 
### Closing Accounts

by E. P. Cowley

Copyright 2015 E.P. Cowley

Smashwords Edition

Cover illustration by J. Cowley

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\--Until the day dawns

and the morning star rises . . .

### TABLE OF CONTENTS

LETTY BEGINS

MICHAEL'S SKETCH

THE PAINTER'S EXPOSITION

EXTRACTS FROM THE BOOK OF TALES

The Poor Man and His Treasure

The Ungrateful Guests

The Girl Who Was Robbed

A Tale of Two Sons

QUIETUS

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgements and Author Information

### LETTY BEGINS

Far away, on the coast of a northern country, on a lonely farm beside the sea, a daughter was born to poor parents. Everything else in the world seemed old and jaded, and no one cared about the birth but the mother, the father, and a very old woman with a strangely carved staff. She was on her way home across the fields and had stopped in to get out of the cold. No one knew where she'd come from.

"She's a fine baby," the old woman said, "and I give her my blessing. She'll be one of those who see beyond." Then the old woman left.

"What did she mean by that?" the father said.

"I've no idea," the mother replied, and over the days and months that followed, the old woman was forgotten in the struggle to keep food on the table and fuel on the fire.

One day, after a rainstorm, when the girl was three years old, she wandered away from the house, across the grass and over the hill. She had decided to follow the rainbow.

After a while, the mother came out of the house and called to the father who was working in the garden, "Where's Letty?"

"Dunno," Father said, "I thought she was with you."

"And I thought she was with you," Mother said. "Oh dear, where could she have gotten to?"

"Maybe she's hiding in the house. Children do that sometimes, don't they?" Father said, but he was really thinking of the mountain lion tracks he'd seen behind the house just that morning, and Mother was thinking of the well.

Just then, the sun shone out and Letty came tromping over the hill, her short fair curls waving in the wind. Relieved, Mother and Father waved at her. Letty waved back with a closed fist and as she came closer, they saw she had something clenched in her hand that glittered in the sun.

"What do you have there, Letty," Father said.

"Yellow," Letty said. "Sunshine." She grinned and opened her hand. A large gold coin flashed in the sun. "Shines," she said, and gave it to her father. In her other hand she clutched two more coins and there were nine more stuffed in the pockets of her thin sweater.

"A dozen gold coins!" Mother exclaimed. "Letty, wherever did you get them?"

But being so young, she could say no more.

The gold went a long way. There were improvements on the farm. Letty had warmer clothes, and that winter the family had more fuel for the fire.

* * * * * * *

The spring that Letty turned six, she took up a piece of charcoal and began to draw on the side of their whitewashed house. Instead of being angry, the father and mother were surprised and pleased. Letty's drawings were beautiful: wistful rabbits and sly foxes, half human sea creatures, laughing faces peeking out of leafy vines, and the huge forms of gods and goddesses standing in a garden. Letty drew all these and more until the walls of the house were covered. Then, one day after a rain, the sun came out and Letty marched off in the direction of the rainbow.

"Where are you going?" her mother called.

"Back soon," Letty called, and disappeared over the hill.

She returned three hours later, tired, her pockets stuffed with golden coins. She marched into the house and dumped all the coins on the table before her startled parents.

"Where have you been?" her father asked.

"This is the last time. I'm getting too old," was all the girl said.

"This will last a lifetime, child," her father said. Which was true. He and his wife were thrifty and wise. But, the next time Father went into the city, he came home with canvas and brushes and paints. He gave them all to Letty and said, "See what you can do with these, child."

So, Letty began to paint. She painted pictures of the sea and the fields, wild animals, and other strange creatures that had no name the mother or father could recall.

One day, years later, when Letty was twelve, Father hauled in his fishing nets and found a large speckled seal entangled in the ropes. He raised his knife to cut its throat when he heard shouting behind him. Turning, he saw Letty running out of the house, waving her arms, crying, "Father! Stop! Don't kill her!"

"Why not?" Father said as she drew close and held back his arm. "Why not, child? We have to eat too."

"But Father," Letty said. "Can't you see she's a great lady?"

Father looked down at the seal's dark eyes. The seal was gazing at Letty as if it knew the girl. "No, Letty," Father said, "I see a wild creature, not a lady."

"But don't you see? She's the great and beautiful lady I drew on the back wall of the house years ago."

Father looked at Letty, then he looked at the seal. Suddenly he remembered the old woman who had appeared at Letty's birth. "Do you see beyond, child?" he asked.

"I see this lady. Don't you?"

"No, but I'll set the creature free."

"Father, let me do it. It wouldn't be proper for you to touch her."

So Letty took her father's knife and cut the net to let the seal free. As the seal turned to go, Letty curtseyed and Father, taking his cue from Letty, bowed awkwardly. Then the seal splashed off and disappeared in the waves.

Letty took the nets, sat down on a rock and began to mend the cuts and tears. Father sat down beside her staring off to sea.

"Look, Letty!" he cried suddenly.

A crowd of dark heads rose above the waves: seals, swimming toward the shore. One by one they flopped onto the sand, flung a large fish at Father's feet, then splashed back into the sea. When they were done, Father said, "Letty, this is far more than my net would have held."

But Letty wasn't paying attention. She was waving to a large speckled seal sitting on a rock on the other side of the cove. For a flash of time, Father saw a great lady with long dark hair, dressed in sparkling robes. Then there was the seal again and it plunged back into the sea.

When Father told Mother the tale, she was frightened. "Husband, what if you had killed her! We must be more careful. If only we could see like Letty does."

"I'll ask Letty to paint the lady, then you'll see."

So Father took the fish into the city and sold them. He returned with more canvas and paint for Letty, saying, "Here, child. See what you can do with these."

* * * * * * *

One day, when Letty was fourteen, she asked to go to the city with Father.

"Why, Letty? It's no place for someone like you," he said.

But Letty insisted and so, one morning very early, she and Father set off.

When they reached the outskirts of the city, Father hid their cart in some bushes and tethered the horse to a nearby tree.

"Why are you doing that, Father?" Letty said.

"You'll see by and by, Letty," Father replied.

Out of the cart he pulled an old piece of sacking which he wrapped around Letty's head and shoulders like a shawl. Then he took out an old, frayed overcoat and hat and put them on.

"Father, why must we dress like beggars?" Letty asked.

"So we don't get hurt," he replied, then he hoisted his sack of fish and vegetables on his back and they set off walking down the road.

As they approached the city, the bright morning sky darkened. Thick smoke issued from tall buildings and a foul smelling fog hung just above the ground. They came to a building with a pointed steeple and boarded windows. A man wearing red and white robes stood on the steps. He held up one hand, as if in blessing, but he was shouting at the small crowd of pinched looking people who stood within the gate. Letty thought he sounded like a snarling dog and as she came nearer, she saw that the man's robes were soiled and frayed.

"Why do those people stay to listen to that man?" Letty asked.

"Perhaps they think he's got something to give them," Father replied.

"But Father," Letty said, "anyone can see his hands are empty."

After that, the roads became crowded with people all moving toward the gate of the city.

"Father," Letty said, "I see why you didn't bring the cart. There are so many people on this road; there wouldn't have been room to drive it."

"That's not the only reason," Father said. He took Letty's arm and held tight.

Just then there was a scuffling behind them, a thump and a muffled cry. Father and Letty turned to see a young man on the ground and rough hands pulling off his beautiful silk coat.

Father pulled his beggar's disguise closer about him, but Letty said, "Father, we should help that man!"

It was too late. Though the young man jumped to his feet shouting and threatening, the thieves ran off, the crowd parting to make way. "My grandfather gave me that coat! It was a birthday present!" he cried, but the crowd pressed on and moved around him.

"Come, Letty," Father said, pulling the old sack shawl closer around her fair curls. "It won't do to linger."

"But Father, that poor man! Can nothing be done?"

"No," Father said, then he took Letty's arm and pulled her along.

When they reached the center of the city, Father went directly to the Market Square and took a stall where he laid out his vegetables and fish. He gave Letty a few coins and warned her not to leave the Square.

"I told Mother I'd bring you back safe. Don't wander far," he said.

She walked among the stalls for a while, but the townspeople made her uneasy. They were dirty and dishevelled. The adults mostly scowled and the children all looked sad. Letty bought herself a bag of penny candy, a pad of paper and a box of coloured pencils, then she went and sat at her father's stall and began to draw.

At first she drew the buildings that loomed over the square like grey ragged cliffs. Then she began to draw the people, buying and selling, haggling and thieving. After a while she began to draw other things.

"What's that?" said a voice beside her. "Looks like a man with wings. I don't see him nowhere. And why is his face so bright?"

Letty turned to see a little boy at her shoulder, rumpled and dirty; he had dark curly hair beneath his cap and he was too thin. She looked down at her drawing of the crowded square and there, head and shoulders above the people, was the figure the boy spoke of. She looked up and three stalls away the same bright face smiled at her.

"Don't you see him?" she asked.

"Naw. There ain't no one here like that." the boy said. He leaned against Letty and put his head on her shoulder. "I wish there were, though. Someone like that could fix things."

Letty tore the drawing from her book and gave it to the boy along with a handful of candy. "Here," she said, "you take this and go look for him. Keep your eyes open. If you look hard enough you'll find him."

The boy jammed the candy in his mouth, then walked off into the thick of the crowd, holding the drawing in front of him like a map.

Letty sat quietly for a while, watching her father sell his goods. She was glad to see he gave away almost as much as he sold. About midday he turned to her and said, "Letty, go find us some lunch."

"Where should I go?"

"I don't rightly know. Mother always puts bread and cheese in a bag for these trips, but I must have gone and left it at home."

"Don't worry, Father. I'll find something."

Letty walked from stall to stall. There were other farmers selling vegetables and some selling fish, women selling jewellery and pottery. She saw china and candy, baskets and fancy pastry, silk scarves and bolts of beautiful cloth, but nowhere could she find what she was looking for: bread.

If ever I come back here, Letty thought, it will be with two dozen of Mother's loaves to sell.

At last, rounding a quiet corner of the Market Square, Letty saw something. The man with the bright face and wings was squatting in the street beside the boy with the black curls. Next to them, a very old woman holding a strangely carved staff stood at a stall piled with bread. The little boy was taking big bites out of a soft loaf. When he saw Letty, he swallowed hard and said, "There she is. She's the one who drew the picture."

Letty came closer.

"Hey! I never found that man with the wings," the boy said. He held out the drawing, now wrinkled and grubby round the edges.

"Yes you have," Letty said, "He's right beside you."

"Who, him?" the boy said, jerking a thumb at the man. "This is Joe. He ain't got wings."

The man stood up and offered Letty his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Miss."

Letty shook his hand and as she did, for a split second, she saw a middle-aged man in a tattered black overcoat. Then her vision snapped back and she saw the wings and the bright face.

"Joe's alright," the boy confided to Letty. "He showed me where to find this here bread lady."

Letty handed the drawing back to the boy, but he waved if off, saying, "Naw, I don't need that. I just need somthin' to eat."

"Would you like some bread, child?" the old woman asked Letty.

"Yes, please. My father asked me to get some lunch and I've been looking all over for bread. How much does it cost?"

"Nothing. This bread is free," the old woman said.

"Free!" Letty exclaimed. "But why . . . why," she faltered and looked around the Square.

"Why isn't everyone here at my stall?" the old woman said. "Well, it's just plain and simple bread, my dear. I suppose it's not to everyone's liking."

"But these people look hungry," Letty said, "and you must be the only person in the market selling bread."

"But she ain't _sellin'_ it," the boy said.

The woman pulled three loaves out of a basket and put them in Letty's hands.

"Oh," Letty said. "My father and I could never eat all this."

"Take them, child. You never know who you'll meet."

"Thank you," Letty said, then, without knowing why, she curtseyed to the old woman and to Joe. Joe flexed his wings and bowed in return, but only Letty saw.

"Coo! You ain't from 'round here, are you," the boy said.

Letty was halfway across the market when she felt a tug on the back of her skirt. The boy had followed her. He carried two loaves of bread. And he can probably eat them all himself, Letty thought.

"Joe said I should come with you 'cause the crowd here ain't always safe.

"Do you have a name?" Letty asked him.

"Sure. I'm Peter."

"And Joe sent you to look after me?"

"Sure he did."

Peter took Letty's free hand and she smiled at her small protector, but she was glad of his company. As they passed through the crowded market they were followed by scornful comments such as "breadeaters!" and "who eats that stuff anymore!" And, Letty saw figures with shadowy deformed faces that were hardly human: faces she would never dare to draw for fear her pen would burn holes in the paper.

They found Father waiting anxiously.

"Was I gone too long?" Letty asked.

"There's strange folk in the town, Letty," Father said. "And a man--I think it's the mayor--is looking for someone as made a drawing," he said in a lower voice.

"Here, take some bread." Letty said. "You need to eat. And this is Peter. He's been looking after me."

"Hello, Peter," Father said. "But about this drawing, Letty. Was it you? Did you go drawing on a wall or something?"

"No Father. I drew something on paper," and she pulled the sketch out of her pocket.

"Well, well," Father said after a minute. "You certainly got the town right, and the people; but who is this tall man here? Are those wings?"

"Excuse me, man," said a voice behind them, "let me see that paper."

Letty turned to see a group of people at their stall. The man who had spoken was round with a red beard. He was, in fact, the mayor of the city and was accounted by many to be jolly and kind. But Letty only saw his face twisted with arrogance and his roundness squeezed into a beautiful silk coat that she knew had been torn off the back of a young man just that morning. The mayor was flanked by his councillors: sullen men and women whose faces were marked by ambition.

Father silently passed the drawing to the mayor who said, "I saw a boy carrying this picture around the marketplace, but when I asked him for it, he ran away."

Peter stood behind Letty, hiding his face in her skirt.

"Who drew this?" the Mayor demanded.

Towering behind the heads of the councillors, the bright face of Joe appeared. Letty took courage and said, "I did. I drew that."

The Mayor must have smiled, but all Letty saw was his greedy leer. "Ah. What it is to be young with fanciful thoughts. But you draw very well, girl. Do you paint?"

"Yes, sir," Letty said.

" Ah. Very interesting. Perhaps," he said in a softer voice, "you might paint my portrait."

"I cannot, sir. I have no paints or brushes here."

"But those are easily supplied, and if you're a good girl and you finish quickly, you can go home" said the Mayor. He snapped his fingers and in moments, brushes, paints and an easel appeared with a very large canvas. The councillors began to push the crowd back to make room. "I need a plain portrait for my office. I'm up for re-election in a month's time, you see." Letty thought he bared his teeth like an untamed dog.

"Alright," said Letty, though she trembled," but it must be here in the Square. I will not leave my father."

"Will not?" repeated one of the councillors.

"Never mind. It shall be done. Perhaps you have in mind our grand City Hall as the background?" the Mayor said, pointing to a building that loomed overhead. It might have been grand, but Letty saw a crumbling edifice whose blackened walls were slimed with nameless filth.

As the Mayor preened and the councillors fussed over his hair and shouted at the pressing crowed, Father took Letty's hand and felt her trembling. "Can you do it, Letty? It's a big canvas."

"It's not the size of the canvas that worries me, Father."

"Of course. You've done bigger pictures than this. How could I forget the walls of our own house? Then what frightens you, child?"

"Father, you know I paint what I see. If I paint the Mayor as I see him, he won't like it." Letty sighed and her hands shook. "What do I do?"

Father looked at her gravely. "Paint what you see, Letty. No more, no less. Mother would say the same thing."

"But Father . . ." Letty began.

He squeezed her hand gently and said, "Letty, that tall man you drew with the wings and bright face? After looking at your drawing, I can see him now too. He's over there."

Letty looked over her shoulder, and there was Joe standing near the easel.

"Father, when you look at him now do you never see a man in a black overcoat?" she asked.

"Mostly never," Father said.

"Now girl," said the Mayor, snapping his fingers. "It is time to begin. Shall I have the royal mayor's chair brought out so you can paint me in that?"

"No sir," Letty said. "If you could sit on a high stool, it would set you in the right light against the background you've chosen."

"Yes, yes. The right light. Of course," said the Mayor, looking pleased.

"Sir," Letty said as someone fetched a stool, "why ask me to paint your portrait? Surely there are artists in this city who are better painters."

"True," said the Mayor. "You are just a child. Once we did have great artists in this town but I've been told they've all grown old or gone blind; they're no good to me. If you do this well, you'll be handsomely rewarded."

The Mayor arranged himself on the stool and Letty began to paint. At first her strokes were timid, but soon her other vision took over and she painted swiftly, confidently, with deft strokes. To the onlookers it seemed that the brushes had become part of her hand.

Peter crept out from behind Father's stall and stood beside Letty. She saw him out of the corner of her eye. In another part of her mind she also knew that Joe stood nearby and that other beings like him had come and were visible among the crowd. But her hands did not falter. She painted what she saw: the sickened building, the corrupted politician in his stolen coat.

After an hour, she stood back to allow the Mayor a break. "May I look? Is it nearly finished?" he asked.

"Not yet," she said, in answer to both questions.

Someone brought a tray of drinks and rich pastries for the Mayor. He offered some to Letty, but she refused and, after taking a mouthful of bread, began to work once more.

It was late in the afternoon when Letty finished. The people in the market were packing up their stalls. The crowd had thinned and Father's bag of fish and vegetables was long empty. He and Peter were sitting on the curb waiting. Joe sat beside them. They were eating bread and sharing it with a small crowd of children who had gathered round. There was still one loaf left. Father had it tucked under his arm and held it out to Letty as she finished cleaning her brushes and her hands. She broke off an end and gratefully took a bite.

"Finished?" he asked.

Letty nodded, eyeing the canvas doubtfully. What would the Mayor say?

"The child has captured you. To the life," said a surly councillor.

"Oh yes!" said another. "Your beneficence is apparent to all!"

"Let me see! Let me see!" cried the mayor, jumping off the stool. He gazed at the painting for several minutes, then said, "Do I really look like that?"

"Yes," said Letty gravely.

"Yes! Oh yes!" exclaimed the councillors.

They might have been smiling in praise, but to Letty they looked like snarling dogs.

"Why, this will seal my re-election!" cried the exultant Mayor.

Confused, Letty watched as different people in the crowd approached the canvas while the Mayor stood by proudly. Most smiled and nodded in praise, but a few looked from the picture to the Mayor and back again, then turned away in silent horror. She noticed that the children kept their backs to the painting, and Peter whispered in her ear, "I didn't exactly see him that way, but I knew it all along."

At last the Mayor picked up the painting carefully and carried it across the Square to City Hall, bowing and nodding at people he passed just as if he'd painted the portrait himself. His councillors collected the easel, brushes and paints and, without a single word to Letty, followed the Mayor to his offices.

"Hey! I thought they was gonna pay you for paintin' that picture," Peter said.

"Never mind. We can leave now. That's all I care about," Letty said. She watched the shadowy figures that were slinking into the Square now that the marketers were leaving.

"Time to go. Best to be out of this place before the sun sets," Father said. He shouldered his empty sack, took Letty's arm and, accompanied by Peter, Joe and the children, left the marketplace. As they passed through the streets, the children left them one by one and ran off to their homes with cries of thanks for the bread. When they reached the edge of town, only Peter and Joe were left.

"Where's your home?" Letty said to Peter.

"Don't have one no more," he replied. "Can't I come with you?"

"Of course you can," Father said.

"There's evil folk about this evenin'. I'll see you safely out the gate," Joe said to Father.

* * * * * * *

In the time that followed, Father went back to the city now and again to sell his goods, but Letty never returned and Peter saw no reason to go back. His new life was enough for him with warm clothes and plenty of food, the blue sky and the sea. He never talked about his old life. If Father saw Joe on his trips to the marketplace, he never mentioned it; but ever after, when Letty painted a picture, somewhere in the background a tall figure with wings appeared.

Not more than two years later, when Letty was about sixteen and the world was as perilous as it had ever been, Father came home from the city with a cart full of children.

"This is a strange load you bring!" Mother exclaimed, "And what about those other things I asked for?"

"Can't be had for love nor money," Father replied.

"What!" Mother exclaimed. "No rice? No tea or sugar?"

"There's no food to be had in the town, and what there is has been hoarded by the rich. It was Joe asked me to bring these children home. You remember what I told you about him."

"What did he say?" Mother asked.

"He said it mightn't be long now."

"What mightn't be long now?" Mother said.

"Dunno. That's just what he said."

So Mother helped the children down from the cart while Letty prepared soup and Peter gathered blankets. The children were ragged, thin, and silent. One little girl was too sick to walk. Father carried her inside and laid her on Letty's bed. Mother led the other children to the table, thinking they'd be hungry as young wolves. They wouldn't eat.

"What's wrong with these children?" Mother asked.

"Joe says their folks has up and disappeared," Father said. "And there's war coming. No doubt they've seen things as would make your blood run cold. The city's a bad place now. It was always bad, but now it's worse. I only stayed long enough for Joe to round up these children."

"Didn't you sell the fish?" Mother asked.

"Gave it all away. No one but the very rich has money anymore, and people are starving."

Father was silent for a time, then said, "No doubt if I was to go back tomorrow, Joe could send me home with another cart load same as today. But, he told me not to come back."

The children sat silently in front of their steaming bowls until one little boy said, "I wish Joe was here."

"Me too," said another, and they began to cry quietly.

Letty went to the shed where she kept her paints and came back with a large canvas. "Here's Joe," she said, turning the picture around.

