Libby replied. "I'm the new kid on the block, so I get the last choice on the schedule. Ten hours a day, too, from eight until six. And I'm lucky if I get home before seven. There's always some little kid who falls in the creek or a tourist who's lost a camera. But it's fun, much better than being cooped up in an office." She gave us a humorous look.
Marilynn, however, wasn't smiling. "I like being in an office," she declared, sounding a bit defensive. "It's a definite improvement over hospital work."
"Oh?" Libby was cool, yet pleasant. "I suppose it would be. I've never been in a hospital in my life."
"Except when you were born," I threw out, hoping to lighten the mood.
But Libby turned absolutely frigid. "No. I was born in a converted bus, somewhere between Santa Fe and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. My parents were hippies. They didn't believe in hospitals—or money—or having a home. The wind blew them all over North America. It finally blew them both away, from me and from each other. Luckily, I landed on my feet in Seattle. This is as far as I care to wander. I'm putting down roots in Alpine." She gave both Marilynn and me a defiant look, as if we might be about to hustle her onto a passing Greyhound bus.
The moment was saved by a towheaded twelve year old who wanted to know if he could take home a garter snake he'd captured. The snake was trying to crawl out of his shirt pocket. We bade farewell to Libby, the boy, and the snake.
On the way home, I refrained from mentioning the meeting with Libby Boyd. It had not been a comfortable interlude, though I wasn't sure why. Instead, I told Marilynn she would get used to small-town eccentricities. The bizarre quickly becomes the ordinary. Irrational behavior often goes unquestioned, even by a journalist like me. Marilynn allowed that was probably so, but that she wasn't quite used to it yet.
"There are similarities, too," she said as we stopped in front of the Campbell house. "I think people in Alpine can be just as wicked as people in the city."
I didn't argue. But I wondered exactly what she meant.
Vida had delivered her hyacinth bulbs to Wendy Wilson about the same time that I was unpacking the picnic hamper at Deception Falls. Wendy had been very vague about her sister's encounter with a black stranger at the Icicle Creek Tavern. At first, she had feigned downright ignorance, Vida revealed, then she had admitted—lamely—that Cyndi "ran into some guy" and gave him directions to the ranger station.
"It was the ski lodge in Cyndi's version to me," I noted.
Vida harrumphed. "Cyndi—and Wendy—ought to get their stories straight. It was neither, of course. What do you suppose it was?"
"We don't know it was the same man," I pointed out as we waited for the coffee to finish brewing.
But Vida gave me her gimlet eye. "Who else? Come, come, Emma, it's not likely there would be two of them." Her comment echoed Cyndi Campbell's. Somehow Vida's remark didn't strike me as funny.
Ginny brought the mail around just after ten. She looked worried, and I wondered if she was still stewing over her pairing with Rick Erlandson. I suspected that the double date had probably been Carla's idea.
But Ginny had reevaluated the evening. "Rick's really very nice. He's just sort of quiet." I kept my face expressionless. Ginny wasn't exactly a firecracker. "I think that orange hair is his big protest against the world. He won't speak out, so he dyes his hair a funny color. He'll grow out of it."
So, I thought, would his hair.
Ginny, who was usually not loquacious, kept talking. "It's these letters," she continued, placing three single sheets of paper in front of me. "They're all from people who want you to write more about the logging issue. You know, like the editorial you did in December. But I think they're wrong." She took a deep breath and stared at me with a very somber expression. "I think you were wrong. I mean, in theory, it's wonderful to support the timber industry. But it's not very realistic, is it?"
Ever since the president's timber summit in Portland the previous winter, I had suffered qualms about my unabashed endorsement of Washington State's loggers. While I hadn't leapt on a soap box to demand the resumption of clear-cutting, I had certainly cast my lot with the forest products people. It was, I felt, my duty as a resident of Alpine. Certainly my big-city background had groomed me as a spiritual environmentalist. I'd been converted to a pro-logging stance by living in a small town where so many faces had grown bleak and so many lives had lost hope. People came first. The loggers were proud, so were their families. They were steeped in the tradition of the forest, a vocation handed down from generation to generation. It seemed impossible that they could retrain, regroup, and recant.
But the winds of change were sweeping down the mountainsides. I could see it in Ginny's level gray-eyed gaze. I could read it in news stories about other logging communities. I could hear it on the evening news, out of Washington, D.C., Seattle, and the state capitol in Olympia.
"I've always hoped for a compromise," I told Ginny, who was looking at me as if I might actually have some real answers. "I prefer biding my time to see what's going to happen at the federal level."
Ginny inclined her head, then brushed at a stray strand of auburn hair. "I guess. But what do men like my Uncle Cord do in the meantime? Darrington is going to sponsor a wild-flower festival this summer. Why can't we do something here that will provide jobs and help the economy?"
Darrington was yet another logging town, some seventy miles north on the Mountain Loop Highway. I had heard rumors of their civic project in the past few weeks. "We've got Loggerama," I pointed out, and immediately realized that our annual celebration could be considered passé, a mere reminder of what had been, rather than what could be.
"We could put on a Scandinavian festival," Ginny said. "That's Alpine's heritage, too. Like for Midsummer Eve, to celebrate the solstice."
I stared at Ginny, then broke into a smile. I never thought of my office manager as having the slightest amount of imagination. Obviously, I had misjudged her. "That's not a bad idea," I said. "I could talk about it at the next Chamber of Commerce meeting. You could come along."
Ginny looked pleased. Indeed, the hint of a blush touched her fair skin. Shyly, she brought forth yet another letter, which she had been concealing behind her back. "This one isn't about logging, but you're not going to like it."
The single page of typing had the usual share of misspellings, though I had the feeling they might have been intentional. The letter was short and to the point:
"Dear Publicher—It looks to me like we got trubble here in Alpine. You let those city dudes get a foot in the door and the next thing you know, they ruin the whole place. They get innocent people hooked while they make lots of money off suckers, all of which is tipikel of those ignerent crazed savages. I say we pass a law to keep them out of town. Yours truely, A Loyal Reader."
I pride myself on running every letter sent to _The Advocate_ —as long as it's signed. I was grateful that this particular imbecile had chosen to remain anonymous. Instead of tossing the missive into the wastebasket, as I usually did with crank mail, I saved it so that Milo could compare it to the letters Marilynn Lewis had received.
Milo had the lab report shortly after eleven that morning. Kelvin Greene had been shot in the head at a distance of no more than four feet, no less than three. The .22-caliber full-metal-jacket slug had been found lodged about an inch from his left ear. It was possible that he could have lived for hours with the bullet in his head. It was also unlikely.
"If you're thinking Kelvin sat around drinking beer at the Icicle Creek Tavern after he got plugged, forget it," Milo said in his laconic voice. "Realistically, he was probably shot five to ten minutes before he died in Marlow Whipp's store."
"What kind of a gun?" I asked, making notes.
"Probably a handgun," Milo replied. He paused to blow his nose, not a pleasing sound. "Let's face it, the killer would have been noticed carrying a rifle around town this time of year. It's not hunting season."
"What about the blood up at the cemetery?" I glanced out through my open door at Vida. She was immersed in typing a story, her bowler hat askew.
"It's a match," Milo admitted grudgingly. "If that canopy hadn't been up for Axel Swensen's funeral, the rain would probably have washed it away."
"Footprints?" I inquired without much hope.
Milo chuckled. "After a funeral? Sure, about forty sets. The only thing we can pinpoint there is that the Peabody brothers—the grave diggers—finished around five on Friday. The cemetery officially closes at sundown, which means about eight this time of year. But I don't suppose the killer or the victim came by car. It's easy enough to crawl through that laurel hedge."
I had one more question. "Was Kelvin Greene armed?"
Milo was blowing his nose again. I wished the hay fever season would pass. "There was no gun on him. But it's possible that the killer used it. That would indicate a struggle, though, and there's no sign of that with Kelvin."
In the news office, Vida's instincts were at work. She was coming toward me, the bowler hat now riding on the rims of her glasses. "Say, Milo," I added as an afterthought, "did you check with the Icicle Creek Tavern to see if the stranger who was drinking beer with Cyndi Campbell matched Kelvin Greene's description?"
Milo made a disparaging noise, which was an improvement over his sneezing. "Yeah, Dwight Gould talked to Denise and that Rafferty kid with the beard who tends bar during the day shift. They couldn't be sure. All blacks guys look alike to them."
I tried not to gnash my teeth. "Do they look alike to Cyndi Campbell?"
Milo sounded impatient. "Do you want me to ask Cyndi to come down and ID the corpse? Come on, Emma, isn't that kind of a cruel thing to do to a nice girl like her? From what I hear, all she did was give him directions to Alpine Falls."
My anger boiled up, but I squashed it and settled for sarcasm. "Very good, Milo. You've just won _The Advocate's_ coveted award for Mutt of the Month. See you in the funny papers." I hung up, gently.
"We don't carry the funny papers," Vida noted tartly. "What did Milo do now?"
I explained. Vida made a face and tipped her hat back on her head. She agreed with me that Milo was "being difficult." She also agreed that we should go to lunch.
As usual, the Venison Inn was filled with people Vida knew. As time went on, I recognized more and more of the locals, but it was always Vida who was the focus of attention. A salutation for Regis Bartleby, Episcopal rector. A nod to Harvey Adcock, hardware-store owner. A smile for Jeannie Clay, the dental hygienist. A wave to Chaz Phipps, who worked at the ski lodge. We made our way like a royal progress, acknowledging, greeting, smiling en route to the last empty booth at the rear of the restaurant.
"My new diet's a washout," Vida announced. "All these fads are worthless. This one calls for nothing solid after four o'clock, just water. Now what do you suppose I do all night?" She nodded before I could hazard a guess. "That's right: up and down, down and up to the bathroom. Maybe it's the exercise that takes off the weight. But I need my sleep." She turned to our waitress and ordered a pastrami melt on rye with a side of fries and potato salad. "Oh—and a strawberry malted milk. No coffee for me after noon." She gave me a virtuous look.
Across the aisle and down one booth, Jeannie Clay was being joined by Marje Blatt. Marje spotted her aunt and flew over to our table.
"Guess what!" she breathed, her small bosom rising under her crisp white uniform. "The sheriff just came to the clinic to talk to Marilynn Lewis about that murder Friday night! Is it true you found the body, Aunt Vida?"
"Certainly not," sniffed Vida. "Emma and I covered the story, of course. That's our job."
Marje is in her midtwenties and possesses a wholesome prettiness. Spiritually, she is a petite version of her aunt. Marje is brisk, efficient, and seemingly without guile. She is also curious by nature.
"I wanted to stay to find out what was happening, but Dr. Flake thought we should leave for lunch." She motioned at Jeannie, who was practically falling out of the booth in an attempt to overhear. "I don't think Dr. Flake was very happy to see Milo Dodge come to the office while we still had patients."
"Milo has to do his job, too," Vida replied primly. "Maybe you can ask Dr. Flake—or Marilynn—what Milo wanted to know." Her smile was benign; her eyes were like stilettos.
Marje started to turn away. "I'll call you tonight. I have to tell you about my trip to Cabo San Lucas."
"Yes, you do. I'll wait to hear from you." Vida gave a jerky nod of dismissal. I half-expected Marje to salute.
I, however, did not intend to wait for secondhand news. Feeling somewhat deceitful, I told Vida I had to go to Parker's Pharmacy after lunch to get some Excedrin. And I did, but instead of returning to _The Advocate_ , I continued along Front Street to the sheriff's office. Milo was in, eating a double cheeseburger and wiping his nose.
"So," I said, sitting down in his visitor's chair and assuming my most knowing air, "what did Marilynn have to say?"
Milo curled his lip over his cheeseburger. "Damn. I'm glad I'm a law enforcement officer. If I were a crook, I wouldn't stand a chance of getting away with anything in this town."
"Oh?" I gave him an arch little smile. "Does that mean you've caught your killer?"
Milo's glare would have daunted someone who hadn't raised a son on her own. I may not understand men, but I know their limits. Under that indolent exterior, Milo Dodge has a temper. It's not difficult to rouse, but easily extinguished.
"Stick your sarcasm in your ear, Emma," Milo snapped. "If you're so fired up for me to make an arrest, I could haul that nurse in right now. Who else in this town is likely to have plugged that guy? She doesn't have an alibi, either."
Inside, I froze. But I kept calm, seemingly casual. "Does Marilynn admit she knew Kelvin Greene?"
"Hell, no." Milo took a swig of coffee from a heavy white mug. "But she's lying. I'd bet on it."
There was no point in arguing. Not just now. "She does have an alibi. She was apartment-hunting after work Friday."
Milo made a gesture of dismissal with his free hand. "Dolph Terrill is her alibi. First of all, the old rummy says she came by on Thursday. Then he says it was Friday after lunch. Finally, maybe before dinner. He can't remember his own name. In fact, when Dwight Gould questioned him, Dolph fell off the front porch."
"Great." I sighed. "What do you do next?"
Swallowing a pill, which I presumed was for his allergies, Milo flinched slightly. "Check with our liaison in Seattle. Get more information on Kelvin Greene. Find out why he came to Alpine." His face relaxed a bit. "Say, Emma—did you hear a shot Friday night? You and Vida were at the Campbells', right?"
I nodded. "Yes—and no," I replied slowly, working my way through the memory of our arrival at the Campbell house. "We got there right around seven. I don't remember hearing any shots. If there were, they could have come from the practice field. Coach Ridley had his kids going through their paces for the track meet that's coming up. Starter guns." I gave Milo a curious look. "Weird timing, huh?"
"Lucky timing, for the killer." Milo's expression was wry. "And yes, I did talk to Rip Ridley. He didn't see anything or anybody unusual by the high school. Neither did his athletes. They're worked up anyway, since Swede got snatched. There's no sign that anybody broke into the high school, though. Damned odd." Obviously baffled, Milo shook his head.
It seemed to me that the sheriff was showing more concern over Bucker Swede's disappearance than Kelvin Greene's murder. "But a black male was hanging out by the high school field that morning." Trying to get Milo back on track, I told him about Carla's report. "It was so early that it might mean Kelvin got to town the previous night. Have you found a car?"
Milo became smug. "Sam Heppner found it yesterday. A 'ninety-one Trans AM, parked up in the cul-de-sac at the end of Fifth Street by the Tolberg farm."
I raised my eyebrows. My log house was located on Fir, between Fourth and Fifth. The forest began where my backyard ended. The cul-de-sac was a mere hundred yards from my home. It was also an equal distance to the high school track.
"That's not a cheap car, right?" The only thing I knew about automobiles was that I'd always coveted a Jaguar. I'd bought mine used, four years ago. I intended to drive it until the wheels fell off.
"They don't give them away," Milo replied. "Greene's the registered owner, so he didn't steal it." The sheriff looked disappointed.
"Has Marlow recovered from having a dying man drop in?" In my mean-minded way, I figured that most of Whipp's customers were already dead.
Milo's hazel eyes flickered over me and came to rest on his nasal spray. "So it seems. Though..." He shrugged, leaving the little word hanging.
I pounced. "Though what? Come on, Dodge, air your doubts."
But Milo put his feet on his desk and his arms behind his head. "I don't know, Emma. I don't think he'd ever seen this character before in his life. Still, Marlow is acting strange. I suppose it's the shock."
"Maybe." But I was certain Milo did indeed have doubts. If the sheriff did, so did I. It was Milo's certainties that worried me. Especially when it came to Marilynn Lewis.
# Chapter Seven
ED BRONSKY SEEMED to be trying. Usually, he was only trying my patience, but in this third week of May, my ad manager was actually putting forth some effort. In a fit of remorse after work on Friday, he had tried to apologize to Lloyd Campbell. Gunning the Bronsky family station wagon up First Hill Road in hot pursuit of Lloyd's Alpine Appliance van, Ed hadn't quite succeeded. The old station wagon stalled twice, and Lloyd was gone by the time Ed reached the van. But Ed had further proved his newfound diligence by talking Dutch Bamberg into four inches instead of his usual two, along with a discount coupon for midweek video rentals. He also came up with an original layout for Alpine Fine Fabrics, rather than relying on his tired clip-art file. And wonder of wonders, he found a new display advertiser, Skykomish Credit Counselors, which had previously been buried in the classified section.
I praised Ed to the skies. Diffidently, he brushed off my fulsome words. "I guess it was time I tried some new tricks. It took some doing with Dutch Bamberg—he's stubborn as a mule. They don't call him Dutch for nothing. But we can't wait forever for Fred Meyer and Starbuck's to get here and zap things up. Shirley and I had a real heart-to-heart talk over the weekend. She sort of stoked my engine." Ed chuckled and leered, not a pretty combination, but given the circumstances, I kept smiling.
By late Monday, we seemed to have the paper under control. Still, I held off writing the homicide story in case there were any late-breaking developments. I checked in with Milo just before heading home, but he'd already left work. Deputy Sam Heppner informed me that Honoria Whitman was back from Seattle. The sheriff had gone a-wooing. And, I realized, I'd forgotten to show Milo the letter I'd received from the bigot. If I had time on Tuesday, I'd do it then. But the day before we go to press gets pretty hectic. The bigot could keep. Unfortunately, they always do.
I stopped at the library to return a couple of overdue books and to find something new to read. The Alpine Library shares space with senior services, which, in turn, adjoins the civic center. All are housed in the old high school, a two-story red brick building that dates from the 1920s. The county library system's budget has been cut, so recent releases are hard to come by. I put in three reserves and checked out a couple of older espionage novels I'd missed along the line.
Edna Mae Dalrymple was on duty. A nervous, efficient sprite of a woman, Edna Mae is the head librarian and one of my fellow bridge players. "Guess who came in to get a library card," she whispered. Edna Mae always whispers, except at the card table where she is inclined to shriek and squeal as well as fidget and twitch. She also likes to answer her own questions. "The new nurse, that's who. I'm so thrilled that she's a reader."
"Well, why not?" I asked boldly.
Edna Mae's overbite gripped her lower lip as she frowned and gestured at the nonfiction stacks. I turned, seeing Jean Campbell absorbed in the house and garden section.
"Ms. Lewis has a tremendous responsibility on her shoulders," Edna Mae confided. "Imagine, coming here on her own and bearing the brunt of an unintegrated town like Alpine! It's very important for her to step right in, doing all the things Alpiners do. Church works, service clubs, library books, bridge—if she plays. I'd like to recruit her for our 'Speak Up, Speak Out' series. Last month we had Coach Ridley."
The library speaker series had also had me, in my first six months as editor and publisher of _The Advocate_. Four people showed up, two of whom had been deaf as posts. A third, Toots Bergstrom, had eaten her lunch. Noisily. I couldn't recommend Marilynn's participation, but I was loath to say so to Edna Mae.
"Well... certainly," I temporized. Maybe Marilynn could speak on geriatrics nursing.
I was about to leave when I saw Jean Campbell approach the desk with two large gardening books. She smiled a bit tensely when she saw me. 1 waited while Edna Mae checked out Jean's selections.
"I'm trying some new perennials," Jean said, as we walked together through the glass double doors. She displayed the books she'd chosen, both of which were devoted to Pacific Northwest gardens. "I'm tired of annuals. They're just too much trouble. I had some lovely peonies about to bloom, but they got trampled. I suppose it was a dog. People should keep their pets tied up."
Not owning any animals, I readily agreed. "By the way," I went on before Jean could head for her Chevy, which was parked three spaces away from my Jag, "tell Marilynn there weren't any new apartment ads in this week's classifieds. And Carla doesn't know of anybody who's moving out of The Pines Village."
"Oh." Jean stared at her shoes, then gave me another tense smile. "Well. I'm sure Marilynn will find something soon. I told her she should strike a bargain with Dolph Terrill and offer to do some of the repairs if he'd lower the rent."
"And?" My own smile was full of encouragement.
Jean's forced cheer fled. "Marilynn said it was more work than she could handle. Cracks in the walls, plaster peeling, balky plumbing. Maybe Shane could help. She really should have a place of her own."
"I suppose it is kind of crowded," I allowed.
"Well... it's not that so much as... I think she'd be happier on her own. She's used to it. Though I believe she had a roommate in Seattle." Jean moved about a bit awkwardly on the pavement. "And then there've been so many phone calls last night and today. We should have thought about giving her a separate line, but that's such a bother if she's not going to stay with us."
"Phone calls?" I strove to look innocent. It's not an easy guise for a prying journalist.
Jean's mouth tightened. "I don't know what it's all about. I took half-a-dozen calls for her today—and, of course, she was at work. They were friends, I suppose." Again, she seemed absorbed in her shoes.
"Not local calls?" In the distance, the courthouse clock chimed the half hour. Traffic on First Street was moving at a brisk pace—at least by Alpine standards.
Jean shook her head. "No. Marilynn hasn't made many friends yet. She hasn't had time, really." Glancing at her watch, she flashed another unconvincing smile. "I've got to dash. I'm picking Marilynn up at the clinic."
All the way home, I wondered about those phone calls. I hadn't watched the news over the weekend. As a print journalist, I disdain TV newscasts except during the week when I figure I might pick up an item with a local tie-in. Maybe the Seattle stations had carried a story about Kelvin Greene's murder. Perhaps it had appeared in the Monday morning edition of the _Seattle Post-Intelligencer_. If so, had Marilynn's rash of calls been triggered by Kelvin's death? I hoped not.
My curiosity had to be put on hold. There was nothing about the murder on the early editions of the three Seattle newscasts. Nor was there anything in the Northwest section of the evening _Times_. I immersed myself in one of my espionage thrillers and tried to forget about Kelvin Greene and Marilynn Lewis.
Yet even in my own mind, their names were linked. That bothered me. What if Milo was right? Shortly before ten, I called Vida.
"Stupid bridal shower," Vida fulminated. "I just got home. Darla Puckett's granddaughter, all of seventeen, marrying a high school dropout from Gold Bar. The theme was a zip code. Now how am I going to write about _that?"_
I gaped at the receiver. "A zip code?"
"They served tapioca. With maraschino cherries, pronounced by the bride-to-be as _marsh-o-lino_. Where do these nincompoops come from?" Vida was, as she herself would put it, fit to be tied.
"A zip code?" I repeated.
"Yes, yes, and not even from around here. Nine-oh-two-something-or-other. Maybe that's where they're going to live. Wherever it is, it'll be a hovel. They don't have siccum."
Enlightenment was dawning. "I think it's a TV show," I offered. "It's called _90210_. Very popular with teenagers."
"So is unwanted pregnancy," Vida snapped. "Why can't they have a _real_ theme, with a pansy arch, or play Reach for the Ring? Honestly!"
I waited for Vida's pique to pass. Then I asked if she'd found out anything from Marje Blatt. For once, she didn't know any more than I did about Milo's call on Marilynn Lewis. Marje, however, had reported that Chaz Phipps from the ski lodge had seen an African American in the parking lot around four-thirty. Chaz had thought he was a guest checking in, but he never registered.
"Maybe," I suggested, "Kelvin really did want directions from Cyndi to the lodge."
Vida was still prickly. "For what? To pass time?" She was more interested in her nephew's report. After concluding her conversation with Marje and before going to the bridal shower, Vida had talked to Bill Blatt.
"The information is sketchy," Vida said, now simmered down. "Kelvin Greene was a small-time crook: three arrests, no convictions, all drug related. We knew that. He's been living with a woman named Winola Prince, out in Rainier Valley. She moved in with him about a month ago. It appears she's a decent woman, and is quite upset over Kelvin's demise. Winola's a licensed practical nurse. She works at Virginia Mason Hospital, which is where Marilynn Lewis worked before she came to Alpine." Vida paused, and I could almost see her smirk. "Doesn't that beat all?"
Milo Dodge's visit to the Alpine Medical Clinic had not gone unnoticed. By midmorning on Tuesday, I had heard from Mayor Fuzzy Baugh, Henry Bardeen at the ski lodge, Francine Wells of Francine's Fine Apparel, and Averill Fairbanks of UFO fame. Averill said he thought that black people had been brought to earth by space aliens about the same time that Mount Mazama blew up in Oregon to create Crater Lake. I told Averill he ought to check his theory out with NASA or the NAACP, whichever group's phone number he could find first through Directory Assistance.
Everyone seemed agog at the possibility that a black man had been shot by a black woman, right here in Alpine. And just about everyone did think it was possible, even likely. More sightings of Kelvin Greene had been reported, including at the mall, the courthouse, the Icicle Creek campground, and riding one of the Dithers Sisters' Appaloosas down First Hill Road. Maybe, I'd suggested to the last caller, they'd also seen Zorro. I felt like tearing my hair. I actually gave it a yank when I got the second letter in the morning mail.
"Dear Publicher," it read, "Rumors are flying. Where will they go? The mall? Downtown? Out into the naiberhoods? Once they get started, there's no stopping them. They will take us all over, and make us there slaves. Yours truely, A Loyal Reader."
I snatched up both letters and marched the two blocks to Milo's office. He expressed mild interest.
"They're not the same as the ones Marilynn Lewis got," he said, without a second glance. "It looks like we're dealing with yet another goofball." He yawned, sneezed, and sat back in his faux-leather chair.
I should have inquired after Honoria Whitman, but in my perverse way, I refused to ask. Besides, I was angry, not only at the malicious letter writer, but at Milo.
"What's going on with this Winola Prince?" I demanded. "Does she actually know Marilynn Lewis, or did they merely happen to work in the same hospital?"
Milo blinked at me, his face otherwise impassive. "Gosh, Emma, when are you going to stop treating me as if I were head of the gestapo? Don't you have a newspaper to put out today?"
"I can't put it out until I have all the facts in this Kelvin Greene story," I answered in a waspish voice. "Now give, Dodge. You're right, I'm up against a deadline. Have you talked to Marilynn about Winola?"
Milo made a fist, crooked his arm, and held out his wrist to display his Timex watch. "See this? It's eight minutes to eleven. I've had a busy morning. I'll get around to Nurse Lewis after lunch."
"And scare Doc Dewey and Peyton Flake's patients to death in the process? Give them a break at the clinic, Dodge. Take Marilynn out for coffee."
The suggestion obviously startled Milo. My first reaction was that he felt I was violating law enforcement ethics. Then it dawned on me that maybe he was alarmed at the thought of being seen in public with a black woman. I asked him outright.
"Hell, no!" Milo glowered at me. "It's just that... How often do I take a suspect out... Shit, it'd look like a date!"
"Are you through spluttering?" I couldn't keep the amusement off my face.
Milo was actually blushing. I forced myself not to laugh. We were silent for a few moments, and I could tell that he was thinking, hard. "Marilynn Lewis is a damned attractive young woman," he finally said. "It wouldn't look right—under the circumstances—for me, as a single man, to take her out for coffee. Be reasonable, Emma. What would people in this town say if I were seen going around with _any_ single, good-looking woman?"
That did it. Milo and I have been everywhere together in the past three years, except to bed. I jumped out of my chair, stalked to the door, and slammed it behind me. Yes, it was true that I didn't understand men. When it comes to interpersonal relationships, the density of their brains absolutely amazes me. They are a race apart, or, as Vida is wont to say: _Men aren't like other people_. I simply can't fathom the male mind.
Marching back up Front Street, I knew that Milo was thinking the same thing about women. The difference was that he wasn't thinking about what I was thinking at all.
The front-page story about Kelvin Greene's murder was relatively brief. For all of Milo's bravado about suspecting Marilynn Lewis, I didn't see that he had a shred of evidence. To protect him, as well as Marilynn, I merely stated that the sheriff was conducting an investigation. Except for mentioning that the victim was a Seattle resident, I couldn't say much about his background for fear of legal repercussions. I had no list of survivors, other than the grieving Winola Prince. Good taste dictated that I leave out her name.
Vida and I have argued over some of the newer wrinkles in obituaries, where live-in lovers, including homosexuals, are listed as a matter of course. Vida has been opposed on the grounds that only lawful relatives should be included. I gained an edge over her last summer when I pointed out that Cass Pidduck's obit listed survivors as his sons, Darrell and Conrad; their wives, Mary Jo and Jessica; five grandchildren; six great-grandchildren; numerous nieces and nephews; and his beloved dog, Flyswatter.
Nor could I publicly speculate when and where the shooting had taken place. "Greene apparently died from a head wound shortly after entering the grocery store," I wrote, having properly kept Marlow Whipp's role to that of accidental observer. The story took up four inches, and was the second lead, after the planning commission's latest bungling effort to make Front and Pine streets one-way thoroughfares. I boxed the Bucker Swede item, but buried it on page eight.
By two o'clock, we had the paper well in hand. Ed was bustling around the office, showing more signs of life than I'd seen in him since Roger put a whoopee cushion on his chair the previous April Fool's Day. Carla was finishing a major feature on the upcoming high school production of _Our Town_. The story wasn't any great shakes, but she had taken some fine pictures. Vida was struggling to get in all the weddings, showers, and end-of-school-year celebrations that fill the calendar in May and continue through June.
I had just rapped out a last-minute item about the need for strawberry pickers when inspiration hit. Dialing Seattle Directory Assistance, I asked for Winola Prince's number. There was no listing. I tried for Kelvin Greene and hit pay dirt.
But no one answered. Winola was either at work or helping make arrangements for Kelvin's funeral. I understood that the body would be released that afternoon. Perhaps Winola might come to Alpine. I called the morgue over at the hospital, but was told that the remains had been shipped to Driggers Funeral Home. The owner, Al Driggers, sounded as appropriately lifeless as ever.
"We've been asked to send the body to Seattle," he said. "Mrs. Greene—the mother—made the request."
So Kelvin Greene had a mother. I sighed as I hung up the phone. It's always easier to deal with disembodied bodies. But corpses who leave mothers, fathers, wives, and children are far more disturbing. It's okay for me not to care about dead people I never knew. It's not okay—it's not possible—for me not to care about the people they leave behind.
I called Al back. I should include Mrs. Greene's name in the story. "It's Alva," he said, all emotion carefully drained from his voice.
"A father?" I asked, pen poised.
"Not mentioned. There's a child, though. Mrs. Greene said something about finding a neighbor to watch her grandson." Al's words took on a shade of warmth.
"A name?" I inquired.
But Al didn't know. "She called him her grandbaby. But she definitely referred to him as Kelvin's boy."
I decided to omit the reference to a child. This wasn't an official obituary, but a news story. I'd try to reach Winola Prince later. When I told Vida what I'd learned, she grew thoughtful.
"You could call Marilynn, I suppose."
"I don't want to. Not yet."
Vida nodded. "I know. It's difficult. I'd so hoped there was no connection between this Kelvin and poor Marilynn. That's why I didn't say anything when we got back to the Campbells' house from Marlow Whipp's store. I didn't want the rest of them to jump to conclusions. Or for Marilynn to think we were making any assumptions."
"I thought as much," I said, recalling Vida's uncustomary reticence. Rarely have I felt as fond of Vida as I did at that moment. Rarely have I felt as fond of any woman except my own mother.
With the usual sense of Tuesday relief, I left a note for Kip MacDuff and signed the press order so that the paper could be driven to the printer in Monroe early Wednesday morning. Arriving home, I felt restless. After changing clothes, I went out into the yard. Despite my weekend efforts, there was still plenty of work to be done. Shrubs needed pruning, the grass could use a mowing, and more weeds seemed to have sprung up overnight. I concentrated on the front flower bed, which grows almost to the street. There are no sidewalks where I live. The planning commission keeps promising to put a Local Improvement District bond issue on an upcoming ballot, but in over three years it hasn't happened yet. Maybe it was time to write another L.I.D. editorial.
The pansies I'd set out two weeks earlier were blooming nicely, though threatening to get leggy. My iris were on the wane, but the trio of columbine looked lovely. As ever, my peonies were a disappointment. There were only two buds showing on the pink clump, and the deep red variety hadn't come up at all.
On my knees, pulling up clover, I recalled Jean Campbell's complaint about her peonies. She thought a dog had trampled them. But the Campbell house was protected by a white picket fence. It was only about waist high, so perhaps a dog had jumped it. Still, I wondered. Dogs don't trample, they dig. The cemetery was four doors away. If someone had gone through the Campbells' yard, the flowers might have been crushed by the trespasser....
Inside the house, my phone rang. It was Milo, sounding abject. "Emma, are you still mad?" he asked.
Of course I wasn't, not really. Men aren't responsible for being insensitive boobs. I put down my weeder and sat in the chair by my desk. "Forget it, Milo. It was deadline day. You know I'm always touchy on Tuesdays."
His sigh of relief was audible. "I went to see Marilynn after she finished work," he said, obviously glad to change the subject. "She admitted she knew Kelvin Greene."
If Milo had blown a trumpet in my ear, he couldn't have sounded more self-righteous. "So you're vindicated, huh? When do you cuff her?"
He uttered a small chuckle. "You know it's not that easy. Kelvin was seeing her roommate. Winola Prince. Marilynn insists she didn't know him very well. The funny thing is," he went on in a musing voice, "I believe her."
"Well, hooray!" It was my turn to feel a sense of relief. But it didn't last long. Reality set in like a load of lead, weighing me down, telling me that if Marilynn Lewis was innocent, who on earth in Alpine would have had any reason to shoot Kelvin Greene? "Did Marilynn know why Kelvin came to town?"
Milo admitted that Marilynn had no idea. I asked if he'd contacted Winola Prince. He hadn't been able to reach her, either. He had, however, spoken with Alva Greene.
"The woman's a clam," he declared. "I got the impression she's had a few brushes with the law, probably because of her kids. Kelvin had a couple of brothers and some sisters. I figure they've had problems."
Stretching the long phone cord, I was able to reach my liquor cabinet. It was after six-thirty, and I was entitled to a bit of bourbon. "So what happens next?" I asked.
Milo chuckled again, this time more heartily. "You think we're sitting on our dead butts? We've made inquiries. Kelvin arrived early Friday morning or got here Thursday night and slept in his car. He didn't check into either of the motels, the hotel, or the ski lodge. He wasn't seen anywhere along the Stevens Pass corridor. But several people saw him Friday in Alpine. The mall, the ski lodge, the tavern, the campground. He got fish and chips to go at the Burger Barn somewhere around noon. It looks like he was killing time, probably until he could meet his killer. The waitress and the bartender at the Icicle Creek Tavern thought he showed up there about three-thirty. Yes, he had a beer with Cyndi Campbell who, according to Denise Petersen, was flirting with him. Denise insists that Cyndi and Kelvin came to the tavern together. But Denise is off her rocker. She and Cyndi went to high school together, and Cyndi beat her out for Timber Queen the year they were seniors."
"Well, certainly, that makes Denise a famous liar," I remarked, with an irony that would be lost on Milo. However, it was probably an accurate assessment. Old grudges die hard in Alpine. "I take it you think Cyndi was doing more than giving directions to at least three different destinations?"
Milo seemed puzzled by the question, but had an answer anyway. "I admit that most people don't sit down and drink beer with strangers while they tell them how to get someplace. But Bill Blatt says Cyndi is sticking to her story. She'd never seen Kelvin Greene before in her life."
"So," I noted, hauling out a fifth of bourbon that was almost empty, "Cyndi says it was Kelvin Greene at the Icicle Creek Tavern? How does she know?"
"She described him, including his clothes. He had a small scar on his upper lip. She remembered that. Cyndi might seem like an airhead, but she's observant." Milo's voice conveyed approval.
The phone cord didn't quite reach the ice compartment of my refrigerator. But my mind had made a leap of its own—to tomorrow. I complimented Milo on his diligence, then hung up and poured my drink. Before taking my chicken pot pie out of the oven, I called Vida, relaying Milo's information. She wasn't as generous with our sheriff.
"If Cyndi knew Kelvin Greene," she said in a crisp voice, "I'd bet some of the other Campbells knew him, too. Cyndi hasn't spent a lot of time in Seattle, but Shane has. There's got to be more of a connection up at the house on Tyee Street than Marilynn. Or Cyndi."
I agreed. "Can you hold down the fort tomorrow?" I asked slyly. "It's Wednesday, and things should be slow."
Vida's manner grew suspicious. "Why? Where are you going?"
I told her about my decision to attend the conference at Lake Chelan. She approved. Then I added that my wardrobe needed refurbishing. "Francine's summer clothes aren't my style this year," I fibbed. "I want to do some shopping in Seattle."
"Shopping?" Vida demanded sharply. "Or probing?"
"Both," I answered candidly.
"Good," Vida replied. "I'll go with you. Carla and Ed can hold down the fort. As long as Ginny's there to watch them." She hung up before I could argue.
# Chapter Eight
I'D ALMOST CALLED Vida back and asked her to stay in Alpine. She was right about my intentions—I hoped to track down Winola Prince and maybe Alva Greene, too. But I was equally sincere in my desire to get some new, fiendishly smart clothes. With Vida along, I'd be lucky to make a quick stop at the Northgate Mall. She hated to shop—except for Roger.
"According to the _P-I_ , Kelvin's funeral is Friday," Vida said, patting the morning edition in the well between the Jaguar's bucket seats. "That should mean that Winola is at work. Assuming, of course, she's on a day shift."
As usual, Vida's mind was running on the same track as mine. We had left Alpine at eight-thirty, after a brief check at the office where all seemed well, probably because Ed and Carla hadn't yet arrived. It was just after ten when I pulled off the freeway to head for Virginia Mason Hospital on Seattle's First Hill, or as it's more commonly known, Pill Hill. Located above the downtown area, the neighborhood is crammed with hospitals, clinics, pharmacies, and medical specialists. It's also jammed with cars. I left Vida in a loading zone and ran two blocks to the main entrance. After a five-minute wait, I learned that Winola Prince was working the orthopedic floor. She would be on her lunch break at eleven.