"That ain't Joe," said an older boy.

"Sure it is," said the little boy. "I seen him like that dozens of times."

"That's how he always looks," said another child.

"With wings? You're mad."

"Keeps 'em under his black coat, don't he," said a little girl.

"What black coat? He never wore no black coat."

"But that's his face, for sure," said an older girl. "I'd know that shining anywhere."

"Who made that picture?" someone asked.

"I did," Letty said, "after I met Joe."

"So it is him," said the older boy, and one by one, the children began to eat.

Using what she had, Mother made better clothes for all the children. After a week of good food they were strong enough and willing to help in the garden and with the chores. They had the blue sky and the sea, and more than one walked out with Letty and began to see other things. The little sick girl did not get better. Mother and the oldest boy, who was her brother, tended her night and day, but they all knew she would never get well and would leave them soon.

* * * * * * *

It was MidWinter's Eve. The sun had set in a fiery glow and seemed larger than normal. Mother and the children were all in bed, but Letty stood under the night sky, beside the lapping sea.

Father came out to her. "Letty, why aren't you in bed?"

"I'm watching the stars, Father. They're falling tonight."

Father looked up and saw that one side of the sky was completely dark. "Looks to me like clouds moving in," he said. "Why don't you go to bed, Letty. Tomorrow is the MidWinter feast. You don't want to be asleep on your feet."

"I must keep watch tonight, Father. There will be no tomorrow. Not like we're used to."

"Letty! I'm surprised at you! You paint some strange things, but I never thought you'd be one of those doomsday sayers."

"I'm not, Father, but I know what I see. The world is changing tonight and I must keep watch."

"Keep watch? Humph. I don't understand, but I'll stay with you. I think I'll light a fire."

There was a great show of shooting stars that night. Father sat huddled by the fire, but Letty stood facing the sea with her face raised to the last blinking stars. Other lights appeared around the cove and up and down the coast.

"What are those lights, Letty?" Father said.

"Watchfires burning. We are not alone."

The night deepened. Looking up, Father said, "Letty, what is that red smear in the sky?"

"It's the moon."

"Why does it look like that? Is it behind a red cloud?"

Letty did not answer and Father shut his eyes against the strange sight.

Hours later, as the red moon sank behind the distant hills, Father woke suddenly, though he could not remember falling asleep. Letty still stood on the shore. He could see her by the light of the fire.

"This is a long night, Letty, but surely we will see the dawn soon."

"Time is almost over, Father."

"True. The night must be nearly over." He fed the fire and looked back at the house. No one was stirring. Then he heard something.

"Letty! What is that noise?" he cried, jumping up. "Is it tramping feet? Is it the sound of war?"

"No, Father," Letty said. "It's the sound of beating wings."

A strong wind lifted their hair. "What is it, Letty? Is it a storm coming?"

"No, Father. It's the ruffling of feathers. Can't you see them? Feathers like dark velvet all across the sky!"

"I see nothing but darkness, Letty. But show me what you see, child. Paint it for me."

Letty turned to her Father and by the light of the watchfire he saw that her face burned with a fierce joy.

"We won't need painting anymore, or words." She went to him and took his hand. "Can you see, Father? Can you see?"

He could not see what she saw, but a sudden breeze brought to him a scent as from another world. It filled his heart with such longing he thought it would split.

"What is happening?" he cried.

His words seemed to echo across the cove as the door to the house burst open and many voices cried, "What's happening?" Mother and the children came rushing to the shore, the oldest boy carrying his little sister who was on the point of death.

"Have you been up all night?" Peter called to Letty. "Why didn't you get me up? What is that smell? Is the bread lady come?"

"Bread? That ain't bread," a child said, "it's roast chicken and apple pie!"

"No! It's some kinda perfume!"

`"And look at the sky!" said the littlest girl. "It's covered up by a giant wing!"

"I see it! I see it!" Peter cried.

"A refuge under mighty wings," Letty said quietly. "All this time."

As if at a sudden command, they all stopped talking at once. Into the silence of the velvety dark, the dying girl said, "Look!"

High in the night, far across the sea, light came. Not the dawn, but light.

"The night is over, Father."

"At last, Letty," he said. "At last."
MICHAEL'S SKETCH

On a lonely footpath above the sea, two men walked. The first man lurched and stumbled. The other caught him and held his arm.

"I hate it when you're drunk," said the second man. "It means I have to be sober, and who wants to be sober in times like these?"

The first man turned away, retching, and vomited in a ditch at the side of the road. "Not drunk," he gasped.

"No? Then I suppose it was the foulness of the beer you drank." The second man continued to chatter. "You can't trust a house brew these days. All the innkeepers use ditch water. I told you it smelled like swill."

The first man retched and vomited again. His companion slapped him on the back and said, "Yes, nowadays it's only gallant soldiers like us who can afford to waste our lunch in a ditch." He unslung his pack and took out a tall bottle. "Ahh," he sighed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, "wine's the thing. Though whiskey's better." He offered the bottle to his companion who brushed it aside.

The sick man lurched on for a short distance, then collapsed under a tree by the side of the road. "Got to rest," he said, then retched again, but by this time his stomach was empty.

"Well, it's a nice day, Private Lennox," the other man said, and flopped down on the green turf. "This is a shady spot you've picked. I could get drunk here."

Private Michael Lennox scowled at his companion, but felt too sick to talk. Instead, he unstrapped his pack and lay back on the grass. His stomach calmed and eventually he fell asleep.

When he woke, the sun was low on the horizon and he saw that clouds were gathering overhead. His companion lay snoring, the empty wine bottle clutched in his hand. He's drunk, Michael thought, which means we're here for the night. Aloud he said, "I hope it doesn't rain." He hadn't known his companion very well when they'd started their journey; he hadn't known Kurt Cummings's preference for drunkenness. "If only I had known," Michael said quietly, looking down at his companion, "I would have come alone and left you back at barracks."

They were on a high point of the road; below them, under the cliffs, the sea pulsed on a sandy shore. Above them, short green turf swept up a steep slope. Looking eastward, along the way they had come, Michael saw the distant hills, hazy in the evening sun. It was there that his parents were buried, alongside his younger sister. He had gone back to visit them and found only their graves.

Turning from the sight of those distant hills, Michael surveyed the bleak coastline before him. He had hoped to be in the next village by nightfall, but he had no idea how far it was. He had chosen this narrow path above the sea instead of the main road and now he was sorry for his choice. It would be a cold night on these open hills. He nudged Kurt with his foot, but Kurt only grunted and rolled onto his back. Michael sighed, wrapped his coat more tightly about him and stepped across the road to look over the edge of the short cliff, down to the beach below.

It was then that he saw her. She stood just below the road, near the base of the cliff. Her fair hair streamed out behind her as she faced the strong wind off the water. She was painting on a large canvas with broad, sure strokes and must have been there some time because her canvas was filled with colour and light. She could not have been more than sixteen.

"Hello!" he called down to her, hoping she wouldn't be too frightened by the sight of a soldier.

She looked up. "Hello," she called back and waved. Then she turned back to her canvas.

Odd, Michael thought, she must have passed by while I slept, yet Kurt must not have seen her. Sliding and stumbling down a steep path, he came to stand beside her. Up close, he decided she was about fifteen, the age of his younger sister when he'd last seen her. She nodded in his direction, without taking her eyes from the canvas, and continued painting. Michael stood quietly, watching.

It was a glorious painting of the sea and sky. He could almost see the wind roiling. In the foreground stood a bright-faced man with wings outstretched as if he would take flight. The man was so present in the picture that Michael looked up quickly, expecting to see him standing right there on the shore.

Two more strokes and the girl began wrapping her brushes in a rag. "I'll clean them at home," she said to herself, then turned to Michael and fixed him with her blue glance, "I expect you're a traveller who needs a place to stay?"

"Y-yes," Michael said, now unable to take his eyes from her face.

She folded up her easel and handed it to him. "Do you mind giving me a hand up the path? I can manage once we're on the road. By the way, you came down the hard way." She led him a few steps beyond the path he'd slid down, to a place where the rocky cliff formed a natural stairway.

Once up on the road, Michael recovered his senses enough to say, "my pack's over by that tree, and a . . . a friend."

The girl followed him to the tree. Kurt was sprawled on the grass, snoring, his cloak twisted around him. He still clutched the empty wine bottle to his bosom. Michael would not have been surprised if this girl had turned away in disgust, but she only laughed.

"I saw you both sleeping when I came down. Cold place for an afternoon nap," she said, reaching for her easel. "Wait here if you like and I'll get my father. We'll come back with the cart." Then, without another word, she turned and marched away, easel under one arm, canvas under the other. He thought he heard her singing.

He sighed and sat down to wait. If she didn't return, he'd sleep under the tree, then get up in the morning and go. Kurt would be sober by then. Half of him hoped she wouldn't return. Something in her face bothered him. The other half of him—the stronger half—hoped she would. He felt he needed a warm hearth, or at the very least, a place to sleep out of the cold wind that lashed up from the sea and got between his buttonholes. Once again, he wished he had chosen to stay on the main road. Oh well, he thought, we still have four days of leave. That's plenty of time to get back to the city on foot. He sat quietly beside the tree and watched the orange sun slide down behind the distant hills. Then he heard cart wheels on the road.

She came wearing a thick coat, sitting beside her father on the cart. She was pointing straight at Michael, saying, "There he is, Father, and his friend on the ground there." Michael winced. He'd never had such a friend as Kurt in his life and he wished he didn't now. The cart stopped by the tree and Kurt chose that moment to belch in his sleep.

The girl's father said, "Hop down, Letty, and lower the tailgate."

Letty, Michael thought. Her name is Letty. That's ordinary enough. Yet he remained speechless, standing by the tree watching her movements. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and the father said, "You must be frozen to the bone sitting here on the open hill, lad. We've fire and food and you and your mate can sleep in the barn."

Michael pulled his thoughts together and looked at the man. He was middle-aged with grizzled hair and beard. Together they got Kurt into the back of the cart where he sprawled on a pile of hay, murmuring in his sleep.

Moments later, Michael was sitting beside Letty staring moodily at the horse's rump as the cart jigged over the narrow track. Letty and her father reminded him of his people at home, as they had been before famine and war. I bet they have a farm, he thought, and a cow and a pig. I bet Letty feeds the pigs and scratches them between the ears. Somehow he found this an amusing thought and it cheered him a little.

Letty and her father rode silently. It would have been nearly impossible to talk. The wind had picked up and it whined over the open hills; waves pounded the shore below the road; the cart rattled and creaked. Michael hunkered down in his coat and slipped into dark thoughts.

Three graves and a family homestead inhabited by rats and squatters were all he had left in the world. On his return home, he'd chased the rats out and let the squatters stay. Kurt had laughed at this, but Michael ignored him and purchased what food he could for the woman and her children, asking her to take care of the house until he returned.

"Squatters!" Kurt hooted. "You're spending your hard-earned wages on squatters?"

"Caretakers. They're caretakers," Michael said, stone-faced, willing Kurt to shut up.

"Caretakers? Ha! She was afraid of the rats! Ah well. It's your house. Though I doubt that lot lives long enough to destroy much of your property. They'll starve to death before long. Your village is a ghost town. I should never have come."

Michael was inclined to agree, especially with Kurt's last statement. He'd left the squatters gobbling raw onions that had cost him half a day's wages. The woman had spoken of robbers and tax collectors in the same breath; there had been hordes of them by the sound of it, all foreclosing, evicting, stripping, accusing, and hanging nearly every man in town. Any woman who fought back or protested was killed. Michael could not imagine his opinionated mother and outspoken little sister meekly hiding in a shed. He'd left his pellet gun with his sister and shown her how to use it, just in case. He fervently hoped she'd inflicted some damage—maybe put out an eye—before she . . . his mind could go no further. He was suddenly filled with rage and shame that rose up thickly in his throat. Was he not a soldier now for the very same puppet government that sent the ruthless tax men from village to village?

His father's crops had failed for the second year, as had every other farmer's. Famine stalked the land. Michael had been sure he could find work in the city and send money home to his family. But there was no work for a farm boy. After a week of disappointment and hunger, he he'd been thrown into jail for vagrancy and it was there that the jolly mayor found him and "recruited" him. There had been no choice: either sign the army contract, or expect to stay behind bars. Upon release, the Mayor had given him half an hour to post a message home: "I've found work," he wrote briefly, "and will send money as soon as I can." He knew he should have written more, but what news would he tell them? That the city smelled and the people didn't have much more to eat than he'd had at home; that he'd been forced to join the army . . . Anyway, it didn't matter what he'd written. His letter must have arrived after his family were already dead.

The cart jolted over a pothole and Michael's thoughts jumped to the sardonic face of their country's ruler, the General, whose method of violent tax collection was spurred by the need for more and more money to build his army. Never mind that the army was an assortment of haggard farmers, cutthroats and criminals who had joined to avoid starvation. The General meant to arm a vast horde and throw them at the enemy like a fistful of shrapnel. I'm in a rattrap, Michael thought, like everyone else in the world these days. No wonder Kurt prefers to be drunk. The cart bumped over a rough patch and his mind came back to the present.

It was early evening, before the moon's rising, when the cart left the road. It had been a short journey. The wind had blown the clouds away, then subsided. Now the rattling and creaking of the cart quieted as they rolled over grassland and around a low hill. They were entering the narrow, nearly hidden valley called the Haunted Cove. Letty's father drove over paths that wound, maze-like, through rock formations and strange barrow-like hills. As they followed the narrow track, the barrows and boulders seemed to rise up and close them into a dark tunnel. Some of the rock formations were of strange shapes, rising like ruined buildings against the starlight. Rounding the last hillock, Michael sensed, rather than saw, the valley open out to greet them; at the furthest edge lay a dark expanse that glittered with reflected starlight: the sea. A short distance away, a lighted window seemed to hang suspended in the dark. As they approached, Michael could discern the shape of a whitewashed house and barn.

They went to the barn first. After unloading the snoring Kurt onto a bed of hay, Father unhitched the horse and led her to a stall. At first, she did not seem happy about her new barn-mate, snoring and talking in his sleep, but after a bag of oats and fresh hay, she settled in to ignore her unseemly guest.

Letty led Michael into the house where her mother was stirring the fire and a young boy sat at the table gnawing a red apple.

"Hooray! Letty's brought a soldier from the city!" the young boy cried, waving his apple in the air. "What news, comrade?"

The mother rose abruptly from the hearth with an anxious look. Letty led Michael to a seat at the table and began to load his plate with cheese and bread, butter and boiled potatoes. She filled a cup with milk and set it down before him. Then, she filled a plate for the boy and one for herself. "Come mother," she said, "it's past time for supper."

Mother looked hard at Letty as the young girl calmly poured another cup of milk. Then she shrugged slightly and said, "Welcome young man. If you're a soldier, I expect you'll turn us in on account of us having food, but you may as well eat your fill first."

Michael cringed. He knew it was the truth. By law, every farmer and fisherman was expected to send all food to the city where it would then be fairly distributed. Some had a special license to sell their goods in the city market, but most were required to turn everything over to the government collectors who stopped by weekly at every farm. The fair disbursement was a figment of the government's rhetorical imagination. In truth, the farmers were starving along with those in the city. In these days, a farm table laden with food meant that someone was cheating the government and breaking the General's law. It was the sworn duty of a soldier to turn such people in. Michael knew he could never do that, even if it meant execution. Anyone in their right mind knew it was the government who was cheating the people; though not many seemed to be in their right minds these days.

He didn't feel like eating, so he sat and watched Letty and the boy enjoy their supper. It wasn't just the mother's suspicions that kept him off his food; he felt sick with himself for becoming a soldier. He'd given in so easily. And, he knew now that it had been wrong to bring Kurt here. Kurt would take one look at the food and turn this family in so he could collect the reward.

Father came in from the barn, greeted them all with a nod, and sat down at the table. He smiled at the boy who was helping himself to more bread. Then he glanced at his wife who sat stone still, staring at Michael. "Mother!" he said, "Your plate's empty. Are you ill?" Then he noticed Michael's untouched plate. "And is our guest ill too?"

"He's only sick at heart, and Mother is sick with fear," Letty said.

"He's a soldier," Mother said. "You brought a soldier home."

"Two soldiers. The other's in the barn, dead drunk," Letty said. "He doesn't like to be sober."

"Well, times are tough," Father said.

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I won't turn you in. I wouldn't do that."

"So you say," Mother began.

"He won't," Letty said, "but his friend would."

"He's not my friend," Michael said quickly. "He . . . he wanted to travel with me, so I let him. And you're right," he continued, looking at Letty, "he doesn't like to be sober though I don't know how you knew." The girl said nothing, but her eyes were bright. Is she laughing at me? Michael wondered. But no, it wasn't that. He looked at the stone-faced mother and the father quietly eating potatoes with a knife. "I should go. We both should. If you'd be kind enough to take Kurt and I back to the road tonight, he'll never know we've been here."

"The morning will do," Father said. "Before first light."

"What if he wakes before then," Mother said.

"I don't think he will," Michael replied. "He drank a whole bottle of wine in one sitting."

"He'll kill himself that way," Father said.

"He'll be dead soon either way. So will I. The General has plans for us soldiers."

"So I gather," Father said. "Did you volunteer?"

"Not really. I went to the city to look for work."

"Like so many others. In the wrong place at the wrong time," Father said sadly. "Do you have family?"

"I did." Michael looked down, unseeing, at his untouched plate.

"Plague?" Father asked gently.

"Tax men. Comes to the same thing, doesn't it?"

"So you went to the city and got caught on the Mayor's doorstep, so to speak."

"Yes. I thought I'd send money and food home, but when I returned they were all dead. Nearly all the farmers in our valley are dead. That's government efficiency for you. Kill the people who grow the food." Michael heard the bitter edge in his voice. How long, he wondered, before I take up drinking like Kurt?

"All dead?" the mother echoed, her face softened.

But Michael didn't want her pity. So instead of talking about his family, he told them about the squatters at the farmhouse, how he'd been able to buy them food, but how he knew it wouldn't last long.

"Those poor children!" Mother exclaimed. "Father, shouldn't we do something?"

"Where's your village, son?" Father asked quietly.

Michael told him.

"A day and a half to the north," Father mused. "I think we could add it to our rounds. What do you think, Letty?"

"It's half a day past Larkness on the Old Road. I don't see why not."

Michael realized he must have looked confused because Letty suddenly laughed and said, "Don't worry about your squatters, soldier. We'll see they're fed. Just don't ask us how."

After a moment's silence Michael said, "Am I allowed to ask why?"

"No more talk now," Mother said briskly. "You eat your supper. I'll not see it go to waste."

The boy, Peter, was nearly asleep in his chair, his head nodding dangerously close to his plate. Even in a partial doze he was chewing. He was carried off to bed with a hunk of bread still clutched in his fist. Michael wondered if the boy was a foundling. He looked very unlike Letty and her parents.

Letty and Mother began clearing the table as Michael ate quickly, more out of obligation than hunger. His stomach still felt fragile after the horrible lunch at the inn. But this was good food that put him in mind of childhood meals; it was the kind of food his mother had made before the bad times began. And she used to make bread like this, Michael thought. I wonder why she stopped? He tried to recall the last time he'd tasted bread.

He finished his meal and offered to help with the dishes. Letty set him to drying, sending her mother to bed. Father had gone to the barn again and returned saying that Kurt and the horse were fast asleep. Though Letty pressed him, teasing, he would not say who snored loudest, man or beast. Father settled himself in an old chair beside the fire, with a pipe and a book, merely saying, "Don't stay up too late, children."

Michael was about to reply that he was off to the barn, but Letty said to him, "Come. I want to show you something." And he could not refuse. Those blue eyes pierced him like a lance. He put down the towel and followed her out the door.

A quarter moon had risen and by its light Michael could see things he had missed on their arrival in the dark: a large garden, fishing nets draped over a low fence, a small wooden outbuilding to the left of the house. There was only the smell of the sea and the fishnets which made Michael realize that there were no pigs or goats or cows. But maybe there were chickens. Letty was leading him past the garden, toward the small outbuilding. Perhaps she was going to show him her pet hen. His sister had hated hens, but his father had always kept a few until they had all stopped laying.

Funny. He had never thought of it before, but he suddenly realized that the hens had stopped laying the same year that the harvest on a quarter of their land had failed. It had been the same for many other farmers in their valley. With each successive year, less and less of the land would produce anything but thistles. Even the cows seemed to give less milk and the pigs would not fatten as they used to. A startling image came to his mind of the earth and all its creatures giving one last gasp before expiring in silent darkness. He shuddered, then jumped at a slight noise beside him. They had reached the door to the shed and Letty paused to light a lantern. Michael listened for the rustle and cluck of roosting hens, but all was deadly still within. He noticed two large windows on either side of the door and flowered vines that trailed down from the thatched roof. Where was this strange girl leading him and why did she trust him?

If he had been another kind of man—a man like Kurt—he would not have been looking at Letty and thinking of chickens.

Letty opened the door on a room that was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Michael saw at once that the shed had been built into the rock as an extension to a deep cave. The front of the room near the windows was filled with paintings. Letty went round the room lighting candles.

"Did you . . . paint all these?" Michael asked. There were dozens of paintings hanging on the walls and leaning in stacks against crates. The painting he had seen her finish that very afternoon stood on a rough easel. In the candlelight, the winged man's face seemed to glow with its own radiance and Michael felt half afraid. "Who is that man?"

"Yes," Letty said, "I painted these, and that's Joe."

"Someone you know?"

"Yes."

"But why do you paint him with wings?"

"That's what he looks like."

She did not appear to be teasing him. He walked slowly around the room, looking at the paintings. As he looked, he nearly forgot about Letty, who sat at a small table, silently sketching.

The paintings were beautiful, yet strange. The landscapes of the surrounding countryside were populated by fantastic beings: half-human sea creatures and small men carrying pots of gold, rabbits and foxes who looked as if they could speak, the forms of huge people standing in the kitchen garden. And the man with the wings appeared in many pictures, sometimes with more of his kind. In one painting, he appeared with an old woman at a market stall. The woman held a strangely carved staff in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. The table in front of her was piled high with bread and the winged man stood beside her laughing. Their faces shone. All around them, in the background, Letty had painted a dark market square surrounded by blackened, decaying buildings. Thin pale children approached the table from all directions while, above the pile of loaves, a face peeped: it was the boy, Peter.

"You've been to the city?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. She looked up at him, then back to her drawing.

"And did you paint this while you were there?"

"No. I painted it a few months after I returned."

"So you didn't actually see these people in the city."

"Yes. Of course I did. That's where I met them." She looked at Michael with a critical gaze, as if sizing him up, then looked down at her sketch and added several lines.

"You met a man with wings. In the city." Michael didn't believe her, though she spoke so matter-of-factly. He looked at her, thinking that she was just a silly young girl, but something told him she was never that. She was something else, and this niggled at his mind. "Tell me about these people," he said.

Letty left her drawing and came to stand before the painting. "You've met the boy," she said, pointing at the face peeping over the pile of loaves. "Peter came home with us that day. He's never said what happened to his family. And this," she pointed to the old woman, "is the bread lady. She has a stall in the market and gives her bread away. Haven't you seen her?"

"No," Michael said, looking closely at the woman's face. Was that a crown on her head? It looked prickly. "Did you say she gives her bread away?"

"Yes."

Right, Michael thought. "And the man with wings?"

"As I said, his name is Joe. He's the same as in the picture I painted this afternoon. Although," here she hesitated for the first time. "Some people don't see the wings. They see a man in a black coat. I've seen him like that once myself.

"Really," Michael said.

"When I shook his hand." Letty's brow was furrowed and her gaze turned inward, remembering. "I don't know why that would be, but I don't try to understand everything I see." She smiled up at Michael who was once again shaken by her blue gaze. She must be mad—crazy as a loon—but some instinct told him this was not so. Yet how else could he explain her fantastic paintings that she said were true likenesses?

She went to the table, took up her drawing and said, "I'm going out to watch the stars. Will you join me?"

"Yes," Michael said, for he couldn't help himself.

She smiled again, then held out the drawing to him. He took it and what he saw, he never forgot. Half his mind scoffed; the other half drank it in, like a parched man offered a cup of cold water.

The drawing was a miniature copy of the painting they'd just been discussing, but with several differences. Peter still peeped over the pile of loaves, but Joe appeared in a dark coat, without his wings. In the background, under the ragged buildings, instead of thin children approaching the table, he saw his sister, his mother and his father. But how could Letty have known them? Letty herself stood on one side of the bread lady, holding out a loaf to . . . Michael. For he was there, standing between Joe and the bread lady, wearing his soldier's uniform, laughing and tickling the top of Peter's head.

For a full five minutes, Michael gazed hungrily at the drawing as it etched itself in his mind, line by line. Finally he handed it back.

"Keep it," she said. "It's for you."

Why is she giving me a gift? he thought. Aloud he said, "No. I'd like to, but I'll be searched as soon as I return. I shouldn't take anything from this place. But I won't forget. Thank you." His mind was shaken by questions about the drawing, but in that moment he knew they weren't the right ones. He moved toward the door.

Letty put out the candles and followed him from the room. She shut the door and led him along a grassy path under the moonlight. Soon the grass turned to sand and the sea lay before them, dark and wide. They came to the water's edge and stood looking out at the undulating bay and the moonbeam's path that stretched from their feet to some distant dark horizon. Michael saw, on either side of the expanse, dark landforms rising and realized that they stood in a small protected cove. A boat lay on the shore several yards away and behind them a light glowed in the cottage window. No doubt Father was still in his chair reading.

Michael saw all this, but his mind was on Letty who stood with her face turned to the stars. The night was still; only the water lapped at their feet with a gentle slap-slap.

Letty broke the stillness. "Did you know that once there were people who named the stars?"

"My grandmother told me that," Michael said. "She said the brightest are called planets, but she could only remember the name of one: Jupiter."

"Your grandmother must have gone to the old schools."

"Yes. Back in the day, before they closed them all down. Her family had books too."

"My father has a few books. I suppose you saw him reading."

"Yes. Yours is a very illegal family. Food, books . . . is painting pictures not yet outlawed?"

"Not yet," Letty chuckled," or I would have been hung."

"Really? Then others have seen your paintings? Do you show them around the countryside?" He tried to keep his voice light, mocking, but he was suddenly concerned.

Letty shrugged slightly, her face still turned to the night sky. "Sometimes I give paintings away, but only where they're wanted. And last year I had to paint the Mayor's portrait."

"The Mayor!" Michael cried. A fish or something flip-flopped in the water a few yards away. He lowered his voice. "You had to paint the Mayor's portrait?"

"I didn't think he would like what I painted, but . . ." she hesitated. "I guess he saw what he wanted to see."

They were silent a moment. Then Michael said, "Do you go to the city often?"

"No. I've only been there once."

"And the one time you visit, you meet that devil of a Mayor," Michael began.

"And Joe. And the bread lady. And Peter," Letty finished.

"Oh. Right," Michael said and fell silent. But something curious was happening in his mind; a light had begun to grow; it emanated from the memory of Letty's drawing and was spreading slowly, like the tendrils of a vine.

To his surprise, Letty took his hand. The light grew in intensity; he thought he could feel it shooting from her skin like sparks from a fire. It almost stung, but he did not push her away. Childhood memories crowded into the light: MidWinter feasts with music and dancing; his mother singing as she worked among the tall flowers of her garden; fishing on a sunlit pond in a small boat; stories his grandfather told of powerful creatures who moved beyond human understanding. All these things he had forgotten in the grey world he now walked as a soldier.

The light intensified yet again, like white flames. The memory of a neighbour's barn on fire flashed through his mind. The blaze had spread out of control as the fire brigade stood helplessly by, watching the fire consume the barn and all within it, flames leaping forty feet into the air, an inferno against the night sky. I shall be like that barn, Michael thought, with only a pile of ashes to mark where I stand now. But I don't care. He tightened his hold on Letty's hand.

Night silence lay over the land; even the water lay still. Only the gentle slap-slap of small waves on the shore marked the passing seconds. Gradually, Michael felt the intensity of light subside until it was a single flame. He knew something was different now; something had been seared away. He tried to put a finger on it. A heaviness had fallen from him. Perhaps it was fear of the shadow of death, the shadow under which everyone in the world lived.

Beside him Letty stirred and turned her face from the stars to the moonlit rocks that jutted out from the shore. Michael tried to follow her gaze. Had she seen something? Perhaps a seal on the rocks. He could discern nothing but moonlight—but wait; there was a brighter glimmer, a movement.

And suddenly he saw them.

Huge people, great lords and ladies, were walking on the rocks toward the sea. With long graceful strides they swept along the cove's edge, scattering light from their flowing garments. Michael remembered Letty's painting of tall beings like these standing in her kitchen garden, so he wasn't surprised to see one of the great ladies turn and nod in their direction.

A cloud crossed the moon. When its shadow passed, the gods were gone—at least Michael could no longer see them. He suspected Letty could by the way the rocks still held her gaze. When she finally turned to him, she released his hand and said, "You haven't told me your name."

"Michael."

"Is it possible we met when we were children?" she said. "It seems like I've known you for some time."

"So you don't normally go walking in the moonlight with strange soldiers," he said lightly.

She laughed and shook her head, then turned from the shore and struck a path that bent toward the barn. He followed. The light still shone in the cottage window. Above them, the quarter moon hung over the small bay and Michael was surprised to see it in the same position, as if so little time had passed standing at the water's edge, holding Letty's hand. For he had travelled far: across a borderland into some new country.

At the barn door, Letty stopped and said, "I expect my father will take you and your friend most of the way to the city."

"He only needs to take us back to the road. Then Kurt will never know we were here."

"Yes, but what my father didn't mention is that he plans to sell fish in the city tomorrow."

"Will you go with him?" He asked, but then he thought of Kurt and how he might treat Letty if he saw her. "Really though, it's better to stay here."

"Yes," Letty answered. "Goodnight."

Michael followed her with his eyes until the cottage door closed. Then he went into the barn, threw himself on the hay beside Kurt, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

An hour before dawn, Michael woke to the sound of Letty's father feeding the horse by the light of a lantern. Kurt snored on, but Michael got up and helped Father harness the horse to the wagon. Even when they hoisted Kurt into the back of the cart, he showed no signs of coming fully awake. That was some bottle of wine, Michael thought, and then began to worry that Kurt would not wake up in time for their long walk back to the city.

"Here lad, I need some help loading the fish for market," Father said.

So Letty had been right. Would her father offer them a ride all the way to the city?

Michael followed father around the other side of the barn to a shed he had not noticed before. Piled in the shed were several bags of fish and vegetables; these they also packed into the cart along with a large wheel barrow.

They were ready to go. Michael sat on the bench beside Father and pulled his coat tighter. The narrow valley, still wrapped in shadows, felt hidden, forgotten, a place fallen out of step with the great stirrings of the city. The world's upheavals had not touched this place and Michael felt an intense desire to stay. He would take up fishing, plough the garden, help Father thatch the roof. Letty would teach him to draw and he would remember his grandfather's stories and tell them at the fireside on winter nights. He would plant corn and teach the boy, Peter, to play football. And then, in a few years, he and Letty would....

Kurt gave a tremendous snort and rolled over on the hay. The cottage door opened and Letty came out. Michael glanced back anxiously, but Kurt slept on. Letty handed a small canvas sack up to her father and he passed it to Michael and took up the reins. Michael could tell by the feel of the sack that it contained two loaves of bread and other small lumps that might be cheese or apples. Letty waved goodbye and then her mother stepped out the cottage door and waved. No one spoke. Father flicked the reins and they began to move out into the silent dawn. Before they turned out of the valley, Michael looked back. Letty stood in the shadowed yard, watching them. Behind her, the sun broke over the bare hills; standing on those hills, huge in the new morning light, he saw the tall gods with their arms upraised. Somehow he knew he would never be back.

They wound through the high barrows and craggy rocks, back to the road. By the early light, Michael saw that many of the shapes he had taken for strange rock formations the night before were in fact ruined buildings now moss-covered and home to fern and vines. The cart rolled over what might have been narrow streets, now silenced by thick turf. Michael wanted to ask what it all was, or had been, but was afraid to break the silence in that place. It was Father who quietly said,

You have made the city a heap of rubble,

the fortified town a ruin

the foreigners' stronghold a city no more;

it will never be rebuilt.

He looked sideways at Michael and said, "Read that in an old book. Seems to fit this place. Some people call this the Haunted Cove, but I've been here all my life and never seen a single ghost.

Michael nodded. They passed a decaying tower and the remnants of a wall whose glassless windows gaped like the hollow eyes of a dead giant.

"My wife used to worry about Letty wandering through this place, but she's never come to harm and she never gets lost. Some say she's one of those who see beyond."

Beyond? "Beyond what?" Michael said, in spite of himself.

"Beyond the end of their nose, I guess," Father replied, chuckling.

Crossing a shallow stream, they turned sharply around a projection of rock, and came to the road. The sun had climbed to the top of the eastern hills and shone over the high grasslands. Father flicked the reins and the horse turned to the west, toward a narrow range of hills. Michael knew that on the other side of those hills lay the main road to the city, a broad straight road that cut through the countryside. Father let the reins go slack and the horse, long familiar with the narrow side road, plodded on its way.

Kurt came fully awake an hour later. He did not seem at all surprised to find himself on a strange road, in a rumbling cart, on a pleasant midsummer's morning. He merely asked what day of the week it was, then lounged against the sacks of fish and talked heartily of his adventures among innkeeper's daughters, never taking a moment's interest in Letty's father or how they'd come to be riding in the cart at all. He seemed bent on showing off more of his foul language than usual, and Michael earnestly wished he would go back to sleep.

Just before midday, they came to a small woodland and Father turned the horse off the road into a clearing. He untethered the horse, tied it to a tree, then took out the wheelbarrow. Michael helped unload the sacks into the barrow while Kurt leaned against a tree and watched. When the cart was empty, Father pushed it into the bushes. Without a word, but a nod to Michael and Kurt, he pushed the heavy barrow out of the clearing and back to the road.

At last Kurt said, "Just out of interest, where did you find this silent farmer and where is he taking us?"

Before Michael could answer, the road narrowed to a single track, turned a sharp corner, and there they were, on the main road at the outskirts of the great city.

"Well," Kurt said, "here we are at last, back from fairyland. Thank you, comrade, for a queer adventure."

Queerer than you'll ever know, Michael thought.

"I hope you won't mind," Kurt continued, "when I say that I am glad to be back. Look! There's civilization right over there," and he pointed across the thoroughfare to a large and prosperous inn. As they looked, a cluster of beautiful women stepped out the inn door and stood on the ample porch, clearly hoping to be seen. They spied the two young soldiers and waved.

"That looks like just the place to spend the last three days of our leave, does it not?" Kurt said.

"It does not," Michael replied. "Goodbye, Kurt. See you at the barracks" and he swung away to follow Letty's father who was already labouring down the road.

"Suit yourself then," Kurt called after him, and stepped quickly toward the inn. When Michael looked back, he saw Kurt already on the porch with his arms full of as many women as he could hold.

Michael sighed and moved to catch up with Letty's father who was about thirty paces ahead. The crowd on the road was not yet thick, but two lean and rough looking men stepped up on either side of Father and began to speak to him. The taller of the two held something behind his back; Michael saw the glint of a knife.

A quick sprint brought him up behind the men in time to hear one say, "I say that there barrow and everything in it belongs to us, right Tom?"

"That's right," snivelled Tom, "you snatched it from our shed and that's what we'll tell the Mayor if he asks us."

Father said nothing, but continued walking. Tom said, "I think this old man's deaf. Think you can make him hear us, Bart?"

"I thinks I can," Bart replied, but before he could bring his knife around, Michael stepped between, shouldered Bart aside and, in a deep stern voice, said, "old man, do you have a marketer's license?"

Father stopped, reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. Bart and Tom took one look at Michael's uniform and scuttled away, scowling and swearing.

"Thanks, lad," Father said, and put the paper back in his pocket. "In all my years coming and going from this city, I've never had trouble like that."

"Surprising, really," Michael said. "You do look different from the other travellers; your clothes are clean."

"So they are," Father said, looking down at his shirt and vest. "What a fool I am. Guess I forgot in all the excitement of company; I'm more used to traveling alone." As he said this, he dug around among the sacks in the wheelbarrow until he came up with a dirty old coat and hat which he put on. They smelled of fish.

"A disguise," Michael observed.

"Always put it on back in the woods where I tether the horse," Father said, "but other things just drove it clean from my head today. That other lad likes to talk, doesn't he?"

"Here," Michael said, taking up the barrow, "let's make it look like I've taken you and your goods into custody, in case Bart and Tom are watching."

"Alright," Father said, "but do you mean to go this way?"

"Yes. I've three days of leave still, but I want to try and find someone Letty told me about." He laughed. "The city is so big and crowded. It'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"You'll find him if you're lookin'," was all that Father said.

And Michael did find the man called Joe--the next day--but not in the place he expected.

He found the bread lady first. After helping Father set up in his market stall, Michael wandered about looking at all the goods for sale and watching the people. Rounding a quiet corner of the Market Square, he came upon her table piled with loaves of bread. She looked exactly like Letty's sketch: an old woman holding a strangely carved staff. She was singing:

Ho! Everyone that's thirsty

Come now to the water

Though you have no money

You can come and eat.

Hearing the tremulous voice, Michael clearly remembered the voice of his great-grandmother. She had sung the same song and he must have heard it as a little child for she had been dead a long time now. His grandfather had sung it too.

Why waste all your time and money

On that which is not bread . . .

Michael was singing now as he walked to the table. As his voice joined the woman's she turned to him.

. . . And your labour

On that which satisfies not?

"A loaf of bread, soldier?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "How much?"

"There is no cost" she replied.

He remembered Letty telling him that the lady gave her bread away, but still he said, "Someone must pay for it, surely. The cost of wheat is high these days."

"Yes," she said, "it has been paid for. No need to fret over it; take one for your friend," and she put two loaves into his hands.

"How often do you come here?" he asked.

"Every day. You will always find me here."

Before he could ask another question, a throng of pinched looking children pressed around the table, clamouring for bread. As Michael turned to go, he heard the woman begin her song again: "Ho! Everyone that's thirsty, come now to the water, though you have no money, you can come and eat . . . "

He found Letty's father doing brisk business at his stall. Pulling up an old crate, Michael sat down beside him and soon realized that Father gave away more than he sold. As he watched, he tasted the loaf of bread. It was rich and dense, laced with veins of butter and honey, like nothing he'd ever eaten before.

"Thought I might see you again," Father said when he had a moment to spare. "Looks like you found Letty's bread lady."

"Umph," Michael said with his mouth full. Then he swallowed and, handing the second loaf to Father, said, "Take this before I eat it too."

At six o'clock, as if on a signal, every vendor in the Market Square began to pack up. They all seemed in a hurry to depart, even Father. The light was fading and the cliff-like buildings that loomed over the Square looked more than shabby; they began to look sinister. Michael wondered, not for the first time that day, where he would spend the night. He did not wish to return to barracks just yet. The freedom of his remaining leave seemed suddenly precious; if he returned now he would lose it. He knew the officers would not let him occupy his bunk without taking up his duties.

"Don't know when I'll see you again, lad," Father was saying, "but I may be back in a month's time. I've been glad of your company today, especially on the road this morning."

Michael did not know what to say.

"Now listen, lad. If you won't go back to barracks tonight, don't try sleeping in a doorway. Not even your uniform will protect you from some that stray through this city at night. Try to find an inn, but not too close to this here Market Square. There'll be many dark folk about in another half hour." Then he picked up his barrow and hurried away.

Michael stood and watched Father go, wishing he were free to go with him. But, shadowy figures began to slink into the Square so he made for the bread lady's stall, hoping to catch her before she packed up. Walking quickly, he found her quiet corner.

She was not packing up her wares. She was humming another tune. She put two loaves into his hands as he said, "I thought you might have gone home like the rest of the marketers."

"No," she said, "you will always find me here."

"But there are evil folk about. I've seen them coming into the Square now the other marketers are gone."

"They have no power over me."

"Do they take your bread too?"

"Hardly ever, but I wait here just the same."

Michael looked around at the deepening darkness. Shadowy figures on silent feet had stolen into the bread lady's corner. They sat on the curb all around the table: some held out a hand, empty palm up; one or two waggled empty cups. As Michael turned to look at them, he heard their hissing whispers begin.

"Up that street there," said the bread lady pointing, "You'll find an inn called The Tower. I am known to the owners. Go now. This is no place for you tonight."

Michael thanked the old woman, but as he stepped past the shadowed crowd, a hand reached out and grabbed the hem of his trousers. He would have been afraid if the bread lady had not been behind him. Instinctively, he offered a loaf to the grasping beggar, but it was slapped aside and he was released. Running up the street, he turned once to look back. There stood the bread lady among the gathering shadows, holding her strangely carved staff, singing: "Ho! Everyone that's thirsty . . . ." Then night fell and swallowed her up. Michael ran for the inn.

Michael took a room at The Tower Inn, joining the evening crowd as they sang and danced. The music put him in mind of childhood evenings at his grandmother's fireside, but he couldn't help letting his mind stray further: to his evening with Letty by the moonlit sea. It was her company he wished for.

He visited the bread lady next morning for breakfast. It was an odd way for a soldier to spend his leave, but he didn't care. He wandered the streets of the city looking, always looking, for Letty's man with wings. At midday he found himself back at the bread lady's table and again just before dusk. He had money to buy other kinds of food, but he never did. The old woman's bread was all he wanted and she had given him a flask of cold water which she refilled from a jug under the table whenever he asked.

That evening in the deepening gloom, as he left the old woman's table, he took the wrong street. The light of the summer sun, which barely penetrated the city streets anyway, had set behind a cover of heavy clouds. The nip of an early autumn was in the air and night fell swiftly. There were few streetlights and it was difficult to tell one building from the next. In the murky darkness, Michael didn't realize he had missed his way until he came to an unfamiliar crossing lit by a dim lamp post. The dingy circle of light revealed narrow passages to left and right. Straight ahead, a track descended steeply into the lower regions of the city. Belltown that region was named, but the locals called it Helltown and it yawned like a black pit at Michael's feet. All around him, dark figures crouched in doorways. He was about to turn back to retrace his steps when a hissing murmur began. Out of the darkness, ragged men and women appeared, blocking his way. They shuffled toward him and the figures in the doorways stood up and stepped forward.