We parked in the hospital garage, which had surprisingly reasonable fees for the Big City. About the only charge for parking in Alpine is if a car is left in Milo Dodge's slot outside the sheriff's office. There are some definite benefits to small-town living.
"You let me handle this," Vida urged, as we made our way through the hospital's maze of halls and elevators. "You find the cafeteria, and I'll bring Winola along. Order me some pie, if they have it. Anything but blueberry or rhubarb."
They had apple, blackberry, and custard. The apple looked safest. I got coffee. For fifteen minutes, I watched the parade of doctors, nurses, medical technicians, and visitors that marched past my corner table. People who work in hospitals always strike me as guarded. They evince neither hope nor despair. On rubber-soled shoes, they move softly, as if afraid to upset the balance of the odds that determine life and death. Maybe they're just afraid of slipping on the frequently scrubbed floors. But I sense detachment, perhaps a wish that their hearts were as protected as their feet. It's tough enough being a journalist; writing about illness and accidents can cause depression or callousness, or both. Facing death on a daily basis must require a different dimension of the human soul.
I wondered what Vida would use for an excuse to drag Winola Prince to an interview. In this case, she couldn't claim to be a relative of Marilynn's. She wouldn't impersonate an officer of the law. She wouldn't dare assume Jean Campbell's identity.
To my amazement, Vida told Winola the truth. "Here, Emma, meet Winola Prince," she said, a hand at the young nurse's elbow. "She's going to help us with our story about poor Kelvin."
Winola Prince looked as if she hadn't slept for a long time. She was slender by nature, and her face had a gaunt look that made her dark eyes enormous. She wore no makeup, and her light blue blouse and slacks hung limply, as if they, along with their wearer, had lost their starch. Winola sat down with a weary, grateful air. Vida bustled off to get her some food.
I was clearing my throat and trying to come up with a tactful remark when Winola asked a question of her own: "What kind of people you got in Alpine that'd kill my Kelvin? That Mrs. Runkel says your sheriff don't know nothin'."
"He doesn't, yet," I replied, feeling a need to defend Milo. "The investigation has just started. That's one reason we're here. We want to find out if you—or anybody who knew Kelvin—might know what led to his death."
Winola's hand strayed to the cornrows of hair that were held in place with turquoise beads. Her name tag—w. PRINCE, LPN—was crooked. "I don't know nothin' 'bout him goin' to Alpine. Kelvin didn't always tell me everything." She not only looked sad, but sulky, as past wrongs festered in her present pain.
I had opened a notebook and was pretending to scan scribblings that actually made up my grocery list. "You and Marilynn Lewis were roommates for how long?"
Winola screwed up one eye, concentrating. "Two years? Not that long—from a year ago last summer."
"Were she and Kelvin friends?" I hoped I'd phrased the question innocuously.
"Friends?" Winola stared at me, then at her hands with their long, curved fingernails. "No. Marilynn never liked Kelvin much. She can be high and mighty sometimes. Don't ask why. She got herself all messed up with that Jerome, didn't she? What was so fine 'bout him? I told her, 'Girl, you one dumb bitch. Jerome ain't no smoother than my man. You _wrong.'_ " Winola's dark eyes glittered briefly, showing a fire I thought had been doused by grief. "What difference it make—now?" The fire went out.
Vida arrived with a tray containing creamed chicken, rice pilaf, broccoli, a roll, applesauce, fruit salad, and a bowl of vegetable soup. "You're too thin, Winola. You can't be eating properly. Here, start with the soup." Brusquely, Vida pulled a packet of soda crackers from her pocket.
Winola's plucked eyebrows arched. Astonishment and resentment crossed her gaunt face. Tensing, I expected her to rail at Vida. But she didn't. Her narrow shoulders slumped as she picked up a spoon. Vida could cross racial barriers, conquer strangers, and comfort the bereaved with soda crackers.
I waited for Winola to taste her soup. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you're talking about," I said, as much for Vida's benefit as my own. "Who's Jerome?"
Tearing the cellophane off the crackers, Winola eyed me with suspicion. "I thought you knew Marilynn. How come you askin' 'bout Jerome?"
Vida gave a sad shake of her head, making the perky magenta beret slip a notch. "Marilynn won't talk about Jerome," she said. "Too tragic, it seems."
Winola tried the chicken. It looked lethal in its sea of jaundiced yellow sauce, but she ate without comment. When she finally spoke again, her voice was listless. "Jerome was a musician. He did coke. Marilynn hated that, but she loved Jerome more than was good for her. They'd fight. Oh, Lordy, how they'd fight!" Winola rolled her eyes and shook her head. "He wanted to move in, but Marilynn, she finally say no. Then he beat her up some more. I come home once and found her passed out. She wouldn't go to the hospital—she said it would embarrass her! Shit, she be half dead!" Winola shuddered in revulsion at the memory.
I shuddered, too. Vida, eating her pie, frowned. "Really, Winola, we had no idea what a terrible ordeal Marilynn went through with Jerome. I can certainly understand why she moved to Alpine. Let's hope he doesn't find out where she is and come looking for her."
With her fork in the broccoli, Winola turned a puzzled face on Vida. "What you talkin' 'bout? You believe in ghosts?"
Vida's knowing guise cracked a jot. "Ghosts? Why, yes," she answered, recovering quickly. "I do indeed. My Uncle Osbert is a ghost. He haunts the holding pond across from the golf course."
Averting my eyes lest Winola see the rampant disbelief that shone there, I coughed. "Excuse me, I've never glimpsed Uncle Osbert."
Winola, however, wasn't as credulous as Vida had hoped. She put down her fork and her mouth set in a stern line. "Mrs. Runkel, I do think you must be a fraud. Why you comin' around here, snoopin' and sniffin'? Marilynn's got troubles enough without people like you pryin' into her life. Leave her be, she wants to start over. It's a damned shame Kelvin went to Alpine!" Angrily, Winola stood up, almost knocking her chair over. Tears had filled her eyes and her thin body was trembling. "I don't want your lunch and I don't want your lies! Go back where you come from! I got to be buryin' my man!" On rubber-soled shoes, Winola fled the cafeteria. Several of the staff members watched curiously; a few of them put their heads together. Their manner was sympathetic. The hospital grapevine seemed to flourish as vigorously as Alpine's.
Vida ate the last bite of pie, then sat with her chin on her hand. "My. We didn't acquit ourselves very well, did we?"
I didn't know what to say. "Jerome is dead," I commented at last. "Where do we find out how he got that way?"
Vida reached over to scoop up some of Winola's untouched fruit salad. "Milo can do that," she replied absently. "It would help to have a last name for this Jerome." She buttered Winola's roll. "Poor Marilynn. I hope she's not the sort of woman who has a weakness for bad apples."
"It sounds as if they both did," I remarked, watching two earnest young men, who appeared to be interns, sit down at the table next to us.
"Both?" Vida looked up from Winola's applesauce. "You mean Marilynn and Winola?"
I nodded. "Kelvin Greene may not have beaten Winola, but he sounds like a loser."
"Yes, he does," Vida agreed. "He lost his life. So, I gather, did Jerome." She tried the rice pilaf. "I wonder what those two women had in common besides dead beaux?"
Puzzled, I frowned at Vida. "They're both nurses. They worked here together. They're about the same age." I didn't add that they were also both black.
Vida, however, was shaking her head. "No, no. Oh, certainly they have superficial things in common. But they couldn't be more unalike. Winola—let's face facts—is somewhat coarse. It has nothing to do with race, you understand. I could name twenty equally coarse white women in Alpine, but I'd rather not, because it's sufficient to have to talk to them on the phone every so often. You know who I mean. They're common, and their ethnic roots are all over the globe." She gave me a hard stare. Names whirled around in my head. I could only come up with a dozen, offhand. "Marilynn is cultured, charming, self-possessed, if self-effacing," Vida continued, no doubt with a parade of Alpine vulgarians marching through her head. "Really, so much of racial prejudice is based on how people speak. It may not be fair, but think how we react to all sorts of accents—the Deep South, Texas, Brooklyn, and, of course, foreigners. George Bernard Shaw was an old fool about some things, but he was right about that. Look at Eliza Doolittle. Marilynn sounds like a lady. Why would she choose someone like Winola as a roommate?"
"Why would Carla choose Libby?" I countered. "They're opposites, too, in many ways."
Finishing off the soda crackers, Vida considered. "True, but only up to a point. Oh, well—I'm sure I don't know." Brushing off her pleated skirt, Vida got to her feet. "Now I suppose you'll want to go shopping?"
I grimaced a bit. "Actually, I thought we'd have lunch."
Adjusting her beret, Vida began to stride from the cafeteria. "Goodness, not yet! I couldn't eat a thing! That pie was awfully filling." In passing, she nodded absently at various bewildered staff members as if she'd known them all her life.
Maybe she had. Nothing about Vida would surprise me.
Twenty-two years had passed since my internship at _The Seattle Times_. I still recognized the bylines of a few old-timers, but I had no real contacts there. Vida, however, insisted I exert what little influence I might possess.
"I thought you said we'd leave this part to Milo," I argued, as we drove away from Pill Hill and headed for Fairview Avenue where the _Times'_ editorial and advertising offices are located.
"I thought it over," she replied, sunk down in the bucket seat next to me. "Milo will scoff at us. We're right here, practically on top of _The Times_. We shouldn't pass up the opportunity."
I hadn't been inside the building since I left in 1971 to go to Mississippi and have my baby. I'd walked out on the job, my senior year at the University of Washington, my tiny apartment in the U District—and Tom. Not a word, not a look, not a tear. Ben, in his first year on the Mississippi Delta, had greeted me in a daze. As a priest, he knew he had to take me in and give me comfort. As a big brother, I knew he wanted to kick me in the butt and send me back to Tom.
Vida and I got as far as the security guard, a cheerful man in his fifties. We explained our place in the journalistic fraternity while he scanned names on a lengthy list.
"I don't think any of our crime reporters are in," he said, with polite regret. "Would you settle for somebody on the city desk?"
Vida wouldn't. "What about your morgue?" she asked.
But the guard shook his head. "It's not open to the public anymore. Too many requests. You have to go through channels."
"Channels!" Vida was exasperated. "See here, young man, we've come all the way from Alpine on this murder-investigation story. We started out with one body—now we have two. Would you like to try for three?" She leaned on the desk, the beret slanting down over one eye.
The guard, who looked more amused than intimidated, picked up his phone. "Let me see what I can do."
Ten minutes later, we were immersed in microfiche. "We could have done this at the public library," I muttered. "Why are we starting with August?"
_"You're_ starting with August," Vida snapped. "I have September. That's because I'm assuming Jerome hasn't been dead for more than nine or ten months. Think about it, Emma. Marilynn came to Alpine less than a month ago. If this beau of hers was killed, it could have happened as recently as April. But if his killer was caught, then there would have been a trial. That wouldn't have taken place right away, not in King County. Let's say it was early in the spring. So that would put the actual murder back in the late summer or early fall." Vida lifted her chin and peered at the microfiche through her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses.
At a nearby machine, a balding man with a thin mustache gave us a dirty look. I assumed he was a staffer, and not pleased with strangers using the newspaper's facilities. A few moments later, I heard him mutter something about "stats lie" and "scumbag Seahawks." He left. I moved on to October.
"It might be a small story," I cautioned Vida, who seemed to be taking forever to get through September. I had the feeling she was catching up on items she'd missed along the way.
"Yes, yes," she replied testily. "I know how to read a met daily."
I didn't doubt it. Still, I'd finished August and October by the time she started on November. The room was stuffy, without adequate ventilation. My stomach was growling. It was almost one o'clock, and breakfast had been meager. A chic young woman with an expensive haircut glided over to the files. I wondered how much they paid reporters these days at _The Times_. I had a feeling they made more than I did as an editor-publisher. I thought of Carla, eking out her four hundred a week, and I felt guilty. No wonder she couldn't afford a six-hundred-dollar apartment on her own. Maybe I should give her a raise. Ed, too, if he continued to perform. And Ginny, who certainly deserved an increase in salary.
"Bingo!" Vida exclaimed, startling the sleek-looking young woman in her three-hundred-dollar summer suit. Leaning over, Vida beamed at me. "Jerome Cole, twenty-nine, was shot and killed the day after Thanksgiving in an apartment on Capitol Hill. Here, Emma, read this. It's short, but let's hope there's a follow-up."
There was. The following day, a neighbor, Wesley Charles, had been arrested for the murder of Jerome Cole. Again, the story was brief, and confined to the local section of the paper.
I burrowed through December; Vida took January. On December tenth, Wesley Charles was arraigned for murder. He entered a plea of not guilty.
We didn't find another reference until early March. The trial was set; the jurors were being chosen. On March eleventh, a verdict was handed down after two hours of deliberation: Wesley Charles was found guilty of second-degree homicide. A week later, he was sentenced to twenty years in prison. He still claimed to be not guilty. His attorney vowed to appeal.
Marilynn Lewis's name was mentioned only once, in connection with the murder site. According to the testimony of a mutual friend, Kelvin Greene, Wesley Charles had bragged that he was "going to do Jerome Cole." Charles, said Greene, had a romantic interest in the woman who lived in the apartment where Cole was shot. Her name was Marilynn Lewis. Winola Prince wasn't mentioned.
I had finally managed to steer Vida to a restaurant on Lake Union. It was almost two, and I was afraid we'd miss the lunch setting. The hostess at Chandler's Crabhouse assured us we weren't too late. Vida insisted she couldn't eat more than a small salad, then ordered a ten-dollar crab Louie and ate most of the bread that arrived before the entrée. I chose the Copper River salmon special.
"Now what do you think?" Vida demanded after our drink orders had gone to the bar. "This poor Wesley fellow was defending Marilynn from another savage beating?"
I shrugged. "That didn't come through in the trial. Wesley kept insisting he was innocent."
"His attorney was an idiot," Vida declared, as the waitress brought her white wine and my screwdriver. "He tried to prove that someone else had killed Jerome Cole. He failed miserably, with some hogwash about a stranger in a leather jacket. The interesting part is Kelvin Greene. At least as far as we're concerned. Now why did he come to Alpine?"
A terrible thought flew through my mind. Judging from the look on Vida's face, it had struck her, too. "Oh, no!" I breathed. "Not Marilynn!"
"What do you mean?" Vida uttered the question through lips that scarcely moved.
I took a quick sip of my screwdriver. "What if Marilynn was somehow implicated in Jerome Cole's murder? What if Kelvin Greene was blackmailing her?"
Vida remained expressionless. _"Implicated?_ Is that what you really mean?"
It wasn't exactly, but I refused to play out the shocking scenario that had leapt into my brain. Would a smitten Wesley Charles take the rap for Marilynn Lewis? But he hadn't—not really. He had claimed to be innocent. "It's fair to say that Kelvin Greene came to Alpine to see Marilynn Lewis," I said slowly. "His visit probably had something to do with Jerome Cole's murder. Maybe he had additional information. Maybe Marilynn wasn't even there when it happened. Maybe Kelvin was bringing a love letter from Wesley or a last-gasp message from Jerome or..." My voice trailed off.
Vida sniffed. "You make it sound so civilized. Whatever the reason, the result is that Kelvin got killed, too. I wonder where Wesley Charles is incarcerated." Without another word, Vida got up and marched toward the front of the restaurant. The waitress arrived with our entrées before Vida returned. Not wanting my salmon to get cold, I began eating. When Vida finally resumed her seat, she was looking Vexed.
"I called the state Department of Corrections," she said, spearing a crab leg out of her salad, "and got put on hold. I heard half of Simon and Garfunkel's entire repertoire while I waited. I'd hoped that Wesley Charles had been sent to the reformatory at Monroe, but he's still down at Shelton, waiting to be processed. He probably won't be sent to Monroe until June. We're going to have to leave this part to Milo after all."
"Oh." I, too, was disappointed. We could have stopped at the reformatory on our way back to Alpine. Shelton, located on a southwest arm of lower Puget Sound, was a two-hour drive from Seattle. "We're going to have to badger Milo."
Vida gave a single sharp nod. "Of course we are. And we may not like the results."
I knew that. The more we learned about Marilynn Lewis's background, the less I liked it. But I still liked Marilynn Lewis. I couldn't believe she'd killed Kelvin Greene or anyone else, no matter what the provocation.
I also knew I could be wrong.
# Chapter Nine
IT'S A WONDER I didn't end up buying a chenille bathrobe and fuzzy slippers with glass eyes and whiskers. Vida spun me around Nordstrom's like a top, chased me up Fifth Avenue as if I'd stolen her purse, and absolutely refused to stop at more than one boutique in the Westlake Center. Nothing, she insisted, was worth trying on, and the prices were outrageous.
"Ivory—too hard to keep clean," she remarked, stomping past a table full of cotton and rayon sweaters. "Pants with a pleat! _Eeeek!"_ "Silk dupioni? It sounds like an Italian dessert." "Oh, good heavens! Platform shoes! I thought they went out with FDR!"
But I persevered. A long striped skirt with a side slit, a short-sleeved taupe sweater, a gauzy wrap-around white blouse, black leggings, a caramel trench dress in viscose rayon, and—yes—platform brown mock-crocodile sandals.
Vida was still exclaiming over my extravagance when we reached the turnoff for Stevens Pass. "Honestly! Not one item on sale! Emma, do you realize you spent almost a thousand dollars?"
I didn't, of course. On the rare occasions that I splurge, I don't keep track of what I spend. That takes all the fun out of it. And since I refurbish my wardrobe only about every two years, I try not to feel guilty. Still, I couldn't help but gulp.
"A thousand dollars? Really?" I not only felt guilty, I felt sunk. In my head, I began to tot up the articles I'd purchased. Vida was right. I drove slowly through Monroe, noting the rooftops of the reformatory, and wondering how soon I'd join Wesley Charles there—as a bankrupt. Then I remembered that women aren't sent to Monroe; they're put away at Purdy, on the Kitsap Peninsula. Growing more gloomy, I tried to calculate how close I'd come to maxing out my bank cards.
"Do you see this skirt?" Vida inquired, pointing to her pleats. "It's twenty years old, Penney's. It cost fifteen dollars." She thrust out her floral-clad bust from under the boxy gray jacket. "The blouse was nine ninety-nine at the Everett Mall. The jacket came from my sister-in-law, Geraldine. It didn't look right on her, and she was too lazy to return it to Sears."
We were going through Sultan, past the sporting goods store, the Hoot Owl Mini Mart, the Sportsman Inn, and the Dutch Cup Motel and Restaurant. "Besides," Vida went on, "he won't even notice."
I took my eyes off the road just long enough to give Vida an exasperated glare. There was no point in feigning innocence with Vida. "That's not true. Tom notices things. He always liked me to look... nice." I felt a faint flush come over my cheeks as I gunned the Jag past Startup.
"Perhaps." Vida was looking very prim, her eyes directed at the jagged peaks that rose above the highway. "Women are very silly, you know. They spend oodles of money on clothes and cosmetics to make themselves attractive for a man. But if the man truly loves a woman, he doesn't care if she's wearing a grocery bag. It's only appropriate to get all gussied up and act foolish in the very beginning, to be noticed. After that, you might as well save your money and wear housecoats."
"But it makes me feel better about myself to know I look good," I argued. "It gives me confidence."
"Oh, pooh, it gives you piles of bills! Really, Emma," Vida went on, very serious, "at your age, you should have plenty of confidence. Now if it were Carla, chasing after Dr. Flake, that'd be different. She's only twenty-four."
We were beginning to climb up into the mountains. Crossing the South Fork of the Skykomish River, we approached the entrance to the Snoqualmie National Forest. The river would weave back and forth across the highway almost as far as Alpine.
I reflected on Carla and Dr. Flake; I thought about Tom and me. Peyton Flake was single; Tom wasn't. If Carla wanted to chase Peyts from Mount Baldy to Beckler Peak, no one should criticize her for it. But I had just spent a grand on seducing a married man. I was profligate in more ways than one.
I was also lonely. At the two-thousand-foot level, the river narrowed, tumbling among huge boulders. I had a vision of myself in the gauzy white wrap-around blouse with the deep neckline and the clinging black leggings and my hair cut in a new gamine style and my makeup applied just right. And Tom, standing in the middle of a hotel lobby I could only imagine, cocking his head to one side and giving me his big grin.
"So I won't take a trip this year," I said in a defiant voice. "I didn't want to go anywhere anyway."
Vida turned to gaze at me. She chuckled very softly. "Except to Chelan."
We drove through stands of western hemlock, cottonwoods, and cedar. Tall foxgloves waved in the wind and glossy-leafed salal grew in big green clumps. There were ferns everywhere, and cattails, slim and straight.
I didn't reply to Vida. I didn't have to.
It was almost six-thirty when I dropped Vida off at her house. On a whim, I turned left instead of right on Spruce Street. Marlow Whipp's small store was still open, as I had hoped.
Marlow, however, gave a start when I entered. He peered at me as if I were a stranger, and in a sense, I was. I had never been in the store until now, and though I might have seen Marlow around town, my first real look at him had come on the night of Kelvin Greene's murder.
"How can I help you?" Marlow asked, moving a bit uneasily behind the counter.
The store was very small, with a minimal stock of just about everything. He had cans of soup, toothpaste, butter, ice cream, toilet paper, macaroni, pet food, pantyhose, eggs, beer, tuna, candy, gum, and cigarettes. He even had three small tins of pâté, though I guessed they had been on the shelf since the Reagan era. The only concession to modern marketing was a gleaming brass espresso machine that I guessed was newly installed. I hadn't noticed a sign advertising Marlow's innovation, though I assumed it could improve business. I made a mental note to mention it to Ed Bronsky.
I introduced myself, reminding him that we had encountered, if not met, the previous Friday. Marlow put a hand to his faded brown hair.
"Oh! That was terrible! Can you imagine? A guy like _that_ comes in here and dies?"
I put on my most innocent air. "A guy like... what?"
Marlow swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down above the undershirt that showed beneath his plaid flannel. "Well... a black guy, a stranger, a person who wouldn't normally come here." He waved his hands in a helpless gesture.
"Did you think he was going to rob you?" I heard the wry note in my voice, but Marlow didn't seem to notice.
"I didn't know what to think." Marlow shook his head. "I didn't have much time to think at all. He walked in and sort of staggered." Marlow pointed to an old-fashioned barrel near the door where he kept his hard candy. "He fell against that, and then came forward. He tried to say something, but he never got it out. Then _kerplunk_ —he landed facedown right where you're standing!"
I glanced at the worn floorboards. If Milo had made an outline of the body, it was now gone. "Why do you think he came here?" I inquired.
Marlow looked genuinely mystified by the question. "Why? Well, why not? I mean, where else would he go that time of night?"
"A house?" I suggested. "There's a house next door, there are houses all over the place, at least on this side of Spruce. And wasn't there activity at the high school field across the street? If the man wanted help, why not go there?"
It appeared that the thought had never occurred to Marlow Whipp. But instead of considering it, he leaned one elbow on the counter and his blue eyes grew wary. "So what are you trying to say, Mrs. Lord?"
I wasn't sure. I suppose I'd been trying to flesh out the scenario. It appeared that Kelvin Greene had been shot at the cemetery, right by Axel Swensen's newly dug grave. If that was true, then Kelvin might have stumbled from the cemetery, up the service road to Spruce, crossed Seventh Street, and seen the sign for the grocery store. Would a dying black man be sufficiently rational to realize that he might not receive help from a private residence in a small town like Alpine? Was that why Kelvin Greene had sought sanctuary in a more public place? Maybe he had merely wanted to be sure that someone was on hand to give him aid. I tried to summarize my thoughts for Marlow Whipp.
Marlow, however, wasn't in a speculative mood. "Who said he got shot at the cemetery? It didn't say so in your newspaper. I figure somebody plugged him up in the woods. Hell, it could have been an accident. You know how it is with some of those guys and their guns. They'll shoot at anything that moves. A black guy like that probably looked like a bear."
I didn't bother to keep from rolling my eyes. Marlow slapped his hand on a post that was decorated with cans of chewing tobacco. "Hell, Mrs. Lord, what are you getting at? The only thing I know for sure is that I didn't shoot the son of a bitch, and I never saw him before in my life. I told Dodge that, and he believes me. Now why don't you all go away and leave me alone?" Marlow's voice was somewhere between a rasp and a whine.
Giving Marlow a flinty smile, I nodded at the espresso machine. "I wouldn't mind taking a cup home with me. Can you do a mocha?"
Marlow stared at the big brass vat as if he'd never seen it before. "A mocha? I don't know.... I'm just learning how to run that rig. The principal at the high school talked me into it. He swears the teachers—and some of the kids—will go nuts for it."
"They will," I assured him. "It should perk up your business. So to speak." I kept a straight face, certain Marlow would miss the unintended pun.
He did. "Yeah, maybe. I do all right. You'd be surprised how much candy and gum those kids buy."
"And beer and cigarettes?" I added, now giving him a conspiratorial smile.
Marlow ducked his head. "Well... cigarettes, maybe. Some of them _are_ eighteen. I don't encourage them and I don't smoke myself. Never did. But I can't turn them away if they're of age."
I let the lie pass. I also passed on waiting for Marlow to figure out how to make a mocha. But I did buy some gum and a pound of butter. The butter cost almost half again as much as I would have paid at the Grocery Basket or Safeway.
Still, I wondered how Marlow Whipp stayed in business. I also wondered if Milo Dodge wondered. And then I wondered why it mattered. I drove home, still wondering.
Vida was giving a dinner party. "Just us girls," she announced Thursday morning while Ginny and Carla fussed with the coffeemaker. "We four, plus Libby Boyd, Marilynn Lewis, and Cyndi Campbell. Friday, seven-thirty."
I had misgivings about Libby and Marilynn at the same dinner table, but I couldn't say why. So I kept my mouth shut. Carla, however, did not.
"I may be going in to Seattle Friday night," she said, flipping her long black hair over her shoulders. "Peyts wants to have dinner at that new restaurant on the water. Palisades or something?"
Vida shrugged. "In that case, I won't invite Libby. I was only doing that so she wouldn't feel excluded. Did you say she had a beau? Where is he—Seattle?"
Carla was fiddling with a fingernail. "What? She doesn't talk about him much. Libby's private. She had a rough youth. I think she obsesses about being respectable. Don't get her started on her parents, though. She says they were total potheads, always protesting something and being thrown in jail." Getting an emery board out of her desk, she began filing away. "Of course, I don't see her that much. She works weird hours."
"Good," Vida declared. "Then you won't get sick of each other. It's important for roommates to be independent."
Ed arrived late, but filled with good intentions. "I got four inches instead of two out of the pet store this week. They're introducing a new line of dog and cat food. Henry Bardeen up at the ski lodge has a summer promotion, including a special for the restaurant. There's a rumor Payless may be coming in. Shall I check it out?"
Overcome by Ed's burst of energy, I practically reeled around the news office. "Gosh, Ed, why not? We should probably start in on the Fourth of July insert, too."
"Right-o," Ed agreed, wedging himself into his chair. He started humming. Dazed, I headed for my office, but was stopped by the sound of Todd Wilson's voice. He had arrived in the company of Francine Wells, who had come to see Ed about yet another ad. Todd, however, was calling on Carla. The PUD was doing maintenance work the last week of May, and there would be some limited power outages. Todd wanted to make sure that their customers were forewarned.
I listened to hear if my address was included. It wasn't, but Vida's home was among those that would be without electricity for almost three hours on May twenty-eighth. Luckily, it was during the day when she'd be at work.
"I better not lose anything in my freezer," she warned Todd.
"You shouldn't," Todd assured her, "except maybe ice cream. That's why we warn people." He gave her a big smile.
"Ice cream!" Vida exclaimed. "That's Roger's birthday! Now I'll have to shop on my way home! Really, Todd, you could have picked a better day!"
Todd was still smiling. "It can't be helped, Mrs. Runkel. If you want to file a complaint, wait until after June eleventh. I'll be in Europe then."
Vida stared at Todd over the rims of her glasses. "I thought it was your in-laws who were going to Europe," she said.
"They are, later in the summer." Todd looked very pleased with himself. "But Wendy and I decided we needed a getaway as soon as school was out. We're heading for Greece and Italy for a month." He glanced at his watch. "Hey—it's almost nine. I've got a meeting. See you."
Ed was still conferring with Francine Wells. Carla had resumed filing her nails. Ginny was checking the coffeemaker which seemed to have stalled on us. Vida was sitting with her chin on her fists, staring at the door that had closed behind Todd Wilson.
"Greece and Italy for a _month?"_ Vida rubbed furiously at her eyes. "Now that's ridiculous! Todd only gets two weeks' vacation. What's he doing, taking a leave?"
Francine's perfectly coiffed head raised from the dummy she had been studying with Ed. "I could have told you about their trip," she said, obviously pleased to know something Vida didn't. "Wendy was in the shop yesterday buying me out. She must be taking a steamer trunk."
Vida's gaze darted from Francine to me and back again. "Did she spend more than a thousand dollars?"
Francine feigned shock. "Vida—you know I can't tell you how much a customer spends!" She winked in an exaggerated manner. "Let's say you're lowballing me by about a third."
Disgusted, Vida swung around in her chair. "Oh, good heavens! And I thought I knew the biggest fools in town!" She gave me another quick look. I was beginning to feel less guilty, not only about the money I'd blown, but about not spending it with Francine.
"She must have gotten some nice things," I said in a weak voice.
Francine nodded. "She did. But Wendy's hard to dress. Her posture isn't great and she's awkward. We worked at it, I'll tell you. But by the time she left, we were both happy. If nervous," she added with a little laugh. "Me, I mean. I don't usually have that much cash in the register, and the way things are going these days..." She made a graceful gesture with one hand, the diamonds in her wristwatch glinting in our sickly fluorescent lights.
Vida pounced. "Wendy paid _cash?"_
Francine's fine eyebrows arched. "Why, yes. She usually does." leaning on Vida's desk, her voice dropped to a confidential level. "It must be Todd's father who has the money. Isn't he a big-shot Everett businessman?"
Vida gave a snort. "He owns a muffler shop. How many mufflers do you have to install to get rich?"
Francine moved toward the door. "Somebody in that family is well-off. Lloyd's done all right, but the appliance store must be hurting in these hard times. Jean's dad worked at the mill, didn't he?"
Vida nodded. "Dust Bucket Cooper, they called him. I never knew why. After the original mill closed, he helped build the ski lodge. Then he drove a truck for one of the other logging companies, I forget which. Died in 'sixty-three. Heart."
Having received the capsule biography of Dust Bucket Cooper, Francine left. Vida was still fuming.
"I don't understand it," she seethed. "Where do the Wilsons get so much money? Cash! If Lloyd and Jean were rich, they'd give more to the church. So what are Todd and Wendy up to?"
Carla had finally finished her nails. "Prostitution," she said calmly. "Wendy is selling herself to students."
Ed, halfway to the door, stopped to stare. "Carla—that's a terrible thing to say! You're joking, right?"
"No," Carla answered blithely, "not really. I mean, I don't think she's selling _herself_. Grades, maybe. I've heard some of those kids talk about her when I've been up at the high school taking pictures and doing stories."
I had perched on Ed's desk. "What do they say?" I asked.
Carla was looking vague, a familiar expression. "Oh—it's not _what_ they say; it's _how_ they say it. Knowing looks and stuff."
Disappointed in Carla's lack of specifics, Ed went on his way. Ginny, carrying the mail, almost collided with him in the door. Carla sought Ginny's support.
"Wendy Wilson," Carla said, holding up both hands to halt Ginny, and at the same time, admire her newly filed nails. "What did Rick Erlandson say about her the other night?"
Ginny looked thoughtful. "Wendy... Let me think.... Oh, it was what his sister said to him. About something her husband told her... That Wendy's students would do anything for her." Ginny's high forehead puckered. "Something like that, and that Steve—Rick's brother-in-law—couldn't understand it because he said Wendy wasn't that great of a teacher." She gazed at Carla. "Is that what you mean?"
Carla nodded vigorously. "Right. We're trying to figure out what Wendy has going on with the students."
I was at sea, trying to figure out the source of Ginny's gossip. Vida noticed and took pity on me. "Rick, who works at the bank, went out with Ginny the other night, remember? Rick's sister is Donna Erlandson Fremstad Wickstrom. She's married to Steve, who teaches science and math at the high school." She folded her arms and waited for me to become enlightened.
"Oh! Sure, and Steve teaches with Wendy. The Wickstroms were with the Wilsons and the other two couples at Café de Flore."
Smiling benevolently, Vida nodded. The class dumbbell had finally come through with the right answer. It was Ginny, however, who drew Vida's next comment:
"So Steve Wickstrom thinks Wendy has some sort of hold over her students. That's interesting." Vida juggled her thermos of hot water. "Emma, why don't you assign me to a year-end story at the high school? We can use it in the special edition."
I glanced at Carla who was already slated for the assignment. Carla, however, didn't mind. "Go ahead. I'll do the photos, though, if you want."
Now that my staff had gotten down to business, I took the mail from Ginny and went into my office. I hadn't finished the first irate letter when Milo strolled through the door. Somehow, he had gotten past Vida. I assumed she was on the phone.
"Don't ask," he said in a glum voice. "There's nothing new in the homicide investigation."
"Then why are you here? Did you find out who's been sending Marilynn Lewis ugly mail? Or who's been writing me anonymous letters? Maybe you've recovered Bucker Swede from those teenaged gangsters in Sultan."
Milo sat down in one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk. He looked as if he'd like to put his feet up, but there wasn't room. Taking a big handkerchief out of his pocket, he blew his nose.
"What I don't get," he said, ignoring my comments, "is that you can't scratch your ass in this town without six people knowing it. But blow some guy away in broad daylight—and nobody sees a thing. It's damned aggravating."
Idly, I started flipping through the rest of the mail. "If you came here just to bitch, I'll give you something to do. Check out a convicted murderer named Wesley Charles. He's down at Shelton, waiting to be transported to Monroe.
Milo jerked forward in the chair. His long face lost some of its color. "Wesley Charles? What about him?"
Puzzled by Milo's reaction, I put the mail aside. "I told you, he's a convicted murderer. Kelvin Greene testified at his trial. Damn it, Milo, do you ever do your homework? Why don't you hire Vida and me and deputize us? We could use the extra money."
But Milo wasn't listening. He had placed one hand on the edge of my desk, and his hazel eyes were riveted on my face. "We just got an APB, Emma. A Wesley Charles escaped this morning as he was being brought to the Monroe Reformatory. Now go over what you just said, and do it slow. You talk too damned fast."
Milo wasn't entirely clear about how Wesley Charles had managed his escape. There had been a traffic tie-up involving an accident with an eighteen-wheeler full of produce, a U.S. Forest Service truck, and a school bus from Snohomish County. The first concern was for the children, none of whom had suffered serious injuries. But during the disruption, Wesley Charles had fled, presumably chains and all.
"So you're saying this Charles guy whacked Marilynn Lewis's boyfriend?" Milo asked, taking notes.
"That's right," said Vida, who had joined us. "That is, he was convicted of shooting Jerome Cole. Charles maintained his innocence. According to Winola Prince, Marilynn's former roommate, Jerome and Marilynn had been romantically involved for some time. Jerome was a drug addict, I might add, and didn't treat Marilynn at all well. Kelvin Greene testified at the trial."
Milo was exhibiting both amusement and admiration. The latter trait seemed strained, but at least it was there. "You two were busy in Seattle yesterday," Milo remarked. "What was Wesley Charles's motive?"
If Milo thought he had stumped us, he was wrong. Vida answered promptly: "Jealousy, it would appear. He was infatuated with Marilynn, or so Kelvin Greene testified. Kelvin, if you want to know, and of course you should, was seeing Winola Prince."
Milo, who had been sitting with one leg propped on the other knee, planted both feet on the floor. "I've got to talk with Marilynn Lewis again. Damn." He glanced at Vida, then at me. "I wonder if this Charles will try to see Marilynn?"
"More fool he," Vida replied. "But don't discount it."
Getting to his feet, Milo wandered over to gaze at my map of Skykomish, Snohomish, and Kittitas counties. It also included the northeast corner of King.
"It's over forty miles from here to Monroe," Milo noted. "If Wesley Charles has any smarts, he'll head back for Seattle and lose himself."
"This is weird," I said. "Wesley Charles insists he didn't kill Jerome Cole. We know he didn't kill Kelvin Greene, because Charles was down at the Shelton correctional facility at the time of the murder. Milo, what do you make of all this?" I hated to ask, but I had to know.
Milo turned around, his shoulders sagging. "You don't want to hear it," he said. "Oh, hell, nobody hates to disagree with a jury, but once in awhile a bad verdict comes down. Maybe this was one of those times. So we've got a common denominator in both homicide cases. Marilynn Lewis. Who else?"
"Cyndi Campbell," Vida snapped. "Really, Milo, you don't believe her trumped-up story about giving directions? If you don't question that young woman more closely, you're a bigger fool than I thought."
Milo showed no enthusiasm for grilling Cyndi Campbell. "Face it, Vida, Cyndi probably got a big bang out of drinking beer with a black dude. I figure her for somebody who likes to give people a shock now and then, especially her folks. He asked how to get someplace, she said let's talk it over. No big deal."
Vida leaned back in the chair, and made a strangled sound. Her green velvet toque fell off. "Milo! Try to convince me you're not an idiot! Hurry! You're almost out of time!"