They'll chase me down the hill into Belltown, Michael thought wildly, and then they'll do terrible things! Frightful rumours had floated up out of the city's abyss: unspeakable tales of destitution and violence. Those who must live below the level of poverty, below the level of humanity, had seeped down into that miry cesspool of extremity. Michael had heard more than he wanted to know from Kurt and other soldiers like him who sometimes crept into Belltown for a little "hard fun." The General and the Mayor left Belltown to itself; there were no resources they wanted to spare for its deliverance. If a census taker had agreed to go down into Belltown, he might have been surprised to find that the population was mostly children. Yet, this little-known fact had not surfaced in the higher regions where city councillors went to and fro.

Michael tried offering his bread to the murmuring figures that pressed around him: they would have none of it. Could he fight them? He knew he was better fed and stronger. But no, there were too many. In desperation he took out a handful of coins and threw them on the ground, but even this did not seem to be enough. The ragged people snatched up the money and continued to press forward, pawing at his sleeves, pushing. Finally, seeing the flash of a knife, Michael turned and took two steps on the downward road. Then he stopped and looked hard into the dark descending street. Was that a light coming up the hill? Yes. Several lights bobbed in the darkness like lanterns on a ship. Michael felt a hand grasp his shoulder. Wrenching away, he took six more steps. The lights were closer now. He could hear the quick tread of heavy boots followed by the pitter-patter of lighter feet. He waited and this time no one pressed at his back. The lights drew closer, rising out of the blackness. The hissing murmur of the crowd behind hushed. Thump, thump, went the tread of heavy boots climbing; pitter-patter went the light feet; and over all, Michael swore he heard another sound: the beating of great wings. Caught between the grasping beggars and whatever was advancing up the hill, he waited.

Behind him, the dull streetlight gave up its strength and went out. Michael looked up between the crowding buildings to a small patch of night sky, but the stars were never visible over the polluted city. He thought of Letty standing at the water's edge, tracing patterns in the multitude of stars, perhaps thinking of new names for each one. He remembered his grandmother pointing out Jupiter. Jupiter, he thought irrelevantly as he looked down at the approaching lights, I wonder where that name came from?

The lights were closer and Michael now saw what they were: faces. He immediately thought of the winged man in Letty's paintings—what had she called him? Joe. Was it Joe and others like him coming up the hill? Who else could it be? He backed up into the crossroad, under the dead street lamp, never taking his eyes from the radiant faces. The press of ragged people had retreated, and though Michael sensed them lurking in doorways, he no longer felt threatened. The tingling fear that had frozen his blood moments before vanished and was replaced by another feeling for which he had no name. Whatever it was, it seemed to well up from deep within the earth, into his feet, shooting upward like a fountain into his brain, slowly filling all his limbs. He suddenly felt strong. Then, without warning, the streetlight flickered on over his head.

"Hey! I thought we was goin' to see a bread lady!" a high thin voice shouted out of the darkness. "Look! That ain't no lady! It's a bread man!"

"You mean a bread soldier," said another high voice. They were children's voices. Another said, "I ain't never seen a soldier carryin' bread before."

The band of bright faces topped the rise and stepped into the crossroad. Michael thought he saw...were those wings? No. What he thought was a glimpse of wings turned to sharp elbows and thin little arms. Each bright being carried a child on its back and one or two also cradled an infant. Joe—looking just like Letty's portraits, but without wings--stepped up and met Michael face to face.

"Will that soldier hurt me?" said a small tired voice. It belonged to the young girl clinging to Joe's back.

"No," Joe said. Under the dull light he looked like any other man.

"I've been looking for you," Michael said before he could stop himself. "All day. Letty said I'd find you."

At the mention of Letty's name, Joe grinned. "You gonna just stand there holdin' that bread, lad? There's some young ones here near starvin'."

Haggard and filthy, they were the thinnest children Michael had ever seen. He divided the loaves between them and they gulped it down quick, almost without chewing.

"I know where to get more bread," he said.

"So do I," said Joe. "But there's one or two of these kids as needs to be carried. They climbed up with us from down below, but I don't think their legs will go further. Lend a hand?"

And that's how Michael came to spend the night with Joe and the others, traveling back and forth from the underworld of Belltown to the bread lady's table. That first night they made two more trips, carrying armloads of bread down and armloads of children up. Michael found out that Joe and his friends went down every night and brought out all those willing to come.

"Too bad we can't empty this place," Michael said.

"Yes. It would be good to empty it before the end," Joe said. They were standing in a squalid Belltown street lit by fires in makeshift grates. Dark hovels lined the gutters. One of Joe's companions, a woman, offered bread to the people passing by: young women and men, nearly children, arm in arm with old men and soldiers: stooping hooded figures who hovered round the fires offering strange substances to the children warming their hands. For there were children, so many children, thin and hard-faced: some hunting through the garbage piled along the street: some sitting in delirium, intoxicated by a filthy substance they clutched in their hands. Many snatched the bread and went on their way; many more laughed and said, "That old hag thinks we'll eat mouldy bread? I'd rather eat shredded paper!"

A few took the bread and, seeing the shining faces of the strangers, stayed close and asked for more. These were mostly young children who still looked lost and frightened. Michael wondered, not for the last time, how they had come to this hell hole. The bread and bright faces also attracted young mothers with sadly quiet babies and older boys carrying sick brothers and sisters. All these Joe and his friends fed and escorted up and out of the fetid air of Belltown.

"What did you mean?" Michael asked Joe as they parted for the night, "What did you mean about emptying Belltown before the end? Has the General decided to destroy it?"

"I doubt the General wants to destroy Belltown," Joe replied. "He's the one who built it. A pit like that is a convenient place to send political enemies."

"Children are political enemies?"

"He doesn't want to feed them, but if they're seen starving on the city streets it makes him and the Mayor look bad."

"But where are the mothers and fathers?"

"Gone to the wars, no doubt. You're not the first wave of soldiers to go. And we all know conscription is a powerful antidote to hunger."

Michael looked away. "Yes, but I wish I'd found the bread lady first."

"Never you mind, lad. It'll pan out alright in the end."

Michael wasn't sure what Joe meant by that. How could things turn out alright? The world wasn't set up for that anymore. Unless you joined the likes of the Mayor or the General and could stomach the stink of corruption, you were sure to end up dead by starvation or war. But I do know one thing, Michael thought, I won't let it make me like Kurt. I won't let my mind turn into a sewer.

Dawn was three hours away. Michael left Joe and the children with the bread lady, then went to the inn where he fell into bed and slept until noon. He woke up in time to pay his bill and report back to his commanding officer.

"Well, well. Private Lennox. Have a nice leave?" the commanding officer leered at him and Michael wondered if he was in for some trouble. "Your friend, Private Cummings, has not yet returned. Weren't you traveling together?"'

"Yes, sir. Until two days ago."

"Little spat?"

"No, sir. He went to an inn and I came back to the city to visit a friend."

"Hmm. Well, since you're here first, I'm going to do you a little favour. I'm putting you on night duty."

"Night duty, sir?" At first, Michael didn't see how this could be a favour.

"Yes. Most soldiers jump at the chance. I prefer night duty myself, but I've got my orders. You'll join Sergeant Fiddle's patrol. You can start this very night. Got to keep the streets in order after dark, don't we soldier?" The officer said this with a smirk and a wink.

At last Michael understood. He had heard about the exploits of Sergeant Fiddle's famous night patrol. Under the guise of guarding the streets, this small band of watchmen spread out into every pub, nightclub, and party the city had to offer. Fiddle's men were the toast of the town. Michael knew Kurt would have been a far better match for the night patrol, but he also knew what he himself wanted and grasped his opportunity.

"Yes, sir. Thank you sir," Michael said, saluting.

"Good boy. Now run along to bed," the officer sneered. "You'll want to be fresh for your first night on duty."

Michael knew what the officer was thinking, but didn't care.

At dusk he reported to Sergeant Fiddle.

"Lookee here, boys. A new recruit for the night watch," Fiddle said.

Michael looked around at the other watchmen slouched against the wall under the streetlamp: most looked bleary-eyed and their uniforms were soiled; two or three seemed only half-conscious, peering at Michael through yellowed, blood-shot eyes. Michael saluted and several soldiers snickered in reply.

"Now boys, let's not give Private What's-His-Name here the wrong impression. Look lively," Fiddle said.

The soldiers sent up a derisive cheer. One of them slapped Michael on the shoulder and said, "I could take him under my wing tonight, Sarge. Show him the ropes." This offer was followed by hoots of laughter and shouts of "that's right! Lead the way Mighty Pint Blight!"

"That's kind, Private Blight, but maybe this young lad already knows where he'd like to keep watch. You see, laddie," Fiddle said, addressing Michael in a fatherly tone, "I like to let my men choose their own beat. When they do, then I know they'll act with a sense of ownership and responsibility."

Hoots and cheers rang out, along with outright laughter. "The safety of the citizens is our aim," Fiddle continued, but was interrupted by a loud guffaw and the comment, "old Fiddle sure keeps Mother Hubble and her daughters safe. His own private beat!"

"And don't forget the Market Inn. There's a pub wot's safer than crown jewels, right Fiddle?" More cheers and laughter.

"So laddie," Fiddle continued, as if he hadn't heard these remarks, "what part of town would you like for your beat?"

"I'll take Belltown, sir," Michael said.

Someone barked a mirthless laugh and a hissing titter arose.

"Belltown?" Fiddle said, obviously surprised. "Are you sure lad?"

"Ooooh. Didn't take him for one of those, didja Fiddle?" a soldier sneered.

"That's a dangerous place, private. Been there before?" Fiddle asked, looking at Michael more carefully.

"Yes, sir," Michael replied. "Spent the last night of my leave there." Whistles and cat-calls followed, and more laughter.

"We lost Private Morgan down there last week. He's the fella you're replacing. Got word he was killed in a fight. Dangerous place."

Michael shrugged.

"Well, it's your life, private. Soldiers is a dime a dozen these days so you're easily replaced if you get yourself killed. It's not my lookout." Fiddle turned to the rest of his troop and said, "Report here same time tomorrow gents. And try, try to spend at least two days a week in your own bed. The officer who inspects the barracks has been complaining about your liberties." This was met with shouts and jeers and mocking laughter. One of the soldiers cried out, "that's rich, Fiddle, comin' from you," and another said, "do you even have a bed at barracks, Fiddle?"

"Alright, boys," Fiddle said, waving off their comments with a chuckle, "dismissed!" And with that, the night watchmen of the city sauntered off with shouts of "goodnight!" and "happy hunting!" Anyone seeing this night guard would have laughed, for not a single one carried a lantern to light his way.

Michael stood for a moment and watched them go, then turned toward the Market Square and the table of the bread lady. As he hurried along, streetlights flickered on one by one and night fell like a sprung trap.

So it was that Michael found the way cleared before him. Freed from day duty and left to his own devices as a night watchman, he gladly joined Joe's crew. Tirelessly they moved between Belltown and the upper city, their faces bright with something Michael still couldn't name. He imagined their expressions reflected the knowledge of whatever formed the foundations of the earth and filled the empty spaces between the stars; he could feel this unnamed actuality filling his bones, replacing the marrow, giving him strength and solidity. It was something like the bread from the old woman's table that he munched all through his nightly travels. He found a small unclaimed rucksack in the barracks and took to filling it with loaves; often, the old woman packed it while he ate and drank, preparing for the long hours of walking. And so he had bread to eat and to give away all through the night.

Weeks passed. Michael's face took on light and Fiddle did not know what to make of him. The other watchmen gave him a wide berth. One or two tried to mock him: "Don't Belltown suit our Private Lennox to a tee," or "Musta found something good in that cesspool Lennox, anything you'd like to share?" There were darker taunts and hints, but Michael met them all with the good-natured reply, "come with me and find out."

Only one soldier took up that offer, but when they came to Michael's first stop at the bread lady's table, the soldier let out a string of curses and departed quickly. From then on, Michael was known in the night patrol as "that stinkin' bread eater," and Fiddle ignored him completely.

Once, returning to barracks mid-morning, Michael met Kurt who was on some errand for his commanding officer. They had not seen each other since their leave when they'd parted on the road.

"Well, well," Kurt said, "if it isn't Private Lennox, one of the young bloods of Fiddle's night patrol."

Michael greeted Kurt and made to move on, but Kurt stopped him, saying, "all tired out after a night in Belltown, are we? Who would have thought it," he sneered. "Not even I would sink so low as to go back there night after night. Tell me, which obsession have you taken up? Perhaps one night I'll join you."

Something about Kurt's tone of voice had always infuriated Michael from the day they'd met. He regretted having spent any time with him at all. What he wanted was to go to bed and sleep off the horrors he'd seen. If it weren't for the presence of Joe and his friends, Michael knew he would never have the courage to enter Belltown. Just hours ago he had lifted a little girl out of a pile of refuse in the gutter. She was black and blue about the face and at first, he'd thought she was dead, but Joe had found a faint pulse. Michael carried her cradled in his arms, another child perched on his shoulders, up out of the fetid air. It had taken nearly all his strength and now he had to face Kurt who only wanted to hear of his addictions.

"Well, Private Cummings, if you must know." He opened his rucksack and pulled out half a loaf of bread. In the stink of the barracks, its fragrance smote his heart; but Kurt backed off, coughing and gagging.

"Yech! You swine! How dare you bring that wretched schlep into the barracks! You'll make us all sick!"

Michael shrugged and tucked the bread into his sack. "To each his own."

"Yes. Well some things should not be allowed," Kurt snapped, and went his way.

Michael sat on his bed and finished the loaf, then rolled over on his side and waited. Ten minutes later he heard the footsteps he'd expected.

"Private Lennox!" barked a familiar voice. It was the commanding officer.

Michael rolled out of bed and stood at attention. "Sir," he said, saluting.

"I've been told by an anonymous source that you've been bringing tainted food from Belltown into these barracks. Empty your pack."

Michael opened his rucksack and turned it upside down. A few crumbs fell on the floor. The officer took the sack and sniffed inside. "Humph," he muttered. Then he looked Michael up and down.

"Humph. You don't look like you eat tainted food. Healthiest soldier I've seen. He tossed the sack back to Michael and said, "You're on night patrol in Belltown?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hell of a place."

"Yes, sir."

"Ever eat anything down there or bring anything from there back to these barracks?"

"No, sir."

"Humph. Well, we'll chalk it up to professional jealousy," he said, more to himself than to Michael. Then in a louder voice he said, "Private Lennox, never let me catch you bringing anything from Belltown into these quarters, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I expect you'd like to get back to bed." And the officer left.

Michael learned that the children—and the occasional adult—they brought up from Belltown were taken to a safe house on the edge of the city, near the main road. From there, they were whisked off to homes and farms in the country, as yet untouched by war. Michael didn't understand how so many homes could be found where there was still enough food, but he trusted Joe and anyway, what more could he do? Anyplace else would be better than Belltown.

He rarely went to the safe house; there was not enough time. After the last of his rounds with Joe, he would leave the children with the bread lady, then speed off to the barracks at the opposite end of town. He dare not be late; Kurt, since their last meeting, seemed to be taking a particular interest in his activities. Though the other members of the night patrol were rarely in their bunks during the day, and were sometimes seen only at the mess hall, not a word was ever said about their liberties. Yet Michael knew that if he, even once, put a food wrong, Kurt would report him—anonymously, of course—and he was pretty sure he'd lose his assignment as a night watchman. Sergeant Fiddle certainly had no love for the presence of Private Lennox, and grew more irritated by the sight of his face with each passing week. Michael kept his head down and, finally, took to wearing a low brimmed hat to the patrol's nightly rendezvous. It was not regulation army kit, but it covered his face and Fiddle seemed relieved.

Weeks passed into months. Freezing weather clamped down like an iron fist. Joe's crew made only one trip to Belltown each night and that was simply to bury the dead. Michael noticed that there were fewer children, but he knew better than to credit it to their nightly missions. The city was changing rapidly. Shops were boarded up and more and more houses stood empty. If the General's plan was to have the entire city to himself, he was succeeding.

"But where has everyone gone?" he asked Joe one night. They were climbing the long hill to the upper city after several hours of grisly work. Joe and his friends left no one's body to sit like carrion in the frozen gutters and Michael joined in the work simply to be with them. The digging kept him warm. Now and then they were rewarded by finding a child, still alive, nearly starved and frozen, in some dark hovel. When they did, they dropped their other work and hustled the child up to the bread lady.

"They've either took to the streets or gone to the wars," Joe replied.

"I expect I'll be at the wars this time next year," Michael said.

"Yes. I expect so," Joe said. Then seeing the look on Michael's face, he added, "but not yet. Not until your work here is done. And who knows? Maybe I'll go with you."

Winter passed, but there was no spring. A cold grey settled on the land. Food was scarce; few marketers came to the city now. Purely by chance, Michael saw Letty's father early one morning at the bread lady's stall.

"Well, well," Father said, grinning, "glad to see you lad. I've often wondered how you fared, but you look like you've fallen on your feet and in with good company."

"How are you, sir, and how's your family?" Michael asked. He couldn't help grinning too. Father looked well, even beneath his dirty coat and hat disguise.

"Everyone's healthy enough. Seems to be plenty of fish still, but wheat's scarce. I've come here for a bit of bread to take back with me." A "bit of bread" turned out to be three large sacks. Joe and a couple of his friends were to help Father out of the city and back to his cart. Michael wished to go, but he had to get back to barracks.

"By the way," Father said, taking Michael aside, "your squatters are fine and I'll be seein' them again in a couple of days." He jerked a thumb at the bulging sacks and winked. "Also, Letty seemed to think I might see you and sent this:" he pulled a roll of paper out of an inner pocket. Michael knew what it was: the drawing she had made for him. He opened it slowly. It was as he remembered with only one difference: she had, somehow, added something to the likeness of his own face; it now bore the same expression as that of Letty and Joe: a look he still could not put a name to. Was it more light she'd added? How could she do that with a pencil? And why?

More time passed under the grey cold skies. Michael often wondered if the sun was shining out in the countryside; he wondered if there were flowers growing. It was nearing the end of summer, according to the calendar, but the only season the city had seen was the grey emptiness. Walking the dingy streets day after day, and night after night, it was easy to imagine the whole world exhausted, gasping for air in a silent universe, like a child drowning alone in a deep sea. But this loneliness was only a transient feeling; he had only to look at Letty's drawing, revisit the bread stall, or meet up with Joe for the feeling to pass like a vapour. There was something behind the polluted sky, something under the filthy streets: some solid essence for which he had no name, but of which he grew more certain. Whatever it was, it lightened his heart. He imagined this something to be like glue or mortar, holding the tired old earth together despite evident human efforts to rip it apart. It was something good and he had the feeling that he was steadily walking toward it, whatever it was.

The wars dragged on and rumour said battle was drawing closer. The General was happily fighting on two or three different fronts, not actually going out to battle himself, but cosily holed up in his offices, moving pins around on a map like a savage voodoo doctor. The Mayor was campaigning vigorously for his re-election which Michael thought was an exercise in futility. An opposing candidate did not appear to exist and the largest group of semi-cognizant voters remaining in the city was a barrack full of soldiers conscripted by the Mayor himself. The only practical good that came of it, in Michael's opinion, was a forced march through the lobby of City Hall to view the Mayor's portrait. He'd wanted to see Letty's painting and had, in fact, heard much about it during the Mayor's campaign speeches in the mess hall. Perhaps the Mayor thought the speeches would distract the men from the meagre amount of food rationed out each evening. At any rate, they had all heard about the wonderful portrait, but this did not prepare Michael for what he actually saw.

"Wonderful likeness," said the soldier beside Michael as they filed by the painting.

"I suppose he does look jolly like that," said another, grudgingly.

Hells bells, Michael thought, she certainly captured the old devil's likeness, but why wasn't she hanged?

The Mayor's campaign furor ended with a grand inauguration in late autumn. Michael thought he must have slept through the actual polling day, but he was never sure. The newly re-elected Mayor paraded through the streets with his councillors; he wore the golden chain and the furred robes and that was the end of that.

The cold grey skies grew even colder as winter reasserted itself. Early one evening, Michael and Joe were waiting at the bread lady's stall with a small crowd of stray children when Letty's father appeared.

"How's business?" Joe asked Father.

"Bad. Doesn't seem to be any food left in this town. Or money. Just gave away all the fish and vegetables I brought, but I've nothing to take home. Not the things Mother asked for, that's for sure."

"Better take these children with you instead," Joe said.

"What?" Father said.

"Take these children home. It won't be long now, and their folks have disappeared."

So Michael and Joe led the children out of the city, following Father to his cart hidden in the woods. They carried those that couldn't walk and Michael brought his rucksack full of bread.

The next day Michael's regiment received its orders and the day after that they marched out of town. He'd had only a moment to say goodbye to the bread lady and Joe's crew.

Few soldiers were left behind to defend the city. The General, in a calculated risk that involved all the pins on his map, decided to throw the whole of his remaining forces at the north coast where the enemy's navy was expected to land. And so, after two days of marching, Michael found himself bivouacked little more than ten miles up the coast from Letty's Haunted Cove. For weeks he dug trenches in the morning, slept in the afternoon, and took the night watch with members of his old patrol. There was little food and the winter cold sank its teeth in like a grey wolf.

With the exception of Michael, Fiddle's men were of little use on the night watch. Long accustomed to drinking and carousing, they spent their miserable hours on duty either dozing or complaining. The commanding officers did not seem concerned about the general lack of vigilance. As long as the men were quiet and the camp orderly enough, they left the night watchmen to themselves and took up their endless games of cards. Michael wondered why the officers gave so little thought to the approaching enemy. Perhaps, he thought, they know ours is a hopeless venture.