"Vida..." Milo threw up his hands. "Okay, okay, I'll talk to Cyndi. Look, you two, I'm not a total incompetent. We may not have interviewed Winola Prince, but we got some background on Kelvin Greene, other than his rap sheet."
Vida lifted her head. "And?"
"He was a borderline kind of guy," Milo said, leaning against the wall next to the map. "If he'd kept away from the drugs, he might have been all right. He used, he dealt. But he finished high school, got married, had various jobs. His wife left him about five years ago. Then he moved in with some woman and had a kid. The woman took off a couple of years ago. Grandma Greene has been raising the little boy, who's about three and a half. Kelvin held his last job for almost a year before he got laid off in April. He was working in the stockroom at Fred Meyer up on Broadway. Winola Prince moved in with him just before Marilynn Lewis left town. Now how's that for background?" Milo looked pleased with himself.
I had been watching Vida as well as Milo. I waited for a reaction. It came more slowly than I expected, and on a lower key.
"Well now." Vida retrieved her hat and plopped it back on her head. "So what conclusions do you draw?"
Under Vida's close scrutiny, Milo didn't turn a hair. "It's too soon to draw any conclusions. Especially with this new information about Wesley Charles. We're going to have to check that out with King County. In fact, I'd better get going." He started for the door.
"Milo." Vida didn't move in the chair.
The sheriff paused, leaning against the doorjamb. "What?" A note of impatience rose in his voice.
Vida let out a big sigh. I knew what she was going to say, and had to hide a smirk. "It may not mean a thing," Vida began, now turning around to look up at Milo, "but Shane Campbell worked at that same Fred Meyer store when he lived in Seattle. It seems to me that you have a connection not only between Kelvin Greene and Marilynn Lewis, but between Kelvin and Shane—and thus, all of the Campbells, right down to Wendy and Todd Wilson. While you're at it, Milo," she continued, her voice rising, "you might also want to check on where the Wilsons get their money. We're hearing some pretty strange rumors. I don't want to tell you how to do your job, you understand, but I also don't want to see you make a public fool of yourself." Vida turned back to face my desk, picked up a State Wildlife news release about endangered pigeons, and began to peruse the copy.
Over Vida's head, Milo gazed at me with a bemused expression. "Gee, Vida, thanks. I appreciate it."
"Mm-hmm," Vida replied, still reading the release.
Milo left. I waited until I was sure he'd exited the front office before I spoke. "If I'd said all that, he would have killed me," I noted.
"Age has its privileges," said Vida, sliding the news release back onto my desk. "The truth is, Milo needs more help. He's shorthanded, his budget is too small, and I suspect his technology isn't as up-to-date as it should be. Instead of getting annoyed with us for interfering, he ought to be grateful. Deep down, I rather suspect he is." Moving with her own peculiar brand of splayfooted dignity, Vida returned to the news office.
I returned to opening the mail. There were a half-dozen letters decrying the recent violence in Alpine, all blaming it on big-city influences, and four of the six specifically mentioning the matter of race. None, fortunately, brought up Marilynn Lewis by name, though the implication was there in two of the missives.
Then came my anonymous correspondent. I groaned as I unfolded the plain white piece of paper. "Dear Publicher," it began again. "You are ignoring my complaints. These people have a languege all there own. They don't even talk like the rest of us. Once they worm there way into this town, they will take over. Look at Seattle to see if what I say isn't true. It all starts there, and it will creep out over the rest of the state like a playge. Yours, A Loyal—getting more upset—Reader."
Annoyed, I called Milo. He was busy, Jack Mullins informed me in his cheerful voice. "We had a homicide last week, remember?" he chided and chuckled.
"Right, right," I acknowledged. "Can you get fingerprints off of paper? I'm getting fed up with this anonymous letter writer."
"They're usually pretty smudged," Jack replied. "We tried to take a set from the hate mail that black nurse got. No dice. Did you know that crow had been shot with a .22?"
I didn't. "You mean somebody shot the bird purposely and then sent it to Marilynn Lewis?"
"Maybe." Jack's voice conveyed a shrug. "Lots of people shoot crows. They're pests. Whoever mailed the thing might have found it someplace."
Noting the indifference in the deputy's voice, I decided to surrender, at least temporarily. If Milo and Company had struck out on discovering who had sent hate mail to Marilynn Lewis, I couldn't expect any better results. I thanked Jack Mullins and hung up. It was, I realized, more important that the sheriff's office devote its efforts to the homicide investigation.
My staff—or part of it—was devoting itself to arranging interviews at the high school. Vida and Carla would join forces Friday morning.
Meanwhile, Ed had some exciting news. "Starbuck's has made an inquiry about that vacant space by the railroad station," he announced. "You know, where Stuart's Stereo was located before they moved to the mall."
At the corner of Front Street and Alpine Way, the site was perfect for a quick caffeine stop. Commuters heading out of town could breeze by on their way to Highway 2; those who stayed in town during the day wouldn't have far to go no matter where they worked.
Carla was elated. "Oh, too cool! Now I can get a double skinny extra tall or a one-twenty-five-degree extra foamy without having to explain it to those yokels at the Venison Inn! I can't wait! Alpine may hit the big time yet!"
Her reaction to the possible advent of Starbuck's and all its glorious coffees reminded me of Marlow Whipp's new espresso machine. I conveyed the message to Ed. His freshly found enthusiasm didn't carry over to Marlow, however.
"Well now, Emma, I'd be the last person to turn up my nose at a potential advertiser," he said, resurrecting his more familiar mournful face, "but Marlow's always been a washout. I tried to get him to advertise after he took over from his folks. Three, four times I asked him, but he always said _no_. Heck, I was in there as recently as last winter—I needed some breath mints—and Marlow was downright surly. He couldn't wait to get me out of there, mints and all. I'll admit, he was busy then—must have had ten, fifteen kids in there. It was crowded, I'll say that for him."
I decided not to press Ed further. Still, if Marlow wanted to make a go of his espresso machine, he ought to have the opportunity to get the jump on Starbuck's. The Spruce Street Grocery was sufficiently removed from the railroad station to nab potential customers on the east side of town. I'd bring the subject up again when we heard something more definite about Starbuck's intentions.
Around three o'clock, I was debating with myself over whether to write an anticensorship or a pro-L.I.D. editorial. Deciding that Alpine needed sidewalks above Cascade Street more than it needed obscene music, I started with the safety factor. I was fumbling around with funding when Marilynn Lewis called. Her voice was muffled, and she sounded agitated.
"Ms.... Emma," she said into the phone, "is it possible to talk to you after work? We can meet somewhere. Maybe one of those little cafés at the mall?"
I suggested my house, which was infinitely more comfortable than the mall's two hole-in-the-wall fast-food eateries, one of which featured ersatz Chinese and the other, semi-Tex-Mex. Marilynn paused briefly before saying she'd be over around six.
It was only after I hung up that I realized she'd have to walk from the clinic. I called her back and suggested that I pick her up sometime after five. Shyly, she asked if I could make it five-thirty. I said I could. It was no problem to kill time at the office for thirty minutes.
I had no reason to think that something besides time might get killed in that half hour.
# Chapter Ten
IT HAD STARTED raining early in the afternoon, but the air was warm. After three years of summer drought, I didn't complain. I never do when it rains. A typical native Pacific Northwesterner, I feel invigorated by damp weather. It's the sun that depresses me. When the days of cloudless skies spin out and the heat beats down like a hammer and the grass goes brown and the evergreens droop and the earth turns to dust, my own roots crave water, too.
So I didn't curse the gray skies or the need to use my windshield wipers. Marilynn got into the Jag as if she were being chased by demons. She actually sighed as she settled into the bucket seat next to me.
"What a day," she murmured. "Dr. Flake had thirty-four patients. Doc Dewey saw twenty-six."
"Egad," I said, doing some quick mathematical calisthenics, "that's sixty people. Well over one percent of Alpine's entire population."
"Babies and arthritis," Marilynn replied. "Those are the major complaints around here. You can't do much about either one."
Braking at the Third and Cedar intersection, I glanced at Marilynn. "And you? What's your complaint? You sounded a bit frazzled when you called."
Marilynn's perfect profile was on display as she leaned back against the leather upholstery. "Wait until we get to your place. Have you got any white wine, or am I being pushy?"
I laughed. "White wine, bourbon, Scotch, beer, vodka, and maybe some gin shoved to the back of my so-called liquor cabinet. Oh, and rum, I think. I keep the Scotch for the sheriff and the beer for my son."
Marilynn turned to gaze at me inquiringly. "Where did you say your son was? Alaska?"
I nodded as we crossed Tyee Street. "He's at the university in Fairbanks. His father and I never married, but we keep in touch." The newly acquired assets of my closet leapt before my eyes.
Marilynn displayed polite interest. "It's good for parents to get along, whether they're married or not. My folks didn't, and it was much better after my dad died."
"Did you have brothers or sister?" I inquired as we passed a couple of young fishermen who had apparently walked up from the river.
Marilynn nodded. "Two younger brothers. They moved back to California with my mother when she remarried. One works for Kaiser. The other's in college."
I turned onto Fir Street. We were less than a block from my house when we heard the sirens. I pulled over next to a vacant lot with a tipsy FOR SALE sign that had been there since before I'd moved to Alpine. In the rearview mirror, I could see the ambulance right behind us. The driver slowed as he passed my driveway, then turned into the cul-de-sac where Fifth Street dead-ended.
"What's up there?" Marilynn asked, as a couple of people came out on their front porches.
"Nothing," I replied. "It's all forest. The woods begin in back of my house." I was about to release the brake when I heard another siren. Sure enough, a sheriff's car had pulled onto Fir. I stared into the window as it passed: Dwight Gould was behind the wheel, with Bill Blatt at his side. Milo must have gone off duty at five.
Marilynn and I exchanged curious looks. This time I waited to make sure that the fire department wasn't also racing up Fourth Street or coming along Fir. As far as I could tell, it wasn't I waited for a van filled with Little Leaguers to pass, then pulled back out and crept up to my driveway. Once in the carport, I picked up the pace.
"Marilynn," I said, jumping from the Jag, "I'm going to let you in, and then I'm afraid I'd better check out the action around the corner. I'm sorry to be such a bum hostess, but I'll point you to the white wine. I shouldn't be long."
Over the top of the car, Marilynn gazed at me through the rain. "Hey—I'll come, too. I'm a nurse, remember." She pulled her tan all-weather jacket aside to reveal her white uniform. "It looks to me as if there's been an accident, right?"
Fueled with professional zeal, we marched through the wet grass, past the older single-story home that stood next to my log house, beyond the skeleton of construction that had been abandoned by its private builder, and around the corner lot that was overgrown with blackberry bushes, huge ferns, and Oregon grape. We turned at the entrance to the cul-de-sac.
The rain wasn't coming down very hard at present, but earlier in the afternoon, it had been heavy enough to fill the potholes in the dirt road that led about fifty yards into the forest. Five vehicles jammed the dead end: the sheriff's car, the ambulance, a Forest Service truck, a white compact I didn't recognize, and a beater that might have been abandoned in the cul-de-sac a long time ago. We had almost reached the little knot of people when I heard another vehicle pulling up behind us. I turned to see Milo Dodge come to a stop in his Cherokee Chief. He was still in uniform.
"Emma! What are you doing here?" He acknowledged Marilynn with a brief nod.
"I live here, remember?" I waited for him to catch up. "We working girls are merely doing our duty. What's going on?"
Milo had loped out ahead. "We got another shooting," he called over his shoulder. "Stay back, I hear the guy's dead."
I obeyed; so did Marilynn. We were within twenty feet of the group which I realized included not only the two deputies and the ambulance attendants, but Libby Boyd, three boys about eleven years old, and a man in a bright plaid shirt who looked vaguely familiar. After only a few words from Milo, Libby, the boys, and the man were dispersed in our direction. I glommed on to Libby.
"Who is it?" I asked.
Libby put her hands to her head and twisted her upper torso, as if expelling demons. "Jesus, I don't know. It's another black man." She stared straight at Marilynn Lewis. "What's going on around here?"
Stiffening, Marilynn grabbed my arm, as if for support. "How would I know?" she retorted. I didn't like the hint of hysteria in her voice.
Libby hung her head. "Sorry. I found the poor bastard. That is, those kids found him, but they didn't realize he was dead." She gestured jerkily at the young boys who were standing with the man I barely recognized.
"Who's he?" I inquired in a low voice.
Libby brushed raindrops off her forehead. "Him? His name's Vancich. He was driving along Fir Street, and I waved him down to call for help. He stuck around because he knows one of the kids."
The man's identity clicked in. Verb Vancich was married to Monica, St. Mildred's CCD teacher. Monica was a faithful attendee of Sunday mass, but Verb was what was known among Catholics as a C&Eer. He came to church on an irregular basis, showing up usually for Christmas and Easter, and very little in between.
Wrestling with my handbag, I found a notebook and a pen. "The sheriff said he was shot. Is that true?" I asked.
Libby closed her eyes and gulped. "It sure is. Shot in the head. Just like that other one, over at the grocery store."
I felt the pressure of Marilynn's fingers on my arm. A quick glance told me she was as distressed as Libby Boyd. "You'd better come home with me, too," I murmured at Libby. "You could use a drink."
Libby nodded, a distracted gesture of assent. I patted Marilynn's hand, pried her loose, and doggedly marched over to Milo.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound as coldhearted as journalists are portrayed in fiction where they don't ever really look at dead people and feel like throwing up, "let's have the facts, Dodge."
Milo had just returned from viewing the corpse. "He was shot in the head at close range. I'm guessing he's been dead for no more than an hour, maybe less. I wouldn't say that much, if I didn't know you can't print this until next week." He paused, waiting for Bill Blatt.
Vida's nephew was flushed with excitement or possibly repulsed by the sight of a dead man. Bill was young enough that it was hard to tell.
"All those ferns are pretty well trampled, Sheriff," said Bill. "Do you think that shows the signs of a struggle?"
"No," Milo answered bluntly. "It just shows the poor devil thrashed around for a while before he died. Have you combed the area?"
Bill nodded. "Nothing, so far. Well," he amended, "footprints. The kids', I'd guess, and Libby's. It's pretty hard to tell, with all the rain."
"Right." Milo sounded disgusted. "And all I wanted to do was go home and have a beer and watch the NBA playoffs." He voiced the latter complaint in a low voice as Bill Blatt trudged back to the victim.
I tugged at Milo's sleeve. "Tell me this much and I'll go away, taking two disturbed young women with me," I promised. "Is the dead man wearing leg shackles?"
Milo gritted his teeth. "Yes. But they've been sawed through. So have the chains attached to his waist. By all means, call Vida. Call me a horse's ass. It's probably Wesley Charles. See that old car?" His long arm lashed out at the beater. "He stole that, maybe in Monroe, possibly Sultan. Now take your black and white broads, and get the hell out of here!"
In spite of the proximity of a dead man, in spite of Milo's latent racism and chauvinism, in spite of my own revulsion in the face of violence, I laughed. Milo Dodge was impossibly small-town. But somehow, I sensed that under his clumsy veneer of various prejudices, he wasn't small-minded.
"Milo," I said, not entirely sure that I, too, wasn't a trifle hysterical, "I could kiss you."
Milo loomed over me, his hazel eyes boring into mine. "Then why don't you, you dink?"
I felt myself being swept off the dirt road, pulled against Milo's big, lanky frame, and kissed in a style I hadn't remembered since a drunken fraternity party in 1969. I shuddered; I shook; I reeled even as he parked me back on the ground.
"Milo!" I squeaked, staggering just a little, and putting a hand to my mouth, which felt as if it had been smacked by a wet fish.
But Milo had already turned away and was giving orders to Bill Blatt and Dwight Gould. The ambulance men were awaiting further directions. Libby Boyd and Marilynn Lewis were standing ten yards away, as wary of each other as they were of the impulsive action between Milo and me.
Angrily, I stalked toward them. "Get your truck, Libby," I ordered. "Marilynn and I will walk."
Libby stared at me, her fair, wholesome face stunned. "You should have done that two minutes ago," she declared.
I gave her a fierce look. "Speak for yourself. Maybe Milo should have done that two years ago." Taking Marilynn by the arm, I stomped out of the cul-de-sac.
My guests sipped white wine, while I drank my standard bourbon. Yet neither of the two young women who sat at opposite ends of the sofa relaxed much. Libby seemed nervous; Marilynn appeared distressed. I had not mentioned Wesley Charles's name out loud, and wouldn't until after Libby was gone. Marilynn couldn't have seen the body from where she was standing in the cul-de-sac. Indeed, I hadn't seen it myself. It was possible, however, that she had heard me ask if the victim was wearing shackles. She might have heard of Wesley Charles's escape on the radio. Or, I thought with a pang, she might know about it on a more personal level.
Conversation was stilted and mundane. Not that murder is mundane, but our comments certainly were. Libby had pulled into the cul-de-sac because of a report that someone had set a snare, presumably for deer, in the woods between the cul-de-sac and the Tolberg farm. The Snoqualmie National Forest took a rectangular jog behind my property to the south and as far west as the Burl Creek Road. Libby Boyd had been checking to see if the trap was on federal land. She hadn't found it, but on her way back to the truck, she had come across the three boys who had discovered Wesley Charles's body.
"They had just found him," Libby explained. "They didn't know what to make of it. I'm used to the city, so I thought at first it was a drunk, passed out. Then I saw the blood."
I kept waiting for her to mention Wesley Charles's shackles or his prison uniform. But she didn't. Perhaps Libby hadn't seen the shackles; maybe she didn't recognize convict clothes when she saw them. For all I knew, the state Department of Corrections transported prisoners in tuxedos. Real life didn't always work like the movies or TV.
Until now, Marilynn's remarks had been limited to exclamations and murmurs. Suddenly, she shuddered and spoke in an uncertain, frightened voice: "Shot in the head—it sounds like a gangland execution. But that can't be, can it?"
The thought had never crossed my mind. I stared at Marilynn. "Do you mean gangland as in the mob, or as in a gang?"
Marilynn's gaze was still frightened, but now it was also wary. "The mob. I've read about how they kill people. I like true crime stories. They're much better than fiction, where everything is too neat and tidy."
Chastened, I gave a murmur of assent. What did Marilynn know about gangs? I felt like an oaf for my insinuation.
Libby Boyd was helping herself to more wine, pouring from the bottle I'd placed on the coffee table. "Oh, great! Now you tell me—there are gangsters in Alpine! What next, a back street I haven't seen yet with hookers and drugs and porno stuff like they have in Hamburg?"
The concept made me smile. I envisioned Milo and his deputies, stalking along River Road, passing not warehouses, but whorehouses; seeing not a loading dock full of lumber, but a bay window with scantily clad females; stopping not at the game warden's office, but at a shuttered storefront where high rollers played low-down and dirty.
"We're too tame for any of that," I finally said, closing the door on my fantasy. "If these two men had any connection with crime, then someone from Seattle must have followed them to Alpine." I sounded sanguine, but somehow, the words didn't ring true.
Marilynn and Libby didn't appear to notice. I offered Marilynn more wine, but she declined, instead asking to use the bathroom. As soon as she was out of the room, I expected Libby to make some comment about the fact that both victims were black—and to ask if I thought Marilynn had any connection with them.
But Libby didn't. She looked at her watch and announced that she had better get going. "I'm still officially on duty. I mean, it's after six, and I was through then, but I ought to check in before I go home. I'd better run, I'm meeting someone at seven-thirty."
I saw Libby to the door. "Did you give the sheriff your statement?" I asked.
Libby looked blank. "No. Should I? I mean, I told him what happened, but it was all pretty informal." She made a rueful face.
"Check with him tomorrow," I said. "Milo Dodge likes to go by the book."
Libby leered at me. "Really? What book was he reading before he came up to the cul-de-sac? It must have been hot stuff."
In the wake of a second homicide in less than a week, I had been able to put Milo's kiss out of my mind. My response to Libby's impertinent question was a toss of my head. "An etiquette book," I replied. "That was Milo's macho way of apologizing for being a dumb shit."
To my surprise, Libby Boyd looked satisfied with the explanation. Maybe she knew a man like Milo. Most of us did.
It seemed to me that Marilynn looked relieved to return from the bathroom and find Libby gone. I explained about Libby having to report in at the U.S. Forest Service office and that she had a date. Marilynn's eyes narrowed.
"A date? She hasn't been here any longer than I have. I can't even find an apartment, let alone a _date."_
"That makes two of us," I retorted, "and don't give me any dirty looks. What you saw with the sheriff wasn't the sign of a hot romance. We've never shared more than a pizza until now."
Marilynn was not only more relaxed, but she seemed a trifle giddy. Sitting back down on the sofa, she laughed in her musical manner. "Well, you could have fooled me! If I hadn't been so upset, I would have applauded. It was cute."
"Cute! I'm too old to be cute." I grabbed my glass and realized that, except for a few shrunken ice cubes, it was empty. "I should feed us," I announced, getting up to fetch myself a refill. "I've got boneless chicken breasts, rice, asparagus. It'll take less than half an hour. Don't argue—we haven't had our talk yet."
"Then let me help," Marilynn insisted. "I know a great recipe for asparagus with shirred egg and buttered bread crumbs. Have you got a hardboiled egg in the fridge?"
I did, having had an urge earlier in the week for egg salad, which I'd never gotten around to fulfilling. The urge had now passed. Side by side, Marilynn and I set to work in the kitchen. It felt good to have another female to man the stove. Vida didn't count—her efforts were always diligent, but erratic, and sometimes downright disastrous.
"You never said what was bothering you," I began, unwrapping the package of chicken breasts.
Marilynn uttered a noise that was part laugh, part groan. "It was your friend, the sheriff. He came to see me again. At least he was nice enough to use the clinic's rear door."
"What this time?" I inquired, not looking at Marilynn for fear she'd see that I already knew.
She sighed, resting her hands on the sink counter. She had been cutting the coarse ends off the asparagus and she held my sharpest kitchen knife. It occurred to me that I should be afraid. Marilynn, after all, was supposedly a suspect in a murder case. Two murder cases, for all I knew. But I felt no sense of alarm.
"I don't know what to say... not now." She bowed her head. "The sheriff asked if I knew a man who escaped from prison this morning. Well, not prison, exactly—he was on his way to Monroe. I did know him, but not very well." She sighed again. "And unless life is even weirder than it seems to be, I'd bet my last dollar he was the one who got shot over here in the cul-de-sac." She turned to give me a resigned look, her classic features somehow askew.
I wondered if I dared to level with Marilynn. She had sought my help; I had given her hospitality. She wasn't quite young enough to be my daughter, but she could be a kid sister. Our personalities seemed to mesh. She was a big-city girl trying to make it in a small town. So was I. We had a great deal in common; we could be friends.
I took a chance, knowing that in the process, I was starting down the road toward friendship—but also risking losing Marilynn at the first intersection.
I talked as we cooked, I with my chicken breasts and rice, she with her asparagus and chopped egg. I explained about going to Seattle with Vida, about meeting Winola Prince, about reading microfiche at _The Times_ , about Milo and his APB. And finally, about Kelvin Greene and Shane Campbell both working at Fred Meyer's Broadway store on Capitol Hill.
Marilynn had listened without comment, her eyes occasionally darting in my direction and giving away her distress. I reached my rationale, explaining my need to know, the public's right to be informed, the whole fulsome excuse for being a meddlesome snoop.
Marilynn interrupted me before I got to the part about a journalist's search for truth. "Emma—you're on the wrong track." She took my hand and made me sit down in one of my mismatched kitchen chairs. I caught a glimpse of Marilynn Lewis, R.N., dealing with a recalcitrant patient. "Yes, I used to go out with Jerome Cole. Yes, he was often a jerk. Yes, I was shattered when he was killed. No, I wasn't there when it happened. I knew Kelvin, of course, because of Winola. But I certainly didn't know he was coming to Alpine, and I couldn't tell you why he did. I practically fainted when I heard he was the one who was killed at the little grocery store."
"Actually," I began, feeling chagrined, "he wasn't killed there, he..."
But Marilynn was shaking her head. "Wherever. It doesn't matter. It doesn't even surprise me. Maybe I always knew Kelvin—like Jerome—would come to a bad end. Drugs do that to people, one way or the other." Her dark eyes turned moist. "It's terrible, Emma. The person you know becomes somebody else—a stranger, even a monster. When Jerome wasn't being a creep, he could be the most wonderful, charming, fascinating guy around. He was a musician—he knew all kinds of music, not just jazz, but classical, pop, the blues, even country and western. He played the saxophone like you wouldn't believe, and he was just fine on the clarinet and trumpet, too. He had talent, that man—but he had a drug habit and he dealt. For over two years, I tried to talk him into rehab. I got nowhere. Oh, he made promises, he had plans, he sounded good. But he never carried through. When you're doing drugs, today is yesterday, tomorrow never comes. It's a world you and I don't understand, thank God. I knew I was the one who had to make the changes—but I didn't do it soon enough. He got killed before I could make the break."
Marilynn paused, her head in her hands. I had found my second, untouched drink, and took a deep sip. "Do you know why?"
Marilynn's attitude turned evasive. "Why? Who knows? A drug deal gone wrong, maybe. A misunderstanding. A fight. Jerome could turn violent. It's hard to say."
I dared to ask another ugly question: "Was he violent around you?"
The evasion intensified. "He could lose control," she said slowly, her chin quavering just a bit. "Jerome didn't always know what he was doing."
I let the answer go and decided to shift gears for the moment. "Cyndi Campbell had a beer with Kelvin that afternoon at the Icicle Creek Tavern," I said. "Do you know why?"
Falling back in her chair, Marilynn gaped at me. _"Cyndi Campbell?_ Why, no! That's ridiculous! Cyndi didn't know Kelvin."
Marilynn seemed genuinely flummoxed. "But Kelvin and Shane worked together at Fred Meyer," I pointed out.
"I guess they did." Her eyes grew shadowy. "I knew Shane in Seattle. That's why I moved in with his family." She didn't look at me, but stared at the oilcloth table covering with its cheerful pattern of red poppies.
In my mind's eye, I could see myself weeding in the garden: a shoot of morning glory sprouted from the ground, then sent out new runners, creeping into the flower bed, entwining my rose bushes and day lilies and maidenhair ferns. So it seemed with Kelvin Greene—his life, which had at first seemed isolated, now reached out to touch so many others. And like the morning glory, it threatened to choke those with whom it became entangled.
"How did you know Shane?" I asked quietly.
Marilynn was still nervous, but her speech wasn't self-conscious. "He was the assistant manager at Fred Meyer. I had a complaint. I'd bought a clock radio that didn't work. He made the adjustment for me. We got to talking about appliances, and he said his dad owned a store in Alpine. I said my stepdad had one in Oakland. The next time I went into Fred Meyer, I ran into him, and he asked me about the new clock radio. It was fine, I told him. He was just going on break and asked me out to coffee. So I went." She gave me an ingenuous smile.
I was puzzled. "So you... sort of dated Shane?"
"Not really. We had lunch a couple of times, and I'd run into him grocery shopping at QFC. I was going with Jerome, and Shane had a girlfriend. We were just friends. Really," she added, her dark eyes begging me to believe her. "When I decided to break up with Jerome, I started looking for jobs out of town. The opening in Alpine came up, and by coincidence, it was about the same time Shane was moving back home. It just worked out that I was able to stay with the Campbells."
Coincidences happen, of course. They seem to happen more often in a small town than in the Big City. "And Kelvin? Did he and Shane know each other very well?"
The red poppies in the tablecloth again seemed to consume Marilynn's attention. "I doubt it. Kelvin usually worked nights in the stockroom. It was okay with Winola—she often took the night shift at the hospital." Her gaze wandered to the stove. "Your rice—it's boiling over."
So it was. I leaped up to turn the heat down. "And Wesley Charles? What about him?"
Marilynn gave an impatient shake of her head. "Wesley lived across the hall from the apartment I shared with Winola. He was sort of strange—the kind who didn't have many friends, but kept trying to insert himself into other people's lives. I was nice to him, which may have been a mistake." Marilynn made a wry face. "Isn't it terrible how being kind can backfire?"
I'd adjusted the burner and mopped up the rice water. "It is. You swear the next time some weirdo comes along, you'll cut him—or her—off. But you don't, which I suppose is a good thing."
Marilynn nodded, obviously relieved to be on philosophical, rather than factual ground, however briefly. "That was the trouble with Wesley—he kept trying to butt in. It bothered him when he'd hear Jerome ranting and carrying on. One night, Jerome went wild." Pausing, Marilynn shifted in the chair. "Winola came home... she'd gotten off at eleven. She was afraid of Jerome when he was... like that. She made me leave. We went to... a friend's. Nobody was home at first, but a few minutes later we got in." Marilynn licked her lips and frowned at the bright poppies. "After about an hour, I called the apartment to see if Jerome had calmed down. Somebody I didn't know answered. It was the police. Jerome had been killed. They arrested Wesley Charles."
I had returned to my place at the table. Marilynn sat with her forehead resting on her fist and her eyes closed. I thought she was going to cry, but she didn't. "I didn't go to the trial. I couldn't stand it. I went through every emotion in the book in the three months between Jerome's death and Wesley's trial. I was angry—at Wesley, for killing Jerome, at Jerome for getting into a mess where he got himself murdered, at myself, for getting involved with Jerome in the first place. Then I began to grieve—oh, how I grieved!" She paused in mock dismay, then uttered a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I turned Jerome into a saint, I wiped out all his faults. Reality set in around Valentine's Day. Shane invited me to a party."
I raised my eyebrow. "Shane? What about his girlfriend?"
Marilynn gave a quick shake of her head. "Oh, it wasn't a real _date_. Some of the people at Fred Meyer were giving the party, and Shane's girlfriend was out of town. We had a nice time, I guess. It was my first social outing since Jerome died."
"Was Kelvin there?" I asked, keeping an eye on the clock. Our dinner should be almost ready.
"Yes, he and Winola came. There were about thirty of us, I think. It was at somebody's apartment on Capitol Hill."
"How," I inquired, aware that the question was painful, "was Jerome killed?"
Marilynn made an agitated motion with her hands, then stood up. "I really should melt the butter for the bread crumbs and egg." She moved to the stove. I guessed she was more at ease talking while she worked. "I gather what happened was that after Winola and I left the apartment, Jerome was still smashing up things. Wesley went across the hall, and Jerome let him in. There was an argument, I think, and then they started fighting. Jerome was killed by a blow to the head. Wesley hit him with an ivory carving from Cameroon. Jerome died almost instantly. Or so I was told." Again, she looked as if she might weep.
"Why," I asked, "do you think Wesley Charles insisted he was innocent?"
"I don't know." Marilynn straightened her shoulders, then sprinkled bread crumbs into the melted butter in the frying pan. "His fingerprints were on the figurine. He admitted he'd been in the apartment. But he said Jerome was already dead when he got there. He thought maybe he'd picked up the carving in the excitement of finding the body."
I was removing the chicken breasts from under the broiler. "The evidence sounds a little flimsy. Who called the police?"
Deftly, Marilynn transferred the asparagus from the steamer into the skillet. "Another neighbor had already called—maybe before Winola and I left. They lived below us and had heard Jerome and me fighting. But the police didn't get there right away. They came along just after Wesley killed Jerome." Making a brave attempt to keep her face impassive, Marilynn dished up the asparagus concoction in a serving bowl. "If only they'd arrived five minutes earlier... Jerome might still be alive."
"So," I noted, "would Wesley Charles."
Marilynn's dark eyes met mine. Her long-lashed lids drooped. "Yes. Yes," she repeated, almost in a whisper, "he would." Slowly, she opened her eyes and again stared at me. "Isn't it strange? I've never thought much about Wesley Charles. He was sort of like a... cipher. And now he's dead."
"We can't be sure—yet," I reminded Marilynn.
Grimly, she sat down at the table. "I'm sure. It makes sense."
Surprised, I spilled rice on the oilskin cloth. "Why do you say that?"
Marilynn's face had grown very earnest. "Why would someone kill Wesley Charles? He always seemed so harmless. But what if he told the truth and he didn't kill Jerome? Then there would be a reason to get rid of Wesley."
Annoyed with myself for not having come to the same conclusion, I immediately started to punch holes in it. "First of all, we're not absolutely sure that it was Wesley Charles in the cul-de-sac. Second, if it was, some loose cannon might have heard about the APB and shot Wesley in the hopes of getting a reward. Third, it would mean that Jerome's real killer is right here in Alpine. That hardly seems likely to me."
Marilynn didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her shrewd expression told me everything I needed to know. And, I realized, with a sinking sensation, more than I wanted to hear.
The Fifth Street cul-de-sac had become the biggest attraction in Alpine, at least for the rest of the evening. Hearing a steady stream of cars and pedestrians pass by on the usually quiet street in front of my house, I realized that I had a job to do. I called Carla, relayed my skimpy information, and asked her to take a picture. She's a better photographer than I am, and I'd left my camera at the office.
Carla, of course, had heard about the shooting from Libby Boyd. Expressing horror, shock, and excitement in a series of squeaks and squeals, my reporter said she'd be over in ten minutes. It was still light, and although the body had been removed, Carla would be able to get a shot of the murder site and the milling curiosity seekers. People love to see their picture in the paper, even when they're being ghoulish voyeurs.
Marilynn and I had spent the rest of our dinner talking about the three murders that had touched her life, and now mine. The conversation was mostly speculative. She insisted she knew nothing more than she had already told me—or Milo Dodge. Around eight-thirty, I offered to drive her home. It was still raining, but the Campbells live only six blocks away. I half expected Marilynn to say she'd walk. She didn't. In fact, she asked if I would go in with her.
"There'll be questions," she explained with apprehension. "I don't blame the Campbells for asking, but it's awkward."
Marilynn was right. Jean and Lloyd met us at the door; Cyndi came downstairs as soon as we got inside. Shane, we were told, was out for the evening. I presumed that Wendy and Todd Wilson were at their home in the Icicle Creek development.
"You're just the person we want to see," Lloyd Campbell said to me in a jovial manner that seemed forced. "Everybody's saying that the murder happened right by your house."
After being ushered into the comfortable living room, I explained how Marilynn and I had arrived at the cul-de-sac shortly after the victim had been discovered. I didn't use Wesley Charles's name, but mentioned that the sheriff thought the dead man might be a convict who had escaped that morning from a prison bus outside of Monroe.
"It wouldn't be the first time we've had prisoners hiding out around here," Lloyd said with a dour expression. "Let's hope the state settles on a site in Snohomish County for that new work-release facility. I sure wouldn't want to see it built here."
Earlier in the month, I'd run an article about the proposed sixty-bed facility that was supposed to be constructed at Paine Field outside of Everett. Protests had been lodged, however, and it was possible that the state would choose another site. Skykomish County would be a logical alternative, but local residents wouldn't like it. Given the events of the past week, they'd probably march on the capitol in Olympia.
Jean Campbell was perched on the edge of a green-and-white-striped armchair. "Is it true," she asked in a hushed voice, "that this man was black, too?" Jean avoided looking at Marilynn.
Cyndi Campbell, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the dormant fireplace, jumped to her feet. "Mother! What difference does it make if he was black, blue, or purple? The poor guy got shot, probably by some nervous old fart living up in the woods. Aren't there a couple of hermits around Carroll Creek?"
If local lore could be believed, there were several recluses who lived in old shacks not only near Carroll Creek, but Burl Creek, Icicle Creek, Deception Creek, Surprise Creek, and various isolated areas in between. Indeed, I had seen a couple of them in town over the years, elderly men with long hair and bushy beards, coming down the mountainside to stock up for the winter. Vida referred to one of them as Al Pine, the only name he'd ever given out to whoever had been bold enough to ask. But I didn't think any of the hermits lived so close to civilization.
Lloyd Campbell wasn't moved by his daughter's assertion. "It's damned queer, if you ask me," he said in a worried voice. "I turned the radio on at eight to get the news from Everett. They said this fellow was a murderer, so I suppose he got what was coming to him. But who would have shot him? Do you suppose one of the deputies did it, and he hasn't owned up to it yet? That stuff gets tricky these days. Look at that Rodney King deal in Los Angeles."
Cyndi was dancing around the hearth, darting her father caustic looks. "Forget Rodney King," she persisted. "This has got to be some kind of accident. Maybe that other one was, too. People panic. They see a strange..." Her eyes lighted on Marilynn's quizzical face. "... a stranger, I mean, and go nuts. This town is gun happy. They ought to ban handguns everywhere."
Lloyd grunted. "Not mine, they won't. I keep one of them under the counter at the store and another in my desk. If some guy comes in to hold us up, I'm prepared to defend myself. Hell's bells, I insist Shane keeps that SIG-Sauer in the truck. Todd carries a gun on the job, too. What if he's working on the PUD lines 'way up Tonga Ridge, and a bear comes after him?"
Unimpressed, Jean Campbell curled her lip. "That's crazy, Lloyd. I've always said so. You're all lucky you don't get yourselves shot. And don't think that after all these years I'm not still nervous about sleeping with that awful pistol under the mattress!"
Lloyd chuckled. "It doesn't keep you awake, Jeannie. You snore like the Burlington-Northern, climbing up through the Cascade Tunnel."
Jean was aghast. "Lloyd! I don't snore! I've _never_ snored! But _you,"_ she raged on, pointing at her husband, "sound like a donkey engine!"
Lloyd's laughter had become full-blown now, and it broke the tension in the room. Jean's irritation was genuine, yet its cause was a refreshing change from murder and racial innuendo. I decided it was time to leave them laughing. Marilynn offered to see me to the door.