Left to himself most nights, Michael sat at his post on the cliffs overlooking the shore and watched the stars. For here, just two day's march from the polluted city, the air was clear. He could see far out over the ocean and he knew that, if he walked east along the shore far enough, he would come to the hidden valley where Letty was looking up at the same stars. This thought brought him comfort on nights when the cold winds gripped and his stomach felt hollow. In his mind's eye he would see the bread lady's table and imagine a loaf of bread sliced sideways, revealing thick veins of butter and honey. He could call to mind the faces of Joe and his crew, bobbing like bright lanterns in dark Belltown. It had only been a few weeks since he'd last seen them, but already it seemed an age ago—like a different life.

Then one evening—MidWinter's Eve, in fact—he was sitting at his post watching the sun go down in a spectacular fiery glow when he heard a noise behind him. A figure in a black coat was walking along the cliff. He stood and called out, "who goes there," and the man looked up. It was Joe.

"Thought you might like some company," Joe said when he came near. He grinned at Michael's mute astonishment and held out a canvas sack. "This'll help us pass the time. It's going to be a long night." The bag held several loaves of bread.

"How did you get here?" Michael finally said.

"Walked. Same as you," Joe replied. "You gonna eat? You look half starved."

The abnormally large sun finally disappeared behind the distant hills and a red moon rose in its wake.

"Something's wrong with the moon," Michael said.

"Well, somethin's up," Joe said. "Better light a watch fire tonight."

"I can't do that," Michael said. "It'd be as good as shouting 'here we are' to the enemy ships."

"That's the least of the world's worries tonight," Joe said, and set about gathering sticks and dead branches from the pinewood behind the lookout post. He kindled a small fire that lit up the cliff top. Michael looked anxiously to the camp below, but there was no one stirring.

Other lights appeared along the coast.

"Those lights can't be from our camp," Michael said. "They're too far away. Is it the enemy?"

"Must be other watch fires. Evidently we're not alone," Joe said. He fed the fire then broke another loaf of bread between them.

"It's a clear night," Michael observed.

"Yes," Joe said. "I expect we'll see something."

They sat side by side with their backs to the fire, looking out over the ocean.

"Look!" Michael cried. "Look at all the falling stars! I've never seen so many. And look over there! A black cloud grows. Do you think we'll have rain?"

Joe smiled grimly, but said nothing.

The night deepened as the stars fell, hour by hour. Michael could not take his eyes off the sky. Joe fed the watch fire.

"This is a long night," Joe said at last.

Michael looked down at the dark camp; it had been strangely still for hours. Then he heard something. "Joe! What's that noise?" he cried and jumped to his feet. "I hear tramping feet! The enemy have landed and taken us by surprise!"

"No," said Joe. "It's the sound of beating wings."

Suddenly, a great voice called from outside the camp, "Watchman, what is left of the night?"

Michael spun around, looking wildly for the speaker, but before he could shout, "Who's there! Show yourself!" Joe stood and said, in a loud voice: "Morning is coming, but also the night."

There was silence; even the sea grew still. A strong wind lifted their hair. It was a warm wind.

"Is it a storm's coming, Joe?" Michael said. His voice fell flat on the heavy air.

"Not a storm, I don't think."

The red moon had sunk beyond the western rim and without the white stars, the night was dark; but it was a soft darkness, without threat. Then a sudden breeze brought a fragrance that smote his heart. He was filled with a longing for something, he didn't know what. Beside him, Joe closed his eyes and smiled.

In the camp below, a wailing arose. Half-dressed soldiers sprang from their tents with terrified cries. Someone shouted, "Watchman! What is left of the night?" and Joe, in a loud voice, replied, "Morning is coming, but also the night."

As soon as he said this, men began to cry out: "Death has come upon us! The smell of death and the voice of doom!" Some threw themselves into the water; others slashed themselves with knives; still others, who saw the light of the watch fire, flung themselves down at the foot of the cliff and begged for mercy.

Michael called over the din, "Joe, what is happening? Has madness come upon us all?"

"Not all of us," Joe said. He pointed to something far across the sea: a pinprick of light.

As if at a sudden command, the wailing and screaming in the camp stopped. Into the silence Joe said, "Look."

The pinprick of light grew: first, like the shuttered light of a thief entering a dark house at night: then, like a flaming comet from a far flung galaxy.

"The long night's over," Joe said.

Michael stared; then, suddenly understanding what he saw, he whooped for joy.
THE PAINTER'S EXPOSITION

At the top of the hill, half a mile from the Market Square, behind the grey stone walls of the University, lived an old artist. He had long held apartments in the college though he had long ceased taking students. He was a famous artist and had been a great one, but did not paint now. The college kept him because of his past fame and because the Provost had forgotten he was there. He was an antique in a crowded antique shop. If truth be told, there weren't many artists or scholars left in the world. He happened to be both. Anyway, it would have been difficult to dislodge him from his rooms. He never came out and few dared to approach.

The only person who saw him daily was an old servant, a woman who'd worked in the college since she was a girl, as did her mother and grandmother before her. She was sour, with a sharp tongue and a withered face, and though she was loyal, she'd never said a kind word that anyone could remember. The other scholars and servants lived in fear of her.

Early one morning, slamming into the old artist's rooms with her buckets and brooms, she found him muttering to himself. He spent his days in his studio, sitting in a stuffed chair with the curtains drawn. He'd sat in silence for twenty years, brooding. This day however, he was muttering. She squinted into the dim room and listened.

"Beneath, beside, before . . . no, no . . . before, beside, beneath. No, no. Damn. How does that go?"

"Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore," the old woman called out.

The old artist looked up with a fierceness that would have withered anyone else and hissed, "What's that, hag?"

"Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. Get it right, old man."

"How dare you!" He rose from his seat and took a step toward her. "How dare you speak to me like that! Stupid hag!" He was a big man, tall and large boned, with a wild mane of white hair.

She let fall her brooms and bucket and took five steps into the room. "Because you got it wrong as shouldn't be got wrong. Call yourself a scholar. Pah! You've no more learning than a flighty hen."

"How dare you!" His large frame shook with fury.

"Listen, you! If you want to know: Beneath. Above. Behind. Before. Within. Beside. To win. Restore. Beneath. Above. Behind. Before . . . ." Slowly, relentlessly, she chanted, over and over again, her voice gaining power and strength.

The old man grew still; the fierceness left his face. He stared at the woman with wide eyes: she seemed to grow taller, straighter, and as she chanted the years fell from her face: her eyes blazed. Again and again she spoke the words until they broke upon his mind like a wave and he began to say them with her. He closed his eyes.

"Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore!"

Their voices stopped. When he opened his eyes, the room was dark and she had shrunk to her old withered self. She picked up her bucket and brooms and shuffled out. He heard her rattling around in the rooms beyond.

There was a knock at the door. One of the scholars bravely stuck his head in and said, "Thaddaeus? Master Thaddaeus? Is everything alright?" Then catching sight of the old artist beyond the studio door, he said, "I heard loud voices. Is all well?"

"Yes, yes." Thaddaeus huffed. "I just had words with the cleaning woman."

"The cleaning woman? Not Grissle? She'll take your head off!"

"Not mine," he growled.

"Well if you're alright, I'll leave you." The scholar quickly ducked back out the door.

"Beneath, above, behind, before," Thaddaeus muttered, "within, beside, to win, restore. At last I know the whole. At last." He felt a warmth stir within his frigid depths and smiled for perhaps the first time in many years. "But what does it mean?" he said. The smile fell, and he said loudly into the dimness, "What does it mean?"

"I wish I knew," a hoarse voice said. Grissle stood in the room, a dust rag in her hand. "Grandmother never said."

Thaddaeus opened the curtains. The studio filled with grey light. He looked around, blinking, and saw Grissle watching him.

"Why are you standing there, woman? Dust!"

Dust indeed. It lay thickly over everything.

Thaddaeus walked out of his studio and, for the first time in twenty years, went down to the dining hall for breakfast. The scholars had not received such a surprise since the boiler burst in the main lodge.

After breakfast, Thaddaeus returned to his rooms, and found the studio scrubbed, purged of neglect, the layers of dust removed. He sat down in his chair, exhausted by the morning's efforts. The scholars—those who remembered him—had welcomed him to their table. The students had not known him and he'd heard the whispered conversations and explanations wafting up and down the great hall. He'd sat without speaking during the entire meal and, after a few polite inquiries, the other scholars left him alone. Except for one. As the dishes were cleared away, the oldest scholar, a white-haired man, leaned toward him and said, "You walk in darkness."

Thaddaeus nodded slightly.

"You will hear a voice behind you saying, 'this is the way; walk here'."

Then the scholar turned and left the hall. Thaddaeus squinted after him, but couldn't remember his name. His words meant nothing.

Now, he gazed around the studio. Grissle had been thorough in a relatively short time. Every surface gleamed. A fire burned in the grate. There was a pot of hot coffee on the table at his elbow. But what else was different? He'd been sitting here in shadows long enough; he knew every dim shape, every silhouette in the room. She had not moved anything away.

Oh. She had.

She had removed the tarp from the easel in the middle of the room.

A canvas filled with dark colors lay exposed to the light. On a nearby table, the wooden board he'd used as a palette had been scraped and sanded. The brushes he'd thrown down in despair twenty years before had been cleaned and sat upright in a tall jar.

Had it been twenty years? Or yesterday? He closed his eyes against the sight, but it was too late. The dark curtain he'd drawn across his mind so long ago had shifted; a line of bright light shone under the edge, brighter than the grey daylight of the old city. Words dropped into his head: _beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore._ The dark curtain shifted again and the line of light grew just a little wider. He opened his eyes and the canvas was before him: he looked at a dark city that emerged out of an even darker background. He poured himself a cup of coffee and waited.

The noon bell rang, jarring Thaddaeus out of dark thoughts and heralding the appearance of Grissle. She bore a tray food, but instead of leaving it in the entrance, she shuffled into the room and set it at the old man's elbow. Apparently she was not going to leave him alone.

"What's this? You know I never eat at midday," Thaddaeus said. Then something on the tray caught his attention. "What's that?"

"Bread." Grissle stood looking at him, the sagging wrinkles of her face shrouding her expression. Then she said, "I brought this for you." and pulled a paper out of her apron pocket. "This'll teach you things," she said.

Thaddaeus unfolded the paper and stared. It was a drawing of the Market Square: buildings loomed like grey ragged cliffs over a mass of people, selling, haggling, and thieving. Head and shoulders above the crowd, a man's bright face appeared: a man with wings. The artist was clearly gifted. The sketch was clear, yet intricate, the composition perfect. The man with wings, though fashioned in pencil, looked as though he might speak; the crowd in the market roiled and swelled. Thaddaeus's mind was strangely stirred.

"Who drew this?" he demanded.

"Ah. Thought it might interest you," Grissle said smugly.

"Just tell me who made it."

The old woman grunted. "I can't tell you for certain, but I expect it was the young girl who painted the Mayor's portrait."

"A girl painted the Mayor's portrait? What are you talking about, woman?"

"Young slip of a thing too," Grissle said, and related, in her own way, what she knew.

She'd been to market one afternoon—just two days ago, in fact—when there was a great commotion in the centre of the square. She'd made her way to the front of the crowd, expecting to see a traveling clown, or maybe a fight. Instead, she'd seen the city councillors clearing an area in front of City Hall and setting out paints and a large canvas. Then the Mayor posed on a high stool and a young girl stepped up to the canvas and began to paint.

"I tell you," Grissle said, "it seemed like those brushes were part of her hand. On and on she painted, till nearly dusk. Then the queerest thing of all happened."

When the girl stepped back from her work, Grissle could see she was nervous, with good reason. The Mayor's likeness was true, but she'd spared no hideous detail: she'd painted exactly what she'd seen, even capturing the sickened and decayed City Hall. Her painting was more than true: it was a revelation. And yet, very few had seen it that way, not even the Mayor. He had been filled with praise for his own portrait, and the councillors had congratulated him, saying it would seal his re-election.

"Most in the crowd saw what the Mayor saw," Grissle said. "Only a few saw the truth, and the truth was a horror."

"The girl," Thaddaeus asked, "what happened to the girl."

"Don't know," Grissle replied. "I think she was from out in the country and came with one of the marketers. She's not been seen again."

Thaddaeus got up and began to pace back and forth from his chair to the window. Grissle watched him and waited.

"And this drawing here?" he asked.

"Got it from a friend of a friend of a friend who picked it up off the ground during the painting. Said it fell out of the Mayor's pocket."

"But this friend didn't return it to the Mayor?"

"Said it belonged to the girl. Said she saw the Mayor take it from her, but that's all hearsay."

"But this drawing— _is_ it the same hand that painted the portrait? There are ways to tell."

"I'm no judge." Grissle's face and voice were expressionless.

"Where is the painting now?"

"City Hall. Hung up for all to see."

Thaddaeus hesitated a moment, then said, "Grissle, might I borrow this drawing for an hour or two?"

"Said I brought it for you, didn't I? Keep it."

"Thank you, Grissle," Thaddaeus said. He was already gathering his coat and hat. If he had looked back, he might have been surprised at Grissle's expression. The three words he'd just spoken she had not heard him say for twenty years.

Thaddaeus went down the stairs and across the courtyard for the second time that morning. If anyone showed surprise at his appearance, he didn't stop to notice. Pale, white-haired, and wide-eyed after twenty years in near darkness, he looked something like those fish that live in the deepest part of the sea. But in his excitement, he felt the years fall away, like bonds loosed from all his limbs. He found himself walking in time to words in his head: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. Past the porter, past the college gates, and down the hill he strode, into the city; with each step the dark curtain in his mind shifted just a little and the light grew. The drawing was important. The mysterious girl painter was important. He didn't know why, but he knew. The drawing of the man with wings shone in his mind's eye.

The city was not as he remembered. It was darker, sinister; the buildings loomed overhead, dirty and decayed. Many shops and houses were boarded up; figures huddled in corners and empty doorways; soldiers roamed the streets. Thaddaeus walked quickly, glad of the daylight: he sensed that these streets would be dangerous by night. He knew from his own brief study of history that this had been a beautiful city once; there had been a queen in those days who ruled with knowledge and justice. But that was long ago, before his great-grandmother's time, in the days when people still knew the old stories. Now there was no history, only commerce, even at the University. As he crossed the Market Square and saw the pinched looking townsfolk alongside the corpulent rich, he reflected that the reigning King must have changed a great deal and might not be very popular anymore. He had served the King once: he had been employed as the royal painter. But he had failed, he had quit.

The portrait of the Mayor was the first thing Thaddaeus saw when he stepped into City Hall. It hung in the lobby, larger than life and illuminated by a skylight overhead and a row of footlights beneath. At first glance he saw a jolly man with a red beard, dressed in a colourful coat, a magnificent City Hall in the background. Then the image altered like a melting waxwork. An arrogant, greedy face leered down at him, its teeth bared like a dog's. The corpulent figure was squeezed into a gorgeous ill-fitting coat that must have once belonged to another, and the building was a crumbling edifice whose blackened walls were slimed with nameless filth. Thaddaeus shuddered. Who had dared to paint such a portrait? Someone with searing vision: a young girl, according to Grissle. Was it true?

Thaddaeus found a bench along the wall and sat down. He didn't think he would be recognized; a different man had been mayor twenty years ago when he'd been painting for the King. It was obvious by the look of the place that a completely new government was in charge of the city now. But he still pulled his hat lower over his face and turned up his coat collar. Something about this place felt wrong and it wasn't just the ugly portrait. He watched the people coming and going, and when he was sure no one was watching he pulled out the drawing.

Yes. They were done by the same hand, he was sure; and as hideous as the Mayor's face was, the winged man's face was that much more beautiful.

"May I help you, sir?"

Startled, Thaddaeus looked up into the face of a sullen city councillor.

"Do you have business here, sir?" The councillor looked at him with evident distaste, somehow turning the word 'sir' into an insult.

"I was admiring the new portrait," Thaddaeus said.

"Yes, well there's no need to loiter."

"I'm a retired art professor from the University," Thaddaeus countered. His instincts were telling him to go, but the man had nicked his pride. "Surely I might be allowed more than a passing look at such a magnificent work."

"What did you say your name is?"

"I didn't."

This seemed to confuse the man. "But you did say you're from the University."

"Yes."

The councillor turned to the portrait. "Is it really a magnificent work? I can't say I see anything so very grand about it."

"Do you know . . . who painted it?"

"Oh yes. Slip of a girl. Fresh from the country and all agog over our fair city. And the Mayor of course. She seemed deeply impressed by his personality." The councillor's tone conveyed that he himself would never be so callow.

"You're sure the painter was a young girl?"

"As I say, I saw her myself."

"Only, there isn't any signature."

"What is that to me? The Mayor is happy with the portrait and I suppose that's all that matters." The councillor paused. "You're from the University?"

"Yes," Thaddaeus replied absently. A small detail in the painting had just caught his eye.

"I'll tell the Mayor you stopped by. He'll want to know," the councillor said, and swept off down the hall.

Left to himself again, Thaddaeus stepped close to the painting. Averting his eyes from the twisted face of the mayor, he bent close to examine a small figure in the lower right hand corner. From a short distance, the figure looked like a small tree on a far horizon beyond the City Hall; but up close, it became a bright-faced man with wings, the same man in the pencil drawing. Once he had seen him, he could no longer see the tree.

"Ah. You've seen him too," said an unpleasant voice at his elbow.

Thaddaeus turned to see a young woman in a dull, ill-fitting uniform standing by his side.

"Don't know why she put _him_ in. She's got a savage mind, that one. I tell you."

"Who?"

"That girl what made this here picture. Savage mind. Look there. A bee-oo-tiful picture of his lordship with his kind, jolly face and then she puts _him_ in."

"Who?"

"That little dirty man there. That beggar. What's a worthless bit like him doing in this bee-oo-tiful picture? Oughta be painted over, that's what I think."

"Nonsense," said a woman bearing a brief case who suddenly appeared at his left. People in this place seemed to creep up beside him. "That beggar is a reference to the Mayor's bleak and unhappy past. He's someone who's pulled himself up by his own boot straps. An example of industry and fortitude." She glared at the younger woman with the mop and bucket. "He is an example to us _all._ That may look like a dirty beggar to you, but it's a stroke of sheer brilliance." And she marched off down a hallway.

"Humph," said mop and bucket to the receding briefcase. "Easy for you to say."

"Did you see the painter?" Thaddaeus asked.

"Oh sure. I was standing there when she did it. Seen her drawin' too. In a little book with a pencil. I was buying cabbages from her old man. Savage mind she's got."

Thaddaeus took the paper from his pocket.

"Hey! How did you get your mitts on that?"

"Someone gave it to me."

"Gave it to you! Well it's mine, see? I found it."

"Found it?"

"It was on the ground after the paintin' was through and everyone had cleared out. No one wanted it, so I took it. I only lent it to Hildy to show her mum." She reached for the drawing, but Thaddaeus pulled it back.

"Hey now!" she began in a louder voice, but Thaddaeus quickly said, "Will you sell it?"

She lowered her arm. "Maybe. But I won't be cheated out of it."

Thaddaeus suspected that money had already changed hands over the drawing, but he took out his wallet, trying to remember if there was something in it. There was.

"Ah!" mop and bucket gasped as she took the wad of money, then looked up sharply. "Is that all? It's by a famous painter, you know."

"Do you know her name?"

"No."

"Then she's not famous." Thaddaeus pocketed his wallet and the drawing, and walked out the door, leaving the young woman to count her good fortune and gloat over 'that sucker of an old man'."

Out in the street, Thaddaeus felt suddenly weary. The city had changed too much. He saw no one he knew. Turning his steps to the University, he plodded along, winding his way through the crowded Market Square. People jostled and glared at the old man who moved too slowly, like a great bear; but he didn't notice them. His thoughts were taken up with the portrait and the drawing by the mysterious girl painter. How was it that he had seen one thing and those two women had seen another? It wasn't just a difference in interpretation; it was a radical difference in vision.

Halfway up the hill, he spotted The Tower Inn and went in to rest; it had been his favourite place in the old days and was still clean and well-kept. Indeed, it was the only building on this street that did not look shabby. He sat down at a table, weary to the bone. Almost he wished he had stayed at home; the day's adventure, after twenty years of silence, was beginning to pall. He felt tarnished somehow, and wondered if it was the sight of the painting. Mop and bucket thought the painter had a savage mind. Perhaps she was right. After all, he had not met the Mayor and didn't know anything about him. The woman with the briefcase thought the Mayor a great man; she admired the painting. Had the painting been created by a diseased mind or . . . and here Thaddaeus stopped and confronted the thing that gnawed at him: perhaps his own vision had so darkened that everything he saw now looked evil. He thought back to the day twenty years ago when he had given up painting and shut himself away.

The King had commissioned a painting of the city. Thaddaeus had imagined a skyline filled with the light of dawn. Instead, he had painted a dark city enveloped by an even greater darkness. He'd started over, thinking to load his palette with the lightest colours, but the darkness emerged again. Then one day, in desperation, he had climbed out on the highest college roof and looked down at the city. It was daybreak and the sky was clear; the towers of the palace shone and Thaddaeus viewed the magnificent architecture against the morning sunlight. He'd let the vision flood his mind and, filled with excitement, returned to his studio for the third attempt.

Once again, he'd inexplicably laid down layer after layer of darkness. When he realized what he was doing, he'd flung down his brushes in anguish, thrown a tarp over the unfinished canvas, and sent a message to the King: he was finished painting and could not fulfill the commission. Then he'd closed the curtains and sat down to brood for the next twenty years. The King had sent many messengers, but he would not see them. Eventually, the messengers stopped coming.

Obviously much had changed during his two decade absence from the world. His afternoon walk had showed him that: the dirty streets and the polluted air could not all be his imagination, he reasoned. And yet there was the Mayor's portrait that had altered after his first glance.

He ordered coffee, strong and black, then absently opened the newspaper that lay on the table beside him. The headline read: "DYING KING'S LAST WORDS. FOLLOW THE GENERAL." Thaddaeus stared at the headline. His coffee came and, though it was scalding, he drank it down quickly and called for more.

The proprietor came to the table. "Are you alright, mate? You look a bit peaky."

"Yes," Thaddaeus said, thickly. He pointed at the headline. "When did the King die?"

"Well now, let's see," he refilled Thaddaeus's cup. "About ten year ago. Maybe eleven."

"Ten years!" Thaddaeus exclaimed, and then lowered his voice. "Ten years?"

"Sure. Where you been hidin' that you don't know that?" the proprietor said, looking Thaddaeus over carefully. "It's today's paper, but the General likes to remind us every so often. When there's an incident or the populace seems restless, he reminds us that the King chose him as our leader."

"But what about the young prince and princess?"

The man looked hard at Thaddaeus. "They died of fever the same week the king died."

"Dead! I painted their portraits when they were babes!"

The proprietor looked around, then leaned in close. "I wouldn't spread that recollection around, mate. Nobody talks of the prince and princess, leastways nobody who wants to live long." He straightened and glanced around the room again. It was nearly empty except for an old woman who sat in a far corner nodding over a bowl of soup. He leaned in close again and whispered, "it was the General who was with the King when he died: him and the Mayor. It's best to take their word for past events in the palace. If they say the royal family all died of fever, then they did."

Thaddaeus nodded and the proprietor went off to help a group of men who came in the door calling for drinks.

Numbly, he turned the page of the paper and saw, on a double page spread, the face of the Mayor; the man looked jolly and kind enough. But the portrait . . . Shuddering, he turned the page again and saw the face of the General, sleek, aquiline, and formidable. Thaddaeus had a dim memory of this man: something connected with a suspicious incident at a far flung military outpost years ago.

So. The King is dead and this General is in charge. The world has changed. I have slept too long and not long enough, the old artist thought.

He staggered to his feet and went out into the dying afternoon. Everywhere he looked, he saw signs of poverty and decay. And where were the children? The late afternoon should be ringing with their shouts and games. It was as if his own painting of the city, the one he'd abandoned, had come true. He hurried up the hill, wanting only his chair in his old familiar rooms, but as he trudged along, words fell into his mind: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. He kept walking as the words began to beat about his head and images of the young girl's painting and his own revolved before his mind's eye. What did it all mean?

He reached his rooms and there was supper and more coffee on a tray. A lamp was lit and a small fire blazed on the hearth. He threw off his coat and fell into his chair. He closed his eyes and there in his mind—where it had been all afternoon though he'd been distracted—there was the line of bright light shining from under the dark curtain. Yes, the curtain had risen more than halfway now. This light in his mind was warm and yellow, like a summer afternoon. It was not the white light of intellect: it didn't blind; it beckoned. It beckoned with strange words as some unseen hand gently raised the curtain until the shadows in his mind disappeared altogether: Beneath, above, behind, before . . . he didn't know what it meant, but suddenly he understood.

He opened his eyes and there was his unfinished painting: the dark city under a feathery wing-like cloud. He rose, found his paints and filled his palette. He lit all the lamps, then took up his brushes. He knew how to finish it. A part of him had known twenty years ago, but his reason had rebelled. Now he obeyed his unspoken self. He painted far into the night.

The next morning, Grissle found him slumped in his chair, sound asleep in the grey light. She shut off the lamps. Shaking her head and tsking quietly, she cleaned his brushes then stopped in front of the finished painting and gazed at it for several moments. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes." Then she built up the fire, set hot coffee and bread on the table, and went out.

* * * * * * * *

That summer, the old artist coming out of retirement caused quite a stir in the University. No one could ever say exactly how word got out that he was painting again, but the hurried whispers in the corridors soon turned to excited babble in the dining hall, and after that, short articles began appearing in the University paper. The old artist was obliged to show his new paintings to the steady stream of inquisitive scholars who knocked at the door. In frustration, he asked the Chancellor for space in the University's gallery: a request that was eagerly granted. This circumvented the flow of visitors to the studio with the exception of the students who came begging for an apprenticeship. These, Thaddaeus left in the capable hands of Grissle who hung about the door of his apartment like a watchdog. "He's painting," she'd growl, "and not to be disturbed."

His first wave of paintings was hailed by University scholars as "New! Brilliant! The cutting very edge of avant-garde!" Critics described them as 'The Destructive Landscapes': cityscapes under the attack of luminous storms, swirling tornadoes, or lucent flash floods, covered his canvases. One large painting depicted a violent volcanic eruption in the foreground, with a bright river of lava swallowing a distant city. The critics called it "Pompeii", but anyone with half an eye could see that the city was the very shape of their own with the towers of the palace, the clock tower of City Hall, and the University on the hill. Yet somehow, the critics and scholars overlooked this fine point.

Oddly though, his very first painting—the one that had caused him to quit twenty years before—was the last of the landscapes to be publicly displayed. He seemed reluctant to bring it out; it was, perhaps, the strangest of the set. There in the foreground was the dark city, surrounded by a black, almost feathery darkness that spread over the canvas. In complete contrast, a bright golden cloud hung in the upper corner of the black sky. Bolts of lightning shot from the cloud down to the city; a close examination revealed a perfect depiction of City Hall ablaze.

No one knew what to make of this last painting and the artist himself had little to say. On a rare appearance in the dining hall, he was accosted by scholars and a journalist who asked, "What does it mean?" to which the old artist replied simply, "Above," and went back to his jacket potato and cheese.

After a month of inactivity, everyone thought he must have exhausted himself and come finally to the end of his career. They settled in happily to write retrospectives of his life and work.

But to the delight of the Provost and the glory of the University, he began to work again, producing a fresh batch of paintings. The subject of these was darker: they depicted scenes of human violence and terror. In one picture, a regiment of soldiers slashed themselves with swords; in another, mass hysteria gripped the common folk in the Market Square as they attacked one another with clubs and knives. A third painting showed a lone soldier climbing a dark road; he held a child in his arms whose face was bruised and broken, her body bleeding. The soldier's face shone with a mysterious light.

There were numerous paintings in this group which critics called 'Studies in Madness'. Scholarly journals called the artist "the new Rembrandt," hailing his use of light and the range of human emotion.

"Range of human emotion?" a student in the gallery was heard to say. "I see only madness and terror. What is the old goat trying to say?"

"Don't be a fool," said his fellow. "Everyone knows art has no fixed meaning. It's no use trying to find one."

And yet, meaning was a question that some found important, especially when the General and the Mayor made an appearance in the gallery. How to explain violent scenes of the city's destruction displayed as great art? When the two politicians arrived, the old artist himself was present, smiling grimly.

"What do you call these? They have no title," the Mayor demanded.

The Provost nervously eyed the silent artist, then said, "I think the landscapes are called "Above" and the . . . the . . . others are called . . . ."

"Beneath," Thaddaeus said.

"They are very . . . interesting," the General said. He exuded a cold calm that withered the usually sanguine Provost. "Very interesting," he said again, standing in front of the dark city being destroyed by bolts of lightning.

"I've seen this man before," the Mayor said of the lone soldier who carried the wounded child, "but I can't think where. Did you use a model?"

Thaddaeus shook his head.

"All soldiers wear a common face," the General said.

"Have you seen _my_ portrait? Now there's a real painting," the Mayor said to the artist.

Thaddaeus merely nodded.

"I wonder what city you have painted," the General said. It was completely obvious, but he looked to Thaddaeus for an answer.

The old man, his huge frame a head taller than the General, did not reply.

"I'm sure it's purely representational," the Provost said.

There really was a hidden power about this artist that the General did not understand and, on a sudden and unusual impulse, decided not to goad. Instead, he politely examined the other paintings, then departed with the portly and befuddled Mayor. He knew exactly what to do. That same afternoon he summoned the city's prominent journalists and announced to the world that the old artist was insane.

Because news of this nature was not important to the populace, who were more concerned about rising taxes and waning food sources, the article about the insane artist was placed on page eight in the "Art About Town" section the next day. It was a short piece read by few, even at the University. The Provost, however, was disturbed by the article's insinuations about the college and ordered the paintings removed from the gallery.

"Of course, I don't believe you're insane," he said to Thaddaeus, "but the General . . . ."

"Yes. The General," Thaddaeus replied.

"A man like that is already suspicious of . . . let us say, circles of higher learning."

"Yes. A man like that."

"Surely you understand, Master Thaddaeus. We do not want trouble."

"Yet trouble will come, sweeping down like a fire bolt."

"Well, the General _is_ a powerful man, but if we keep a low profile . . . appear to fall in line with his views . . . ."

"There is still time," Thaddaeus said, "there is still time."

"Well of course," the Provost said, "but I'm afraid I must ask you to leave, Master Thaddaeus. As much as the University has benefited from your, er, long association. I regret to say that, in the current political climate, it's best if you . . .

The old artist had taken up his tools and begun stretching a new canvas over a frame. He worked in silence, as if he'd forgotten the Provost was in the room.

"Master Thaddaeus, are you . . . are you beginning another painting? But surely you understand that, for the good of the University, I cannot endorse . . . ."

"It does not matter. Those meant to see, will see."

"Of course," the Provost said weakly, and left the studio, shaking his head as the old artist began muttering under his breath: "beneath, above, behind, before . . . ."

The next morning, Grissle told Thaddaeus that he'd be moving to The Tower Inn. "The owner's a friend of mine," she said.

"Moving?" Thaddaeus stopped in the middle of a brush stroke. "Are you mad, Grissle?"

"No, sir, but there's some think you are. Here at the college you're in the General's eye. You can't paint what you're paintin' and not be."

"But I've lived here fifty years!"

"And you'll be clearing out today. I've hired some men."

"Argh!" Thaddaeus growled and turned back to his canvas.

And so, as Grissle directed the packing and moving. Thaddaeus continued to paint, paying no heed to the bustle that moved about him that day. In the world's eyes he had come out of retirement and begun to paint again; in actuality, he had withdrawn further into himself. His paintings were merely a manifestation of his need to make sense of the words that beat about his brain: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore. He was not a musical man, but he walked and breathed to the rhythm of these words. Almost he could feel them, like a gentle pulse swelling up from the earth; like the metrical beating of wings stirring the air. His interior self was ablaze with light and he sought to translate his inner visions with the always inadequate strokes of a brush.

"I see you have heard the voice behind you." It was the University's oldest scholar, the white-haired man whose name Thaddaeus could not remember. He had not seen him since they'd met in the dining hall a year ago.

"Before you called out, you were answered."

Thaddaeus looked up from his painting. He was surprised to see the room empty of all furnishings save his easel and the small table that held his paints. The grey evening light, hardly distinguishable from the grey light of morning, shone through the bare window. The old scholar stood surveying the painting's progress. "Yes," he said, "you were heard even before you finished speaking."

Grissle moved about the edges of the room with a duster, ferreting out cobwebs. Three men stood at the door waiting to remove the easel and escort the artist to his new home. Thaddaeus wondered how much time had passed since beginning the painting. Was it one day? Or ten?

"That woman with the strangely carved staff: I've seen her before, but not in the place you've painted her," the old scholar said.

Woman? Thaddaeus thought. He looked closely at the painting. There she was, striding across an open field, holding a twisted walking stick. Had he painted her? He only remembered trying to capture the colours of a blazing star. The woman was followed by a flock of sheep on her right and a flock of goats on her left. Where had _they_ come from? The sheep were varying shades of brown and black; the goats were snow white with blood red eyes. The field of yellow grass was bent by a breath of wind, and overhead the sun blazed yellow in a brilliant sky.

"Is it finished?" Grissle asked, her harsh voice splintering the artist's thoughts.

Without knowing why, he reached out and placed a thin stroke of umber across the woman's forehead.

"Ah yes," the old scholar breathed, "her unusual crown. Now it's finished."

Yes, Thaddaeus thought. I suppose it is. He relinquished his palette and brushes to Grissle. The three workmen came forward: one took the table, one gingerly took the painting, and one took the easel. Thaddaeus watched their removal with mild bewilderment.

"I'll see you again," the old scholar said, then he too left the studio.

Thaddaeus stood still listening to the old man's footsteps on the stairs, and Grissle stood quietly waiting. Finally, he turned to her and seemed about to speak, but she said, "It's time to go. Your work here is done. And so is mine."

Subdued by confusion, he followed her out the door and into the quiet twilight. He'd always loved the college in the evening light, but now, a year after his fateful journey to see the Mayor's portrait it all looked different to him. The sky was polluted and the grey stone walls were blackened in many places and the ancient buildings around the courtyard were crumbling and neglected. The gates were smeared with filth. Once out on the street, he looked back to see that vandals had defaced the University emblem. He shuddered and quickened his pace to catch up with Grissle.

Halfway down the hill, in the street outside The Tower Inn, he stopped and looked around. He sensed they were very near the neighbourhood of his childhood. Long ago, on midsummer evenings like this, it had rung with the shouts of playing children. Now it was silent, the tall houses mostly boarded up and abandoned. Dark figures slunk along the pavement in the gathering dusk. Thaddaeus sighed and followed Grissle into The Tower.

The Tower Inn was, in fact, a tower built along Anglo Saxon lines, though refurbished in a modern fashion and attached to a rambling set of buildings that fronted the street. The old artist's rooms were at the top of the tower. Grissle and the workmen had positioned the studio furnishings almost exactly as they had been in the old college rooms so that when Thaddaeus walked in, he was mainly aware of the difference in light. There were many more windows here than in the old place. He sat down in his chair and looked around at the bright fire in the grate and the paintings stacked against the wall. He knew his life had shifted in some major way, yet it had little to do with moving house. Grissle stood by the door, polishing the knob and watching him out of the corner of her eye. He took up a sketchpad that lay on the table and began to draw.

There was a knock at the door. The proprietor entered. When he saw Thaddaeus he said, "Why, I remember you! You came into the pub last year. Didn't know you was a famous artist. Though now I think of it, you did say you painted the portraits of . . . well you said you painted."

"The royal family," Grissle said. "He painted them all."

The proprietor sent Grissle a warning look, but her face was unreadable. "Do you like the rooms?" he asked the artist.

"Yes," Thaddaeus replied, though so far he'd only seen the studio. There must be rooms beyond—perhaps a bedroom, but at the moment he wasn't interested. "Thank you," he added, and went back to sketching.

"Grissle tells me the University don't want your paintings no more. Perhaps you wouldn't mind puttin' 'em up around the inn? My wife's especially keen. She's got some education and went up to see your paintings at the gallery." He looked at Thaddaeus hopefully.

It hadn't occurred to Thaddaeus that anyone outside the University would be interested in his work. Actually, he didn't care whether or not _anyone_ was interested; it had nothing to do with why he painted now. In his early days he had craved encouragement and praise. Now it didn't matter. Each painting, each sketch, was one step toward the source of the words, that elusive rhythm toward which his ears strained.

He looked up from his sketch and, waving a hand toward the stack of paintings, said, "Take whatever you like . . . Grissle, perhaps you would . . . ?" He looked hopefully at Grissle. She nodded and he went back to sketching.

"We'll want to show them all," she said briskly. "The workmen are still here having a pint. Send them up and we'll move the whole lot downstairs."

So it was that the 'Destructive Landscapes' and 'Studies in Madness' were prominently hung in the Great Room of The Tower. The proprietor's wife, who did indeed have some education—more than any of her customers knew—supervised the display and lighting. Though the subject of the paintings may have put some people off their food, they did bring many more customers into The Tower. The news about the mad painter moving to the inn had spread among the common folk and they were eager to view the paintings that the University had rejected. The tables were crowded each evening as folks sat over a pint to argue about what the paintings might mean. For the common folk were sure they meant something.

"Obvious, ain't it," said a farmer staying over after market, "this city's for it. Glad I don't live here."

"Whaddaya mean, 'for it'," said his companion.

"Well it's already going to the dogs, ain't it."

"Whaddaya mean by that?" his companion was a long time city dweller.

"He means the Mayor!" a woman barked. "Talk about dogs!"

"Watch yer mouth," someone said. "Don't be getting' us all in the lockup, Winnie."

"But it's true, ain't it," said a youngish man in a grey cap. "I mean, lookit the wars."

"Yeah. And food's gettin' hard to come by. I heard tell the farmland don't produce like it did."

"That's true enough," said the farmer. "Even the cows seem to be givin' less milk each year. It's like the world's givin' up."

"See? And then kaput!" said the grey cap. "Just like them paintings."

"But hey! What about them killin' pictures, the ones called 'Madness'. Lookit that one there," the woman called Winnie pointed at the opposite wall. "There's our Market Square and all of us killin' each other!"

"Seen yer face in that crowd, didja?" a portly man guffawed.

"I ain't saying I recognize no one, but what do it mean? Does he think we're gonna end up like that?"

"Rubbish!" said a woman in a tight dress. "You lot talk as if these paintings are going to come true, like you think that artist looked into a crystal ball or something. You read what the General said. A diseased imagination painted these."

"I dunno 'bout that," said the farmer. "Else why would the owners put the paintings up for all to see? Tom and Hyla has always been honest folk. Ain't nothin' diseased 'bout their 'maginations, I don't think. And I hear the old artist lives up at the top of The Tower. Seems the University gave him the toss."

"That doesn't mean he's a prophet," said the tight dress.

"Just 'cause _you_ say so," the grey cap retorted.

"Rubbish," she snorted, and walked out.

At that moment the proprietors, Tom and Hyla, came through a side door carrying another painting between them. They took it across the room and leaned it against the wall, then quickly left by the same door. Immediately, a crowd gathered around the new painting, but before anyone had a chance to comment, Tom and Hyla returned with two more paintings.

"Gosh, he's busy, ain't he?" Winnie said.

"Who?" said the farmer.

"The painter! You reckon he paints all night and all day?"

"Don't be a fool. He's human, ain't he?"

These paintings were very different from those already hanging on the walls. They were filled with light and colour. The first was the one Thaddaeus had finished on his moving day: the woman with the sheep and goats. If the scholars and critics had been there, they would, no doubt, have said these paintings were the beginning of a new group and given them a label. But it was the common folk and one very old white-haired scholar who talked over these new compositions.

"Blimey. That woman there, with the funny walking stick, she looks like she could walk right outa that picture," someone said.

"I think I seen her before," Winnie added.

"And that picture there. Lookit the way the lightning flashes across the sky . . . ."

"Lighting it up from one end to the other," the old scholar finished.

"And lookit the man and the little girl there. What are they standin' on?"

"Why it's the top of this here Tower," someone cried.

"Do you think these pictures got names?" someone in the crowd asked.

"I believe the artist will call them 'Behind'," said the white-haired scholar.

"Well I think that's just what he said," the proprietor exclaimed. He was standing on a ladder with a hammer in one hand. "Isn't that right, Hyla? Didn't he say to call these pictures 'Behind'?"

"Yes," Hyla replied, looking at the scholar keenly. "How did you know?"

"Let us say that Master Thaddaeus and I are acquainted with the same fountainhead of knowledge. But perhaps," the scholar continued, appealing to the crowd, "you also are familiar with the old saying: Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore."

"Can't say as I've heard that one before, though it do ring a bell," the farmer began.

"Course it do!" Winnie cried. "It's that old dancing song, remember? Hey Ian," she shouted across the room, "you got your fiddle handy?"

A man in a battered hat nodded vigorously.

"Then what are you waitin' for?" Winnie cried. "Here you!" she said, pointing to a couple of burly workmen, "clear the floor!"

In seconds, half the room was cleared and the fiddler struck up a spirited tune. He was joined by a boy with a drum and a woman with a pipe. Winnie stood on a chair and began to sing:

Beneath, above, behind, before

Within, beside, to win, restore.

Several people joined this chorus, adding layer upon layer of harmony. Soon the floor was filled with circles of young and old, stepping in time to the music. Tom stood with his arm around Hyla, both of them smiling. The old scholar sat on a table in a most undignified position, his legs dangling; he was humming, his head bobbing to the rhythm; now and then he could be heard to say, "Yes! Oh yes!"

A large shadow appeared at the bottom of the stairs. The music faltered and all eyes turned to the tall figure of the artist who stood in the doorway. He wore a stained painting smock and carried a brush in one hand that looked as if he'd just dipped it into green paint. He stared at them all with wide eyes.

"Don't stop," he said, "Don't stop. Please. I beg you."

With a glad cry, musicians and dancers picked up where they'd left off, louder and more vigorous than before, if possible. The old scholar jumped off his seat, grabbed Thaddaeus by the elbow and pulled him over to an empty chair. "Listen closely," he said into the painter's ear. "These folks know a verse you'll not have heard before." Then he slipped away into the crowd, clapping in time as he went.