"Thanks for having me over," she said with her charming, slightly diffident smile. "I didn't like the murder much, but dinner was good."
I studied her as she stood next to a small cherrywood credenza in the entry hall. Still wearing her white uniform, she looked very young and all too vulnerable. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Marilynn nodded. "I'd like to think I've buried the past, but it's caught up with me. I suppose it always does. Unfinished business, I guess. I just wish I knew what it was all about."
I made a droll face. "Don't we all?" An idea popped into my head. I didn't much like it, but I couldn't keep it to myself. "Marilynn, do you think you need protection?"
Her dark eyes grew wide. "Me? What for?"
If Marilynn Lewis had leveled with me and knew only as much as she'd related thus far, she was in no danger. But if she had kept something back, even a small fact she didn't realize might be important, then her life could be at risk. I tried to say as much without frightening her.
But Marilynn assured me there was no reason to worry. "I wasn't even asked to testify at Wesley's trial. I gave a deposition about Jerome, but that was all. If Wesley Charles didn't kill Jerome, I haven't any more idea who did it than you do."
There was nothing else I could say. I moved uneasily on the threshold, wishing I could free my troubled mind. Marilynn read my thoughts and put out a hand. "Hey—stop fussing." She glanced into the living room where the Campbells were still arguing. "If anything happens, I can take care of myself. I've got a gun, too." She gave me a rueful little smile.
My mouth fell open. "You do?" I whispered back. "Why?"
_"Why?"_ Marilynn's expression turned ironic. "A lot of the hospital staffers carry guns. I even took lessons and practiced at the range. How would you like to get off work at midnight and go through a deserted parking lot on Pill Hill?"
Pill Hill certainly isn't the safest spot in Seattle. Marilynn was right: A woman alone—or a man, for that matter—stood at risk anytime of the day or night. It had never occurred to me, however, that Marilynn would carry a handgun. It was beginning to sound as if everyone connected to the Campbell house was armed, if not necessarily dangerous.
"Let's hope you don't have to use it," I finally said. "I trust you don't carry it to the clinic here."
"No," Marilynn replied firmly. I half-expected her to turn defensive, but instead, an impish gleam danced in her eyes. "I don't have to. Dr. Flake has a Desert Eagle."
I knew all about Peyton Flake's Desert Eagle. He and my brother, Ben, had done a little male bonding with guns the previous December. I flinched at the memory. Shaking my head, I started to say goodbye, then noticed that Marilynn was eyeing a stack of mail on the credenza. Her mood suddenly changed as she picked up what looked like a dozen or more envelopes.
"This is mine," she said in a hollow voice.
"Bills?" I suggested, knowing better.
"I don't think so." Her face had taken on a haggard look.
"Don't read them," I urged, holding out my hand. "I'll give them to Milo in the morning."
But Marilynn was made of sterner stuff. "I'll do it myself. Good night, Emma."
I bit my lip, and walked out into the spring rain. This was only my second visit to the Campbell residence, but I was beginning to think that it was not a good luck house.
At least not for Marilynn Lewis.
# Chapter Eleven
I WAS OVERCOME with guilt, good old-fashioned pre-Vatican II Catholic guilt. This was Ascension Thursday, a holy day of obligation, and I'd flat-out forgotten to attend Mass. Or communion service, if a visiting priest didn't show up, and we got stuck with one of our eucharistic ministers stumbling around on the altar. Maybe I hadn't really missed much, but I felt penitent. I called my brother in Tuba City and confessed my sin.
"Stick it in your ear, Sluggly," said Ben, using his childhood nickname for me. "It was an honest mistake. Did you really want to hear Ed Bronsky read the gloomiest readings in the New Testament?"
"Ed's not a euke," I retorted. "At least now I know why he was late for work—he went to church. Ed probably wondered where the hell I was. Damn. Besides," I added, "Ed's improved. He's actually exhibiting a positive attitude."
"Wow," Ben exclaimed. "Talk about a miracle! Maybe you should build a shrine in back of the newspaper office. Off the top of my head, I can't remember who's the patron saint of advertising revenue."
I hadn't talked to Ben in three weeks. As always, it was wonderful to hear his crackling voice and feel the warmth flow over the phone line. He regaled me with his latest adventures on the Navajo reservation, and I, in turn, told him about our recent murders. Ben shed his flippant attitude.
"This is not good," he said. "What's Milo up to?"
I tried to explain the sheriff's conduct of the investigation. I tried to rationalize his small-town racial prejudices. I tried to excuse his lack of progress on the grounds of the case's complexity and the county's lack of resources. I tried to keep the entire conversation on an analytical, objective plane.
"Milo kissed me."
Ben's laughter exploded in my ear. "Milo _what?_ Why? When? Where? How?"
"Oh, shut up, Stench," I retorted, resorting to my own nickname for Ben. "It was all very silly. Milo's under some heavy pressure, and he'd been sort of rude to me earlier, and I think he was just trying to show me that I was a woman and he was a man."
Ben was still laughing. "What about birth certificates? You know, the box where they check _M_ or F?"
"Stop it, you jerk." I was growing testy. "I'm sure Milo feels like an idiot. Which he should. I haven't had the nerve to call him, and I ought to, because I need to know the facts about this last murder. He hasn't called me, either. I'm sure he's embarrassed. Now let's talk about something else, like why St Mildred's parishioners are a bunch of bigots."
At the other end, Ben paused. "No surprise there, Sluggly. Christianity embraces everybody. Christians don't always do the same. It's okay to love your brother—or sister—as long as they're the same color as you are. Want to hear some tales from the reservation? And I'm talking about both sides of the coin. Don't ever think that white people are the only ones who can work up a hatred for the other guys."
"I know that," I said, bristling at Ben's accusation of naïveté. "Racists come in all colors. I expect better of Catholics, that's all. I mean, lowercase the word and it means universal, right?"
"Right. Wrong." Ben sighed. "It's a great theory. It might even work someday. The key—and don't quote me, especially not around Tuba City—is love. Don't laugh, you cynic. I mean romantic love, as well as the spiritual kind. Intermarriage. A hundred years from now, I wouldn't be surprised if racism was passé. Look around you—but not in Alpine. Not yet."
"You paint an optimistic picture," I mused. "What are you puffing down there in Tuba City? Is it strong enough to let you take Adam on for a few weeks this summer?"
Ben chuckled. "Adam's okay, Emma. You deserve to pat yourself on the back."
My brother was right. Being a single parent is rough, but Adam and I survived. There had been big sacrifices for both of us. It was harder on me because I knew what I was giving up. Never having had a father, Adam didn't know what he'd missed. Or so I'd always rationalized.
The chat with Ben lifted my spirits. I cleaned up the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, put in a load of laundry, and postponed calling Milo until morning. Shortly before ten, Vida called me. She had spent the evening at her Cat Club, a dozen or so women in her age group who'd started out sewing for the needy, moved on to playing cards, and now used their monthly gathering to stuff their faces and wag their jaws. Or so Vida claimed.
"This is too much," Vida exclaimed after I'd filled in the details she hadn't yet heard. "Dot Parker said Charlene Vickers told her that Irene Baugh thinks a gang has moved into Alpine. She wants Fuzzy to issue a proclamation or some fool thing. Irene swears she's seen at least six African-American men loitering around the mall."
"Has she?"
"Of course not! Irene sees black men the way Averill Fairbanks sees UFOs. But I don't like the sense of panic she generates. Dot Parker believed every word of it. So did my idiot sister-in-law, Lila Blatt."
I mentioned the letters Marilynn had received, adding that I assumed they contained more hate messages and that I felt partly responsible. "It's Thursday—those lamebrains probably read yesterday's story in _The Advocate_ about Kelvin Greene and dashed off some more ugly stuff to Marilynn."
"Don't be silly," Vida admonished. "The news was all over town days before the paper came out. But Marilynn's theory is intriguing. About Wesley Charles, I mean. It doesn't speak well for Alpine, does it?"
"We've had murderers here before," I pointed out.
"Yes, yes, I know that." Vida sounded exasperated. "It's the _kind_ of murder. If I didn't know better, I'd think it's a racist. Neo-Nazis, or something. But I suppose it's not."
I was making a wry face into the phone. "Would you like that better than homicide with a motive?"
"No," Vida retorted. "I'd like it even less. But it might be easier to solve."
In the background, I could hear Vida's canary, Cupcake, chirping up a storm. "There sure are a lot of guns around here," I remarked. "You don't have one, do you, Vida?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Vida replied blithely. "Ernest's old .45, from World War II. He enlisted on his eighteenth birthday in 1944. There's a shotgun and a .22 around here someplace, too. My husband used to hunt."
I sighed. "I must be the only unarmed resident of Alpine."
"Possibly." Vida seemed unperturbed by the idea. "I must run, Emma. I forgot to cover Cupcake before I left, and he's getting fractious. I'll see you in the morning. Oh—don't let Milo kiss you again, at least not in public. It's not good for either of your reputations, and Tommy wouldn't like it." She hung up.
Ginny Burmeister had a new hairdo. The thick auburn mane had been cut close to her head, with natural, artful curls clinging to her temples. Her fair skin was free of makeup, but there was a hint of brown eye shadow on her lids, mascara had been applied, and her lips were outlined in a subtle, but becoming shade of bronze. Overnight, Ginny had been transformed from a plain young woman into almost pretty.
I complimented her, and predictably, she blushed, which added to her new attractions. "Rick and I are going to Seattle tonight with Carla and Peyts. Carla talked me into getting a new do. I'm not sure about it—my head feels bare."
"It's not," I said with an admiring smile. "You look wonderful."
"That's what Rick said." Ginny blushed some more. "He's thinking of changing his hair back to its natural color."
"Well." I wasn't quite sure how to react. "Maybe he wants to move up in the banking business."
Ginny turned skeptical, then slapped a hand against her cheek. "Oh! I forgot to tell you! Rick says he heard Washington Mutual is going to open up a branch here in the fall. You might want to check that out."
Naturally, I would. The First—and only—Bank of Alpine had no competition within a thirty-mile radius. Another financial institution would hit the Bank of Alpine hard. Nor did the timing seem right, with so many people in the timber industry out of work. I made a note to call Washington Mutual's corporate headquarters in Seattle.
The mail had not yet arrived, so girding myself, I decided to amble down the street to the sheriff's office. Maybe I imagined it, but I could have sworn that Milo's deputies leered at me when I came through the door. Milo, however, seemed preoccupied.
"It's a good thing you didn't try to call," he muttered into his mug of coffee. "I'm not talking to anybody this morning. Every crank in Skykomish County wants to know why the morgue is filling up with black guys from Seattle."
"Wesley Charles was on his way to Monroe," I pointed out.
"Yeah, right, you know what I mean." Milo set his mug down on the desk and gave me a sheepish look. "Damn, Emma, I don't know what got into me last night. I'm stressed. Honoria's talking about going back to California. She misses her family."
Jarred, I rested my elbow on the desk and held my head. How had I become a sub off the bench for Honoria Whitman? "Well..." I began, trying to be tactful and actually wanting to punch Milo in the chops, "I gather you two aren't all that serious?"
Milo's long face seemed to droop onto his chest. "I don't know. Sometimes I thought we had a future, but when I remember what it was like being married to Old Mulehide, I don't think marriage is a good idea."
"Honoria isn't Old Mulehide," I noted, referring to the unfortunate nickname Milo had given his ex-wife. "And you aren't like her first husband who made her a cripple. There are lots of happy second marriages. And they wouldn't be second marriages if the first ones hadn't gone sour."
Milo's hazel eyes were fastened on the ceiling. "After six years of being single, I'm used to it. I'm married to the job, I guess. It wouldn't be fair to Honoria, especially with her... problems."
It seemed to me that problems or not, Honoria coped very well from her wheelchair. She lived alone in a quaint little house near Startup, she drove a specially rigged car, and she was busily involved with her pottery. I said as much to Milo.
He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "It's up to her. I can't move to California."
I wondered if Honoria was giving Milo a shove by threatening to return home. They had been going together for almost a year. Knowing Milo, it was possible that he and Honoria had never discussed a future together. But this time, I kept my mouth shut.
"She hasn't left yet," I pointed out.
"Mmmm." Milo gave a slight nod, then gazed directly at me. "You're not mad about last night?"
I was more amused than mad. I supposed that wasn't the thing to say, either. "Forget it, Milo. Given the circumstances, we'll chalk it up as comic relief."
It was Milo's turn to look hurt. "Jeez, Emma, you make it sound like we're a couple of clowns."
"We are. We all are. Now skip it, and let's talk about the murder investigations."
We did, and as it turned out, I had more news for him than he had for me. Perhaps Milo was doing penance for kissing me, but he actually seemed interested in my background on Wesley Charles, in Shane Campbell's work relationship with Kelvin Greene, in the account of the arsenal that was kept by everyone in the Campbell family as well as Marilynn Lewis.
"Wesley Charles was shot with a .45 caliber," Milo said, digging a roll of mints out of his pocket and following up with a couple of sniffs on his inhaler. "Fairly close range, no cartridge found, so it probably wasn't a revolver."
I was frowning. "Two killers?"
Milo shrugged. "Maybe."
"Nobody saw anything?"
"Nope. Who would? The houses on Fir Street don't look into the cul-de-sac. Coach Ridley had his kids working out on the other side of Fifth at the field, but they didn't see anything. Or hear it, either."
I felt my shoulders slump. "The damned starter gun again," I murmured.
"Probably. Your next-door neighbors are the closest, but they weren't home."
My neighbors to the east were from Alaska, and not overly friendly. They had a couple of kids, around ten and thirteen. The kids weren't friendly, either, at least not since I'd scolded them for using my front yard as part of their touch-football field.
I was fingering my chin and diving deep into speculation. "Why did Wesley come here, I wonder?"
Milo was shaking his inhaler. I gathered it was almost empty. "You'd think he'd head back to the city. But the truth is, he could only go east. There was a roadblock at Monroe and another one at Sultan. He must have gotten through before the second one could be set up."
It was my turn to borrow a map. Unlike the one in my office, Milo's was full of red, blue, and green pins. "There's a back road into Sultan out of Monroe. Have you traced the stolen car?"
Milo nodded. "It belongs to some kid from Maltby. He left it parked—with the keys in it—at Dan's Mainstreet Grill across from the high school in Monroe. The only problem is, he did that three days ago."
I gaped at Milo. "So where did the kid go?"
"Back to Maltby with some buddies. Dan's discourages high school kids from turning the restaurant into a hangout. The kid had to leave in a hurry. He was going to collect the car over the weekend."
"So why didn't Dan's have the car towed?"
Milo bestowed a half smile of approval. "Good point. Maybe that's because it got stolen by somebody else before they could get hold of a tow truck."
I tried to picture the scene. An escaped convict flees from a prison bus on a major highway, hobbles off right past the reformatory in full daylight, goes to a busy restaurant on one of Monroe's main drags, and drives off in an abandoned beater that just happens to have the keys in the ignition.
"This is making no sense," I said flatly.
"It sure isn't," Milo agreed. "That's why I'm guessing somebody else swiped that car first. The people at the restaurant don't remember seeing it after Tuesday afternoon."
"Who took it first?"
"Who knows? Kids, I suppose. But it means that car could have been anywhere—I figure someplace close to the site of the stalled prison bus."
I tapped the map. "Show me exactly where the tie-up took place."
Milo pointed to the long, downhill curve of Highway 522 just before the first Monroe exit. "It's steep, it bends, it's kind of narrow. People tend to go too fast in there, especially when it's raining. There've been so many accidents that the locals call it The Highway to Heaven. Ever notice all the skid marks between Monroe and the Paradise Lake Road?"
I hadn't, of course. I suppose I was usually too busy trying to keep from skidding. "There's a guardrail in here," I said, etching the accident site with my thumbnail. "Where could Wesley go? He's practically on top of the reformatory." The road into the Twin Rivers Correctional Center was less than a hundred yards from where the tie-up had occurred.
"According to the people from Shelton, the guards herded the prisoners off the bus and had them stand on the shoulder," Milo explained in his painstaking style. "The guards were supposed to be watching, but they got distracted by all the commotion from the school bus. Kids yelling and crying—you can imagine. The next thing they knew, Wesley Charles was gone."
I was slightly incredulous. "What about the other prisoners? Didn't they notice him clanking off down the road?"
"Hey—imagine the scene. You got cars, trucks, that school bus. You got people rear-ending each other and raising hell. In this day and age, it's more likely that some of the drivers are going to be armed and dangerous than it is that a bunch of shackled convicts will cause trouble." Milo glowered a bit. "Everybody's looking out for their own backside—or else they're worried about those kids. These prisoners weren't considered high risk. Not even Wesley Charles. They said that he'd been a model con during his stay at Shelton."
I put my hands together in a prayerful attitude. Maybe I felt that only divine intervention could help solve this case. "Milo—the key to this whole thing has to be Jerome Cole. Why don't you get a transcript of the murder trial?"
I expected Milo to balk, at least a little, but he didn't. His agreement demonstrated how lost he felt. I wasn't exactly heartened by his attitude. When I left him a few minutes later, he was dialing his liaison in King County.
On my way back to the office, I saw Bill Blatt and Sam Heppner going into the bank. It wasn't yet ten o'clock, so they weren't on personal business. I paused at the corner by the toy shop and wondered if I should follow them. But I'd find out later from Milo what they were after, I told myself, and headed on to _The Advocate_.
The mail had arrived, and with it, a pile of outraged letters about the murders. Not all of them were blatantly racist; most were signed. They would have to be published, since that was my policy. I decided to start my editorial for the coming week. The music censorship issue could wait. I would blast people of prejudice, and let the chips—and another stack of letters—fall where they would.
"We see people as one dimensional," I wrote, "and what we see are always the most obvious, if superficial, things about that other person. Is she skinny? Is he a dentist? Does that girl wear glasses? Is this man bald? In a wheelchair? Have a stammer? Where do nicknames like Lefty and Tubby and Rusty come from? Our visual perceptions are swift, and always incomplete. We pigeonhole people, and it's not fair."
I paused, marveling at the quiet that reigned in the office. Vida and Carla had gone up to the high school to do their picture story and a bit of sleuthing. Ginny was in the front office, and Ed was out selling advertising. I kept writing, working up a full head of steam. I recalled what Ben had said over the phone. It wasn't fair to blame Alpiners for all the ills of the world.
"There was a time when prejudices were strictly tribal," I wrote in my moralistic frenzy. "Indeed, there are still places in the world where that remains true. In Saxon England, for example, members of one village didn't trust—or like—villagers from across the ford. As the years went by, they hated the invading Normans. Still later, they despised the Dutch and the French and the Spaniards. Then came people of a different color and religion. Meanwhile, those villagers had mingled, married, and produced new bloodlines. The Saxons melded with the Normans. The English nobility forged matrimonial alliances with the French, the Spanish, the Portuguese, and the Scots; a homosexual king led the Crusades against the so-called infidel; later, another monarch rebelled against the very church he'd sworn to defend and set off centuries of religious persecution. The Western world went to war to fight for freedom, to foil aggression, and to halt anti-Semitism. For two thousand years, the human race has struggled to be worthy of its name: the _human_ race. Not the black or white or brown or yellow race, but a world peopled by _people:_ unique, diverse, good, bad, talented, stupid, kind, grasping, and often, all of it in a single individual."
I paused, wondering how much I would have to cut before I jumped off my soapbox. Like most of my editorials, it probably wouldn't change anybody's mind. The people who agreed with me would nod in a self-righteous manner, and those who didn't would snort in disgust. Either way, I'd end up in the bottom of the birdcage.
The most encouraging attitude I'd heard so far had come from Regis Bartleby at Trinity Episcopal. Harvey Adcock, of Harvey's Hardware, had told Ed Bronsky that the rector planned on giving a sermon urging members of his congregation to invite minorities to visit Alpine. The concept was noble, but Bartleby had a reputation for speaking far over the heads of his parishioners. I hoped the message wouldn't be lost in a sea of intellectual theology. The rector's heart was in the right place, but his delivery was on another planet. At least I knew that he'd applaud my editorial efforts.
Going out to the news office to get more coffee, I glanced through the window by Vida's desk. Bill Blatt and Sam Heppner were coming out of the bank. On a whim, I zipped through the door and hailed them as they crossed the street.
"Coffee?" I offered, brandishing my mug. _"Real_ coffee?" I knew from sad experience what pathetic brew passed for coffee at the sheriff's office.
Sam Heppner started to demur, but Bill Blatt was eager. The two deputies followed me inside _The Advocate_ where I played the gracious hostess.
"This is a bribe," I declared, handing each man a steaming mug. "I can get a court order and force you to tell me what you found out at the bank, or I could go see Milo and throw a tantrum or," I added with a flinty look at Bill, "I could send Vida to do the job. But how about taking the easy way?"
Bill Blatt, who had shown alarm at the reference to his redoubtable aunt, started chattering like a magpie: "The sheriff told us to check out Wendy and Todd Wilson, but I'll be darned if I can see why. What have they got to do with these shootings?"
"Maybe they don't." I bestowed my most winning smile on the deputies. "But they're part of the family that's given shelter to your boss's favorite suspect. And never mind that your boss may be nuts. What'd you find out at the bank?"
Sam Heppner uttered a wry chuckle. He was in his midthirties, with slicked-back brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a nose that would have looked more at home on a buzzard. "Not much. The Wilsons don't have an account there."
I stared. "What? But the Bank of Alpine is the only game in town!"
Sam gave me his dour look. "That's right, ma'am. But so what? The Wilsons could bank in Sultan or Monroe. It's not a crime."
Vida blew in the door, her straw skimmer askew. "Crime? What crime?" Her gaze fixed on her nephew.
I started to explain, but Vida waved her hands. She whirled on Bill Blatt. "You went through the accounts at the bank? No Wilsons? That's ridiculous!" She shot me a smug look. "Especially under the circumstances."
"Which are?" I asked.
Vida's expression became owlish. "Odd." She turned back to Bill. "You actually looked at the bank records?"
Bill nodded, looking not unlike a new recruit being inspected by his first sergeant. "They had an account up until October of 1992. Then they closed it. At the time, they had about two thousand in savings, another four hundred in checking."
"Oooooh!" Vida whipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "Interesting! Revealing!" She glanced again at me.
"Uh—where's Carla?" I asked, suddenly realizing that Vida had returned alone.
Vida gave a quick shake of her head. "She forgot to drop the roll of film off at Buddy Bayard's. She'll be here in a few minutes." Collaring her nephew—literally—she stood nose-to-nose with Bill Blatt. "Wilson," she said in a low, coaxing voice. "W-I. What about Marlow Whipp: W-H?"
Bill Blatt squirmed. "Aunt Vida—we weren't asked to check into Marlow Whipp's account."
"Nonsense!" snapped Vida. "You must have seen it." She gave Bill a little shake. "How much?"
I saw Bill Blatt's Adam's apple bob. "Uh... twelve grand and change."
With an air of triumph, Vida released her nephew. "Well! If that doesn't beat all! This is a monkey-and-a-parrot-time if I ever saw it!"
Bill Blatt and Sam Heppner were both looking mystified. I, however, was beginning to see the light. "So what did you learn at the high school, Vida?"
My House & Home editor all but simpered. "Very interesting, I assure you." She progressed to her desk, where she glanced at her mail and turned up her nose. "Wendy Wilson's colleagues find her popularity with students highly suspect. They think she's too easy on them. As for the students themselves, it all depends on who you talk to. Grace Grundle's granddaughter, who is a fine upstanding Presbyterian girl, doesn't think much of Wendy as a teacher. She says she plays favorites. But some of the others"—Vida leaned on her desk, and her gaze flickered from me to Bill to Sam and back again—"sing her praises to the sky. Their eyes are out of focus and they don't know Charles Dickens from Slim Pickens. What does that tell you?"
Bill Blatt looked as if it didn't tell him much. But Sam Heppner slapped his hands together. "Mrs. Wilson isn't just a teacher. She's got other irons in the fire."
Vida nodded sagely. "I can only guess. But it would be wise to keep Marlow Whipp's store under surveillance. If Milo Dodge wants to discuss it with me, please have him call."
Bill and Sam all but saluted. Gulping down their coffee, they hurried away. Vida was already typing up a storm. Calmly, I sat down in the chair next to her desk.
"Well?"
Vida didn't look up. She rattled off four more lines on her battered upright, slamming the carriage back so hard that the machine shook. At last, she stopped and eyed me squarely:
"It's got to be drugs," she said. "Pot, at least. Marlow Whipp is the middleman."
Her deductions made sense. Running drugs through the little grocery store would account for the Wilsons' affluence and Marlow's ability to stay in business. I had objections, however.
"If there's a widespread drug problem in this town, why haven't we heard about it?" I objected.
Vida didn't dismiss my quibble out of hand. "There have been stories about certain young people with problems," she pointed out. "The Nielsen boy. One of the Gustavsons. Jessie Lott's granddaughter, though at the time, we assumed she went away to have a baby. Oh, if I thought about it, I could name a dozen in the past year or two. But parents often don't know what to look for. Into denial, as they say. And the youngsters can be clever, I'm told." Sadly she shook her head. "It's a terrible thing to raise children these days. Much harder. I look at my grandchildren, and my heart goes out to my daughters and their husbands. Why, to think of Roger exposed to drugs!" Her face grew horrified. "What would become of him?"
A vision of Roger, dealing crack out of a moving van came to mind. Roger, in a loud suit and a broad-brimmed hat with a big feather, cuddling two curvaceous cuties and clenching a cigar between his teeth. Roger, at the head of a long, polished table, giving orders for reprisals against the other dons and their families. Roger, hanging by his thumbs in a Turkish prison. I liked the last picture best.
"Don't worry, Vida," I said in my most sanguine voice. "I'm sure Roger—and your other grandchildren—will turn out just fine." The Turkish prison evolved into a scaffold with a large noose.
Looking temporarily reassured, Vida returned to the matter at hand: "We don't know how long this has been going on, of course. Except for buying the house in Icicle Creek, Todd and Wendy's wealth seems to have accumulated quite recently. Until last autumn, their savings were modest. School started in September. So, perhaps, did Wendy's drug sales. Thus, the Wilsons moved their growing hoard out of town to avoid suspicion."
"I gather you didn't talk to Wendy herself this morning?"
"No. She was in class." Vida had turned pensive.
I got out of the chair. "Let's hope Milo follows through with the surveillance. It's too bad he doesn't have more personnel at his disposal."
Vida agreed. "If we're right about this drug thing," she said, causing me to stop in midstep, "how does it tie in with Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles?"
I swiveled around to face Vida. "That's obvious, isn't it? The part about Kelvin, I mean. He used drugs, he dealt them. Maybe he was Wendy's connection."
"Or Todd's." Vida's face froze. "Wendy may be the baglady or whatever it's called. Emma, call Milo right now. If he can't afford to have someone watch that store, we'll volunteer."
"Vida!" I was aghast. "Are you crazy? I'm not going to disguise myself as a shrub and lurk across the street at the high school field. Neither are you. This is police work, not journalism."
Vida, however, remained firm. "It is, too. We're after a story. Good heavens, Emma, didn't you ever use a cover to get a story when you worked on _The Oregonian?"_
I had, of course, on several occasions. Once, I'd masqueraded as a student at Reed College to check out rumors of sexual harassment by the faculty. Another time, I'd been a phony whiplash victim, trying to get the goods on a shady chiropractor. My most memorable guise was a shoplifter at Lloyd Center. The article was intended to show the public how severely criminals are treated, and thus, to prevent crime. I managed to walk off with over seven hundred dollars worth of merchandise from nine stores before I finally got caught. My arms and my feet ached so much that I was tempted to keep the stuff I'd stolen.
But this was different. This was Alpine, not Portland, and I had to maintain my dignity. So did Vida. I called Milo immediately.
"Yeah, yeah, I already heard Vida's idea from her nephew," Milo said in an impatient voice. "Forget it. Surveillance! That's for law enforcement bodies with staff to spare. If we want to check out Marlow Whipp, we'll get a search warrant."
"So do it," I suggested.
"On what grounds? That Wendy Wilson's a shitty teacher and chews gum she buys from Marlow Whipp? Listen, Emma, old Mr. and Mrs. Whipp ran that store for fifty years. They saved every dime. Vida should know that. Maybe they invested their money. Marlow lives in the family house, and the old folks are in the Lutheran retirement home. Marlow's wife gives piano lessons, their daughter lives in Wenatchee, and their son's a meter reader for the PUD. Now how respectable can you get?"
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that the Whipp grandson was a meter reader. Until now, however, I'd never made the connection between Frankie Whipp and Todd Wilson. Maybe there wasn't any, except for their employer. Maybe it was just another of Alpine's coincidences.
Vida mulled over Milo's response. "He's right, in his way," she allowed, then heaved a huge sigh. "All the same, there's something very peculiar going on between Marlow and the Wilsons. Maybe I should pay a call on Marlow's mother at the hospital. She's still recovering from knee surgery, you know."
Vaguely, I recalled that Peyton Flake had done a knee replacement on Mrs. Whipp the previous week. "Give it a try," I said, not sounding very hopeful. A glance at the clock told me it was going on noon. Carla still hadn't returned from Buddy Bayard's Picture-Perfect Photography Studio. "Where is Carla now? Did she go on a story?"
Vida was typing again. "Just a minute. I'm adding a couple of items to 'Scene Around Town.' Mrs. Whipp and her knee. The Wilsons' vacation trip."
I arched my eyebrows. "Scene" was Vida's weekly gossip column, filled with snippets of local happenings. Often, they could be expanded into feature stories. Even though we buried the column on an inside page, I'd been told it was the best-read item in the paper, right up there with the obituaries. People loved to see their names in print. Readers supplied at least half of the material, usually with gleeful reports over the phone. But during a slow news week, Vida had to scratch to fill the column: "Carrie Starr seen browsing in the cereal section at Safeway..." "Henry Bardeen's car parked two spaces down from his usual spot at the ski lodge..." "Polly Patricelli sporting a new bandanna and crossing Third Street with a sprightly step..." Such were the meaty bits that made Alpiners sit up and take notice—of themselves, caught unawares, and suddenly thrust into the limelight.
Vida was finished. She had no idea where Carla had gone. "It's lunchtime," she said calmly. "Maybe she's meeting her heartthrob."
"Dr. Flake?" I rolled my eyes. "If so, this romance is really heating up. They're going to dinner in Seattle tonight."
"Yes, yes, I know. With Ginny and Rick Erlandson. They'll have a nice time, but it won't be romantic. Not with all four of them." Vida's expression turned puckish. "Speaking of which, I forgot an item for 'Scene.'" She poised her fingers over the keyboard. "'Sheriff Dodge seen kissing Publisher Lord at murder site. Do we hear wedding bells chime?' Now there's some news!" She made as if to start typing.
"Stop!" I yelled, just as Carla came through the door. Vida smirked. Carla stared.
"What's happening now?" she asked, sounding resigned.
I moved in front of Vida's desk. "Nothing. Where were you? I thought you'd been stolen by Gypsies."
Carla leaned sideways, the better to see Vida. "I was on a stakeout. It was Vida's idea."
"Now, now," said Vida, also leaning around me. "I merely mentioned the idea. Well? Did you see anything?"
With an impatient step, Carla walked over to her desk. "Hardly. I stayed there, parked by the stupid football field, for an hour. Nine kids—nobody I recognized—went into the store. All but three came out with soft drinks. Two of the others were carrying little bags. One of them didn't seem to have anything, which meant he probably bought cigarettes."
"Hmmmm." Vida mused a bit, rocking back and forth in her chair. "Little bags. Drugs." Her head snapped up. "That's it? No adults? No car traffic?"
Sorting through her mail, Carla shook her head. "No cars. One adult, a white male in his seventies, bought a _P-I_. Oh, Shane Campbell pulled up in his Alpine Appliance van. He took a big box into the store and came out about five minutes later."
Vida was on the alert. She gave me a quick glance. "Shane? Could you see what was in the box?"
Carla shot Vida a rebellious look. "Do I have X-ray vision? It was a box—like this." Carla framed a two-foot-square piece of space with her hands. "It had writing on it. Script letters, starting with an _M_. I couldn't read the rest of it from across the street."
I gazed at Vida. I couldn't resist. "M for morphine?"
Vida pursed her lips. "M for moron. Emma, you're not taking this seriously." She glared at Carla. "Neither are you, young lady."
Carla had moved on to her phone messages. She started punching numbers into her phone. "Vida, you're crazy. Hello, is this the Baptist Church? May I please speak to Reverend Poole?" She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "The censorship thing. The Baptists have joined the Methodists and the Pentecostals and both our Mormons."
I laughed, a bit lamely. Vida, however, was looking grim. In retrospect, she was right and I was wrong. But at the time, neither of us knew why.
# Chapter Twelve
MAYOR FUZZY BAUGH'S voice had dripped Southern syrup when he'd called to ask me to confer with him over my L.I.D. editorial. A native of Louisiana, Fuzzy had lived in Alpine for going on forty years. By rights, he should have lost his accent, but he resurrected it when he wanted to get his way. This was one of those occasions. The mayor didn't feel the time was right to suggest a bond issue for civic improvements. There were too many people out of work in Alpine. We needed jobs, not sidewalks. It was up to me to prove that building sidewalks could create jobs. Knowing how hard-headed Fuzzy could be under that soft, gallant exterior, I figured I was whipped before I walked into his office.
Before I reached city hall three blocks away on Front Street, I spotted Shane Campbell. His van was parked by the Clemans Building, and he was wheeling a dolly along the sidewalk.
At a trot, I called to him. He stopped, a hand on the dolly. Passing the Upper Crust Bakery, Daley's Cobbler Shop, Alpine Ski Hut, and Stella's Styling Salon, I struggled to come up with a conversational gambit. By the time I caught up with Shane, I'd concocted a reasonable excuse.
"Shane!" My smile was a mile wide and probably twice as phony. "Do you carry thirty-cup coffeemakers?"
Shane Campbell considered the question carefully. "I'm not sure if we have any in stock, but we could order one."
My relief was exaggerated. "Great! Ours has been acting up. I don't know if it'd be cheaper to fix it or get a new one. What do you think?"
Shane gave a slight lift to his shoulders under his official Alpine Appliance jacket. "I can get our repairman to take a look. I'm no expert myself."
"Great," I repeated, wildly searching for a path to Marlow Whipp's grocery store. "The coffeemaker is pretty old. Marius Vandeventer probably bought it ten years ago."
Shane ran a hand through his fair hair. "Gosh, that could be a parts problem. We'd have to send to Seattle, and they might not even have it. Even if they do, it could take a couple of weeks."
I gaped at Shane as if he'd just told me the world was going to end in ten minutes. "Oh! Well—we can't go without the coffeemaker that long.... Of course, it still works. But Ginny and Carla have trouble getting it going in the morning...." My voice trailed off as I frantically sought an opening to inquire about Shane's visit to Marlow.
"If you order a new one," Shane said in his quiet, bland voice, "we can UPS it up here in two days. Overnight, if you want to pay the extra delivery charge."
"Ah!" I exclaimed, as if deliverance were at hand. The world wasn't going to end after all.
"It's not cheap," he went on. "We just got a milk steamer for Marlow Whipp's new espresso machine, and he wouldn't put out the extra twenty bucks to hurry it along. It took a week to get here because it had to come out of a warehouse in California."
"Oh." The disappointment in my voice had nothing to do with Marlow's tightfisted attitude. "A milk steamer? What kind?"
Shane screwed up his face in the effort of recall. "Melitta. He wanted me to set it up, but as I said, I'm no technician."
Feeling silly, I gave Shane a half-baked smile. "Okay, thanks. I'll see how it goes Monday. If it's still balky, I'll call you or your dad."
Shane made appropriate noises of agreement. I stalked past the Clemans Building. The red brick facade of the county courthouse and city hall loomed across Second Street. Fuzzy Baugh awaited, in all his civic splendor. Shane Campbell had delivered a milk steamer to Marlow Whipp. Vida and I were grasping at straws. For once, it seemed that Carla Steinmetz wasn't as dizzy as her coworkers.
Unless, I suddenly thought, as I walked through the echoing granite-and-marble lobby of city hall, there was something else in that box. An innocent milk steamer from a reputable company like Melitta would make a perfect cover for running drugs.
Again, I didn't know what was really perking in Alpine.
Carla wanted to leave early to prepare for her big date in Seattle. Ginny hinted that if Carla left to get ready, she should do the same. Ed, claiming exhaustion and a leaky bathroom faucet at home, took off at four. Vida had to hurry home and fix dinner for "just us girls." By four-fifteen, I was alone in the office, writing up Fuzzy Baugh's interview about why this would not be a good year to call for a special election on a L.I.D. bond issue. I had lost an editorial battle, but gained a lead story for the coming week.
Even in retrospect, Fuzzy's drawling comments bored me. I had no quarrel with his rationale, nor did I resent his refutation of my arguments. Rather, it was his penchant for using phrases such as "In the public interest...;" "To take a longer view...;" and "Matters that weigh heavily upon the mayor's mind..." He had had no comment on his wife's alleged sighting of gang members at the Alpine Mall. Thus, I had no invasion story. I was glad.
I wrapped up the L.I.D. piece in under ten minutes. It was not quite four-thirty. Who would drop by or call at such a late hour on a Friday in May? The rain had stopped during the night, the clouds had blown away by early afternoon, and the office felt stuffy. On an inspiration, I called Stella's Styling Salon. I didn't have much hope of getting an appointment, but Stella herself answered. She was willing to stay late if I could come over right away.