Away up in his rooms, Thaddaeus had felt, rather that heard the musical pulsation begin. It matched the rhythm of the words in his mind and, at first he'd thought the vibrating air part of his imagination. Then, as he painted, he'd realized the rhythm came from outside himself. He'd been drawn down the stairs, like a moth to a lamp, hearing the music and the drum more clearly with each step. When he'd entered the Great Room and the music stopped, the silence had been like a sharp, sudden pain. Now, he sat in rapt attention, his mouth hanging open slightly, as the music swept over and around him. A young child crawled onto his lap and examined his abstracted face. She grabbed the long paintbrush and, absently, Thaddaeus let it go. The child wandered away, spreading vermillion along the walls until the bright colour gave out.

Thaddaeus found it difficult to make sense of all the sounds, but as he listened, the music took shape before him and he heard the familiar words sung round and round in an ever circling reel. The piper took the melody 'round a bend and the singers spun off the one and only verse they knew:

I bind unto myself today

The power in the starlit space

The sun's life-giving lucid rays

The whiteness of the evening moon,

The flashing of the lightning free

The whirling wind's tumultuous shocks

The steadfast earth

The deep salt sea

Swirling 'round the ancient rocks.

The verse ended and the singers swung off into the orbiting chorus,

Beneath, above, behind, before

Within, beside, to win, restore.

Thaddaeus jumped to his feet. The verse! The verse! I must hear it again! I must have those words for my own, he thought. As if in answer to his silent plea, the singers picked up the verse again and set the words spinning 'round the room. He gaped like a landed fish gasping for air as the music wove its way into his mind.

Winnie nudged the man singing tenor and nodded toward Thaddaeus; the tenor smiled and by tacit agreement, the singers repeated the verse again and again until the artist was mouthing the words with them. Only then did they let go the verse and pick up the revolving chorus for the umpteenth time. The musicians may have known many more songs, but the crowd seemed content with this one. Those who weren't dancing sat around tables at the edge of the room, drinking and tapping their toes while Tom and Hyla brought out platters of bread and cheese.

A lone soldier walked into The Tower and asked for a room. Tom was relieved to see that he was a quiet fellow, just near the end of his leave. The only thing unusual about him was the loaf of bread tucked under his arm. He paid for two nights lodging, then joined the crowd in the Great Room.

Thaddaeus, meanwhile, subsided into a chair and began to sing in his tuneless way. He saw bright figures singing and dancing; the words and music cast coloured lights swirling into the air. Flames leapt from the fiddler's bow and whirled around the drum and pipe. He felt something like sparkling fireworks building in his chest and he thought he might explode. For relief, he glanced aside and saw a quiet-faced soldier sitting beside him, holding a loaf of bread. The boy's face shone with a strange light. Thaddaeus thought he had painted that face before. The soldier turned and, finding the old man looking at him, leaned close and said, "Why don't they sing the other verse?"

For a moment, the painter's mouth opened and shut like a fish before he finally said, "Other . . . other verse? You know another verse?"

"My grandmother taught me," the soldier said.

Thaddaeus jumped to his feet with a shout. For the second time that evening, the music faltered and all eyes turned to the painter who said, "Another verse! He knows another verse!" And he pulled the soldier to his feet.

"Thank heaven for that!" someone responded, and the crowd laughed.

In no time, the other verse was learned and the musicians swept the new words into the air and set them whirling with the rest.

I bind unto myself today

A refuge under mighty wings

A fortress in the time of storm

A shield from terror in the night

A clashing sword of victory

A strong right arm to rescue all

An eye that sees

An ear that hears

Bestowing strength to those who call.

The new verse had a curious effect on the people in The Tower: they seemed infused with new energy. Any who had set down to rest, and those who had thought it time to go home to bed, now stepped back onto the dance floor with renewed vigour. Thaddaeus stood swaying to the rhythm like a supple reed, as if all his joints had been suddenly loosened and oiled. The child with sticky vermillion fingers came and stood before him. She grabbed his hands and pulled; together they tottered out onto the dance floor. Old Grissle stood in a corner watching. Her sagging wrinkles shrouded her expression, but her eyes were bright. She picked up her broom and shuffled up the tower stairs.

Only the young soldier stood still among the swaying crowd, his eyes gazing inward. His name was Michael Lennox and he was wrapped in some fair memory that took him far away to a starlit night. Instead of the loud music, he heard the voice of a girl saying, "It seems like I've known you for some time," and he saw the faces of tall gods who walked beside the sea.

* * * * * * * *

Summer passed slowly into autumn. The city folk could only tell the change by the diminishing grey light and a chill in the air. Thaddaeus continued to paint yet he was also restless. He began to spend his mornings walking out into the city. Because he was such a big man and perhaps because his untidy hair gave him the semblance of a bear, no one bothered him as he prowled the streets. Was he looking for something? If so, it was a shadow of the past he sought, a glimmer of the city's life before the advent of the General. Now and then he would accost one of the dark figures hunched in a doorway and lift him up by the shoulders or the scruff of the neck. "Beneath! Above! Behind! Before!" he would bawl into the shadowed face. A vacant stare was the usual reply; sometimes a snarling curse. Only once did his strange greeting elicit a different response. A ragged youth, dangling from the old man's fist, began to weep when he heard those words. Thaddaeus took the youth back to The Tower where he presented him to the proprietors. Tom took the boy, fed him, washed him, and gave him a job. His name was Abner, which Thaddaeus said meant 'Father of Light'.

It was Emmie, Tom and Hyla's daughter, who'd streaked vermillion paint along the walls that night of the dance. She was three years old, and could often be found in the studio at the top of The Tower, sitting under the artist's easel.

At first he hardly noticed her. As he painted, the words of the dancing song possessed his mind and brought startling new images which he struggled to transfer to canvas. The little girl sat at his feet humming and playing with small stones or spoons. It was the humming that finally penetrated his thought; she was humming the tune to the words in his head. He looked down, his brush poised in midair. The little girl looked up at him and grinned.

"Keep singing," he said, and she picked up the tune again, tapping her spoons in time.

Thaddaeus continued to paint, but every now and then he stopped and looked down at the little girl and she looked back at him, grinning. At five o'clock her mother took her away to supper and bed. Thaddaeus found he missed her and put away his paints and cleaned his brushes. When Grissle brought up his supper, she found him sitting in his chair, staring out the window and humming tunelessly. He usually painted through dinner and on into the evening, leaving a cold tray of food for Grissle to collect and feed to the dogs, but that evening marked another change. Grissle took note as, an hour later, she carried an empty tray out of the tower. The dogs in the kitchen were deeply disappointed, but the old woman's eyes glimmered with satisfaction.

From then on, Thaddaeus took to eating every meal that Grissle brought, and he spent every afternoon either painting, or sitting with little Emmie on his lap, watching her scribble in his sketchbook. He built her a small easel and set it beside his own, then gave her paints and brushes and canvas. They spent many hours together, daubing away, Emmie humming as she spread bright colours over her smock, her canvas, the old man's pant leg; Thaddaeus, chanting in his tuneless way as he began painting portraits. For now he saw more than the visions of his inner eye; the faces of the people around him shone like bright beacons beaming out of the city's grey light.

Crowds of portraits began to appear on the walls of The Tower's Great Room: Abner and Tom, Hyla and Winnie, and several pictures of Emmie wearing different expressions. He painted farmers and marketers, town people and soldiers, old women, young men—anyone who came to The Tower-- and even the kitchen dogs all silly with their tongues lolling out. The growing collection of portraits drew crowds to The Tower and provoked endless conversation.

One day Hyla hung yet another portrait in the Great Room: a woman standing tall and straight in a field of waving flowers; her eyes blazed with gladness though she did not smile; her rough clothing fluttered in a breeze.

"Well now," Tom said, "who's he painted this time?"

"That's Grissle," the boy Abner piped up.

It was early evening and folk returning from their day's work had begun to gather at the inn. Abner had just finished scrubbing tables. Now, everyone in the room pressed closer to the new painting.

"I do declare," Winnie said, "the boy's right. Who'd a thought."

Grissle came out of the kitchen carrying a supper tray. Everyone in the room turned to look at her and she stopped, her face expressionless. All heads swivelled back to the portrait. No one said a word. Grissle followed their gaze and her eyes opened wide. She stood, frozen, holding the tray aloft. Across the room, Thaddaeus appeared at the bottom of the stairs; he carried little Emmie on his shoulders and ducked under the doorway.

"There you are, Grissle," he said. "Glad we caught you. No need to carry all that upstairs." He set Emmie on the nearest table top and took the tray out of Grissle's hands. Putting it down, he sat at the table and took Emmie into the crook of his arm. "Look, girlie. All our favourite things." He was unaware that everyone in the room was silent, waiting, Grissle still as stone. Emmie pushed a bit of cheese into her mouth, then looked up at the new portrait and pointed. Thaddaeus glanced up at the painting, then turned back to his supper and said, "Oh yes. Before."

Grissle sucked in a sob, threw her apron over her face, and ran from the room. People began to sit down in their accustomed places; Tom and Hyla brought in drinks. As the room settled into the evening sounds of clinking glasses and steady conversation, only Winnie stood with her hand on her hip, glaring at the new portrait.

"Before? What's he mean by that?" she said.

Tom, passing near with a tray of drinks said, "Must be the name for the picture."

"Ha! Grissle. Before." Winnie snorted, "I coulda told you that."

"You ain't jealous now, are you Winnie," a man said. "Why your portrait is one of the first he painted."

"He's painted all us regulars," Winnie said in her loud voice. "What I want to know is, who's he gonna paint next?"

Winnie and her listeners turned to look at Thaddaeus. Surely he'd overheard the question; he was sitting near enough. But he was oblivious. Somehow, Grissle had contrived to make a chocolate pudding and it claimed the complete attention of the artist and the child.

"Well," said the man, turning back to Winnie, "maybe he's done with paintings of people."

But he wasn't. The next influx of portraits took The Tower by surprise. Each morning, before dawn, Thaddaeus packed his easel and paints, and went out into the streets. He returned at midday with paintings of the street folk: faces hardened and criminal: faces that, at first, made your skin crawl. Tom didn't want to hang these portraits, but Hyla was relentless.

"What good will it do to look at those terrible faces?" Tom argued.

"Wait and see," Hyla said.

"We'll lose customers, Hyla! People will stop coming! Who will want to sit and look at that while they eat their soup," Tom said, pointing to one of the new paintings.

"Wait and see, Tom," Hyla said.

"I don't know how it is," Tom muttered, "but these are worse than them violent 'Studies in Madness'. Somehow a picture of marketers killin' each other don't get to me like these faces do."

"Beneath, Tom. Those violent pictures are named 'Beneath', and the landscapes are called 'Above'. 'Studies in Madness' is a title coined by art critics."

"Oh right. That makes it all clear as day," Tom said, rolling his eyes at Hyla's back. She was up on a ladder tapping a nail into the wall. "And them nice happy paintings are called 'Behind' and the paintings of our folk are called 'Before'. Don't you wonder what he'll name these new paintings?"

Hyla looked down at Tom and said, "Can't you guess?"

Tom frowned and shook his head.

"He'll call them 'Within'."

The new paintings did cause a stir, but not in the way Tom had predicted. The regular customers were at first shocked by what they saw and let Tom and Hyla know. How dare they hang those disturbing faces among those of honest, hard-working folk? And how in blazes had the old painter convinced the evil, slinking creatures to pose? Had he paid them? Held them at knifepoint? It must have been one or the other. For two nights running, long loud discussions rang out in the Great Room. Tom listened to the talk with growing concern. Hyla just smiled and brought out more food; the regular crowd had doubled.

By the third evening, after two more portraits had been added, the talk hushed, though the crowd had not lessened. People sat, transfixed by the new portraits. If they spoke at all, they spoke in quiet voices and whispers. They hardly seemed to notice what they ate or drank, and some did not eat or drink at all. After two more evenings like this, and six new portraits added, Tom took Grissle aside in the kitchen.

"What's going on out there?" he said. "Hyla don't tell me nothin'. I thought them new paintings would make us lose business, but instead it's doubled. And yet even with all them extra people out there, the place is quiet as a tomb. What's going on?"

"You'd know if you looked at the paintings, Tom," Grissle said.

"I've seen 'em. They give me the willies."

"Look past that, man," Grissle said, and stumped out the door with Thaddaeus's supper tray.

Two weeks later, when the dark portraits numbered twenty-four in all and Thaddaeus had made it clear that the 'Within' paintings were finished, Tom breathed a sigh of relief and sat down beside Winnie. It was Saturday evening and the Great Room was packed with people conversing in hushed voices.

"What do you think he'll paint next?" Winnie said.

"Dunno," Tom said, "but I think we should take some of these portraits down, you know, make room for the next batch."

"You ain't takin' down any of these paintings, Tom. Especially them new ones. They're the best of all."

"Well I can't deny they've been good for business," Tom said.

"You think they're ugly, don't you," Winnie said.

"Well they are! Look at 'em. Creepy, that's what I say."

"Yes," Winnie said, "I guess the truth is ugly more often than not, but it's still better to look it in the eye."

Later that night, when the Great Room was empty and Hyla had gone to bed, Tom sat down and forced himself to look at the new paintings. Perhaps he could locate some flaw, some excuse to take these portraits down.

But I could never convince Hyla, he thought, and looked at the walls hopelessly.

The ugly portraits were scattered among the pictures of folk from The Tower so that it was impossible to look at, say, a painting of Emmie, and avoid seeing one of the tormented faces. He shuddered as his eyes rested on one darkened face after another. He fought the impulse to leave the room and began to sing softly to settle his nerves.

Beneath, above, behind, before

Within, beside, to win, restore.

As Tom sang, a curious thing happened. "Hullo," he said, "I must be tired or else the paint on that picture is shifting." He rubbed his eyes. The particular painting he'd been looking at had indeed changed. At first, the expression had been evil; now its aspect had deepened. Tom read desperation in that face and incurable regret.

"Blimey," he whispered, and then, "poor bloke."

Gazing at the cheerless portrait of a ruined woman, Tom's eyes slid sideways, resting on a picture of his own daughter. It should have cheered him, but a queer thing happened to Emmie's face: something in the woman's countenance transferred to the child. The joy was snuffed out and replaced by loveless grief. He saw at once what Emmie's life could become; he saw how the woman may have begun.

With a choked cry, he jumped up from the table and ran to the room where his wife and daughter lay sleeping. He kissed them both, then hurried to the kitchen. He found Grissle poking about in the larder.

"What you doing there, Grissle?" he said. "I thought you'd be in bed."

"I'm needing a bit of bread to settle my stomach," she replied, and held her candle up to Tom's face. "What's up with you now, Tom? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Been lookin' at those pictures," Tom said, avoiding Grissle's eye.

"Ah," Grissle said.

"Thought I might see if there was somethin' to give them poor blighters out there in the street. You know, some extra food or somethin'."

"Ah," Grissle said again. She watched as Tom yanked open a cupboard overflowing with cheese.

"Seems like there must be somethin' we could do," he said, pulling random packages off the shelves.

Grissle put a hand on his arm and beckoned him over to a large pot on the stove. "Soup," she said. "Get some bowls." Then she opened the back door and lit the lantern over the steps. Tom stood in the doorway looking over her shoulder. A crowd of figures began to gather, like dark moths around a lamp.

"Bowls, Tom. Fill them up and be quick," Grissle said. "And get bread. Some may want it yet."

Next morning, early, Hyla was surprised to find Grissle in the kitchen drying a large stack of soup bowls. Beside the stove, a man sat hunched over. His filthy greasy coat and face told Hyla he'd come from the streets, but not why he was in the kitchen gulping bread like a wolf.

"Grissle," Hyla said, nervously. The man looked up with blazing eyes.

"Tom's down at the market getting more bread," Grissle said.

"Oh." Hyla hadn't been thinking of Tom. "Grissle . . . ."

"Aha!" Thaddaeus cried, bursting through the door and addressing the man by the stove. "Just the man I need. Up! Wash! Attend to business with me."

What was going on here? Hyla was speechless with confusion.

The man stood slowly and looked at Thaddaeus with a face that would have made anyone cower. He was as tall as the artist and almost as broad shouldered. He seemed ready to strike and Hyla held her breath when Thaddaeus clapped a hand on the man's shoulder and said, "Come, Bill. I'd know your face anywhere. Think of the hours we've spent together in my studio at the palace. I painted nearly everyone's portrait but yours in those days. Still, I could paint your face from memory if I wanted to."

Bill glared at Thaddaeus and his clenched fists shook. Grissle quietly lifted a large soup ladle as Hyla wished desperately for Tom to return. Thaddaeus just stood bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and smiling. All at once, Bill's face crumpled and he sucked in a shuddering sob. "I left them, Master Thad. I left them just to get some bread and I never got back. That villain of a Mayor came after me. I been on the run for two weeks now. You understand me? Two weeks. I couldn't go back. He woulda followed me and found them and killed 'em for sure, just to finish the job he was too chicken to do ten years ago. We've been hidin' here and there all these years, keepin' outa his way, and now this! I oughta be shot!"

"Fine. We'll go get them tonight," Thaddaeus said.

"But I've been gone two weeks! Don't you understand? They'll be dead by now. Starved to death."

"Not dead. Hungry though," Thaddaeus said.

Bill gaped at the artist. "What are you saying? Have you gone mad? I didn't believe it when I read what they said about you in the papers, but it must be true."

"Not mad. Asleep. But I'm awake now," Thaddaeus said. "Have a good wash. You stink. And a good rest. Tonight we'll find them and bring them here." He grasped Bill by the shoulders and steered him out of the kitchen.

"Who are they bringing here?" Hyla said, weakly.

"That'll be the young prince and princess, I think" Grissle said.

Hyla sank down on the stool beside the stove where Bill had been sitting moments before. "But Grissle, how can that be? The General and the Mayor have been telling us for years that the royal children died of fever!"

"That's as may be," Grissle said. "We'll find out tonight."

Bill's given name was William Standall and he was the last surviving member of the King's Guard. For ten years he had kept watch over the King's two children, moving them from house to house, and from one hiding place to the next. That night he took Thaddaeus by secret ways to the hidden depths of the palace dungeon, unknown even to the General's mercenaries who operated the deep torture chambers. In these nether regions, the chambers were not man-made; the light of the lantern revealed stalagmites and stalactites beside the paths, luminous streams, and glittering stones that covered the walls. Bill led Thaddaeus to a small phosphorescent cavern, but it was empty: they found only loose stones, the cold remains of a fire, and a tattered blanket on the ground.

"Not dead," Thaddaeus said.

"Then where?" Bill whispered into the echoing dark.

They trudged back the way they had come, Bill listening for any sound of life in the subterranean passages, Thaddaeus hearing only that gentle pulse swelling up from the earth like the metrical beating of wings. At one point he began to sing in his tuneless way, "Beneath, above, behind, before . . ." but Bill shushed him.

Back up on the murky street outside the old palace gardens, Bill began to tremble with fear. "The Mayor! His spies are everywhere. He's sure to find me and he must have found the children. He's surely slit their throats by now!"

"Come now, Bill. He's just a little man with a big belly. Small-minded too," Thaddaeus said as an afterthought. He took the lantern, grasped Bill's elbow, and led his old friend boldly across the Market Square. Dark figures shouted, trying to bar their way, but Thaddaeus bore down upon them swinging the lantern aloft and taking up his tuneless chant:

I bind unto myself today

A refuge under mighty wings

A fortress in the time of storm

A shield from terror in the night . . .

The figures fell away like rats before a burning torch. Soon the two old men were making their way up the hill.

"Master Thad," Bill said, "this isn't the way to The Tower. We've taken the wrong turning."

"We're going the right way, Bill."

They came to the top of the hill and stopped under a dim streetlamp.

"Master Thad, The Tower's not this far up the hill," Bill said, looking around furtively. There was a shuffling sound and movement farther along the murky street. To their right, the road plunged down a steep slope.

"Master Thad," Bill panted, trying to master his fear, "that's the Belltown road. We should not be here, not at night." He looked around at the ragged folk emerging from dark corners. Panic rose and choked any further words of warning.

Thaddaeus merely swung his lantern aloft and sang the old words he knew so well. The crowd backed off. Suddenly he swung his lantern toward the Belltown road and cried out: "Watchman! What is left of the night?"

From the depths a voice answered: "Morning is coming, but also the night." Then a higher voice called out, "Look Edward, it's Captain Bill! He's come to meet us!" And at the sound of that voice, Bill's fear drained away; he sank to his knees like an emptied sack and covered his face with his hands. Thaddaeus patted him on the shoulder. A face bobbed up the steep road: the glowing face of a young soldier, lit somehow from within; he carried no lantern. Behind him another bright face appeared: a man in a shabby black coat, leading a young girl. The soldier carried a thin bundle in his arms: Prince Edward, the rightful ruler of this ragged country by the sea, whose father had been murdered by the General and buried in a common grave outside the city walls.

The girl, Princess Minn, threw herself into Bill's arms and said, "I told Edward you would come and bring the medicine, but we ran out of food and the fire went out, and Edward said you'd been caught, but I knew you'd find us again."

"And here we are," Bill said.

"But Edward wasn't really well enough to walk out, and some soldiers caught us and took us down to that awful place and left us and now he's sicker than before."

"It'll be alright now," Bill said.

Thaddaeus stood silent, staring at the bright-faced man in the black coat. Finally he said, "I've seen you before, sir. Where are your wings?" and he took a worn piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it up under the lantern's light.

"Joe! That's got to be Letty's!" the young soldier cried, and tightened his hold on the young prince.

"You know the artist?" Thaddaeus said, rounding on the soldier.