Stella Magruder is a bubbly woman with gleaming gold locks and a wicked walk. She is close to sixty, looks fifty, and carries her extra twenty pounds with pride. "No man," she once told me, "wants to worry about finding his woman in the dark. My Richie tells me he'd rather have ample than a sample." With four grown children of her own, Stella has had plenty of experience being a mother. She also has been rumored to have counseled other people's offspring over the years when their parents and professionals failed them.
"A gamine cut?" she asked, gazing at our reflections in the big mirror. "Show me, in a picture."
It didn't take long to find the right look in a hair styling magazine. Stella studied the photograph. It would work, she said, but I'd lose most of my permanent.
"I don't care," I replied. "If I like it, I'll keep it short. I promise."
Stella made a face. "You always go at least three weeks too long. You're too busy, Emma. You don't take time for yourself."
"Single moms get used to that," I answered lightly.
Stella made a disapproving noise in her throat as she began shampooing my hair. "Your son's away at school. He doesn't demand that much of your time, sweetie. You got in the habit of shortchanging yourself when he was younger, but now Adam's all grown up. Pamper yourself a little."
"I am," I countered, staring up at the ceiling with my head in the washbowl. "That's why I'm here."
Stella rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, and dried her hands. "Hold on—I've got a foil job to check. See you back at my station." Hips swaying, she went into the adjoining room. As I wandered back to Stella's domain, I saw Cyndi Campbell looking like a space cadet, with her head full of silvery tissues. Stella was examining a strand of Cyndi's hair. She pronounced her client ready, then propelled her over to the chair next to mine.
"I'll get Laurie to take these out," Stella announced, gesturing to her lion-maned associate who was heading for the laundry area with a load of dirty towels.
Cyndi greeted me with a languid wave. "I'm playing hooky from the PUD," she said, then offered a quirky smile. "It's okay if your brother-in-law is your boss."
I smiled back. "How are you all going to get along without Todd while he's gone for a month?"
Cyndi's smile disappeared. Laurie started removing the foils. "It won't be easy. I think it's selfish of Todd to take off for so long. If you ask me, it's Wendy's brainstorm. She gets some big ideas. It's time she got her head together and had a baby or something."
"Maybe this is their last fling," I remarked as Stella began to snip at my overgrown coiffure.
Cyndi sniffed. "Maybe. My folks don't think much of it. They'd like some grandchildren. It looks as if Shane will have them before Wendy does."
Stella stopped snipping. "Shane? Hey, Cyndi, what's up with your brother? Is he getting married?"
Cyndi's smug gaze locked with its mirror image. "I wouldn't be surprised."
Laurie, who was artfully made up and definitely pretty, had a bovine expression. Still, her face evinced interest. "Your brother's cute, Cyndi. Who's the lucky girl?"
Cyndi remained cagey. "Oh—somebody. It's not official. I can't blow it for him."
Stella was again concentrating on my hair. "A hometown girl? Is that why he came back to Alpine?"
In reply, Cyndi hummed. Laurie giggled. Stella took two inches off the top of my head. I began to wonder if the new me was going to scare the old me out of my wits.
"Let's say she's a mystery woman," Cyndi finally replied. "No, she's not from Alpine."
"Then we don't care." In the mirror, Stella gave Cyndi an arch look. "She must be somebody Shane met in Seattle."
Cyndi hummed some more. Stella had clipped away everything but an inch or so of straight hair. Laurie was down to the last few foils. My nose itched. Stella trimmed the nape of my neck. Her face suddenly hardened. She turned to Cyndi.
"The nurse?" Stella's voice had a faint rasp.
Cyndi swiveled her head, causing Laurie to drop the last foil. "Did I say that?"
"No." Stella's expression was somber. "I sure hope you didn't, sweetie. Your parents would have a fit and fall in it."
Cyndi resumed admiring her newly highlighted hair. "So? They like to talk about being broad-minded. Equality, and all that. What difference does it make?"
Stella was running a comb through my shorn, damp locks, or what was left of them. She didn't notice my horrified reaction. "I'll tell you what difference—it's one thing to treat other people equal. It's another to intermarry. You end up with half-breeds, that's what. And those poor kids go through life not knowing what race they belong to. It's hard, believe me. My brother married a Korean girl. He met her in Seoul after the war, and they've got two kids. They live down in the Willamette Valley in Oregon, and I can tell you it's been rough. Of course, they're grown up now, and one's a computer programmer in Portland and the other's an orthodontist, but they put up with plenty of guff along the way."
Cyndi said nothing; I felt obligated to comment: "It sounds as if they turned out fine."
Stella gave an eloquent shrug. "Oh, sure, now that they're grown and have families of their own. But as kids—I'm telling you, it was one thing after the other. They got called Slant Eyes and Sloop and everything else." Quizzically, she stared at her own image. "Or was it Slop? Slope? I forget."
"It was the Fifties," I noted dryly.
"It was _rough."_ She moved to Cyndi's chair as Laurie stepped aside. "That looks terrific, sweetie. You've got nice hair, but it needs just that extra touch of color to make it shine."
Cyndi nodded. Relaxing in the chair, she allowed Laurie to style the gleaming gold tresses. The effect was charming. "I like it," Cyndi announced, untying the smock she wore over her clothes. "Now let me out of here. I need a cigarette."
Cyndi and Laurie proceeded to the front desk. Stella watched them out of the corner of her eye. "Marriage is tough enough without going into it under a handicap," Stella muttered. "I hope Shane knows what he's doing."
In the mirror, I saw my closely cropped hair and wondered if Stella knew what she was doing. With a flick of the wrist, she created a sweep of bangs, then flipped a tendril of hair in front of each ear. A bit of brushing heightened the whole effect, and a swish of spray held it in place. Suddenly, I smiled. I looked younger, even prettier. Well, younger, at least. Stella stood back to admire her handiwork.
"Can you manage that?" she asked.
"Maybe." I didn't sound very certain.
"Try it for a week," Stella urged. "If you can't, we'll do a really soft body perm." She turned to the front of the shop, where Cyndi Campbell was about to make her exit. "Thanks, sweetie. Knock 'em dead. But don't forget what I told you about Shane and his bride-to-be."
Cyndi inclined her newly highlighted head and gave us an enigmatic smile.
I had forgotten that Cyndi was also invited to Vida's dinner party. It didn't surprise me that she turned out to be a no-show. I was, however, surprised to find her sister standing in for her.
"Cyndi has a hot date with a guy from Everett," Wendy Campbell Wilson explained to Vida. "It was a last-minute thing, and Mom was afraid Cyndi had screwed up your planning. Besides, Todd is working late tonight, getting caught up before we go on vacation."
Vida's reaction was reasonably gracious—for Vida. "Your mother should have come. Now why didn't I ask her in the first place?"
But Jean and Lloyd Campbell were already going out to dinner, in Sultan. The original guest list had dwindled from six to three, with one substitute. It was not Vida's style to linger over hors d'oeuvres and cocktails. Wendy and Marilynn arrived two minutes after I did. We were immediately hustled into Vida's dining alcove, with its Duncan Phyfe table and chairs, matching breakfront, and small buffet. Vida had made a crab casserole that tasted like glue. I suspected she hadn't used real crab, but the artificial kind that looks like surgical tubing. The green salad was fine, since it's hard to ruin lettuce, tomato, onion, and radishes. The poppy-seed rolls had come from the Upper Crust Bakery, and were delicious. I speculated about dessert, and hoped it was also store-bought, rather than homemade.
Halfway through the glutinous casserole, Marilynn complimented me on my hairdo. Vida had mentioned it when I came in the door, asking if I were trying out for a part as Prince Valiant. "It's more Peter Pan," I informed her haughtily. Vida said she liked it. She thought. It would take some time getting used to.
"It makes you look like a pixie," Wendy declared. "It's really cute."
I thanked her, and mentioned seeing her sister getting a foil job. Wendy said that was for the special date. Marilynn wished she'd seen the results, but by the time she got home from work, Cyndi had already left.
"Cyndi was hinting that there are wedding bells in the offing," I said, an eye on Vida. I hadn't yet had an opportunity to break the news to her.
Wendy threw back her head and laughed. As ever, there was something ungainly about her manner. "That's a joke! Cyndi hasn't even gone out with this guy before. She's jumping the gun."
I explained that I meant Shane, not Cyndi. My eyes darted to Marilynn. She looked mildly interested, but composed.
Wendy brushed crumbs off her blue cotton camisole. "Really? I didn't think my brother was serious. That serious, anyway. Well!"
Vida, who had been arrested in the act of passing more of her odious casserole, gave me a reproachful look, then turned her gaze on Wendy. "I didn't know Shane was going with anyone. Who is it, Wendy?"
Wendy's deep blue eyes rested on Marilynn. "Is it a secret? What do you think, Marilynn?"
Still maintaining her composure, Marilynn gave a shake of her head. "It's not up to me to say. I'm not family."
Wendy made a helpless gesture. "You see? No formal announcement is forthcoming. We'll have to wait for Shane."
Vida looked as if she'd just as soon wait for Judgment Day. "That's not fair. I can't abide it when people bring up topics and then let them dangle. It's a tease. More than that, it's a challenge when you're dealing with newspaper people. We can't stand secrets. Can we, Emma?"
"Uh... No, we can't." I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "Basically, we're snoops. But we snoop in the interest of truth."
Wendy seemed unperturbed. She also didn't seem to mind eating Vida's casserole. "Then let's talk about our murders. If you're looking for truth, there's where you should start. Who did it? I'll bet you two know more than the rest of us."
Our hostess wasn't diverted from her original purpose. Wendy had thrown down the gauntlet, and Vida was ready to joust. "Very well. Let's put our cards on the table. As far as we can tell, the only people in Alpine who knew Kelvin Greene were you, Marilynn—" Vida nodded to the guest on her right. "—your brother, Shane—" She nodded again, this time at Wendy on her left. "—and probably your sister, Cyndi. With all due respect, that means the three people who knew Kelvin live under the same roof. Shane and Cyndi were both at home about the time Kelvin was shot. Cyndi met us in the living room when we arrived for dinner, probably within fifteen minutes of the shooting, which very likely took place in the cemetery a block away from the house. Shane appeared shortly thereafter. You, Marilynn, arrived later, claiming to have been with Dolph Terrill at his apartment house by the clinic. Dolph is addled. He couldn't be precise about time if his life depended on it. Thus, none of you has a real alibi for the murder."
Marilynn and Wendy had both listened to Vida with a growing sense of alarm. The difference between them was that Marilynn looked hurt; Wendy seemed angry.
"Are you saying my brother or my sister could have killed that jerk?" Wendy demanded.
Vida wore her most owlish expression. "Somebody did. And murdered Wesley Charles as well." Vida offered me more casserole. I took it only to keep the peace, such as it was.
Still appearing offended, Marilynn spoke to Vida but looked at me. "I certainly didn't shoot Kelvin—or Wesley. As far as Wesley is concerned, Emma knows I was with her—or still at the clinic when it happened."
"That's true," I admitted, thrusting aside a nagging doubt. Something bothered me, but I couldn't think what it was.
"I can't speak for my brother or my sister," Wendy huffed. "I wasn't there. Todd was late getting home from the PUD, and I was grading papers to kill time. If you want alibis for Shane and Cyndi—which is ridiculous—ask my folks. They were there."
Vida inclined her head. "So we think. But we don't know that, do we?"
Wendy had crumpled her linen napkin, which she now hurled onto the table. "Oh, for God's sake! Now you suspect my parents? Vida, you're out of your mind!"
"I didn't say I suspected Lloyd and Jean," Vida replied calmly. "I'm saying that if your siblings are relying on your parents for an alibi, we don't know if they can provide one." Ignoring Wendy's irate expression, Vida turned back to Marilynn. "Do you know why Kelvin Greene was laid off by Fred Meyer?"
Marilynn frowned. "I thought he quit. Winola said he never stayed anywhere very long." She stared at her plate. Considering what was on it, I marveled it didn't stare back. "Now that I think about it, there was some trouble. Winola said it was unfair. She... ah... thought it might have been racially motivated."
"Do you remember the trouble?" Vida had lowered her voice. She sounded coaxing.
Marilynn shook her head. "No. I was all wound up in my own troubles. I suppose I was ready to make the break with my old life and didn't want to take on any new garbage. I guess I ignored Winola's complaints."
"Jeez." Wendy Wilson plunked her elbow on the table and almost upset her water goblet. "What's Kelvin's job got to do with his murder? I'm sorry I brought this up. Let's talk about something nice, like who got knocked up lately around here." She leaned toward Marilynn. "Hey, you'd know that. You work at the clinic."
Marilynn looked aghast. "I can't breach patient-doctor confidentiality," she retorted. "Why can't we talk about something other than scandal?"
Vida stared at Marilynn. "Why should we?"
I felt it was my duty to intervene. "People do, in other places. You know, art and books and music and politics."
Vida lifted her chin. "You aren't in other places, Emma. You're in Alpine."
So I was. With Vida around, I couldn't forget. Even when I wanted to.
I can't say that dinner was a success. On the other hand, I suppose it wasn't a failure. There were no deaths. Dessert had been a delectable plum crisp from the Upper Crust. The conversation had dwindled to a predictable discussion of marriage, divorce, remarriage, and the intertwining relationships that resulted thereof. I'd felt that Marilynn would be excluded, but she was an eager student. She had been in Alpine just long enough to know some of the parties involved, or at least a few of their relatives.
Wendy and Marilynn left around ten. I offered to stay and help Vida clean up. She demurred, but not vehemently, so I began clearing the table.
"Why," I inquired when we both reached the kitchen, "did you ask that question about Kelvin and Fred Meyer?"
"A hunch," she replied, rinsing off plates under the faucet. "Shane and Kelvin both left Fred Meyer about the same time. Now is that a coincidence or what?"
The thought had not occurred to me. "Winola would know," I suggested.
Vida nodded. "You have her number, don't you? It's Kelvin's phone, as I recall."
It was eight minutes after ten. "She might be up," I ventured.
Vida's response was to stare at the white Trimline phone that hung on the opposite wall. I shoved a handful of silverware into the dishwasher and went in search of my handbag, which was in the living room. Winola's number was on a notepad in a side pocket. Two minutes later I was waiting for Winola to answer my call.
On the fourth ring, her drowsy voice came over the line. I wasn't completely prepared. Vida and I hadn't parted from Winola on amicable terms. The bilge I'd concocted about asking how Kelvin's funeral had gone was dismissed in favor of honesty:
"Winola, this is Emma Lord in Alpine. As you may have heard, another man you knew has been killed up here. Wesley Charles?"
There was a little shriek at the other end. It seemed Winola didn't know. Maybe she didn't watch the news on TV. Perhaps she didn't read the papers. The story was only twenty-four hours old, and word might not have filtered down through the big-city grapevine.
"You mean that dude who killed Jerome?" Winola's voice sounded hollow.
"That's right." I explained about the escape and the shooting. I told her how Marilynn Lewis and I had been at the scene. If Winola had doubts about my acquaintanceship with Marilynn, this anecdote surely should put them to rest. "I'm worried about Marilynn," I said, and it was true. "This case needs to be solved quickly, if only to stop the hate mail she's getting." I didn't mention the more ominous reason. "I only have a couple of questions."
Winola now sounded fully awake, if sullen. "Like what?"
I took a deep breath. "Do you think Wesley Charles killed Jerome Cole?"
Vida was watching me closely. Winola took her time to answer. "They say he did," she finally replied. "If I had to decide, I say he didn't, 'cause he got no balls. But maybe it was an accident."
I signaled to Vida, showing her that Winola was being ambivalent. "Why did Kelvin get laid off last April?"
Winola uttered a half snort, half sigh. _"That_. He was set up. They say he stole from the stockroom. They lie. Kelvin did some bad things, but he never stole stuff. What's to steal? Toys? Lawn furniture? Slug bait?"
"The store carries some big-ticket items," I pointed out. "Jewelry. Electronics. Cameras, I think." I tried to visualize the last Fred Meyer I'd been in, a store near Richmond Beach in Seattle's North End. "Nintendo games. CDs and tapes and calculators and radios. Small appliances."
Winola wasn't impressed by the inventory. "Kelvin didn't work with that stuff. He stocked the clothes and the toys and the garden section. Christmas trees, too, and decorations during the holidays. I tell you, he was set up by some white guy that didn't like him 'cause he was black." She sounded emphatic.
"Who was the guy?" I asked, an idea buzzing in my brain.
"Some kid in the stockroom. I don't know his name." She'd turned sullen again.
My shoulders sagged. My idea wasn't panning out. I had one last inspiration: "Winola—where did you and Marilynn go the night Jerome got killed?"
"A friend's place," she answered. "A friend of Marilynn's."
I pressed on. "Who was it?"
"A white dude. That Shane she kind of liked. I don't know why. I never thought he had it goin' on."
Maybe he didn't, in Winola's estimation. But Shane Campbell definitely had something going on, somehow. As I hung up, I felt the first of the pieces begin to fall into place.
# Chapter Thirteen
LETTERS FROM BIGOTS hadn't struck me as appropriate dinner conversation. Neither Vida nor I had brought up the subject during the evening. It wasn't until Milo called Saturday morning that I learned Marilynn had turned the latest mailings over to his office.
"The usual bilge," he said in his laconic voice. "Mostly unsigned, though I can figure out who some of them are."
I pounced. "Who?"
"You don't want to know, Emma. In fact, you could probably guess. They're typical, mainly written out of fear. These people have nothing against Marilynn Lewis as a person. It's what she represents. You know—stereotypes. I'm not very good at putting it into words, but you get the idea."
I did. Marilynn Lewis was a symbol, mostly of negativity. Why did people always think of the bad, rather than the good? Why think in stereotypical terms at all? Marilynn Lewis wasn't a gang member, on welfare, or working the streets. Neither was she a famous singer, dancer, or athlete. She was Marilynn Lewis, R.N., educated, middle class, and, like too many women of every race, religion, and creed, inclined to fall in love with the wrong man. It could happen to anybody, and didn't I know it. The human heart didn't care what color of skin hid its wayward beat.
"You don't think those letters have anything to do with the murders?" I asked, coincidentally sorting through the mail that I'd just collected from my streetside box.
"No," Milo replied firmly. "To be sure, I'm sending them over to an expert in Snohomish County. It'd be nice if we could afford our own nut wizard. This county doesn't even have a shrink."
It was true. There were no practicing psychologists or psychiatrists in Skykomish County. The closest thing we had was a part-time counselor at the high school. Rumor had it that she also read palms and tea leaves.
"I don't think the correct term is _nut wizard,"_ I chided Milo. Before he could retort, I went on in a more serious vein: "What about my letters? Any ideas?"
"I let Dwight Gould go through all of them," Milo said. "He's kind of shrewd when it comes to figuring out people. In his way," Milo added hastily, lest I get the wrong idea. "He doesn't think your letter writer has written any of the stuff to Marilynn. Your guy—or gal—is sort of incoherent. Not that I'd hold up some of the ones to Marilynn as models of composition. But it's different—yours don't seem to be fueled by the same kind of hate and fear. Dwight can't explain it, so neither can I. Call it intuition."
"More personal?" I ventured.
"Personal? I don't know about that. I'm not sure what you mean."
Neither was I. Furthermore, I was distracted. The WNPA had mailed me my confirmation, as well as the official program for the weekend at Lake Chelan. On Friday, June 18, from ten-fifteen to noon, the scheduled presentation was "Where are we headed?—What will community newspapers be like in the future, and what will they expect from the WNPA?" The featured speaker was Tom Cavanaugh.
"Say, Milo," I said in an overly bright voice, "why don't you drop by for a beer? I should tell you about my most recent chat with Winola Prince." It would be a more stimulating way to pass the time than cleaning the oven, which had been my original Saturday plan.
Milo evinced interest, but said he was driving down to Startup to see Honoria. They might go to Wallace Falls for a picnic. Or maybe drive into Seattle for dinner and a movie. Or up to LaConner to see some of the local crafts. Or just have a long talk. Milo's voice dropped a notch with each option.
My initial reaction was that Milo's priority should be his murder investigation. Or, I asked myself, did I mean that I should be his priority? That was nonsense. Milo and Honoria had reached a turning point. It was vital that he spend his time with her and try to resolve the crisis.
"Good luck," I said, amazed that I sounded sulky.
"Hey—Emma. Haven't you noticed something about me the past couple of days?"
"Huh?" Was Milo being cute? "Extra ears? You grew a beard? A new nose?"
"That's it! My allergies went away. You noticed!" Milo was elated.
"Oh! Oh, right, you're cured. Good. I wonder what set you off?"
"Pollen, I suppose. Plenty of it around here this time of year. Hey, I've got to get changed. See you."
Milo. He was _impossible_ , as Vida would say. I looked again at the WNPA program. Tom. He, too, was impossible. What was he getting out of his marriage to Sandra, other than hassles, heartaches, medical bills, bail postings, complaints from irate merchants, and bad publicity? Sandra's money? Early on, yes. But Tom had established himself as one of the West's leading newspaper entrepreneurs. With Sandra's money. Tom was grateful; he had a strange sense of loyalty. Honor, he'd call it. I called it fear. Tom was afraid to face a different future. Most of us are like that. Milo was. I was. Milo was afraid a second marriage would turn out as badly as his first. I was afraid of marriage, period. That must be the reason I clung to Tom. As long as I could file him away in the back drawer of my emotional life, I had an excuse to stay out of other entanglements. Most of all, I could keep my independence. I'd fought hard for it. Why surrender it now when Adam was grown and I was on my own as a newspaper editor-publisher? Being lonely wasn't a good enough reason. As Vida said, "There are worse things than not being married."
And Vida said into my ear five minutes after I finished talking to Milo, "There aren't any funerals this week. Would you like to join me at the cemetery?"
"What for?" It seemed to me that Vida wasn't making sense.
"See here," she said earnestly. "The two murdered men were shot with different caliber bullets. That could mean two killers—or two guns. Wouldn't a man like Kelvin Greene be armed? Yet no gun was found on him or in his car. Now where would his gun be? With his killer? Wouldn't that be too dangerous? I suggest we go dig around up at the cemetery. If we don't do it now, there will be oodles of folks coming around for Memorial Day. And if anybody sees us, we'll just say we're remembering our beloved dead a bit early. I'll bring some foxgloves and poppies. Oh—and a shovel. You bring one, too."
As far as I was concerned, Vida still wasn't making sense. "Vida—even if you're right, that gun could be six feet deep. Wouldn't it be smarter to ask Milo to have the regular grave diggers search for the weapon?"
"Of course it would," Vida agreed. "But Milo won't do it. He'll think it's a waste of time—and money. I'm sure the county would have to pay the grave diggers. It's the Peabody brothers, and they do it part-time, when they're out of work in the woods. They charge the world."
If I thought Vida was on a wild-goose chase, Milo certainly would, too. But the lure of cleaning my oven wasn't that strong. Shortly before noon, I picked up Vida and her bouquet. She'd stuck one of the poppies in the band of her straw hat. Along with the flowers and the shovel, she'd brought a metal detector.
"It's Roger's," she explained. "He hunts treasure with it. Isn't that darling? You should have seen my brother, Ennis, pitch a fit when Roger found the steel plate in his head! Honestly! You'd think it was some sort of state secret!"
Fortunately, it was only a three-minute ride from Vida's house to the cemetery entrance. Thus, I didn't have to listen to more adorable tales about Roger the Terrible. Vida, however, was wrong about the cemetery being deserted on this particular Saturday. There were several cars parked along the winding roadway, and I guessed that they were mourners who had come early to pay their Memorial Day respects.
"Out-of-towners," Vida grumbled. "Ex-Alpiners. They flee to the city and come back once a year with a piddling plant. I'll bet they don't even bother to call on the living."
I didn't argue. I hadn't visited my parents' grave site at Holyrood in North Seattle for almost two years. I felt remiss. They had been dead for two decades, taken too soon in a car accident returning from my brother's ordination. Ben, who hadn't lived in the vicinity since, had a better track record than I did—he offered a memorial Mass every time he came to town. I'd been absent from all but three of them.
Fortunately, there were no other cars parked near Axel Swensen's grave. That, I assumed, was because Axel had outlived any mourners. While the funeral flowers had been removed, the marker hadn't yet been set in the ground, nor had new sod been laid. Apparently the Peabody brothers had other fish to fry. They certainly didn't have many trees to cut during the present logging hiatus.
Vida was working with the metal detector. At first, I'd thought it was a mere toy, but now that I took a good look, I saw it was fairly sophisticated. Roger, naturally, must have the best, the little spoiled wretch.
"We don't want to get confused by the casket," Vida remarked, moving slowly around the bare earth that delineated Axel's grave. "We should have brought sandwiches. My father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, loved to have family picnics in cemeteries. He always found them so quiet. And the flat markers were very convenient for spreading out a lunch. We'd go from here to Skykomish to Gold Bar to Sultan to... Well!" The detector let off a couple of beeps.
"Are you sure it's not the casket?" I asked, shielding my eyes from the midday sun.
Vida shook her head. "Too far to the left." She stomped on the ground in her sensible shoes. "Axel's right under me. Let's get the shovels."
It was too late to protest. Still, I didn't much like what we were about to do, for various reasons. First, it was ghoulish. Second, it was probably illegal. Third, I was certain we would come up empty-handed.
Vida, however, had no such qualms. She dug vigorously, dirt flying in all directions. I relieved her at intervals, during which she put her foxgloves and poppies in a vase and then stuck the bouquet at the head of the grave.
"Nice," she remarked. "How are you doing?"
We had dug straight down, about three feet. "Okay, but I don't see anything."
Vida tried the metal detector again. This time it beeped more loudly. She took over with the shovel. The sun was growing warmer, and so was I. Another foot, then she let me have a turn. Luckily, the ground was fairly soft, no doubt from the numerous springs that trickled through the mountainside. At the five-foot level, Vida relieved me. She dug more efficiently than I did, probably because of her vast gardening experience. Now standing in the narrow hole, Vida seemed oblivious to the dirt she was getting on her gray slacks and print blouse.
"Hand me that detector," she commanded.
I obeyed. The detector made loud, insistent noises. Vida kept digging. A minute later, she was rewarded with the sound of metal on metal. Looking up out of the hole with a triumphant grin, she handed me her shovel.
"I don't suppose we should worry about prints," she called in a muffled voice as she bent down to retrieve whatever she had hit.
"Probably not," I replied as a car drove by slowly. The driver stared, but passed on. I wished we hadn't brought the Jag. It was too easily identifiable in Alpine.
In the hole, Vida was chuckling. "I told you so—one gun." She held up a pistol, waving it like a trophy. "Yoo-hoo, take this, Emma."
Gingerly, I complied. The weapon wasn't particularly heavy. I peered at the lettering. "It's a Beretta, Model 87," I informed Vida.
"Yes, yes, I could see that." Her voice was still muffled as she remained bending over in the hole. "Here, I found another souvenir. Give me that metal detector."
Along with the gun, I was now holding a watch. It was a Timex with a round face and a black band. The band had worn through. I retrieved the rest of the imitation leather. To its credit, the watch was still going: The hands showed that it was twenty-seven minutes after twelve.
From the hole, I could hear the metal detector sending off low little beeps. "It must be the casket," said Vida. "Or the fillings in Axel's teeth."
I winced, but Vida seemed unperturbed. Her efforts were now concentrated on getting out of the hole. This was not an easy task. Vida clambered up the side while I held onto her arms. She was no featherweight, and I practically threw out my back trying to hoist her. In the end, she created a couple of footholds and heaved herself on top of the grave site.
"Oooooh! That was a job!" Vida leaned on her shovel, shaking off dirt like a pup and rubbing her eyes. "Let's fill in the hole and get out of here."
This time, we could work together. The job went swiftly, if a bit slapdash. Somehow, we ended up with too much dirt. Vida spread it around, then tamped it down with her feet. If anyone had driven by, they would have thought she was dancing on Axel Swensen's grave.
Hot, tired, and dirty, we headed back to her house, which was closer to the cemetery than mine. Vida immediately put the teakettle on.
"I've got some casserole left from last night," she called to me from the kitchen while I washed up in the bathroom. "Would you like a bit of lunch?"
I declined. "I had a huge breakfast," I lied, coming out to sit at the dinette table. Behind me, Cupcake was singing his head off. "Let's have a look at the gun and the watch."
Vida had placed both items on a towel. "I doubt that at this point Milo can tell if this gun has been fired recently," she mused. "But he should be able to match the gun with the bullet they got out of Kelvin Greene."
I was no ballistics expert. "Maybe," I allowed. "What you're saying is that this is Kelvin's gun, and somehow the killer got hold of it, shot him, and dumped it in the open grave, right?"
Vida stared at the gun. "I guess so. That would indicate a struggle. Yet Milo made no mention of it. But how else would the killer have gotten hold of Kelvin's weapon? We must assume a person of strength." Over the rims of her glasses, she raised her eyebrows. "A man."
"We don't know for sure that this was Kelvin's gun," I objected. "The killer may have had two guns—if the same person actually shot both Kelvin and Wesley. If you meet someone in a cemetery and end up shooting him, it's probably premeditated, right?"
Slowly, Vida nodded. "A cemetery isn't the usual place for a rendezvous."
I was stymied; so was Vida. "The watch," I said, pointing to the round face. "Somebody lost it. That backs up the theory of a struggle."
Vida had picked up the watch and was patching it together, broken strap and all. She held the timepiece in the palm of her hand. "I fastened it in the hole that was most worn. Small, wouldn't you say?"
"Try it on," I suggested.
Vida did. Holding the broken band next to the crystal, we could see that it would be too tight. She handed the watch to me. It was too loose. I was beginning to feel like Goldilocks. "A woman," I conjectured. "Or a small-boned man."
"Which makes no sense." Vida sounded irritated. "Could a woman—or a rather slight man—overcome an armed Kelvin Greene? That's what we're saying."
"Maybe the watch belongs to one of the Peabody brothers. Or one of the mourners at the funeral."
Vida gave a shake of her gray curls. "Have you ever seen the Peabody brothers? They're great hulking things. At the interment, nobody got close enough to the grave to lose a watch except the pallbearers, and they were all big rawboned Scandinavians."
For several moments, we sat gazing at our find. "We'll have to turn these things over to the sheriff," I said.
"You told me Milo was gone." Vida stood up as the teakettle boiled. "I'll call my nephew, Billy. He's on duty this weekend."
Vida served our tea in bone-china cups. It refreshed, but didn't inspire. The best I could come up with was the suggestion that there were indeed two killers. Perhaps both of them had met Kelvin Greene in the cemetery.
"Then who?" Vida asked. "We're having enough trouble figuring out the identity of one."
"The key is Wesley Charles, not Kelvin Greene." I spoke with a conviction I didn't really understand. "Both men were linked with the Jerome Cole killing. Bear in mind that Jerome wasn't shot. He was bludgeoned, and it could have been an accident. Wesley Charles could have claimed self-defense, and maybe been acquitted. But he didn't. He insisted he was innocent. Was his attorney an idiot, or was Wesley a man of principle?"
Vida sat hunched forward, one hand resting on the other. "A public defender, wasn't it? You'd think he—it was a man, as I recall from the newspaper articles—would have plea-bargained. Do you remember the name?"
"Zerbil," I answered, off the top of my head. "It reminded me of gerbil."
Vida made a face. "As in having the brains of. Let me get my Seattle phone book."
There was only one Zerbil listed in the directory, on Phinney Ridge. The first name was Stanley. Vida dialed, but got an answering machine. She didn't leave a message.
"Drat," she said, replacing the phone. "He may be gone for the weekend."
Another silence fell between us. I was getting hungry, but didn't dare admit it for fear of being force-fed the leftover casserole. Vida sipped her tea, staring with unseeing eyes at Cupcake's cage.
"What you're trying to articulate, Emma," she finally said in a careful voice, "is that Wesley Charles did not kill Jerome Cole. Someone else did, and Kelvin Greene knew it. Perhaps Kelvin was paid to testify against Wesley. Bribed, if you will. Kelvin then... oh!" She looked startled.
"What?" I leaned forward, setting my cup and saucer aside.
Vida had grown excited. "Kelvin was blackmailing the real murderer. His demands became too great. That's why he was killed." She folded her hands and sat up straight, looking very pleased with herself.
Vida's theory fit in with the vague ideas I'd been forming on my own. "And Wesley Charles?"
"Wesley knew the truth. He may have been bribed to take the rap or whatever they used to call it in crime fiction. A twenty-year sentence? He might not serve ten."
Vida's hypothesis didn't convince me. "It'd take big money to make up for Wesley Charles's loss of freedom, then to pay off Kelvin Greene as well."
"True." Vida frowned, concentrating on our puzzle. "Who has oodles of money? The Wilsons?"
I disparaged the idea. "What have they got to do with Jerome Cole? Shane and Cyndi may have known the whole cast of characters from Seattle, but not Todd and Wendy. I can't see any connection there."
"The drugs." Vida refused to give up her pet theory. However, she saw the skepticism on my face and made an impatient gesture. "All right, let's skip that for now. Let's go back to Wesley Charles. At least he knew he wasn't the killer. Maybe he knew who the real murderer was and maybe he didn't. But as long as he was still alive, he was a danger to whoever killed Jerome Cole."
I was still bothered by Vida's deductions. "Wait—we've already said Jerome's death could have been an accident, or the result of a fight. Why would the real killer be so upset about getting caught?"
Vida grimaced. Then her eyes scanned the ceiling, which, like the rest of her house, was free of dust and grime. "Because it wasn't an accident," she declared. "Or if it was, the killer is a coward."
"A coward?" I was taken aback. "Does a coward then go out and shoot two more people?"
Vida considered. "No, you're right. Whoever killed Jerome Cole did it in cold blood. And then did the same to Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles. It's Wesley's murder that bothers me most. The man was in chains. How did he get off the bus and make his escape?"
"I gather the prisoners were taken off the bus, to check for injuries," I said, trying to recall precisely what Milo had told me. "There were only a few—ten, at most. There are two armed guards and the driver who travel on those buses. Wesley slipped away in the confusion over the school children and the other vehicles."
Still thoughtful, Vida wagged her head from side to side. "Slipped away to where? I know that highway like I know the back of my hand. He would have had to walk along the shoulder, straight into town or on to the Stevens Pass junction."
"He could have gone over the guardrail," I argued. "Through the trees, and out across the street."
Vida gave me a caustic look. "In full daylight, in a well-populated area, within view of the Twin Rivers guard tower? Really, Emma, I expect better from you."
"Well, he went _somewhere,"_ I retorted, on the defensive.
"Yes, he did," Vida allowed, again very serious. "But did he go there alone? Was there an accomplice, say, in a car? Was this whole thing preplanned to get at Wesley Charles?" Behind her glasses, Vida blinked twice in rapid succession.
I caught my breath. "My God!" I whispered. "It would have to be an elaborate—and very daring—plan!"
"Everything about these murders is daring," Vida declared. Showing an uncharacteristic sign of anxiety, she ran her tongue lightly over her lips. "I believe we're facing an extremely ruthless killer, Emma."
Impressed by Vida's alarm, I grew subdued. "Maybe we should leave this up to Milo."
Vida was gnawing on her thumb. "No. We can't do that."
"Vida..."
"It's not that Milo is stupid. He's not. At least he isn't any more stupid than most men," Vida amended. "Milo has got an idea in his head. Regardless of what he says, he sees this as a racial situation. That is, somehow it's confined to one race. Marilynn's alibi for Wesley's murder notwithstanding, if Milo were forced to make an arrest, he'd haul her in. He's got no imagination. Most of all, he doesn't have the means."
As much as I didn't like to think it, Vida might be right. There was also the nagging doubt I'd experienced at dinner the previous night: I was Marilynn's alibi for Wesley Charles's murder. But when I told Marilynn I'd pick her up at five o'clock Thursday evening, she had asked me to wait until five-thirty. I'd assumed she had unfinished business at the clinic. But what if she had had other, more deadly, unfinished business, such as Wesley Charles? I suppressed a little shiver, and didn't mention my misgivings to Vida.
Later, I realized my mistake.
# Chapter Fourteen
CARLA AND LIBBY stopped by shortly after I returned from Vida's house. Carla was agog, full of her evening with Peyton Flake in Seattle. They had gone to Palisades, the glitzy restaurant at Smith Cove overlooking Elliott Bay and downtown. They had eaten wonderful food, drunk marvelous drinks, and capped the evening with a jazz session in Pioneer Square. Ginny and Rick had had fun, too.
Libby Boyd listened to her roommate's giddy recital with an indulgent attitude. "They must have had a good time," she finally said when allowed to get a word in edgewise. "It was almost three A.M. before she got home."
"We practically closed down Jazz Alley," Carla exclaimed, getting her second wind. "Peyts knows all about jazz. He chose the wines, too. He even wore a tie!"
"Did Rick wear his orange hair?" I inquired.
"Oh, sure, but it doesn't matter in Seattle. It's okay to be weird there." Removing her sunglasses, Carla turned sober. "I wish I were back in the city. Alpine is so _dull."_
Despite the growing body count, I had to agree with Carla. I, too, missed the city. Before moving from Portland to Alpine, I had consoled myself with the fact that Seattle was less than two hours away. I could drive in anytime for the opera, the theatre, and sporting events. But I rarely did. I stayed in my rut, spending my weekends working around the house and getting caught up with the rest of my life.
"You want some excitement?" I asked on a sudden whim.
Carla looked dubious; Libby was wary. "Like what?" asked Carla.
We were out in the backyard where I'd been wiping down the lawn furniture I'd hauled out of the carport. Swiftly, I brushed off a couple of the chairs. "Here, sit down, let me make a proposition to one or both of you."
My brainstorm would serve two purposes: One, it might prove or disprove Vida's theory about the Wilsons and Marlow Whipp. Two, it would perk up Carla's life, and maybe Libby's, too. Though why Carla should need a diversion when romance had finally come to her, I couldn't guess. It was, however, in character for my flighty staff reporter. Her attention span was notoriously short.
"Wait a minute," said Carla, after I had related my plan. "You want one or both of us to go to Marlow's store and hint that we want to buy drugs? Why us?"
"You're young, you're not locals," I explained. "Frankly, it would be better if Libby did this. Marlow knows who you are, Carla. He might be suspicious. Have you ever been in Marlow's store, Libby?"
Libby shook her head. "I've driven by it, though. It looks like a dump."
I studied Libby in her casual clothes. She was wearing cutoffs, a striped tank top, and sandals. With her wholesome face, her curly fair hair, and no makeup, she could pass for considerably younger than what I guessed to be her twenty-five years. Marlow might not notice the tiny lines around her eyes.
Libby shrugged. "I'll do it. When?"
I glanced at my watch. It was after three o'clock. "Now is as good a time as later. There shouldn't be any students hanging around because it's a Saturday. In fact, I don't know why Marlow bothers to stay open on weekends."
Carla was pouting. "Hey, I thought this was supposed to be exciting for me! What do I get to do, drive the getaway car?"
Momentarily stumped, I sat with my mouth open. "No," I finally responded, talking fast. "You can go in a few minutes later and ask about the espresso machine. Make sure he really has a steamer. Tell him Ed would like to talk to him about an ad."
"That sounds like work." Carla was whining. "Why can't I search the premises or something while Libby distracts Marlow?"
It wasn't a bad idea. "If you do, don't go in together," I cautioned.
Now full of enthusiasm, Carla sprung to her feet. "Let's go, Libby. We'll be like spies. Undercover stuff. Maybe you should use a foreign accent."
I shuddered, picturing Carla in false whiskers and Libby dressed like Mata Hari. "Report back to me," I called after them. "I'll give you a beer."
I was watching them drive away in Carla's secondhand Honda when I heard the phone ring. Hurrying into the house, I caught the call just before it switched over to the answering machine.
"Mom—the sun's out!" Adam's voice crackled over the line, making me smile. My son was beginning to sound like Ben. "I need shorts and tees and a whole bunch of stuff!"
My smile faded. "Did the bears eat your old wardrobe?" I asked in my sarcastic mother's tone.
"No, but Rich Tallfirs sat on my boom box. The lid for the CD player broke off. Can you send me a new one?"
"A new lid? Why not just get it fixed?"
"No, a new boom box. This one sounds funny sometimes."
"They all sound funny to me. Maybe it's what you're playing on it."
"Don't be so uncool, Mom. I've had this thing for almost two years." Adam's tone was aggrieved.
"I've had the TV for six, the stereo for five, and my small, modestly priced radio for twelve. Forget it, Adam, I'm broke. Just like your boom box. And don't tell me there aren't any stores in Fairbanks. You don't need much, you're leaving in less than two weeks."
"But that's just it!" Adam cried, not so much on a crackle as a wail. "I'm headed for Tuba City, and it's going to be a hundred and ten degrees in the shade! Do you want me to die of heatstroke? I need to pick up some stuff in San Francisco."
"Now hold on," I persisted, thinking how many times my son and I had carried on similar arguments—and how few of them I had won. "You're stopping in San Francisco on the way to Arizona?" Adam mumbled his assent. I wondered if he'd talked to Tom again. I wouldn't ask. "Could it be that you want lots of money to spend at the tremendously cool shops in San Francisco as opposed to Fred Meyer in Fairbanks? Could it be that you have visions of parading around the Navajo reservation as Mr. Hip Dude?"
Adam made some sort of noise that was possibly obscene. "Don't be dumb, Mom. Sure, I'd rather look for stuff in San Fran. Who wouldn't? But I don't want to ask _... him_ to pay for it. Do you?"
Adam had hit me where it hurt. He knew of my fierce desire for independence. And I knew that despite the amicable meetings, despite Tom's generosity with plane fares, despite Adam's natural yearning for a father, my son— _our_ son—still wouldn't call the man who had given him life anything but _sir_ —and _him_.
"I'll send a money order for two hundred dollars," I stated firmly. "Not a penny more. Got it?"
"Not yet," Adam replied glibly. "When do I pick it up at the post office?"
"What's wrong with the regular mail? Did Rich Tallfirs sit on your postal box, too?"
"He's there now with my boom box, listening to the only FM station between here and Anchorage." Having gotten some of his way, Adam was now inclined to become jocular. I asked him if he had scrapped his plan to stop off in Alpine on the way south. He wasn't sure. It was a real mess dealing with the airlines. As of right now, he was booked on a flight from Fairbanks via Seattle to San Francisco. If he had a layover, the price would go way up. Maybe it'd be better if he waited until August to come to Alpine. That, he reminded me, had been his original plan.
Naturally, I was disappointed. Was Adam choosing Tom over me? Or San Francisco over Alpine? I recalled Carla's comment about small-town dullness and decided that maybe after the better part of a year in Fairbanks, Adam needed a good stiff dose of a big, bustling metropolis. He certainly wouldn't get that in Tuba City. Our conversation continued on less controversial lines than money, clothes, boom boxes, and Tom Cavanaugh. By the time we hung up, I was feeling proud of my son, pleased with our ability to communicate, cheered by the bond he was forging with both Tom and Ben. I was also feeling poor, but at least I was used to that.
I was making inroads on my oven when Carla and Libby returned. They came up the walk like a pair of conspirators, whispering and giggling. I let them in and offered cold beer before the interrogation began. Carla accepted, but Libby asked for bottled water, if I had any.
I did, and brought out three glasses. I joined Carla in having a beer, which tasted surprisingly good after my exertions with the lawn furniture and the oven.
"Well?" I asked, settling into my favorite armchair. "Did Marlow Whipp offer you a line of coke?"
Carla giggled some more, that ear-rattling sound that always made me grit my teeth. "Vida is losing it! How in the world could she think some dud like old Marlow could be peddling crack? Tell her, Libby."
Libby sat forward on the sofa, shaking her head. "I was terribly coy. I went in and strolled around and didn't say anything for a long time. Finally Marlow asked if I needed any help. I said, 'Yeah. What did he have in mind?' I sort of wiggled my eyebrows." Libby demonstrated, while Carla giggled anew. "Marlow looked embarrassed. I think he thought I meant something sexual."
_"Gack! Gack!"_ Opening her mouth wide, Carla made thrusting movements with her index finger. I was beginning to think my bright idea was pretty dim.
Acknowledging Carla's clowning with a smile, Libby resumed her account: "I decided I'd get more specific. I noted that Marlow carried beer and wine and cigarettes. That was great, I told him, but tame. Didn't he have something a little stronger?"
"How did he look when you said that?" I inquired, ignoring Carla who now had her finger in her mouth, pulling down her jaw, and making an idiot noise. I trusted that she was imitating Marlow Whipp. At least I hoped so. It was unsettling to think that she was merely being herself.
Libby considered my question briefly, but carefully. "Puzzled, really. Then he said he did, but it wasn't ready. I got sort of excited, figuring I was on the right track. But he pointed to that espresso machine and told me he still didn't know how to operate it. Or the steamer that had just arrived yesterday." Libby looked aggravated; Carla rolled her eyes.
I was disappointed. "Was that it?" I asked.
Libby gave a quick shake of her head. "I made one last try. I acted indignant, said I'd heard that he sold more than what was out front. I got out my wallet, showing him a fifty. He couldn't tell it was the only money I had."
Carla was squirming around on the sofa next to Libby. "Now we get to the good part," she murmured in an aside.
"Marlow looked interested," Libby continued. "At least I _thought_ he did. He just stood there though, so I told him I wanted good stuff, nothing that was cut with cheap crap. Marlow seemed worried or maybe confused. He said it was all cut the same, in mint condition. What was I talking about? I said, 'You tell me, and we'll see if we can do business.' Marlow said to give him a name. That threw me. Did he mean a contact or a password or a drug? I've heard drugs called all kinds of things, but I don't pay much attention. It's all poison as far as I'm concerned. I took a wild guess and said, 'Grass.' Marlow said he didn't know that one. I believed him." Libby tucked her feet under her bottom and sighed. "I blanked. I couldn't think of anything but crack and pot. I had a feeling that if I asked for coke, he'd have offered me diet or regular."
The room fell silent, except for Carla's twitching around on the sofa. The Burlington-Northern freight whistled as it passed slowly through town. The train rarely stopped in Alpine these days.
"He's either very cagey or else he's not dealing drugs after all," I finally concluded. "I wonder why he perked up when he saw the money? What did he mean about a name?"
Libby had no idea. It struck her as an odd question, too. I turned to Carla. "Did you get a chance to do anything?"
"Well, sure!" Carla bounced a couple of times for emphasis. "While Libby was inside, I went around back. There's a storage room attached, but you can only get at it through the store. No windows, either. But he has a Dumpster between the store and the alley. I went through it as well as I could. I didn't have much time, and I had to keep watching for Libby to leave."
"And?" Silly me, I was being hopeful.
Carla's enthusiasm finally dwindled. "I didn't find much. Old cartons, pop cans, rotten produce, newspapers. What you'd expect, I guess."
I suppose I was expecting small plastic bags, hypodermic syringes, and roach clips. I said as much. Carla shook her head, the long black hair sailing around her shoulders.
"Not a sign of that stuff. I told you everything I saw—mostly cartons and newspapers. I don't think he sells many copies of _The Times_ and _P-I_. Maybe everybody around here would rather read _The Advocate."_
If Carla thought to cheer me, she was wrong. Instead, I was discouraged that so few people read a daily newspaper. It wasn't a good omen for weeklies.
But something she had said did pique my interest. "Cartons? From what? Marlow can't have tons of stuff shipped to the store because he doesn't have much turnover."
Shoving the long hair off her face, Carla turned pensive. "Gee—I don't know.... I didn't pay much attention. He'd mashed them down, to fit into the Dumpster. I don't mean there were zillions, or anything—just quite a few. You know, a couple dozen or so."
That still seemed like too many for Marlow Whipp's atrophied business. The Dumpster would be emptied every Tuesday. In five days, Marlow Whipp had received two dozen cartons of what? I couldn't think of a single item in his store that would move that fast, except dairy products, pop, beer, and cigarettes. As far as I knew, only the cigarettes would be shipped in a cardboard box.
I praised Carla and Libby for their covert operation. They finished their drinks, then decided it was time to leave.
"No hot dates tonight?" I inquired at the door.
Carla grew sorrowful. "Peyts is on emergency call the rest of the weekend."
I turned to Libby. "You've got the weekend off. Don't tell me you and Carla are going to sit around and watch videos."
Libby grinned. "I've got four whole days off, in fact. No videos for me, at least not tonight." She pointed to her watch. "Come on, Carla, it's after five. You're the one who wants to stop at the Grocery Basket on the way home."
"I have to eat," Carla pouted, following Libby out to the car. "'Bye, Emma. See you Monday."
I went back into the house, determined to finish cleaning the blasted oven. I got only as far as the dining area when I heard the frantic rapping at the front door. It was Carla. She'd forgotten her sunglasses.
"Thank God!" she exclaimed as fervently as if she'd lost the family jewels. "I thought I might have dropped them in the Dumpster!" Whirling around, she headed for the door.
"Carla!" I called after her. She stopped on the threshold. I beckoned her to come a step closer. "Who's the guy? Libby's guy, I mean." Over Carla's shoulder, I could see Libby sitting in the passenger seat of the Honda. There was no way she could hear us.
"You don't have to whisper," Carla chided. "It's not a secret. I thought you knew." Carla put her sunglasses on, took them off, wiped the lenses with the tail of her cotton shirt, and replaced them on her nose. "She's going with Shane Campbell. They've been dating for months."
"And you thought I was crazy!" Vida huffed as we climbed up Sixth Street from her house to Marlow Whipp's store. It was after six, and Marlow had closed at five. "Cartons! Carla! The girl can't even count properly! She probably saw two! Dog food, I'll bet!"
"You're tall and I'm not. Carta's shorter than both of us. I would have brought Milo along if he hadn't gone off with Honoria." We cut down the alley, a dirt track lined with garbage cans, tricycles, garden implements, and an occasional cat. Blackberry vines grew helter-skelter over sagging fences. Morning glory wound around clothesline poles and trellises. There were nettles, too, and great clumps of weeds that threatened to choke out the ferns. We were a mere block away from Vida's neat bungalow and only two from the Campbells' handsome home, yet the neighborhood changed drastically between Tyee and Spruce Streets. It was probably because the houses were not only old but small, and too close to the high school. Parking had long been a problem in the area. If Alpine had a slum, this was it. Fortunately, the blight covered no more than three blocks.
"And Shane!" Vida's voice rang out on the quiet May evening. "Are he and Libby getting married? Is that what Wendy and Cyndi have been hinting? How did they meet? Oh, I know—in Seattle. But _how?_ Did she get herself transferred up here to be near him? It _must_ be serious."
It was pointless to try to hush Vida. Her voice sounded like a trumpet, and over the fences, I saw at least a couple of heads turn in our direction. But we had almost reached the rear of Marlow's store, and Vida grew silent.
The lid of the Dumpster was heavy, but we managed. I marveled that Carla had opened it on her own.
"We should have brought Roger," Vida mumbled, holding onto her straw gardening hat as she leaned into the Dumpster. "We could have lifted him in here."
_And left him there_ was the evil thought that flashed through my mind. Dismissing such cruel notions, I concentrated on the task at hand. "Well? How many cartons? Two? Or two dozen?"
Vida harrumphed. "Carla's right, for once. There are quite a few. You're right, too. Cigarettes. Wrigley's gum. More cigarettes."
I could see into the Dumpster, but I couldn't reach as far as Vida. She was bending way over, and I tried not to think about the target her rear end was providing for any of her local detractors. "What's that?" I asked, motioning at a flat piece of cardboard on her left. "'Death Something-or-Other.' It doesn't sound like groceries to me."
"'Death Row/Interscope,'" Vida replied promptly. "Goodness, how gruesome! It can't be canned goods. Whatever happened to the Jolly Green Giant? Here, a box marked 'Tommy Boy.' 'Jive.' Hmmmm..." Vida continued to rummage. "'Atlantic,'" she called from deeper yet in the Dumpster. "'Warner Brothers.' It seems these are recording companies. Since when," she demanded, straightening up and resettling her hat on her head, "does Marlow Whipp sell records?"
I felt as mystified as Vida looked. "I didn't see any records—or tapes or CDs—when I was in the store the other day. Surely he'd have a big display. Especially with that many." I pointed to the Dumpster that contained the empty cartons. "Can you tell if the boxes held tapes or what?"
Vida shot me a scathing look. "Oh, good heavens! What's wrong with a regular record? Long-play or forty-five or seventy-eight? What's all this nonsense about teeny-weeny discs and tapes that come unwound like so many snakes all over the place? Roger is starting to listen to music, and his room looks like a ticker-tape parade!" Catching herself in a rare criticism of her grandson, Vida looked chagrined. "It's not his fault, of course. I'm sure the companies make those tapes so that they can't be reused, and the poor children have to buy more. Roger is the victim of a Madison Avenue marketing ploy."
Roger as victim of anything short of a Scud missile struck me as unlikely. This, however, was not the time to argue the point. Indeed, it never was with Vida. "Kids don't buy records anymore," I pointed out. "Tapes and CDs—that's it. But Marlow would have them prominently displayed. Maybe even some promotional material."
Foregoing my assistance, Vida closed the Dumpster. "He might be just starting," she suggested. "Like the espresso machine. Marlow's such a dunce he probably hasn't figured out how to sell music, either."
A couple of eight year olds came roaring down the alley on small dirt bikes. They paid no attention to us, but we couldn't count on that kind of indifference from adults. I suggested we leave. Vida concurred. She asked if I'd had dinner. Fearing yet another reprise of the casserole, I lied and said I had.
"That's too bad," she lamented as we trudged back down the alley. "I thought we might drive down to the Venison Inn and have supper together. We could mull."
Taken aback, I allowed that I hadn't eaten much. "I could have something light and keep you company," I offered, sounding uncommonly meek.
Vida paused to examine her soiled gardening clothes. "I should change," she muttered.
I was still wearing the old clothes I'd had on while doing my Saturday chores. "It's Alpine. It's us. Nobody will care."
But Vida cared. She would not "go downtown" looking like a slavey, as she put it. "We'll change, and I'll meet you there in twenty minutes," she said, checking her small jeweled watch. "Seven, straight up."
I agreed. My car was parked on Tyee Street in front of her house. It needed washing, and I felt guilty. The Jag was my only material pride and joy. I'd neglected it for the sake of my oven, which was low on my list of personal priorities. It served me right that during my absence someone had etched FUCK YOU on the hood.
"Really," said Vida, "how can these youngsters be so crude? Though words are words, and if they'd written 'Par-take in marital relations' you would be amused, not offended."
"I'm not offended," I said with a grin. "I've raised a son. There's nothing I haven't heard."
"Thank heavens my girls were grown before all this filth became so ordinary. Of course, the shock value is debased by common usage. I'm wearing slacks," Vida added as she headed through her garden gate.
"Okay," I called back. I paused in the act of wiping off the obscenity with a Kleenex. "Vida!" I shouted. She stopped at the steps to her porch. "That's it! Obscenity! Explicit lyrics! Censorship!"
At a trot, Vida came down the path. "Emma, are you out of your mind?" She glanced up and down the quiet street. "What will the neighbors think?"
Making feverish hand gestures, I waved her into silence. "The recordings. Tapes, CDs, whatever. The do-gooders who've banned rock and rap music. The kids can't buy that stuff in Alpine. Except," I added, on a note of triumph, "from Marlow Whipp."
# Chapter Fifteen
IF VIDA WAS surprised when I ordered the steak sandwich with a side of fries and a green salad, she gave no sign. Rather, she was too intrigued with my theory about Marlow Whipp's grocery store. After giving our order, her first question was what Marlow's illicit trade had to do with Wendy and Todd Wilson.
"As before," I told her. "They provided the stuff, in this case, not drugs, but recordings. Marlow is indeed the middleman, peddling to the high school, maybe junior high and even grade school kids. Alpine Middle School is only a block away from your house. That's two blocks from Marlow."
Vida absorbed the information. "The grade school is across town, though. But," she added accusingly, as if I should be personally responsible, "your parochial school is much closer, on Fourth and Cascade." Obviously, Vida felt that Catholic morals were far more likely to be corrupted than those of the public school—Protestant—children.
I didn't argue the point. There were Catholics who would be every bit as hidebound as their Protestant brethren. There also would be those inclined to greater liberalism. "It takes all kinds," I murmured. And we had them at St. Mildred's, for better or for worse.
"Where," Vida asked, after drinking half her ice water at a gulp, "do the Wilsons get these recordings?"
I shrugged. "They've got a contact someplace. Seattle, maybe. Of course, they have to pay up front. I don't know what the profit margin would be, but I have a feeling they aren't as rich as we think they are. I mean, they've got extra cash, but X-rated records don't bring in what drugs would."
Vida nodded. "Marlow makes something, too. We've been thinking in the thousands. Hundreds would be more likely. Still, it would explain why the Wilsons moved their bank account. They didn't want anyone around here to notice how much money was coming in and going out."
"Coming in, anyway. I bet they deal in cash at the distributor level." I gave Vida a sheepish look. "I don't even know if any of this is illegal. The legislature has tried to make it a criminal act to sell offensive music to minors, but the state supreme court is expected to rule otherwise. Fuzzy Baugh and the council haven't passed any laws. It's mainly a boycott at this point, and the churches have enough clout to make it work."
Vida, who had ordered pot roast, waited until our waitress had delivered the salads before speaking again. "It's a letdown," she complained. "If it had been drugs—and, of course, I'm glad it's not—that would have been dreadful—then we might have had a connection with Kelvin Greene. But there isn't any. Unless..." She brightened a bit. "Jerome Cole was a musician, wasn't he?"
I made a gesture of dismissal. "Jazz. I doubt he had any contacts with the recording business. At least not with distribution."
Vida deflated. "We've made no progress. I'm ashamed of us."
Silently, I agreed. How long had Wendy and Todd Wilson been in the black-market record business? Probably not long, I mused. Perhaps since the start of school; maybe only after the ban had been observed in the past few months. Any previous signs of affluence were no doubt due to the fact that they had no kids. I could understand that. I took a notepad from my handbag and wrote, "Go to bank Mon. A.M. M.O. $200." Yes, I, too, could take a long trip if I weren't shelling out big chunks of my income for Adam every month.
My steak sandwich arrived along with Vida's pot roast. We were both unnaturally quiet. The Venison Inn, however, was busy as usual with Saturday night diners. The dentist, Dr. Bob Starr, and his wife were in the opposite booth, no doubt girding for their daughter's wedding, which was coming up over the Memorial Day weekend. On our way in, we had seen Stella and Richie Magruder. Stella had stopped me, advising that I hadn't quite gotten the knack of the new haircut yet. I told her I'd been cleaning my oven. Vida, of course, had known just about everybody present, including one of her nephews, Ross Blatt, and his wife, Lynnette.
"The carrots aren't done," Vida remarked, eating them anyway.
"I don't have carrots." Neither of us sounded very interested in our food.
"Is there any point in telling Milo about Marlow's sideline?" Vida wondered aloud. "All it would do is raise a hue and cry with the antismut people."
I forked up some rare steak and soggy toast. "We've got to let him know, just to keep him filled in. Vida, how do the Presbyterians feel about this issue?"
Vida pursed her lips. "It's come up."
"And?"
Stirring gravy into her mashed potatoes, Vida threw me an icy look. "We're divided. You'd be surprised how divided Presbyterians can get. It didn't used to be that way."
I suppressed a smile. "Really? Like how?"
"Well," Vida began, knife and fork poised, "there are traditionalists and there are... ah... modernists. As a rule, I adhere to tradition. It's always so much more sensible. But on this music to-do, I felt bound to support free speech. Being a journalist, and all." Vida gave me an appealing look. "At the last Women's Institute meeting—the first Tuesday of May—we had quite an argument. I didn't tell you about it because..." She actually blushed. "I didn't want it to get into the paper. It made us sound foolish."
"Vida!" I didn't know whether to laugh or scold.
"If it were your Wild Eyes or whatever you Catholics call it, you'd do the same," Vida asserted.
"I don't belong to the YLIs," I said, not even sure if the Young Ladies Institute existed in the post-Vatican II Church. If it did, it was probably called something like Single-Again Christians. SACs. It figured.
"The discussion got quite heated," Vida continued. "Jean Campbell called for a vote on whether or not to join the boycott. We tied, eleven to eleven. Grace Grundle—she chairs—was asked to cast the deciding ballot. Grace abstained. We're going to reconsider when we meet the first Tuesday in June."
My distress over Vida's own form of censorship was diverted by her mention of Jean Campbell's role. "Was Jean for or against the boycott?"
"Oh, all for it. She can be a terrible bluenose." Vida smirked. "It's funny, isn't it? Her own daughter smuggling ribald recordings into town! Oh, dear—I mustn't gloat!"
I swallowed my last french fry and put down my fork. "Not her daughter," I said abruptly. "Her son."
Vida stared. "What?"
"Shane." I waited to see if Vida had joined my wavelength. She hadn't, but it wasn't her fault. Vida hadn't shopped as much in the city as I had. "Fred Meyer sells recordings, tapes, the lot, in all their stores. That's the connection. I'll bet Shane Campbell was getting those shipments through his former contacts in Seattle."
Vida's eyes made a circuit of the restaurant, floor to ceiling. "Well now. And Wendy was the marketing device, spurring on the students. My, my." She savored the deduction, then frowned. "It still doesn't help us find our killer."
"No." But my voice didn't carry conviction. It seemed to me that our discovery should lead us closer to the murderer. I just couldn't see how. Then.
Sunday's priest was from Wenatchee. He was tall, thin, and dry. It had started to rain again while Vida and I had eaten dinner, with the clouds gathering in over the mountains shortly after six o'clock. However, the church seemed stuffy that morning, and the congregation grew restless.
"At least," Francine Wells asserted in the vestibule after Mass, "we haven't had to put up with any Jesuits. They're so damned patronizing. They think they're such hot stuff, and they look down their noses at everybody else."
Never having met a Jesuit I didn't like, I kept quiet. Betsy O'Toole, who, with her husband, Jake, owned the Grocery Basket, sidled up to Francine.
"Relax, Frannie. My cousin's daughter works at the Chancery office in Seattle. She saw the tentative new assignment list. We're getting Father Dennis Kelly. Incredible as it seems, he's young, he's smart, he's a great guy. I hear he's good-looking, too."
Instead of cheering, Francine groaned. "Father What-A-Waste! I know we're short of priests, but we're also short of men! Why can't the ugly ones have the vocations?"
Roseanna Bayard patted Francine's chic shoulder. "They do, Francine. When was the last time you saw a handsome priest under fifty?" Roseanna glanced at me and looked sheepish. "Except your brother, Emma. He's cute. But he wasn't here very long."
"Ben was on vacation," I responded. "Where is this marvel of a Father Kelly coming from? I can't believe we're getting a real pastor."
Again, it was Betsy who was in the know. "He's been teaching at a seminary in California. I guess they had to close it down, and he was surplussed. He's originally from Tacoma, so he asked to be assigned to a Pacific Northwest parish. We got lucky. If we didn't have the school, we'd probably be stuck with visitors and lay people."
As usual, the post-liturgy crowd was growing. In Father Fitz's time, we'd always had coffee and doughnuts after Mass in the school hall. But without a pastor to guide us, we were relegated to social gatherings in the vestibule. Ed and Shirley Bronsky were standing next to me. Shirley wore a red-and-white checkered sundress that revealed a lot of flesh. But Shirley _had_ a lot of flesh, and it would have been pretty hard to hide. Ed wore a Budweiser T-shirt with tan shorts. He was not a pretty sight. But he also wore an air of enthusiasm.
"Betsy! Francine! Roseanna! You're just the people I want to see! We've got to set up appointments for the school special." He shot me a quick look, probably to make sure I was paying attention. Next to him, Shirley beamed with pride. "Groceries for graduation parties, clothes for Mom and the grad, photographs of the happy occasion. You're all going to make a mint off of this, but you've got to advertise!"
The three female merchants looked as astonished as I felt. Obviously, they weren't acquainted with the new Ed Bronsky.
"Ed," Francine said in a soft voice, taking him by the short sleeve of his T-shirt. "It's _Sunday."_
"Hey," Ed replied, still full of enthusiasm, "no rest for the wicked. I'm just getting my second wind in this wild and crazy world of advertising! It's sell, sell, sell! Ask Emma. She'll tell you how I'm single-handedly picking up the beat for Alpine's economy."
Smiling weakly, I acknowledged Ed's assertion. "He's been a real go-getter lately. New accounts, bigger, better-looking ads—he even chased Lloyd Campbell up a dead end the other day. Ed just won't quit."
Betsy O'Toole was laughing in her deep, rich style. "Oh, good grief! The Grocery Basket may have to go to color inserts—like Safeway! What will Jake think?"
Briefly, Ed lost some of his bloom. But he remained game. "Inserts, special editions, color—we can handle it, Betsy."
Betsy looked as if she were seriously considering the idea. The advent of Safeway the previous year had definitely provided real competition for the O'Tooles. "We've been thinking about staying open twenty-four hours," she said thoughtfully. "I'd hate to do it—so would Jake—but it seems to be the trend. Good grief, Lloyd Campbell's working Saturdays now. I saw his van last weekend parked up by First Hill, and it wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning."
"There you go," Ed exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Don't let up. Offer the customer convenience, service—and a quality product." He plunged deeper into his sales pitch. As Monica Vancich and Jake O'Toole and Buddy Bayard and the organist, Annie Jeanne Dupre, joined the circle, I edged away. Ed had achieved his goal, impressing both his wife and his employer. I would leave him to it, and stop worrying about _The Advocate's_ revenue. At least for a while. Ed might want to work on Sunday, but I didn't. There were letters to write and the Sunday paper to read. I had decided to spend the day being semi-lazy.
Just finishing the first section, I was interrupted by Todd Wilson. I was so surprised to see him on my doorstep that I assumed he'd come to tell me about a power failure. I was wrong.
The premature creases in Todd's forehead deepened as he took the armchair I offered him. I'd taken over the sofa, with the Sunday paper spread out on the cushions. My offer of coffee was declined; Todd seemed anxious to get down to business.
"What's going on with _The Advocate?"_ he asked, his close-set brown eyes filled with worry. "I understand you had a couple of your people at the high school Friday asking some strange questions about Wendy."
His reference to my staff made it sound as if I had hordes of employees. Perhaps Todd felt that way, fearing Vida and Carla's invasion of Alpine High might trigger a veritable media blitz.
I played innocent. "It's a year-end story. We're doing a special issue the second week of June."
Impatiently, Todd slapped the upholstered arm of the chair. "Right, sure, you've done stuff like that before. But this is different. Wendy heard that both Vida and that girl you've got working for you were zeroing in on my wife. We were out last night with some of the other teachers and Principal Freeman. They told us about it. Wendy's pretty upset. What's going on?"
Wendy had a right to be upset. Vida wasn't always the soul of tact, and Carla could be downright heedless. Now that we had discovered the secret at Marlow Whipp's grocery store, I felt embarrassed at our over-zealous snooping. On the other hand, it _was_ a story. If Milo carried through, he might find grounds for criminal prosecution. My understanding was that a judge would have to rule on whether or not the lyrics were obscene. I guessed it also would depend on how the recordings were obtained and what Marlow was charging for them. But the truth was, I didn't want charges brought. It was the self-styled censors who were wrong, not the Wilsons and Marlow Whipp.
I decided to be honest. Without mentioning our earlier suspicions of drug dealing, I told Todd what we believed was going on across from the high school. His dismay couldn't be concealed. He immediately went on the defensive.
"What's the difference if those kids buy the music in Sultan or Alpine? There's a market, and we fill it. Should Marlow have advertised? Hell, no, he'd have been boycotted by all those stiff-necked church people and the rest of the Nazis around here. Are we corrupting young minds? What do you think?" Todd had grown very red, his freckles seeming to spread all over his face.
I wasn't about to get into a philosophical debate with Todd Wilson. In fact, I didn't know whether or not teenagers could be influenced by rap or rock or any other music. If everybody who'd ever heard "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" was inspired to march out the door in search of Truth, I might believe that Art could shape Life. But there was a big difference between being moved and being made to move. One song doesn't create an attitude.
"Look, Todd," I said quietly, "I've been planning to do an editorial on this issue for some time, but I haven't gotten around to it. The problem needs more than a column on page two, with me extolling the virtues of the First Amendment. We could do several pieces, maybe a series. We need input from parents and teachers. I know Wendy has some real concerns about illiteracy. Is this her way of striking back at complacency? Is she trying to tell people that ignorance and repression are wrong? We could give her a forum. I don't intend to crucify her."
Todd's expression was skeptical. "Teaching jobs are hard to come by these days. How long do you think she'd last at the high school if this got out in the paper?"
"Why," I responded, "would she think it wouldn't get out? If not in _The Advocate_ , then via the grapevine? Good grief, Todd, I can't believe it's been a secret this long!"
Todd shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He drummed his fingers on the arms, tapped one foot, then ran a jittery hand through his wavy brown hair. "It's been about four months, I guess. Oh, there're students who don't approve, but peer-group pressure gets to them. But it wasn't Wendy's idea. All she did was make sure the kids knew where to get the recordings. I don't suppose she had to tell more than one. Word got out—the kids thought it was real cool that a teacher would side with them when it came to banned music."
Cool teacher, cool subjects, cool classes. The students might learn something. Maybe that was the way Wendy's mind had run. I wanted to credit her with good motives, not greed.
"If it wasn't Wendy's idea, whose was it?" I thought I already knew.
Todd frowned. "Her brother's. It started when Shane was still working at Fred Meyer in Seattle. They got a shipment that was flawed. There was a hassle with the recording company, then they replaced it, but never collected the first batch. It was tapes. There was nothing wrong with them, only the plastic boxes they were stored in. Shane brought them home at Christmas and gave away some of the really good ones as presents. We kidded him and said he ought to sell the rest on the street corner and pick up an extra buck. He told his dad to sell them at Alpine Appliance. But Lloyd had tried that once, back in the '70s, and said he'd been robbed blind. Too much shoplifting with kids. He didn't want kids in his store anyway because they screw around with the TVs and VCRs and stuff."
"So you came up with Marlow Whipp?" I remarked.
"Sure. It was a natural. Right by the high school, with kids hanging around all the time. But we didn't really start until a month or two later, when the busybodies began raising a ruckus over the explicit lyrics and what was being sold at Platters on the Sky. Shane made contact with the distributors in Seattle. They couldn't get their stuff in up here and were afraid maybe the whole Stevens Pass corridor would chicken out, from Monroe to Leavenworth. It was all on the up-and-up."
"So it's a four-way split," I mused. "Is there really big money involved?"
Todd looked offended. "Big money? What's big money? The most Wendy and I've cleared in a week is around seven hundred dollars. The same for Shane. Marlow makes his profit just as he would on any other item he sells in the store. It's nice extra income, but we're not getting rich. And," he added on an unhappy note, "it won't last. But then we never thought it would."
Still, the Wilsons had enjoyed a good ride. So had Marlow Whipp. And Shane. "What's your brother-in-law doing with his share? Shane seems to keep a low profile."
For the first time, the hint of a smile played on Todd Wilson's wide mouth. "Shane's like his dad. A typical Scot. He salts it away. Cheap, cheap."
I gave a faint nod of agreement. Scots were tight, Gypsies stole, Germans were stubborn, Italians had mob connections, Scandinavians were rawboned, Japanese excelled at self-discipline, African-Americans got mixed up with street gangs. It wasn't a matter of being politically correct, because in a democracy, no one is right or wrong, and taboo word games only muzzle the English language. It was the stereotyping that bothered me—the old, stale, tired labels that we were too lazy to discard. When would those clichés end? In the past two weeks, I'd heard them all, even from my own mouth.
Todd had lost his smile; he was looking very earnest. "You see the problem, Ms. Lord. Wendy and I are doing fine right now. But this music thing will blow away when Platters on the Sky gets enough guts to stand up to the fascists. If Wendy is canned at the high school, what do we do? Move away to a new school district? I can't quit the PUD. I've got ten years in there."
I ventured a guess. "You've got Principal Freeman on your side, don't you? Coach Ridley, Donna Wickstrom—several members of the faculty. Who are you afraid of on the school board? Isn't Lloyd Campbell a member?"
"He's only one out of five," Todd replied, still looking downcast. "Pastor Phelps from the Methodist Church is on it, too, and he's dead set against music he thinks will corrupt kids. Then there's Richie Magruder, Doc Dewey, and Grace Grundle. Mrs. Grundle is a retired teacher. What could be worse?"
Doc wouldn't be narrow-minded. Richie Magruder would be the tool of his wife, Stella. And Vida had Grace Grundle in her pocket. I liked Wendy's chances. I said so, but Todd wasn't cheered.
"Everything's happening at once," he lamented. "If it's not Wendy, it's Cyndi. Have you heard what people are saying about her?"
As a journalist, it seemed I was always the last to know. "What?" I asked in a hollow voice.
"That she knew this Kelvin guy. Sure," Todd went on, waving his hands, "maybe she'd met him in Seattle. Shane gave parties, he went to parties. Cyndi liked visiting him and having a good time. Big deal. Shane knew plenty of people. That's the city. But it wasn't some kind of romance. Kelvin had a girl. She was Marilynn's roommate. Hell, Cyndi wouldn't date some black dude! She's got pride in being white."
"Really." Todd's remark bounced off of me, like so much bird doo. My mind was elsewhere, sorting through the intricacies of the Campbell ménage: Marilynn Lewis, Jerome Cole, Kelvin Greene, and Wesley Charles... "Todd, has your family been questioned about the murders?"
Todd practically reeled in the armchair. "Hell, no! I mean, Cyndi was asked about talking to Kelvin Greene at the Icicle Creek Tavern. But that was it. Why should we? Oh, Milo Dodge gave Marilynn Lewis a bad time, but that doesn't count. She's not family."
Family. What was family? Todd probably felt closer to Marlow Whipp than he did to Marilynn Lewis. He was in business with Marlow; Marlow was a native of Alpine; Marlow was white.
"The fact remains," I said, sounding stern, "Shane and Cyndi knew Kelvin Greene. Nobody else in Alpine did, except Marilynn Lewis. Come on, Todd—for all I know, Kelvin was in on the music deal. He worked for Fred Meyer, too."
Todd's surprise seemed genuine. "He did? I never met the guy. I thought he was just some dude Cyndi ran into at a party. You know, a friend of Marilynn's. I figured Kelvin got hold of Cyndi because he didn't know how to get in touch with Marilynn."
My guest was getting up from his chair, obviously about to leave. I jumped off the sofa. "What do you mean? 'Got hold of? You mean Kelvin contacted Cyndi?"
The telltale flush began to creep over Todd's face again. "Right, yeah. He came to the PUD office that afternoon. That's when he and Cyndi went out for a beer."
While Todd backpedaled toward the front door, I pursued him. My index finger waggled in the direction of his chest. "You knew that? You knew your sister-in-law had gone off with Kelvin Greene?"
"No!" Todd burst out at me. "No, I didn't know it! I was out hacking down trees at the fish hatchery. She told me later. After dinner, in fact, when you and Vida had gone home. Cyndi wondered... you know, if the guy who got killed might be Kelvin. She thought it was funny that Vida said it wasn't anybody we'd know. This is Alpine—everybody knows everybody."
Todd's rationale made sense. Still, it raised some questions. After a few more reassurances that I wasn't about to launch an exposé of his wife, he left. Todd Wilson wasn't happy, he didn't believe me completely, he was as worried as when he'd arrived—but I'd done all I could. I returned to the sofa and got caught up on the sports news.
The Mariners were losing; the Sonics were winning. I expected that before May was over, the tide might be running the other way in both cases. I hadn't been to a baseball or basketball game in four years. It was too late in the NBA season to catch the Sonics, but maybe I could go into Seattle and see the Mariners. I had a schedule in my handbag. Texas was coming in the third weekend of June. But I would be at Lake Chelan. With Tom Cavanaugh. I corrected myself: Tom and I would be at Lake Chelan. We wouldn't necessarily be together. I'd wait for Toronto in August. Why not? I'd waited for Tom for over twenty years.
The sound of sirens tore me from the comic section. Sure enough, the ambulance was speeding past my house. A sheriff's car came next, but from my window, I couldn't tell who was in it. I rushed outside to the street. To my astonishment, the emergency vehicles were once again pulling into the cul-de-sac.
Bill Blatt and Jack Mullins were standing beside the squad car when I arrived on foot. A young couple I vaguely recognized were making excited gestures and talking at the same time. She was, I thought, Dot and Durwood Parker's granddaughter, he was the Rafferty who tended bar at the Icicle Creek Tavern.
Jack Mullins spotted me and waved. "Hey, it's the press! Calm down, guys, we're not doing anything until Sheriff Dodge gets here. I've got a squeamish stomach." Jack was all smiles, though his eyes were wary. "Hi, Ms. Lord. Where'd you come from?"
"My house," I replied, gazing around and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. If Milo had put up any crime-scene tape after Wesley Charles was killed, it was now gone. "What's happening?"
The Parker granddaughter—who was not a Parker as it turned out, but an Eriks, since her mother had been the Parker—began to babble incoherently. She was joined by young Mr. Rafferty, whose first name I later learned was Tim, and who was working his way through spasmodic quarters at Western Washington University in Bellingham, and who made as little sense as Tiffany Eriks. Bill Blatt took pity on me. Or perhaps he feared repercussions from his aunt Vida.
"Tiffany and Tim went for a hike," Bill explained, his earnest young face showing the strain of the past few days. "They started out up on Second Hill and took the trail that winds back into town." Bill paused, swallowing hard. "Just before they reached the cul-de-sac, they found a body. It looks like we've got another murder on our hands."
# Chapter Sixteen
IT SEEMED TO me that things were getting out of control in Alpine. On a per capita basis, it appeared that we must have the highest homicide rate in the state for the month of May. Maybe that statistic would keep the dreaded Californians out. Except that in this season of clear-cut bans, we could use some new blood, even from L.A. and other such sun-drenched, overcrowded environs.
"... just lying there!" Tiffany Eriks cried, leaning on Tim Rafferty and threatening to stifle him. "A logger, I'll bet!"
"Right, right," Tim agreed. "Maybe he's been there for a long time. An accident in the woods. We didn't want to get too close. You know, dead bodies smell bad."
"No!" Tiffany shrieked. "Not an accident! An environmentalist! Somebody who probably thought this guy was cutting down an owl's nest! Those people go crazy! They don't care about human life, just a bunch of birds! Oh, my God, it could have been Uncle Deekey!"
Not having the faintest idea who Uncle Deekey might be, I felt a surge of relief when Milo's Cherokee Chief pulled into the cul-de-sac. He emerged looking both weary and grim. Nor did he seemed pleased to see me, though I couldn't tell whether it was because of the situation or the memory of our last, quasi-passionate encounter under similar circumstances.
"Is he black?" was Milo's first question.
He wasn't, Tim and Tiffany chorused. At least they didn't think so. He looked like a logger, Tiffany asserted. Why? Milo asked. Because he was wearing a plaid shirt and work pants, Tim responded. Big, too. And wearing a hat, which made it impossible to see his face. Not that they wanted to, Tiffany put in hastily, because maybe the birds had eaten it. She wouldn't put it past a bunch of spotted owls.
"Show us," Milo said, sounding dismal. He turned to me. "Why don't you wait here, Emma?" Milo knew my delicate stomach.
But faced with a major story, I couldn't be such a coward. "I'm coming," I replied, setting my jaw. "I don't have to get up close."
We plunged into the forest, which was overgrown with ferns, berry vines, and nettles. There were a few deer runs, which made the going easier, but no real pathway existed. Tim Rafferty explained that the trail from Second Hill actually continued on to the ski lodge. He and Tiffany had tired, however, and decided to cut back to town and grab a snack.
We had gone about fifty yards into the woods when Tim and Tiffany exhibited confusion. They weren't exactly sure which way they had come. Tiffany remembered a pair of big cedars; Tim recalled a stand of devil's club they'd avoided.
It took us almost half an hour to find the spot. Meanwhile, I waved away mosquitoes, deer flies, and no-see-ums by the dozens. Bill Blatt fell in a gopher hole. Jack Mullins tripped over a root. Milo muttered that it was a hell of a way to spend a Sunday afternoon. He'd planned on replacing some shingles that had blown off his roof during the winter windstorms.
"How's Honoria?" I inquired as we trudged up a steep hill, which was choked with ferns and huckleberry bushes.
"Fine," Milo responded tersely.
"Are you engaged?" I couldn't resist the barb.
"I'm on probation." He kept walking. "Don't keep so close to my butt. It makes me nervous."
A sudden shriek halted us. It was Tiffany, standing under a hemlock tree and pointing jerkily at the ground. "It's him! He's dead! Omigod!"
"He was dead before," Milo grumbled. "What does she expect now?"
Jack Mullins was the first of our party to reach Tiffany and Tim. I held back, while Milo and Bill continued on to the site of the body. To my amazement, Jack Mullins burst into laughter. Tiffany started shrieking again. Tim took her in his arms and clasped her close to his chest.
"Hey, sheriff!" Jack exclaimed between fits of mirth, "this guy's not dead! He's a dummy!"
Milo, who had been about to sneeze, held a finger under his nose. "Huh?"
Jack Mullins bent down and lifted the alleged body. It swung lightly from his arms. Tiffany pressed her face against Tim. Bracing myself, I stared. Now Bill Blatt was laughing, too.
"Jack's right, Sheriff! It's Bucker Swede!"
It was indeed. The plaid-shirted, brown-pantsed dummy seemed to cuddle up to Jack Mullins. The high school mascot had been found. I began to giggle, but Tiffany Eriks was infuriated.
"A dummy? From the high school? Oh, shit! I remember that thing—but he never had a hat!"
Tiffany was right. Bucker Swede was wearing a hat taped to his melonlike head. He looked like Smokey the Bear. To add to the absurdity, a tourniquet had been applied to one of his bulging upper arms. The comical effect only made the rest of us laugh the louder. Until, of course, we realized that there was nothing funny about it.
It was natural that Milo Dodge wouldn't believe me. He didn't operate on guesswork; he didn't believe in half-assed theories. Beside, it was Sunday. He had to finish nailing down those shingles.
"Tomorrow, I'll ask a few questions," he promised. "Let's thank our lucky stars it wasn't another stiff. I'd be up for recall if we had any more murders around her. I need evidence, not ideas out of left field."
I knew that Vida wouldn't be so obtuse. But Vida wasn't home. I had forgotten that she planned to drive up to Bellingham for the day to visit her daughter, Meg, and her family. Indeed, she had warned me that she might stay over, and be a bit late arriving at work Monday morning.
Stymied by my lack of an accomplice, I called Carla. Libby Boyd informed me that her roommate was sunning herself by the pool.
"She envies my tan," Libby laughed. "Little does she know I got it from a salon in Seattle. The original one, I mean. Carla's dark by nature. Why doesn't she skip the bad rays and be herself? Now that I can be outdoors, I wouldn't dream of roasting my body on purpose."
"If you're not doing anything, why don't you drop by?" I asked. "Sundays in Alpine can be dull."
But Libby had to catch up on her laundry, her checking account, her paperwork. She rang off, and I sat with my chin on my chest, wondering what to do next. Shortly before five, I drove over to the high school.
It was a whim, and probably a silly one. But I had to see it through. The Buckers' trophy case was inside the main doors that faced First Hill Road, an offshoot of Highway 187. The highway itself curved eastward around the bottom of First Hill and continued to the ranger station and the Icicle Creek campground. First Hill Road climbed up the mountainside, past the Tolberg farm and the Dithers sisters' horse ranch. About a mile out of town, it turned into a dirt logging road, then ended somewhere on the face of Mount Sawyer.
Eight stone steps led up to the broad walk. A wider, longer staircase ended under a portico. There were three sets of double doors, and I knew they'd be locked. On a late Sunday afternoon, the high school was deserted, except for a few kids horsing around on the field. They were a block away, however, in back of the school building.
Across the street, several of Alpine's larger, older homes on First Hill could be seen through the trees. They were shielded, however, by the tall evergreens. And I was shielded from the nearby residents' prying eyes.
Secrecy wasn't my primary concern. At least not _my_ secrecy. Still, to prove my theory correct, it was important to know that any activity in front of the high school usually would not be noticed. The First Hill residents demanded their privacy. They had ensured it by keeping the original stands of fir, hemlock, and cedar as a bulwark against the rest of Alpine.
The shrubbery that flanked the front of the school building consisted of rhododendrons, mountain laurel, and Japanese yews. I searched carefully on each side of the main staircase. Gum wrappers, pop cans, paper cups, lunch bags, cellophane. While the grounds were clean, the shrubbery cried for a litter crew. I wished I'd brought a bag so that I could collect the junk and throw it away.
But junk was all I did find. Discouraged, I stood at the head of the steps that led to the street. At each side of the walk was a circular bed where someone with more imagination than taste had planted pampas grass. The stuff looked out of place in Alpine, and I was amazed that it would grow at such an altitude. But grow it did, each clump almost as tall as I was.
Delving into the thick green foliage, I found something. It was a U.S. Forest Service first-aid kit, wide open and almost empty. More burrowing unearthed some compresses and antiseptic. I had found what I was looking for, though in the beginning I wasn't sure what it would be. Buoyed by my discovery and armed with the kit, I went to the hospital.
As I'd hoped, Peyton Flake was there, having just finished setting an arm broken in a fall off Mount Baldy.
"Rock climbers," Flake groused. "City types, trying to pretend they're outdoor fanatics. Shit." He glared at me through his wire-rim glasses. "Why don't they take lessons? One foray up a rockery in their backyard and they think they're frigging experts."
Dr. Flake was holding forth in the all-purpose office that served whoever was on call at the hospital. As usual, he wore jeans and a beat-up shirt under his white coat. His long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his six-foot-four frame looked as if it could use a good meal.
"Okay, Ms. Emma Lord, what's up? Am I on trial for seducing your star reporter?" His blue eyes twinkled, though his jaw was set. Peyton Flake was no man to mess with, and he knew I knew it.
I laughed, though without humor. "Carla can take care of herself. At least as far as you're concerned." I hesitated, waiting for his reaction. There wasn't any. That came as no surprise. "Who do you think has been sending your nurse ugly messages?"
Flake snorted. "Everybody. It's this town. They don't know their asses from a hole in the ground. Ignorant bigots, most of them. Hey, I came from Ellensburg. I know small towns. Oh, they have a college over there, they like to think they're broad-minded. But I didn't know jack-shit until I got to Seattle and the UDUB. I thought a crib was something you put a baby in." He chortled at his own naïveté.
I laughed, too, though I wasn't feeling very merry. "Dr. Flake, I've got a favor to ask." I asked it. Flake looked puzzled at first, then turned serious.
"You aren't kidding around, are you?"
"No," I replied, equally somber. "I'm scared."
"It won't be easy," Flake said, fingering the stethoscope that hung from his neck. "Christ, I'm on call until tomorrow morning."
I stood up. "You'll think of something. You have to."
Peyton Flake gave me an odd half smile. "Yeah. I guess I will. I took an oath to save lives."
"Then save one," I urged him. "For your own sake, if nobody else's."
I left him with a worried look on his face. It wasn't half as troubled as my mind.
It was almost dark when I pulled the Jaguar up at The Pines Village Apartments. I had no plan. I was taking a terrible chance. All that was going for me was sheer opportunism. But fear was the motivator.
The apartment house was five staggered stories, with the pool on the roof. Carla had told me it could be covered in winter. The balconies sported a variety of greenery, from evergreens in planters to window boxes with bright geraniums. Chimney pots indicated the existence of fireplaces, and gave the building a European air.
C. Steinmetz and L. Boyd lived on the third floor. It was Libby who answered when I punched in number 307. She cheerfully directed me to wait for the door to buzz, then come inside and take the elevator.
The carpet, a serviceable but handsome mauve, still smelled new. The elevator was tiny and quiet. No children, I guessed; no pets. On my way in, I had noticed a sign indicating that there were some vacancies. No one bedrooms, I mused—or nothing for the likes of Marilynn Lewis? Maybe the owners were violating the Federal Fair Housing Act.
Libby offered me something to drink. I accepted, though blackberry-flavored water isn't my idea of a shot in the spine. And that was what I needed. I'd come to ask Libby some difficult questions.
"Carla took off on a run," Libby said, after we'd sat down in the living room. A fresh breeze blew in through the sliding glass doors that led to the small balcony. The fireplace had glass doors, too, and looked as if it had never been used. The decor was eclectic, a mélange of Carla Steinmetz and Libby Boyd. A navy blue sectional sofa, a glass-topped coffee table on brass legs, a big lamp with a floral ceramic base—these objects belonged to Libby, I guessed. The refinished Victorian rocker, the mohair armchair that held a Raggedy Ann doll, the old-fashioned three-way floor lamp all smacked of Carla.
"Where'd she go?" I inquired, trying to keep my voice calm.
Libby shook her head. "She didn't say. Often, she doesn't. She got a phone call after she came down from the pool and raced off. I think it's better to keep tabs. I mean, you never know what might happen. It's a good thing to let somebody know where you are, just in case."
I agreed. "That's the way I was raised. Maybe Carla wasn't.
" _I_ wasn't," Libby said, sitting cross-legged on the navy sofa. "My parents believed in being free. What they really meant was they didn't want to be bothered. That's why I'm the opposite, I guess."
Fumbling around for an opening, I found one in Libby's remark about her parents. "You don't have family close by, do you, Libby?"
Libby fingered a carved crane on the end table next to the sofa. "No. My mother's dead. I don't know where my father is. I had a brother, but he ran away when he was fifteen. I was twelve. I wished he'd taken me with him." She sounded wistful.
"I gathered you didn't have anybody around here," I said, aware that I was treading on painful ground. "That's why I'm barging in. You've been fussing over Carla. Now I'm fussing over you."
Libby didn't look keen about the idea. "That's nice, but don't. I'm not used to it."
I gave a short nod of assent. "Then I'll have my say and take off. It's about Shane—how well do you know him, Libby?"
Relief flooded Libby's tanned face. "Well enough. We've been seeing each other for a year. Shane's great. Oh, he'll never set the world on fire, but he's basically a good guy. If that's what's bothering you, forget it."
"It's Shane's feelings I'm worried about," I said, and it wasn't exactly a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth. "I'm wondering if he knows his own mind. And heart."
Now Libby looked perturbed. "What are you getting at?"
"I think," I said boldly, "that he's infatuated with Marilynn Lewis."
Libby threw back her head and laughed. "That's crazy! Shane hardly knows Marilynn!" Giving into her amusement, she laughed herself into silence. "Really, Ms. Lord, the only reason Marilynn is living at the Campbells is because Shane's so good-hearted. Soft, like mush. It was all so casual—she was in the Fred Meyer store one day, and they got to talking, and she mentioned moving to Alpine, and—well, one thing led to another. Shane put his foot in it. He does things like that."
I wanted to believe Libby, but I wasn't convinced. I had seen the smitten look on Shane's face when Marilynn entered the dining room at the Campbell house. I had watched the flush grow on his cheeks when I mentioned Marilynn's name. Most of all, I detected latent animosity between Libby and Marilynn. As far as I could tell, Libby was no racist. Any hostility she felt for Marilynn grew out of a more primal fear—one woman's jealousy of another over a man.
"Okay." I sighed. "Let me ask one more question and then I'll be out of here. Do you remember the night Jerome Cole was killed and Marilynn and her roommate came over to Shane's apartment in Seattle?"
Libby tilted her head, eyes on the ceiling. "I remember that it happened. But no, I wasn't at Shane's that night. He told me about it later."
"How did he tell you?" I kept my voice even.
Perplexed, Libby gazed at me. "How? I don't know what you mean. I guess he said the two nurses had run away from their apartment, and then he heard that Marilynn's boyfriend got killed." She shrugged. "It was too bad, but from what I could tell, the guy was headed for some kind of big trouble. I think a neighbor took him out."
I was perched on the edge of the navy blue armchair that matched the sofa. "Are you sure?"
Libby shifted on the cushions. "That's what happened. The guy was sent to prison."
I gave a sad shake of my head. "I don't think so. That guy was Wesley Charles, the man you and those kids found near my house. He didn't kill Jerome Cole." I took a deep breath. "I hate to say it, but I believe Jerome Cole was bludgeoned to death by Shane Campbell."
Libby Boyd's face was horror-stricken. Afraid, too, I thought, and I didn't blame her. "That's awful!" she finally gasped. "Shane wouldn't—couldn't—do such a thing! And why would he?"
"Because he was nuts about Marilynn," I replied doggedly. "He was trying to protect her. Jerome Cole was a violent drug addict. He made a habit of beating up on Marilynn."
Libby still looked afraid, but her expression also conveyed defiance. "No. No, I don't believe Shane felt that way about Marilynn. Oh, he _liked_ her. But there was nothing romantic there." Her eyes grew desperate. "God, Ms. Lord, don't you think I' _d_ know it?"
I did, and Libby's obtuseness baffled me. It takes either a very stupid or a totally self-absorbed woman not to sense when her man is straying. Unqualified trust is as rare as it is naïve. Libby didn't seem to fit into any of those categories. I began to wonder if I might be wrong about Shane Campbell.
The phone rang. Libby answered it in an abrupt voice, then switched to her more natural tone: Her half of the conversation was mostly monosyllables. When she hung up, she gave me a smug smile.
"That was Shane. He wants to catch the late showing of _Jurassic Park_ at the Whistling Marmot Theatre. I'd better change if he's coming here for a drink first." She glanced at her watch. "It's after seven. The last show starts at nine-forty."
It seemed to me that Libby and Shane would have more than enough time for a drink. Or for whatever else they planned as a short feature before the movie. Which, I realized, was none of my business. Obviously, Libby was politely telling me I'd worn out my welcome.
Maybe I'd spent too much time around Vida. Perhaps I'd appointed myself Libby's guardian angel. Possibly I was acting like a pigheaded fool. But I had to make one last stab at keeping Libby away from Shane, at least until Milo Dodge had had time to do some serious police work.
"Libby—what would it take for you to break this date?"
Libby's expression was scornful. "Why should I? Ms. Lord, how many times do I have to tell you..."
Waving my hands, I interrupted. "Stop calling me Ms. Lord! And stop and think for a minute, _period_. I'm certain Shane went to meet Kelvin Greene at the cemetery. He left his van parked up on First Hill Road by the Tolberg farm. I was at the Campbells' that night for dinner. Shane was late getting home, and I don't think he brought the van with him. He must have walked down First Hill Road to the cemetery so his van wouldn't be seen, and after he shot Kelvin Greene, Shane ran home, right through his mother's flower garden. It's only half a block." I steeled myself for the next question: "Libby—did you meet Shane at the cemetery and help him get rid of the gun?"
Libby looked stunned as well as angry. "Of course not! That's a terrible thing to say! You're way out of line!"
I was. Libby's vehemence jarred me. "Okay, okay," I soothed. "But you've got to be realistic. There's a murderer loose in Alpine. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Shane didn't kill Jerome Cole. But somebody did, and somebody—maybe the same person—killed Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles within the last week." Briefly, I considered tipping my hand and revealing why I was certain that the recent murders had been committed by someone in the Campbell ménage. I bit my tongue. Libby's rigid face told me that nothing I could say would convince her. Indeed, for a fleeting moment, she actually looked as if she'd like to slug me. I couldn't blame her. Not only had I condemned her for collusion, I'd accused the man she loved of murder. Worse yet, I'd baldly stated that he was infatuated with another woman. Libby Boyd had every right to throw me out of the apartment.
Apparently Libby saw the uncertainty on my face and put out a hand. "Hey—Ms. Lord, forget it. You're taking your job too seriously. Remember, I'm a city girl. I'm used to looking out for myself. Given the way I was brought up, in a sense I've always been on my own. I've been going with Shane for a year. He's never done a single thing to upset me, let alone scare me. If anything, he's too laid-back. Now go home and stop worrying."
I didn't have any choice. I smiled at Libby as I left, but inside, I felt grim. By the time I got to the lobby, Shane was coming up the walkway. On a whim, I jumped back into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor.
I waited about five minutes, then walked down the fire stairs to three. Libby and Carla lived in the second unit from the end of the hall. Feeling silly, I knocked on the neighboring door. There was no answer. I tried the door; it was unlocked.
The apartment was vacant. Judging from the pristine condition of the carpet and the walls, it had never been occupied. It was a two-bedroom unit, identical to Carla and Libby's. Carefully, I opened the sliding glass doors to the balcony and stepped out. I could hear Shane and Libby, if barely.
"It's up to you," Shane was saying.
Libby's response was muffled. I suspected she might be in the bedroom, changing.
"I'd rather have more privacy," Shane said, his voice now a notch louder.
"Well?" Libby sounded much closer. "For once, you decide."
There was a pause. "Let's go," Shane said. A moment later, I heard the faint click of the door.
I waited only as long as I dared. Peeking into the hallway, I found it empty. Shane and Libby had gone down to the lobby. I hurried along the corridor and caught the elevator as it came back up. To my chagrin, it stopped at two on the way down. A middle-aged couple I'd seen around town got in, smiling and nodding.
Fortunately, the trip wasn't long enough to encourage conversation. They moved at a stroll; I raced out of the building ahead of them. Libby and Shane were just pulling away from the curb in a turquoise Pontiac compact. I hoped they didn't see me head for the Jag two spaces down the street.
Following someone in a small town like Alpine isn't easy, especially in a semi-exotic foreign automobile. Surely Libby had noticed the Jaguar still parked outside of The Pines Village. On the other hand, I might bank on the mutual absorption of young lovers. As I followed the Pontiac down Alpine Way, I kept a block's distance between us. There wasn't much traffic at seven-thirty on a Sunday evening.
Lulled into thinking Shane and Libby would go all the way down Alpine to Front, I was caught by surprise when they turned right onto Fir Street. This wasn't a logical route to the Whistling Marmot. Indeed, this would lead us straight past the mobile-home park, a block of condos, and into my own neighborhood. It was still broad daylight. What would Libby and Shane think if they saw me in the rearview mirror and I didn't pull into my driveway?
But just before I reached the intersection at Fourth and Fir, I saw the Pontiac's right turn signal go on. The car slowed as it turned into the Fifth Street cul-de-sac.
My heart leapt. Shane and Libby weren't going to the movies. It was too early, for one thing, a good two hours before the next showing of the feature film. From the balcony, I'd overheard them talking about _privacy_. Were they going to hide out in the cul-de-sac and make love? Given the recent discovery of a corpse there, it seemed like an odd choice.
One thing was certain—having turned off Fir Street, there was nowhere else they _could_ go. I pulled up in front of the unfinished construction near the corner and got out of the Jag. Feeling like a grade C detective in a grade B movie, I skulked through the tall ferns and flowering berry bushes that separated the construction site from the cul-de-sac.
Shane and Libby had gotten out of the Pontiac. They were walking hand-in-hand toward the woods. What was their intention? I could hardly traipse after them and embarrass all three of us by interrupting a tryst. But I was still fearful of what could happen next. Heedless of my black slacks and gray blouse, I ran back through the brambles, racing for my car.
I shot up Fir Street, turned onto First Hill Road, and sped all the way down to the Icicle Creek development where Milo lived in one of the older, more modest houses built in the tract. Fortunately, his home was also among the closest to Highway 187. I made the drive in under three minutes.
Milo wasn't up on his roof but he was down on his couch. There was no time to argue, I blurted. He must get in the Jag and come with me. Was he armed?
Milo Dodge rarely moves in haste. His first reaction was to scratch himself under his T-shirt and yawn. I guessed he'd been taking a nap in front of the TV.
"What're you talking about, Emma?" he demanded in a cross voice. "I'm off duty."
I yelled; I nagged; I pushed; I shoved. In the end, we got into Milo's Cherokee Chief. I drove. He put on a flannel shirt that was lying on the floor, loaded his Colt King Cobra .357 Magnum, sneezed twice, and muttered incoherently.
"... bunch of bullshit... Shane Campbell... good kid, little slow... black troublemakers... Marlow Whipp? I must be nuts..."
We'd reached the cul-de-sac. Shane's Pontiac looked innocent with the setting sun gleaming off the metallic turquoise finish. As I'd feared, Shane and Libby were nowhere to be seen. Milo and I jumped down from the Cherokee Chief, heading up the makeshift trail that was actually a deer run.
"Milo," I whispered, after we'd gone about fifty yards into the forest, "should we not _tromp?"_
"I don't give a damn if I bellow," Milo retorted. But in fact he began to watch his step, pausing to peer between the evergreens.
We had gone well beyond the site where Wesley Charles's body had been found. However, there was still a trail of sorts, no doubt the same one that Tim Rafferty and Tiffany Eriks had followed from the Icicle Creek campground. As we climbed up higher on the mountainside, the underbrush gave way to tall cedars, fir, and hemlock. There was pine, too, and clumps of huckleberry and stands of fern. It was beautiful, yet menacing. The quiet overwhelmed us. We were also losing the light as the sun began to slide down behind the mountains.
We reached the Forest Service trail, which ran in an east-west direction. Milo and I had no idea which way to go. Shane and Libby had almost a ten-minute head start. I was now certain that lovemaking wasn't their object. If that had been the case, they would have stopped much farther down the hillside. Soft ferns and gentle earth would have been more conducive to romantic purposes. Apprehension made my heart pump faster.
I was standing at Milo's elbow while he stifled a sneeze. "Should we split up?" I whispered.
He gave me a disdainful look. "You're the one who wanted me to bring a sidearm. What're you going to use? Your thumb?"
Milo, of course, was right. The west-bound trail led to the ski lodge, more than a mile away. To the east lay the Tolberg farm and the Dithers Sisters' horse ranch. The Tolberg property was nearest, perhaps only a couple of hundred yards away. I guessed that Shane and Libby would have taken the long route, in the direction of the lodge. Their chances of meeting anyone this time of night would be almost nil.
Milo didn't argue. We picked up the pace on the trail—the sheriff with his long, loping strides; I, virtually running to keep up. Within three minutes, we saw movement ahead of us: two figures were standing by a wooden footbridge that crosses Alpine Creek. The trail dips down to the bridge where the stream tumbles among moss-covered rocks, then takes a deep, dizzy plunge, and eventually joins Burl Creek just west of the mall. Flanked by tall ferns and dogtooth violets, it was a perfect sylvan setting.
But now it was filled with menace. As we approached on tiptoe, we could see Libby's back turned to us. She was at the edge of the trail, a step from the bridge. Beyond her, we could make out Shane's head and the left side of his body. They appeared to be in earnest, even heated, conversation.
"He's going to push her off the bridge," I breathed. "She'll go right over the falls!"
Milo quickened his step. I followed. Shane looked up and saw us. He shouted something I couldn't hear. Libby craned her neck, then screamed. Shane lunged at her; they struggled, teetering at the edge of the bridge. We were within twenty feet of the pair, and now Milo was yelling at them to desist.
Libby was strong: She had managed to break free from Shane, but to my horror, instead of fleeing the bridge, she pressed forward. Now it was Shane who appeared to be on the defensive. Milo had pulled his King Cobra Magnum.
"Stop!" he shouted once more. "Stop or I'll shoot!"
It was not an empty threat. As Shane again grabbed Libby, Milo fired into the air. Then he dropped to one knee, the gun fixed on the battling couple.
A second shot shattered the mountain's natural peace. I jumped, then stared at Milo. He hadn't budged, but was gaping at Shane and Libby. Shane had fallen onto the bridge, clutching his side. His head dangled over the edge. Libby whirled around, and I saw the gun in her hand. I uttered a little shriek; Milo swore.
"Don't do it!" he warned. "Drop it! Now!"
Libby threw Milo one last defiant look. She didn't drop the gun. Instead, she turned again and jumped. I could have sworn I heard her scream all the way to Burl Creek.
# Chapter Seventeen
IT WAS MIDNIGHT and Milo was sneezing his head off. He sat behind his desk with a bottle of Benadryl in one hand and an inhaler in the other. The fluorescent lights flickered above us. Carla and I were seated in the two visitors' chairs while Peyton Flake lounged against a filing cabinet.
"Shane'll be up and around tomorrow," Flake assured us for the third time. "Take your guilt trip somewhere else, guys. You did your best."
But neither Milo nor I was feeling very proud of ourselves. The sheriff had been unable to prevent Shane from getting shot and Libby Boyd from committing suicide. And I, the dreadful dunce, had picked out the wrong murderer.
Or, at least, the wrong person who had killed Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles. I could only console myself that I'd been partly right: Shane Campbell had indeed bludgeoned Jerome Cole with Marilynn Lewis's ivory figurine. His motive had been gallant; perhaps he'd acted in self-defense. But what had followed was completely without honor and utterly indefensible.
Carla was still shattered by her roommate's treachery. "She seemed so nice!" Carla wailed. "She was always fussing over me and she never argued about expenses and she even vacuumed!"
Peyton Flake moved away from the filing cabinet to rub Carla's shoulders. "Hey, babe, get over it. The big thing is that you're safe. Now you know why I called and asked you to come down to the hospital and help me file charts."
Leaning back in the modular plastic chair, Carla gave Flake a big-eyed, adoring gaze. "I just thought you wanted to be near me!" She giggled, though on a less jarring note than usual. Turning away from Flake, she looked at me. "But I still don't get why you thought I was in danger."
Sadly, I shook my head. "I thought both you and Libby were in danger. And I didn't want you around when I confronted Libby about Shane. I knew she wouldn't discuss their relationship in front of a third person, even her roommate. I was panicky. There'd been too many murders, and it seemed to me that anybody connected to the Campbells could be next."
Milo wore his musing expression. "And Shane _was_ next. Or was that because you put a scare into Libby?" His hazel eyes were watery as he waited for my reply.
I gave a halfhearted nod. "When Libby found out I knew Shane had killed Jerome Cole, she panicked, too. She figured it was just a matter of time before somebody filled in the rest of the gaps and pinned the other two murders on her. Shane had to go—preferably as a suicide. He said she was trying to force him to jump off the bridge. She didn't want to shoot him, just threaten him. The gun went off by accident, while they were struggling."
"Gosh." Carla's voice was faint. "How pathetic. Libby wanted to marry Shane so much. He was her first real chance at security. Oh, she didn't talk about it often, but sometimes she'd let things slip. Like, having her own house and a family and belonging to somebody. I could cry, really, I could."
I didn't blame Carla. I felt sort of weepy, too. Libby Boyd was a tragic figure, an unloved child who had been utterly ruthless in her search for safe harbor. Instead, she had wrecked several lives, including her own.
But while I felt terrible pangs for Libby, I still had a need to exonerate myself. "So much pointed to Shane," I persisted. "Not just with Jerome Cole's death, but the other two, as well. The night that Jerome died, Marilynn and Winola went to Shane's apartment. He wasn't there. I suspect he'd gone to Marilynn's and they'd crossed paths, but missed each other. He found Jerome, still ranting and raving. Shane, feeling obliged to defend Marilynn, got into a fight with Jerome and hit him with that carving. Shane doesn't have much backbone—Libby told me that, and I believe her. He fled, and let Wesley Charles take the blame. Wesley came along later and picked up the murder weapon. Somewhere in there, Kelvin Greene showed up, probably to see Winola Prince. Kelvin recognized Shane from working together at Fred Meyer. He saw Shane leave, and put two and two together. That's when he decided to make things interesting and blackmail Shane. When Shane feels better tomorrow, I imagine he'll tell us he confided everything to Libby. She knew that Shane was falling for Marilynn—she didn't want to lose him. Libby probably told him to go ahead and let Wesley Charles take the rap and to pay Kelvin off. But Kelvin kept coming back for more. Shane got the idea to sell those banned recordings. He must have used the money he made to pay off Kelvin. But he wanted to be done with blackmail so he quit his job and came back to Alpine. He could live more cheaply at home, and he needed all the money he could get. But it wasn't that easy to shed Kelvin. He came up here to meet Shane and make even bigger demands."
Milo was trying to look enthused about my deductions. He was also trying to keep awake. "So Libby decided to call a halt," he murmured.
"Right," I answered, also feeling weary. "To Libby, security was financial as well as social and emotional. She couldn't stand seeing Shane drained of everything. I don't know exactly what Kelvin did when he got to Alpine that Friday, but he probably asked a few questions and found out that Shane worked for his father at Alpine Appliance. Maybe he figured it wouldn't be smart to head straight there. Lloyd Campbell might make trouble. But he knew Cyndi and tracked her down at the PUD. She probably told Kelvin to telephone Shane and arrange a meeting."
Peyton Flake was still standing behind Carla's chair, his manner protective. "Did Cyndi know what was going on?"
I shook my head. "I doubt it. She probably thought it had something to do with Marilynn. Cyndi was just the intermediary. She had no idea...."
Milo's phone rang, startling all of us. Even from across the desk, I could hear Vida's voice shrilling in the receiver. Milo listened wordlessly, then said, "Oh, hell, why not. It's on the way home."
We gazed at him in curiosity. "Vida got your note, Emma," Milo said, heaving himself to his feet. "She's put the teakettle on. Let's go."
Vida doesn't believe in answering machines. She also doesn't believe in being kept in the dark. Consequently, I had insisted that after leaving the hospital, we should swing by Vida's house and put a note on her door in case she came home from Bellingham before morning.
Carla and Peyton Flake declined Vida's invitation, however. "I'll take Carla home," Flake told us in the sheriff's reception area. He gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Seems to me she can use a new roommate, at least temporarily." They started out the door. "But I don't vacuum, babe. I won't even dust."
"Oh, Peyts," said Carla. And she giggled.
By one A.M., Vida was almost filled in. Refreshing our teacups, she nodded sagely. "Yes, yes, the psychology was there all along. I can't believe I missed it. Especially the part about the wristwatch. I ran into Libby at the mall the day after the murder and never noticed her bare arm. My eyes must be going."
"I missed that, too," I admitted. "What really misled me was Ed and the Alpine Appliance van. He had mentioned following it up First Hill Road that Friday, thinking it was Lloyd Campbell and that he could apologize for screwing up the co-op ad. When he got there, Ed said Lloyd was gone. But it wasn't Lloyd—it was Shane, delivering the Tolbergs' stove. I forgot all about that until this morning—yesterday morning—after Mass when Ed was doing his eager-beaver bit with the Catholic merchants. I remembered that the Tolbergs' new gas range was what made Shane late getting home that Friday. The Tolberg farm is right across from the high school. It's secluded up there, with the Dithers Sisters' horse ranch across the road. Maybe he met Libby to rendezvous over the meeting with Kelvin. Whatever, he left the van, not wanting it seen parked by the cemetery where he was going to meet Kelvin. It was still there the next morning. Betsy O'Toole saw it on her way to the Grocery Basket. She thought the Campbells had taken to working on Saturdays, but I knew better. By chance, Lloyd and I had talked about a six-day week earlier. Naturally, when Betsy mentioned seeing the van, I suspected the worst of Shane."
"Bucker Swede," Milo said doggedly. "That was a forest ranger's hat. Why did you think it had been put in Shane's van?"
I suspect my expression was as foolish as I felt. "I'd never seen Libby wear an official hat with her uniform. I figured she'd lost it in Shane's van while they surrendered to a fit of passion. The Alpine Appliance van had been parked by the high school, too—it just wasn't in the same place as Libby's truck. The pranksters could have put Bucker there just as easily. As I said, once I got on the right track, I kept going. I never noticed the detour sign that pointed to Libby Boyd. I think that must be what they call linear thinking."
Vida passed Milo a tiny English bone-china pitcher of cream, which he sloshed into his cup. Tea was not Milo's beverage of choice. "Now, Emma," Vida said sternly, "don't punish yourself. It's very late, and I've had a long drive, almost from the Canadian border. Did Shane meet Kelvin at the cemetery or not?"
Feeling rebuked, I nodded quickly. "Yes, I'm sure he did. I suspect Kelvin pulled his gun. Shane was—is—a bit of a coward. He wouldn't have fought Kelvin for it. Only a strong emotion like self-defense could goad Shane into violence. He struggled with Kelvin to protect himself. And tonight, with Libby, because she wanted him to die."
"Such irony." Vida looked disapproving. "First, Libby risks everything to keep Shane, then she tries to kill him. The primary instinct is always survival. My, my."
Milo drooped in Vida's maplewood kitchen chair. "No guts, no glory," he murmured.
I didn't agree. "Oh, Libby had guts. Having been alerted by Shane, Libby showed up, pulled her own gun—which Milo thinks is the same one that killed Wesley Charles—disarmed Kelvin, and shot him with his own weapon, then dumped it in the grave, losing her broken watch in the process. Shane may have run off by then. Remember, he was torn between his fading feelings for Libby and the awakening love for Marilynn. Having killed Jerome Cole, Shane was already in a terrible state of conscience. Given his lack of spine, flight would have suited his personality. Shane might never have been sure that Libby killed Kelvin."
Milo nodded in a vague way. "And Libby had parked her truck in front of the high school, across from the Tolberg farm. She didn't count on the kids who were hanging out around the practice field swiping the Bucker mascot, using her first-aid kit, and putting a tourniquet on the thing. Oh, and her forest ranger's hat."
"Ridiculous," Vida sniffed. "To think they blamed it on Sultan! Is there no end to rivalry on Stevens Pass?"
Milo shot Vida a nettled glance. "Keep to the murders. I'm already confused." He applied his inhaler, and expelled a deep breath. "So when did Libby find the damned Bucker?"
I made a self-deprecating gesture. "That was part of my problem. I thought it was Shane who had parked his van by the high school, until I remembered that Ed had seen it farther up on First Hill Road. It couldn't be in two places at once. Libby wouldn't have been observed by the people who live on First Hill—those houses are too secluded. She left her truck in front of the school, then walked across the street to the cemetery. While she was gone, the kids decided to play a prank. Let's face it, some Alpiners look at the Forest Service as a tool of the federal government. They don't like their stand on the spotted owl. The kids were getting back at the enemy. They put the dummy in the back of the truck, which was full of brush and tools and all sorts of stuff. I suspect Libby didn't even notice—until she hid Wesley Charles in there."
Vida pursed her lips. "It was very stupid of us not to think about that Forest Service truck being involved in the accident at Monroe." She gave Milo a reproachful look. "Working for the government, Libby must have had no trouble finding out when Wesley Charles would be transported from Shelton. Somehow she caused that tie-up, then liberated Wesley Charles while everyone's attention was focused on the school bus. Where did she take him?"
I shrugged. "Who knows? Probably a back road where she happened upon the stolen car. She had tools in the truck, including a saw. She cut through Wesley's shackles and let him drive up to Alpine on his own. Maybe she fed him some story about knowing that he was wrongly imprisoned and that she knew who really killed Jerome Cole. Wesley Charles sounds like a credulous soul, and he certainly didn't want to serve time for something he didn't do. I'll bet she had a map, directing him to the cul-de-sac. She met him there later in the day and shot him, then waited until he was discovered by those kids. It wasn't any coincidence that she was in the vicinity when they found the body. No doubt she was lurking in the woods, just biding her time."
"And getting rid of Bucker Swede." Vida sighed. "She went way too far. She didn't need to kill either of those poor men. Such a waste."
Milo was yawning widely. "I don't get the part about that watch. Where does that come in?"
My voice was growing tired; I was getting tired of hearing it. "After the murder I noticed that Libby had a tan line on her arm. Then Vida and I found the broken wristwatch in the grave. I also realized that the next time I saw Libby, she was wearing a watch. A new one, or a spare, I suppose. But I didn't put the whole picture together until later."
Vida gave a shake of her head that set the graying curls dancing. "Libby planned things so carefully. She would have been very good at organizing Presbyterian bazaars. It's such a shame she was homicidal."
Milo grunted. "She was hell-bent on saving Shane's reputation—along with his money and her future. People like that are out of kilter. They don't think the way we do."
Vida concurred. "Terrible. Just terrible. Shane would never have gone to prison. He still won't."
Milo didn't look so sure. "He withheld evidence. He impeded justice. I don't think Shane will get off scot-free."
I slapped my hand on Vida's kitchen table. "There you go! More ethnic clichés! Stop it, Dodge! Hasn't this whole sorry mess taught you anything?"
Clumsily, Milo got to his feet. "Yeah, it sure has. I've got to break up with Honoria. At least until she changes perfumes. I'm allergic to that stuff she wears. My sinuses cleared up when we didn't see each other. Come on, Emma, I'll take you home to my place."
Half out of my chair, I froze. _"Your_ place? What are you talking about?"
Milo gave me an innocent look. "Huh? Your car. You left the Jag at my place. Don't you want to collect it tonight?"
"Oh!" I flushed. "Sure, let's go."
Behind us, Vida snickered.
Monday was frantic at _The Advocate_. I took the tricky murder investigation story upon myself. It was noon before I finished the main article and the sidebars. By then, Libby Boyd's corpse had been retrieved from Alpine Creek and sent to the morgue. Doc Dewey ruled the death accidental. No one claimed the body until Carla came forward and said she'd see to the burial. I told her I'd help. Vida chimed in, and so did Ed and Ginny. Somehow it didn't seem right that Libby, who had been abandoned in life, should be alone in death.
It was almost two P.M. before I got to the mail. To my disgust, there was yet another letter from my anonymous nemesis. "Dear Publicher," it read. "I hear more rumores about the invazion. They are going to bewich us and make us slaves. From dawn to dark, we'll carry those ugly paper cups and drink, drink, drink. BEWARE!!! The end is near, and its name is LATTE."
I laughed. Uncontrollably. This was no wild-eyed bigot, fearing interracial marriage, demonic drugs, and gangland warfare. This was a man with an espresso machine he couldn't master and a dread of competition from Starbuck's.
This, I realized, was Marlow Whipp.
The WNPA program didn't start until eleven A.M. on Thursday, June 17. But since Wednesday was my off day, I decided to make the two-hour trip that afternoon. The past month had been hectic, not only with too many murders, but the burgeoning battle between the pro– and anti–explicit lyrics factions. There was rage at the school board, anxiety over the unveiling of the federal plan for the forests, arguments about the L.I.D. proposal, rumors that the Seattle Police Department had brought Shane Campbell in for questioning, disappointment that Fred Meyer had chucked its Alpine outlet for a new store between Fremont and Ballard in the Big City, a great debate over Ginny Burmeister's brainstorm for a summer solstice celebration, and rampant buzzing about whether or not Mayor Fuzzy Baugh had taken to wearing a girdle.
Thus, I was well pleased to escape from Alpine for a few days. Adam had flown directly from Fairbanks to San Francisco. I would not see him until August. From Tuba City, he had called to announce his safe arrival and to inform me that he and Tom Cavanaugh had spent two days going to see a Giants game at the Stick, visiting the wine country in the Napa Valley, and taking a tour of Alcatraz. Considering that I'd had my fill of criminals recently, the last item seemed like an odd choice. But at least it would make for the opening gambit in a conversation with Tom when, and if, I saw him at Lake Chelan.
So that Wednesday, after waving the paper off to the printer in Monroe, I spent an hour making sure I wasn't leaving any loose ends. The school special had come out the previous week, and we were now setting our sights on the Fourth of July edition. Vida and Carla had plenty on their plates, while Ed continued to bustle about town in search of advertising revenue. I had a right to feel good about my professional life. My personal world, however, was a mess.
But Marilynn Lewis was putting her house in order. She showed up in my office just as I was about to leave for Chelan.
"I'm on a break," she said, then laughed. "I don't get breaks, except for lunch. Dr. Flake's in surgery and Doc Dewey is delivering a baby." She settled into one of my visitors' chairs. "I haven't had time to thank you properly for everything you did. I've been so busy getting moved in with Carla and worrying about Shane and trying to keep out of the hassle over those dumb recordings.... It's funny how easily you get caught up in small-town life."
"Funny," I echoed. "Right, it's hilarious." I grinned at Marilynn. "Hey, I didn't do much, except put my foot in it."
But Marilynn disagreed. "You wrote that editorial about bigotry. That was a brave thing to do in this town. I appreciate it, and I imagine there are some broad-minded people around here who were glad to see it, too."
My modesty was unfeigned. "What I wrote won't change a thing. Only time will do that." I gave Marilynn a quirky little smile. "And newcomers, like you. Maybe it won't be long before the locals look at you and see a nurse instead of an African-American. Then, if you stick around long enough, they'll get to know you for who you are, not what you are. For now, I'm glad that you and Carla are going to be roommates. Try not to let her drive you crazy."
Marilynn gave a short, sharp snake of her head. "After Winola, Carla will be a snap." She shot me a rueful look. "I shouldn't criticize Winola. She's a decent person, but frankly, as long as I was seeing Jerome, I had a hard time finding a roommate who'd put up with all the turmoil I went through. Winola didn't mind—she came from a rough background."
I inclined my head. "Plus, she was seeing a drug dealer. Winola couldn't afford to gripe."
Marilynn expelled a long sigh. "True. Poor Winola. She deserves better."
"So do you," I asserted. "What are you going to do about Shane once his lawyer gets through plea-bargaining him down to community service, which will probably include playing gin rummy with Crazy Eights Neffel for the next six months?"
Marilynn's beautiful face turned thoughtful. "I don't know. I think Shane has a crush, really. I mean, for him I was different. Exotic, maybe?" She laughed. "He's nice, but he's not what I'm looking for. The best thing I could do for Shane Campbell is introduce him to one of the Chinese or Samoan nurses I worked with in Seattle. He's spent too much time with those tall, blonde Swedish and Norwegian girls."
Aghast, I stared at Marilynn. "Oh! Not you, too!"
Marilynn's black eyes grew wide. "Me what?" Suddenly she burst into laughter. "Oh, no! I'm a racist!"
I was also laughing. "Yes, you are. We all are, I guess. As I said, it's because we see with our eyes, not our minds."
Still making merry noises, Marilynn nodded, then shook her head. "Well... no. It's because we see what we want to see."
I had grown serious. "We see what's there. What do you see when you look at me?"
Marilynn sobered, too. She tilted her head to one side and studied me carefully. "I see a white woman who runs a weekly newspaper. I see a mother. I see a person who lives alone and thinks she likes it. I see..." Again, a smile played at her lips. "I see someone who deserves better. Don't we all?"
Campbell's Lodge at Lake Chelan was in a lovely setting, with every possible facility to make a conference run smoothly. Situated right on the lake, there were also swimming pools, an excellent restaurant, and private patios. The owners, I discovered, were not related to Lloyd and Jean Campbell, unless you were willing to dig back into the clan for several centuries. I certainly wasn't. They were entitled to wear the same tartan, but other than that, I was trying to put ethnic clichés aside.
I was also trying to figure out when Tom Cavanaugh would arrive. According to one of the WNPA hosts, he was scheduled to check in that evening. He was also expected to attend a private dinner that had been arranged exclusively for the officials and guest speakers. As far as I was concerned, Tom was off-limits until Thursday when he made his appearance at the midmorning session.
I ate in the restaurant with four of my fellow weekly publishers. We were a buoyant group, filled with the trials and tribulations of the newspaper profession. Anecdotes unraveled; rounds of drinks turned us maudlin; night fell over Lake Chelan.
I tottered out of the restaurant shortly after ten o'clock, feeling more unsteady from my brown mock-crocodile platform shoes than the four bourbons I'd consumed. Despite the air conditioning, I had perspired in my new taupe short-sleeved sweater; the elegant striped slit skirt was badly wrinkled. I was tired. I was disappointed. I was over forty and all alone.
And there, in the lobby with its soft lighting and bountiful potted plants, stood Tom Cavanaugh. He was shaking hands with one of the WNPA luminaries. His light blue chambray shirt was casual, as were his dark gray linen slacks. The profile was noble, the blue eyes keen, the brown hair going gray lent him an air of distinction. He had never been lean, but I'd settle for trim. Indeed, I'd settle for anything, as long as it was Tom. Damn.
I thought I had a good chance of getting to the elevator unnoticed. But, of course, I tripped over the blasted platform shoes and fell into the umbrella plant. Tom and the luminary turned to see what had caused the commotion. So did one of the resort workers, a fresh-scrubbed youth who couldn't have been more than eighteen.
"Ma'am!" he exclaimed, worry and liability written all over his face. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes," I replied through gritted teeth. "I'm not used to wearing shoes. I live in Alpine."
The youth helped me to my feet. "We have a doctor on call," he said, sounding solicitous. "Would you...?"
"I would not," I stated firmly, making sure that the ankle I'd injured six months ago wouldn't give way under pressure. Or maybe I was waiting to see if _I_ wouldn't give way under pressure. "It's fine. I'm going to my room."
The young man had obviously been well schooled in resort insurance procedures. "Maybe you'd like to come into the office and sit..."
I was growing testy. "I would like," I declared firmly, "to go to bed."
Backing off, the youth still wore an uncertain expression. "Uh... if you think..."
I don't know where the WNPA luminary went; I never saw him leave the lobby. But behind the resort employee stood Tom Cavanaugh, giving me his wide, off-center grin.
"It's all right," he said, touching the young man's sleeve. "The lady is tougher than she looks. I'll see to her."
Like a zombie, I limped off into the elevator with Tom. We were alone inside the small car. "Hello there," he said. "What's new?"
My brain was operating on low. "We're getting a new pastor," I blurted.
"Really." Tom sounded vaguely curious. "What's he like?"
The car stopped at three, which Tom had punched and which happened to be my floor. "I don't know. He's Irish, from California. Father Dennis Kelly."
Tom laughed, one of my all-time favorite sounds. "Dennis Kelly? From the seminary? I know him. He's pulled vacation duty at our parish in San Francisco. Nice guy—but he's not Irish."
We were out in the quiet corridor. "I mean, Irish extraction," I said, wondering what was going to happen next.
Tom shook his head, a touch of mischief added to his grin. "Not that, either. Dennis Kelly's ancestors may have _known_ an Irishman. But Den's black."
My jaw dropped. And then I laughed. And laughed and laughed. I think Tom wondered if I was hysterical. He put a hand on my shoulder, and his blue eyes showed concern. I started shaking my head.
"No... I'm not losing it. But all those crazy Catholics in Alpine think..." I laughed some more.
Tom's grip deepened. I swore I could feel it all the way to the pit of my stomach. "Tell me about it later. Where did you say you were going?"
I looked up. It was quite a distance. Tom is tall, and he always makes me feel like a midget. Or at least like a fragile, delicate woman. "Where? Oh!" I put a hand to my cheek. "To my room. It's just down the hall. And... to bed." Abruptly, I lowered my eyes.
Tom's hand moved to my waist. He steered me along the carpeted hallway. "That's right. I'm your guide. At the rate you're going, you'll never make it on your own."
"I will," I protested. Suddenly, I stopped, almost causing us to crash into each other. I gazed up at him, obstinacy written all over my face. "I _have_. For over twenty years."
Tom bit his lower lip, cocked his head, and leaned down to rest his chin in my gamine haircut. "So you have. But not tonight."
We stood very still, almost but not quite pressing against each other. "No," I breathed, "not tonight."
#
Coming to bookstores everywhere in
March 1995...
THE ALPINE ESCAPE
by Mary Daheim
Published in paperback by Ballantine Books. Read on for the exciting opening pages of
THE ALPINE ESCAPE...
# Chapter One
I HAD BEEN warned. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. My beautiful secondhand Jaguar would develop mechanical problems. Apparently, it finally had. It wouldn't start. To me, that's a mechanical problem.
I'd parked the Jag at the end of a long row of cars in the lot reserved for the Three Crabs Restaurant & Lounge on Dungeness Spit. On an overcast July day, the Strait of Juan de Fuca looked gray and dull, as if it were bored with its endless passage between the Olympic Peninsula and Vancouver Island.
I, however, was not bored, but agitated. And confused.
My car wasn't my only problem. With great reluctance, I'd abandoned by duties as editor and publisher of _The Alpine Advocate_ in an attempt to reassess my life. Maybe it's naive to think that forty-two years of eluding reality can be rectified in three days, but I had to start somewhere. The Olympic Peninsula seemed like a good place for soul-searching.
Now my priority was a tow truck. I marched back inside the restaurant, found the pay phone, and scanned the local directory. The towing service in Sequim would be out in an hour. Where did I want to go?
That was a good question. I had no idea who could handle Jaguar XJ6 repairs on the Olympic Peninsula. Just off Highway 101, I wasn't exactly stranded in the middle of nowhere. The town of Sequim was a bustling place, chockful of dissatisfied and retired Californians who had found an authentic Sunbelt in the Pacific Northwest. A few miles to the west lay Port Angeles, with a population of 18,000. Surely one or two of these people owned a Jaguar. Surely someone could do the repairs.
"Gee," said the friendly voice at the other end of the line, "I don't know who fixes those things around here. There used to be a bunch of hippies at Happy Valley who worked on foreign cars. Good mechanics, too."
"It might be something simple," I said, sensing the onslaught of a panic attack. "The Jag's green. My name is Emma Lord. How about taking me to a Chevron or a BP station here in Sequim?" I had plastic for the two oil companies. My budget for the three-day trip was two hundred and fifty dollars. If the repair was over fifty bucks—and when was it ever under?—I'd have to charge it.
"We'd better haul you into Port Angeles," said the man at the other end. "You'll have better luck there with that Jag. See you around two. More or less."
Back outside, I prowled the sands, feeling a cool breeze on my face and hearing the tide slap against the shore. Dungeness Spit snakes five miles out into the strait, with one of the last two manually operated lighthouses in the continental United States. Recently, I'd heard it was scheduled for conversion to a computerized operation. So much for romance. But I, too, was trying to convert. Outmoded romantic notions were impeding my personal progress as well.
Some seventeen miles across the strait, I could make out the cluster of buildings that was Victoria, British Columbia. I hadn't been to Victoria in twenty years. Indeed, I hadn't been on the Olympic Peninsula since then, either. My plan to drive around the loop was hitting a snag. Trying to avoid added pressure on myself, I'd resolved not to make reservations. I dealt with deadlines every day on the job in Alpine. But the ferry from Edmonds to Kingston had been full; traffic heading across the Hood Canal Floating Bridge had been heavy. Maybe I should go back to the restaurant and call ahead to book a motel room. If nothing else, it would help kill time while I waited for the tow truck.
With my short brown hair tousled by the wind—and sand in my open-toed shoes—I trudged the long, narrow spit, my eyes straying to the rugged bulk of the Olympic Mountains that seemed to rise almost directly above the highway. I was accustomed to mountains. In Alpine, I live among them, eight miles west of the Cascade summit, in a town built into the rocky face of Tonga Ridge. Fleetingly, I thought of my little log house. Already I missed it. But, as my House and Home editor, Vida Runkel, had advised, I needed to get away. Alone. I went back into the restaurant which was still busy. Judging from the license plates in the parking lot, most of the lunch crowd were tourists like me.
The motels were also doing a brisk business. They were all booked, except for the ones that were out of my price range. The bed and breakfast establishments were full, too. Discouraged, I went into the bar and ordered a Pepsi, then felt my mouth twist with irony. Here I was, Emma Lord, forty-two years old, mother of a twenty-one-year-old son, never married, university graduate, newspaper owner, fairly bright, reasonably attractive, and sitting alone at a bar on a Tuesday afternoon drinking soda pop. No wonder I needed time to reflect. I felt like a real loser.
The woman tending bar was younger than I, but not by much. She was pretty, her makeup carefully if generously applied to hide a sallow complexion. At the moment, I was her only customer.
"Where you from?" she asked after giving me my Pepsi.
I told her. She looked vague. "Idaho?"
"No." I explained where Alpine was located. It didn't surprise me that she hadn't heard of my hometown. With only four thousand residents living in relative isolation off Stevens Pass, Alpine isn't exactly a Washington State hub.
"Traveling alone?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
I nodded.
She looked vaguely shocked. "That takes guts these days. Too many creeps out there." Using her white ceramic coffee mug, she gestured in the general direction of the entrance. "You're not camping, I hope?"
It was my turn to look shocked. "Oh, no!" I've always felt that if I had a sudden urge to sleep outdoors, I'd join the army and get paid for it. On the off chance that the bartender might have a brother or a friend in the hostelry business, I told her of my dilemma.
The best she could do was suggest places I'd already called. Frowning into her coffee mug, she shook her head. "You don't know anybody around here?" Apparently, it seemed inconceivable that a stranger should have no local connections. As a small-town dweller, I understood her thinking. Everyone knows everyone else, and half of them are somehow related. It was no different in Clallam County than it was in Skykomish County.
The bartender's question jolted my memory. "As a matter of fact, I do. Sort of," I added lamely. Before buying _The Advocate_ and moving to Alpine, I had toiled for seventeen years on _The Oregonian_ in Portland. My best friend on the paper was Mavis Marley Fulkerston, now retired and living in Tigard, Oregon. But Mavis's daughter, Jackie, had gotten married on St. Valentine's Day and moved to Port Angeles. I hadn't attended the wedding, but I'd received an invitation. I racked my brain trying to remember her husband's name. With a dawning sense of doom, I decided that I could hardly barge in on someone whose last name I didn't know. On the other hand, I'd sent Jackie and her groom a toaster oven.
The tow truck arrived just as I was finishing my drink. Overtipping the sympathetic bartender, I hurried outside. After checking the battery and finding it wasn't the cause of my trouble, we hit the road to Port Angeles. My gloomy mood persisted all the way past Morse Creek and into town. Things weren't looking up half an hour later when the mechanic at the Chevron station announced that he couldn't find the trouble. Could I wait for Jake? He knew a little something about foreign cars.
I didn't have any choice, but since Jake and his knowledge were off somewhere in the mysterious West End, I resumed cudgeling my brain for Jackie Fulkerston's married name. I went halfway through the alphabet in my mind, and stopped at _M_. With my eyes locked on the Jag which was up on the hoist, I snapped my fingers. One of the mechanics darted me a curious look.
"Melcher," I said firmly. "Do you know a young couple named Melcher? They moved here late last winter."
The mechanic, who was young and needed a shave, closed one eye and wrinkled his thin nose. "Melcher. 'Ninety-two Wrangler. 'Eighty-nine Honda Accord. Yeah, they come in here. She had a lube job on the Honda last week."
Figuring that the newlywed Melchers wouldn't have made it into the current Port Angeles phone book, I trotted over to the corner booth and dialed Directory Assistance. Jackie's husband was named Paul. Their phone was answered on the second ring.
"Emma!" shrieked Jackie Fulkerston Melcher. "How _funny!"_ To my dismay, she began to sob.
"Jackie, what's wrong?" I asked, alarmed.
Two gulps later, she replied: "I'm pregnant! Isn't it wonderful?" She sobbed some more.
"Well... it sure is." I frowned into the stainless steel pay phone panel. "I... uh... just thought I'd call and say hi since I'm passing through."
Jackie sniffed loudly before speaking again. "You've got to stop in and have a drink or something. Where are you?"
I told her, then added that my car was temporarily out of commission. I was beginning to feel embarrassed.
Jackie, however, was a font of sympathy. "Oh, how awful when you're on a trip! I _hate_ it when that happens! Remember the time Mom had to drive down to Coos Bay and her wheels fell off?"
I did, but my version wasn't quite the same. Mavis had hit a deep rut while trying to turn around off the highway and had jarred her axle. I'd forgotten that Jackie was inclined to dramatic exaggeration.
"Cars are such a _pain,"_ Jackie was saying, and I could envision her wide mouth turning down at the corners and her gray eyes rolling heavenward. "Listen, I'll be down to get you in five minutes. We're right up here on Lincoln Hill. Oh, I'm so _glad_ you called! It's like the answer to a prayer!"
I was properly surprised. "It is?" Not having seen Jackie since her mother's retirement party two years ago, I couldn't imagine why she'd been invoking divine intervention to hear my voice.
"Yes! It's incredible, the next best thing to having Mom show up. Paul and I need an inquiring mind."
I was beginning to think Jackie could use any kind of mind that operated on a more even keel than her own. "Oh? How come?" My tone was neutral.
Jackie lowered her voice, and instead of a tearful vibrato, she giggled. "It's so _weird_ , Emma. You won't believe this!" She tittered, she gasped, she let out an odd howling sound. "We found a body! In our basement! Isn't that _great!"_ Jackie burst into fresh sobs.
There was a bit of comfort in finding someone whose mental state was more unstable than my own. Or so I mused, as I leaned against a lamp post at the corner of Ninth and Lincoln, waiting for Jackie Melcher to pick me up.
I wasn't alarmed. The alleged body could be anything, including a dog, a squirrel, or a gopher. Jackie's sense of high drama was probably exacerbated by pregnancy. She'd always been a volatile girl, full of energy one minute, given to morose moodiness the next. She would often exasperate her mother but never her father who doted on his daughter.
Fortunately for the Fulkerstons, their two sons were rock-solid specimens. One was an oceanographer in California; the other produced films for the City of Portland. Jackie, as I recalled, had majored in French at my alma matter, the University of Oregon.
But, I reminded myself, while Jackie was young and pregnant, I had no such excuses for capricious behavior. After twenty-two years of waiting for the father of my son to get up the nerve to leave his wife, I'd come to the realization that while Tom Cavanaugh might care for me as much as I cared for him, he put duty above love. Of course he'd call it _honor_ , as men often do, but it boiled down to the same thing. Sandra Cavanaugh was the mother of his other two children, and when it came to mental instability, I couldn't hold a candle to her. But then neither could Napoleon. Sandra suffered from a variety of emotional problems, all no doubt caused by the fact that she was born rich. Or so I'd always told myself.
Tom and I had met when I interned on _The Seattle Times_. Sandra's mental disorders were only beginning to surface, but living with her had become sufficiently difficult that Tom had sought comfort in my arms. He'd also apparently sought something in Sandra's because we both got pregnant about the same time. Not without regret, Tom had chosen to stay with his wife. I chose to leave Seattle and have my baby in Mississippi where my brother, Ben, was serving as a priest in the home missions. I also chose—fiercely and proudly—to raise Adam alone. If Tom wouldn't give me his name, he wasn't going to give me any help, by God. For almost twenty years, I shut him out of my life. And out of Adam's, which wasn't entirely fair to either of them.
In the past two years, I'd relented. Tom had shown up in Alpine, and I'd succumbed to his entreaties to let him meet Adam. Father and son had gotten along very well.
Father and Mother had, too, so much so that when I'd attended a weekly newspaper conference at Lake Chelan in June, Tom and I had ended up in bed.
For three days and three nights, we pretended it was forever. We knew better, though. Tom no longer needed Sandra's fortune as a base for his newspaper ventures, but Sandra needed Tom. He wouldn't forsake her, and I would have loved him less if he had. Tom neither loved nor lived lightly, which I suppose is why I could never quite let go. We are too much alike.
But there was no future in it. If I wanted to marry, maybe even have another child, I had to put the past aside. "Keep your options open," Vida Runkel had counseled. "You've put up a barrier to everyone but Tommy."
Only Vida could get away with calling Tom _Tommy_. And only Vida could speak so frankly to me. Even my brother, in his kind but indecisive manner, wouldn't take such a resolute stand. Ben not only sees both sides of every issue, he considers all the angles and contours. I am prone to do the same. Ben vacillates; I'm objective. Either way, the result is that it's very hard for both of us to make crucial decisions.
Thus Vida was right. I needed a shove in order to get going. Over the years, there had been a few other men in my life, but never one I really loved. I wouldn't let myself love them, asserted Vida. I had built a dream house on sand, and the tide was coming in fast.
Watching traffic pass by, half of which bore out-of-county license plates, I thought of Sheriff Milo Dodge. Like me, Milo was afraid of letting go. Divorced for the past six years, Milo refused to commit himself to his current ladylove, Honoria Whitman. Honoria was getting impatient. I didn't blame her. But I didn't blame Milo, either. Like me, he was afraid. Sometimes I wondered if Milo and I were afraid of each other. We spent quite a bit of time together but had only kissed once, which was sort of an accident. Or so I had thought in the heat of the moment.
A white Honda Accord pulled up at the curb. Behind the wheel, Jackie Melcher waved frantically, her heart-shaped face wreathed in smiles. I jumped in and we shot across the intersection before I could fasten my seat belt.
"Emma, you look great! You got your hair cut!"
I laughed, patting the gamine style I'd acquired not long before going off to Chelan. "It's nice and cool for summer," I said noncommittally.
Jackie was heading through the main part of town, past the handsome old red brick courthouse I remembered from my last visit. A large new modern building stood next door. Apparently it now housed the county offices.
"The old courthouse is a museum," Jackie said, following my gaze as she stopped at a traffic light.
"How do you like Port Angeles?" I inquired, having decided to hold off asking Jackie about her alleged body in the basement. It was the sort of question best discussed over strong coffee or a weak drink.
Jackie wrinkled her button nose. "It's okay. The setting's great. But I miss Portland."
"Me, too," I replied. After four years in Alpine, I still missed the vitality and the variety of the city. My plans to spend as many weekends as possible in my native Seattle had never quite worked out. I was lucky to get into the city once every couple of months.
But Jackie was right about her surroundings. Port Angeles was nestled at the base of Mount Angeles which seemed to glower over the town like a sullen guardian angel. The outskirts were dense with evergreens, signaling the start of the vast Olympic National Park. While new businesses seemed to abound on the long stretch of highway that led into the heart of Port Angeles, the mountains to the south and the strait on the north were a reminder that residents lived close to Nature.
We turned on First Street, which is also Highway 101. The houses were sturdy and old, though none reached quite as far back as the Victorian era. Like Alpine, Port Angeles was built into the foothills of the mountains. Unlike Alpine, the ascent was more gradual, starting at sea level.
Jackie pulled into a paved driveway that led to a detached garage that couldn't have held more than one modern car. I stared. The house that was set back among the Douglas firs was huge. The style suggested a Spanish mission reinterpreted by a late Victorian mentality. A giant monkey tree stood in the middle of the front lawn, with a smaller, less imposing oak near the corner of the house. A concrete retaining wall separated the newlyweds' house from a two-story ramshackle edifice that looked deserted. Jackie followed my gaze and emitted a little snort of disgust.
"That was the old livery stable that served the whole neighborhood. It's a _wreck_. I don't know why it doesn't fall down in a strong wind." She led me back onto the sidewalk so that I could get a better view of the house from the front.
Several of the camelia bushes appeared to be at death's door. The magnolias didn't look much better, and even the peonies seemed lifeless. Three stories of faded amber paint, a wraparound porch with peeling Moorish arches, a big lawn choked by weeds, a scarred river rock foundation, and a roof with missing shingles all combined to validate Jackie's description.
"You must have gotten a real deal on this place," I said.
Jackie laughed immoderately. "We sure did. It was free." She started back toward the driveway. "Paul inherited it from his uncle," she explained, leading the way to the back door. "Uncle Arthur lived here until about fifteen years ago when he got Alzheimer's and had to go into a nursing home. Uncle Arthur died last year. Aunt Wilma bought a condo in Sequim, but she died before he did. We decided to move here and fix the place up. That's how we found the body."
The interior of the house appeared to be in much better shape than the exterior. We were in the kitchen, which had been renovated and enlarged. I guessed that Jackie and her groom had enclosed the back porch. Gleaming black appliances were set off by red and white accents. A white tiled island stood in the middle, with a rack of stainless steel cookware suspended overhead. The basic design was orderly, but the counters were cluttered with pizza boxes, old newspapers, grocery bags, and empty bottled water containers. Jackie headed straight for the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of white wine.
"I can't drink but you can," she said, waving the bottle at me. "I'll have some mineral water."
I didn't question her abstinence, though I recalled downing reasonable quantities of Canadian whiskey with Ben while I awaited the birth of Adam. Neither Ben nor I ever got seriously drunk, and my son seemed sober enough when he finally arrived. But this was over twenty years later, and perhaps medical knowledge had made progress. Then again, doctors were still practicing. They probably never would get it perfect.
Carrying a delicate long-stemmed glass, I followed Jackie into what she called the den, but what I suspected had once been a library. This space was also littered, with magazines, videocassettes, tapes, CDs, and more newspapers. It appeared that Jackie didn't spend her spare time cleaning house.
The room was freshly painted in a soft shade of green. A tiled fireplace was flanked by glass-fronted bookcases that contained mostly paperbacks. Along the middle molding were the brass heads of monks, at least a dozen of them, their expressions ranging from puckish to surly. The furnishings were sparse, befitting a monk's cell. The absence of more than a small sofa, a huge cushiony footstool, and a TV set didn't bespeak a disdain for worldly goods, but rather a credit limit on a charge card.
Jackie collapsed into the footstool that seemed to devour her small frame. The flannel shirt she wore over her jeans concealed any signs of pregnancy. Running a hand through the natural waves of her taffy-colored hair, she sighed.
"It's going to take forever. I hope we get the roof replaced before winter sets in. The baby's due at the end of December." Jackie had turned pensive. The topsy-turvy emotions she'd displayed earlier over the phone seemed in abeyance. "We've already spent a fortune on making the house livable. Paul can do some of the work himself, but not the major stuff."
I tried to remember what Mavis had told me about Paul Melcher. She and Roy liked their son-in-law, I knew that much. It seemed to me that Paul was some sort of engineer. I fished a little, hoping not to show my ignorance.
"Paul was lucky to get a job here," I remarked, thinking that the bare green walls cried out for a framed print or two.
Jackie nodded enthusiastically. "It was a near thing. We thought we'd have to move here and wait it out for a while, but then that opening came along at Rayonier. In fact, he actually started work right after New Year's, before we got married. That's why we couldn't go on a honeymoon. He didn't have any vacation yet."
ITT Rayonier was the big pulp plant down on the water. I'd seen its billows of smoke from the tow truck. Like Alpine, Port Angeles was still dependent on the timber industry, though it had been able to diversify over the years. Fishing and tourism also contributed to the town's economic base.
"He gets off at four," she said, glancing at her watch. I did the same. It was just three fifty-five. I postponed asking the inevitable and switched to baby-related inquiries instead. Jackie beamed and glowed, discussing plans for the nursery upstairs and promising to take me on a tour of the house when I finished my wine.
The phone rang as she was listing potential names for both girls and boys. Jackie heaved herself out of the cushioned footstool and left the den. A moment later, she shouted for me. It was the Chevron station. Jake had finally returned from the West End. He didn't have the foggiest notion what was wrong with my car. Could I have it towed over to Dusty's Foreign Auto Repair?
I could, of course. I'd have to. I wondered if my towing insurance covered two trips in one day. I sought the Yellow Pages and called a local tow company. Then I turned glum.
"They can't possibly fix it before evening," I moaned out loud.
"Big deal." Jackie shrugged and led us back into the kitchen. "Have some more wine. We've got tons of room. Five bedrooms, take your pick. Except ours." She showed me her dimples.
I started to make the usual demurs about not wanting to impose, but Jackie ran right over me. "Hey, why not? We haven't told you about our body yet. I'll send for pizza." The light behind her eyes went out. "I usually do lately. I get sick every time I look at the stove."
She was pouring my second glass of wine when Paul Melcher came home. A stocky young man in his early thirties, he sported a neatly-trimmed blond mustache and a faintly receding hairline. His handshake was firm and sincere.
"I've heard Mama Mavis talk about you," he said with a diffident grin. "You two used to get into a lot of trouble at _The Oregonian_ , right?"
If trouble was sneaking out for a beer and a burger while working after hours, then I guess we qualified. But I merely laughed and tossed my head as if Mavis and I were indeed a couple of scamps.
Jackie poured wine for Paul, another mineral water for herself, and we adjourned to the den. Paul seemed mesmerized by the sad story of my Jaguar. He speculated upon its problems.
"Those Jags—they're a wonderful piece of automobile," he said with a serious expression on his face, "but they don't call the head of their engineering department Dr. Demento for nothing."
"Really?" I winced. But I had been warned. In fact, it was Mavis who had told me that if I couldn't afford the price of a new Jag—and I couldn't, not even with my unexpected inheritance which had also allowed me to buy _The Advocate_ —then I probably couldn't afford the repairs. It appeared that I'd been lucky. So far.
My eyes glazed over as Paul presented a litany of possible cause. The starter. The stick shift. The electrical system. I wondered what kind of pizza Jackie would order. Pastrami sounded good to me.
"... With parts. Now over in Victoria they'd probably be able to get..." Paul seemed unusually talkative for an engineer, rambling on while carefully piling the magazines and stacking the videocassettes. He finally shut up. Jackie was weeping. "Sweets, what's wrong now?" He reached over from his place next to me on the small sofa and patted her knee.
Jackie wiped her eyes and sighed. "All this talk of fancy cars. How many people live in an old beat-up Volkswagon van? It made me think of the homeless. Why do they have to live under bridges? Do you think anybody is living under a bridge in Port Angeles? We have so many of them, with all these gullies."
Gently, Paul soothed her. There weren't that many homeless people in town. It was July, and while the summer weather had been cool and uncertain, nobody would take cold even if they had to sleep under a bridge. Shelters were provided. The churches were helping out. The United Way was doing its best. Jackie shouldn't worry. The baby would get upset. Paul's arguments were logical, orderly.
Wanly, Jackie smiled at her husband. "You're right, Lamb-love. Let's talk about something cheerful. Like the body."
Paul rubbed her knee. "That's my Sweets." He gave me another big grin. "Emma would like to hear about that. It's pretty interesting."
"I'll bet it is," I said, bracing myself. "When did you find this... ah... body?"
Paul's grin faded only a mite. "Yesterday." He stood up. "We're keeping it in the basement. Want to see it? Afterward, we can order pizza."
#
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A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1994 by Mary Daheim
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-94193
eISBN: 978-0-307-76012-8
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