"Come," the bright-faced man said, putting a hand on Thaddaeus's arm, "it's time to get these children out of the cold."

At the man's touch, Thaddaeus saw; he saw the tall shining figure and the wings outspread under twinkling stars. He had only a glimpse, but it was enough.

"Beside!" he cried out, and his voice carried along the dark echoing street, down the steep Belltown road, rousing sleepers in dark doorways. Then the night pressed in again. He passed the lantern to Bill and took the frail prince in his arms. With a brief nod he bid goodbye to the soldier and to Joe, and watched for a moment as the two descended again into Belltown. Then he turned and led Bill and Minn away from the crossroad.

As Thaddaeus and Bill approached the Tower, they saw Grissle waiting on the doorstep. Behind her stout figure, light and music spilled out the door from the hallway and the Great Room. For all in a moment, the gathered crowd had lost the hushed solemn attitude it had worn for weeks. First a farmer stood and called out for a round of drinks; then the fiddler picked up his bow and seven men instantly jumped up and began to clear the floor of tables; people stood, stretching, yawning, and stamping their feet as if waking from a long sleep; the piper threw off her shawl and blew a reedy rill, testing the atmosphere; the drummer stepped to her side.

"Beside!" Winnie cried out.

Beneath, above, behind before . . .

. . .and the music took off like a match set to dry tinder. And so no one noticed the entrance of two old men carrying two ragged children. Grissle took charge of the boy who was near death. Hyla whisked the girl into the kitchen for a meal and a bath. The old men sat down on a bench near the wall. Thaddaeus gave his full attention to the music until he felt a weight against his shoulder. Bill had fallen asleep, sagging sideways.

"Come now, Bill. Heave ho." Thaddaeus stood, grabbed Bill by the coat front, shook him slightly, and eased him to his feet. Then, as gentle as a bear with her cub, Thaddaeus guided Bill upstairs and put him to bed.

Prince Edward did not die that night, but he did not get well, and Grissle fussed over him like a dog with a bone. Thaddaeus made them put Edward's bed beside a low window in his studio. There, amid the canvas and the easels, Princess Minn and Emmie played while Thaddaeus painted and the invalid boy looked on. Grissle came in and out on one pretext or another, while Bill, last of the King's Guard, kept watch over the tower room, prowling the hallways and stairs like a restless lion, or standing beside the prince's bed, watching him sleep.

* * * * * * * *

So the days and weeks sped by: the cold, grey winter became a cold, grey spring in which no flowers bloomed. At the University, a new artist was installed as chair of the art department. He was a sculptor and produced bone white figures of men bound hand and foot to the backs of strong horses; some figures were the size of a cat, while others were the size of an elephant. When asked what they signified, he said, "Nothing. Nothing at all. Whatever you like." This greatly pleased the art critics and the young artist was hailed far and wide as the genius of a new age.

The new artist was also an accomplished painter, and in a spontaneous sycophantic gesture, he painted the Mayor's portrait. University students and faculty were delighted. They assured each other that the artist had captured the very twinkle in the Mayor's eye. The Mayor himself was mightily pleased and talked about replacing the old portrait in City Hall with this new one. However, the old portrait, though it generated mixed reviews, was three times the size of the new one, so he contented himself with leaving the new painting on display in the University dining hall beside the portraits of ancient and venerable provosts. He became a regular guest at the High Table where he enjoyed a heightened popularity, and where he could glance, surreptitiously, at his own likeness.

The General had no time for such collegial pursuits, however edifying dinner with the Provost might be, for he was busily engaged in escalating the war abroad. Working under the old premise that war is good for business, he proceeded to antagonize his enemies on their own shores in a multi-fronted effort to boost the economy. Unfortunately, he failed to consider the current predicament in the countryside, both at home and abroad. According to the farmers, the land was failing to thrive: crops would not grow, cows gave little milk, chickens would not lay, and there was every indication of immanent famine. This was as true on the General's shores, as in the far countries he harried. All parties concerned were beginning to suspect there would be no spoils of war, yet they laboured on, loathe to be the first man to lay down his hand and forfeit the game.

Under these conditions, the cold grey spring wore on into a cold grey summer. There was always food at The Tower despite severe shortages everywhere else. City folk who didn't mind plain bread gathered in the Great Room for a midday meal, an evening meal, or both. Customers paid what they could or bartered some practical service for their food; Tom and Hyla never asked for more. Each evening after dark, Tom and Grissle served soup out the back door to a dwindling populace. Dark rumours circulated: starvation, plague, and mass graves outside the city walls. Yet it wasn't just criminals and the poorest of the poor who were disappearing: farmers stopped coming to market because they had nothing to sell; all able-bodied men and women who dared apply to City Hall for food vouchers were conscripted for army duty. Whole families vanished. There had, of late, been few children in the city; now there were almost none, save the young occupants of The Tower. The Great Room at the inn still saw its regular customers, but there were many faces missing.

In the middle of this bleak summer, Thaddaeus produced one last painting.

In the foreground, the King greeted his children, Minn and Edward. He was dressed in traveling clothes as if he'd just returned from a long journey, and his face was alight with a peculiar radiance. Behind the children stood the other inmates of The Tower: Tom and Hyla, Emmie, Grissle, Bill, Abner, and Thaddaeus. Behind them stood a young soldier and a man in a shabby black overcoat; a girl with wild golden hair stood between them and there was paint on her hands. The whole crowd stood on a high place overlooking the city. In the background, on the distant shore of the sea, a great dragon pursued two men: one bore unmistakeable aquiline features; the other man was indistinct, but he may have been the mayor.

Oh dear, Hyla thought when she saw the painting. Why couldn't he just paint something simple? Flowers perhaps. She missed seeing flowers. She glanced out the studio windows to the grey polluted sky and the roofs covered with the light frost of early morning. Frost in July, she thought, a thing that should never be. I'm young, but already I've lived too long. What will become of Emmie?

"Well," Tom said. "We've had Beneath, Above, Behind, Before, Within and Beside. This must be To Win."

"I know that," Hyla snapped. "Win what?"

Tom looked at his wife and saw that she looked pinched and tired. This unnatural cold is getting to her, he thought. Then aloud he said, "The country. To win."

"This is a dangerous picture. We can't hang it in the Great Room."

"Well of course not," Tom said. "For one thing, Winnie would pitch a fit."

"Winnie?" Hyla said, not sure she followed Tom's train of thought. "What are you talking about? What's she got to do with it?"

"Well," he said, "she ain't in it, is she?"

The next day Thaddaeus cleaned his brushes and began to pack away all his painting gear, closing up paints and putting them in boxes, then folding up empty easels and rolling up unused canvases.

"What are you doing?" Grissle said at last. "Are you finished painting?"

"Yes," Thaddaeus replied.

"For good?" Grissle said, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Yes," Thaddaeus said. He took the last painting—gingerly because it was still wet—and stuck it on a nail in the wall opposite Edward's bed. He wiped his hands on a rag, took off his painting smock and draped it over a stack of folded easels.

"There," he said. "We wait now."

"For what?" Grissle said.

"Restore, of course."

* * * * * * * *

Life in The Tower was never the same after that final painting. Now, instead of working in the afternoons, Thaddaeus played with the children in the open spaces of the studio. He drew funny pictures to go with the stories he told, and he led them in silly games. Once, he brought up the kitchen dogs and they all played "Hunt the Snark" with an old meat bone and a slice of stale bread; the dogs began to bark frantically as Minn and Thaddaeus hid their quarry out of reach; Emmie screamed with delight and Edward sat up in bed, cheering the dogs on. Hearing the commotion, Bill and Grissle charged up the stairs to find out what calamity had befallen the prince and princess, only to be set upon by drooling dogs.

And, when he wasn't playing games in the tower, Thaddaeus was out and about collecting firewood and people.

The frosty grey summer had been overtaken by an autumn so cold it bit down to the bone. At first, people who came to The Tower talked of little else, wondering if the coming winter could possibly be any colder. They talked of these things as they sat before roaring hearth fires in the Great Room. In fact, every room in The Tower boasted a fire night and day; Thaddaeus saw to that.

"Where does he get all this?" Tom said, gesturing toward a neat stack of lumber that had appeared in the woodshed. "Is he dismantling a house?"

This was exactly what Thaddaeus was doing. First he had found the deed to his boyhood home amongst a stack of old sketches, and realized it was in his name. Next he had gone to the house which was situated on a side street near The Tower. It stood three stories high, old and dark and decayed. His mother and father had died decades before, but he could not remember inheriting the house; he had not given attention to such details then.

I might have lived here these past years, he thought sadly; I've been asleep too long. Then he thought of little Emmie, Princess Minn and her pale brother, old Grissle, and Hyla who looked so pinched and worried these days. He thought of The Tower and the people coming in and out of the cold for food and drink; he thought of all these and he knew what to do. Returning to the inn, he went round to the woodshed, retrieved an axe and a saw, then went back to his abandoned house and began taking it apart, one room at a time. At first he didn't need to break the walls apart; he just busted up the rotting furniture and carried it back to the inn. This took several weeks, but he had help from an unexpected quarter.

Going to the house very early one morning, intending to begin his work at dawn, he encountered a woman moaning and weeping in the road. She was one of the street folk, filthy and reeking and carrying a tiny baby. Thaddaeus approached her and asked why she wept.

"It's my baby. She's gonna die," the woman shrieked. At the sound of her voice, a small crowd of street folk shuffled out of the shadows and stood near, watching.

Thaddaeus reached out his hand and touched the baby's cheek; it was cold, but the infant was not yet dead.

"I've no food for myself, no milk for my baby," the woman wailed. The crowd shuffled closer.

Thaddaeus pulled a thick slice of bread out of his pocket. "It's all I have, but you're welcome to it," he said.

The woman drew back, but a man beside her took the bread and began to eat. "It's good," he growled, and passed it to the woman. She took a bite, then gobbled the rest.

"Come," Thaddaeus said, "there's more. Follow me."

He led them to The Tower, through the front door and into the silent Great Room. There were no other guests at this early hour.

"Tom!" Thaddaeus called. "We've customers for breakfast!"

Tom and Grissle came running out of the kitchen and when they saw the small crowd, they brought out hot food and warm drinks. The street folk ate for a long time. At last Thaddaeus stood and, quitting the inn, made his way back to his old house. The men of the street followed, close at his heels.

At the door of the house, Thaddaeus said, "there's no food here. What do you want?"

"To follow you," they said.

"Then work with me," he replied.

That is how Thaddaeus came to have help chopping and carrying, and it was the reason there were hearth fires in The Tower night and day.

That morning, when Hyla met the woman with the baby, something in her breast unclenched: perhaps it was the fear for her own child's future. She took the woman and infant to a guest room, built a fire in the grate, brought hot water and helped them wash, then tucked them into bed. The woman sighed, and with her sigh came tears, and with her tears came the flow of mother's milk. Her baby would not die so soon.

That same morning, Tom was thinking. Between the Great Room on the ground floor and the studio at the top of the stairs, there were three floors of guest rooms. For months now, the rooms had lain empty, ever since the farmers and merchants had stopped coming to market. We rarely have paying overnight guests anymore, Tom thought. And so it began: they gave the rooms to the street people who straggled in behind Thaddaeus.

The resident street folk took up work in the household. Hyla was grateful for their help, but cautious too. "Aren't these people mostly criminals?" she said to Grissle as she watched one of the men come through the kitchen with a load of wood.

"Might be," Grissle said.

"And I've heard some of them are unbalanced—you know—disturbed in their minds."

"It's been desperate times for the poor since the General came to power," Grissle said.

"Yes, but I wonder: is it wise to let them stay here?" Hyla said.

"They're just beggars," Grissle said, "and so are we. We're beggars showing others where to get bread."

As the cold took hold of the land, so famine held the people in its death grip. In the city there were now only three places to get food: City Hall, The Tower, and a certain stall in the Market Square. Those who went to City Hall came under the Mayor's power: his officials gave no food away without exacting a heavy price, whether in coin or services. Those who went to The Tower or the market stall must be willing to eat plain bread, but a surprising number of citizens would not touch it though it was offered free and without price. They said bread was passé: an archaic concoction without nutritional value, good only as fodder for coarse and common folk. Citizens who felt this way just had to make themselves content with either slavery or starvation.

Winter came but the biting cold could not keep Thaddaeus down. He came and went at all hours of the day and night. Except for the four or five hours in the afternoon he spent playing with the children in his studio, he might be anywhere. When he wasn't gathering wood, he was walking the city streets, usually during the early hours of the morning when it was dark and very cold. Often, the street folk walked with him and led him into hidden byways where they found the dead and dying, the lost and forgotten: thieves, addicts, and vagabonds who had been passed over by the Mayor as unfit for life in the General's rag-tag army. These folks had subsided into the city's shadows, stealing and scavenging until famine and war exhausted the city of anything worth thieving. These lost ones would not take bread or any food Thaddaeus offered. He spent many a dark, cold hour comforting them as they died, and chanting his tuneless song as he buried their bodies in the garden of his childhood home.

This new job of grave digger never altered his bright inner visions or quelled his sense of that metrical pulse in the air, like the beating of a great heart, or of wings. They are close, he thought to himself, the day is near; I can feel it coming closer. "Beneath, above, behind, before, within, beside, to win, restore," he would sing or chant as he chopped wood or walked through dark streets or dug graves. The street folk began to join him in his chanting.

One day, just a few weeks before MidWinter, the old white-haired scholar appeared at The Tower with a suitcase in one hand and a stack of books under his arm. It was late afternoon and Thaddaeus, who happened to be romping through the Great Room with the children, greeted his old acquaintance with delight. "We've got quite a crowd living here now, but you can share my rooms—if you don't mind the children."

The scholar accepted gladly, then stood looking at the paintings which covered the walls of the room. "My, my," he said. "You have been busy since last we met."

"The day is near," Thaddaeus said, and ushered the scholar to the rooms at the top of the stairs.

The day after that, the entire army marched out of the city. Tom and Hyla went with Thaddaeus and the children to the top of the tower to watch. There had been rumours flying about over the past weeks that the enemy would invade the north coast, just two day's march from the city, though the General, in one of his rare public appearances, assured the populace that this was not true. Still, no one who watched the marching that day could fail to notice that the soldiers were heading out the North Gate toward the coast.

With the soldiers gone, an unnatural stillness settled over the city. The inhabitants—those who hadn't gone off with the army or died of starvation—kept to themselves and rarely came out of their houses. For the General's scheme to boost the economy had one result: there was very little business left in either the Market Square or the halls of finance. The odd thing was that no one seemed to care. The general populace seemed stricken by a malaise of total indifference.

The only institution, besides City Hall and the Palace, bursting at the seams with fervent activity was the University. Ever since the Mayor had gotten friendly with the Provost, and granted an exemption from military service to all students, the University's enrolment had tripled, and the Political Science department had swelled to unmanageable numbers. Funding was pulled from the departments of History, Literature, and Philosophy, and given to new Chairs and associate professors in all the major and minor branches of politics and the study of international relations. The other humanities departments evaporated overnight, but these departments had not been popular anyway. Their ancient professors, who liked to prattle on about things like 'freedom of thought' and 'literary significance' were shunted off to quiet research positions where they could totter about in the library and still appear for regular meals at the High Table. The Mayor, and most of the student body, wondered why these antiquated scholars and their superannuated ideas were tolerated at all, but the Provost maintained a nostalgic affection for his collection of college Methuselahs and refused to turn them out of doors.

Meanwhile, the winter days grew even colder and greyer as the world moved relentlessly toward that supreme feast day: MidWinter. Truth to tell, it was the only old feast day left in the year's calendar. There had been others, but they were long forgotten. The only other high days observed throughout the country were Mayor's Day and General's Day: one celebrated in July, the other in August. Mayor's Day often coincided with city elections which were held sporadically and were generally a surprise to the public. Compared to the carnivals and fireworks of these two festivals—revelries enforced by the General's men in every region—MidWinter was a solemn affair whose origins were obscured in the deeps of time. The Government allowed, but did not encourage the observance of this old high day. The General was suspicious of its origins and its relevance to the modern state he was creating. Still, forbidding it outright might have caused unnecessary unrest and resistance.

Most people in the city observed MidWinter simply as a break from work or study and as an excuse to eat and drink more than usual. Those in and from the rural areas tended to attach certain customs to the day: on MidWinter's Eve, farm animals were given an extra feed; children built miniature huts from sticks, filled them with clay animals, and set them around the hearth; women strung pinecones, dried fruit, and paper stars to festoon parlours and hallways. Often, families would cook a goose or a goat and invite friends in for a feast, though that custom had fallen away as harvests failed year after year. Yet, even at this leanest of MidWinters, there were those who refused to give in to the dreary grey that hung over the land. Grissle was one of these. Her MidWinter preparation list was as long as the General's list of political enemies—possibly longer.

This particular year, she was aided and abetted by the white-haired scholar who understood more about this high day than anyone. Thaddaeus, the children, and The Tower's resident street folk, threw themselves into Grissle's plans and let nothing slip by. Each table in the Great Room held the traditional five-candle centerpiece set upon paper stars and wound round with evergreen boughs 'borrowed' from the University gardens. Stick huts and clay animals covered the hearth with the added touch of miniature trees supplied by the artful hands of Thaddaeus. Edward and Minn sat in their lair at the top of The Tower and produced miles of garland made from many things collected by Thaddaeus and the street folk: fir cones, feathers, tassels, buttons, beads, bits of coloured wool, paper spangles, broken jewellery, shards of glass, old corks: anything of worth they found in gutters, dust bins, and abandoned gardens or buildings. The Prince sat on his bed by the window and threaded the strange collection of oddments by the hour, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed, while Minn either helped him, or sang and danced with little Emmie. Poor Edward was often reminded that he should rest—reminded in sharp tones of worry by Bill and Grissle. But then Thaddaeus would burst into the room with a fistful of bright beads or a rousing game, and all admonitions would be lost.

"Master Thaddaeus!" Grissle would scold.

"Now, now Grissle. Let the boy live," he would say as he hoisted Edward onto his broad back, scooped Emmie into the crook of one arm, and made for the stairs with Minn at his heels.

"He's ill!" Grissle would shout.

"Just a little fresh air," Thaddaeus would call back, and off they'd go, romping down to the kitchen to chase the dogs or snatch bits of sweet biscuit dough from the distracted Hyla.

For Hyla had been given the complicated task of MidWinter baking. Grissle's preparation list included the names of many unfamiliar confections, but fortunately the white-haired scholar came to Hyla's aide. He seemed to have all the old recipes committed to memory, and with great delight, he donned an apron and worked by Hyla's side, teaching her traditions she was sure even her great-grandmother had never known.

"Where did you learn all this?" she asked him one day as they mixed cake batters.

"It's all in books written long ago," he replied.

"Books?" Hyla exclaimed, startled by the thought.

"Yes. Ancient and forgotten books in the deepest vault of the University library."

"But under the General's regime . . . " Hyla began.

"He overlooked one or two hoards of ancient lore when he tried to purge the colleges."

"Does anyone else know of these books? Surely the Provost . . . ."

"Oh no. Not him. Our Provost does not like to know anything that might damage the blamelessness of his reputation," chuckled the white-haired scholar. "But I often met Grissle rummaging about in those forgotten stacks. She liked to tell me she was cleaning."

"That explains her lists," Hyla said, looking thoughtfully at the scholar, "and it's why you know all about MidWinter."

"I wouldn't go that far. I don't know _all_ about it. So many things about the old days are lost to us now. For instance: why the five-candle centerpiece? And why the tiny huts with clay animals?"

"Yes," said Hyla. "What does it all mean?"

"Perhaps it signifies nothing in particular."

"No," Hyla said, hesitating. "There's something at the back of it. Something important."

"Yes," said the scholar, resuming his measuring and sifting, "there is light. Light behind and before and beneath . . . "

"And above, and within and beside," Hyla laughed, and they began to sing the old tune. It was the only clear thing rising out of the forgotten past, like a morning star in a dawn sky.

* * * * * * *

On the eve of MidWinter, Thaddaeus walked alone through quiet city streets under a strange sky. For at noon, a brisk wind had begun to blow over the city, strong enough to shred the cover of sooty cloud and smoke and to reveal a wintry blue sky for the first time in many years. Thaddaeus had taken the children out onto the roof to feel the cold clean wind and to stand in the winter sun. The other members of the household had strayed out the kitchen door into the old gardens, hardly believing the sight of clear skies.

"How is it possible?" Hyla said, raising her face to the sunlight.

"A change is coming, that's for certain," Tom said. He looked up and saluted the children who were cheering and waving from the rooftop.

"Emmie's never seen the sun," Hyla said.

"Except in paintings," Tom replied.

Now Thaddaeus walked the streets alone as the sun set in a fiery glow and the strange evening darkened. He thought he might see other folk out and about, enjoying the clean air blowing in on strong winds from the sea; but the city seemed deserted. Houses were shuttered as if to escape the dying daylight that revealed the city's unkempt appearance. Then, as he entered the Market Square, he heard echoing footsteps and saw the Mayor, with a small retinue, coming his way.

The Mayor was, in fact, going to The Tower Inn. He had heard rumours of its residents: they had food and firewood without application to City Hall. In addition, a certain Captain Kurt Cummings, who had slithered upward through the ranks and recently insinuated himself into the Mayor's private guard, had informed the Mayor that The Tower Inn was full of seditious art, and a sizeable crowd of dangerous criminals who had previously been living on the streets. The Mayor and his guards were on their way to investigate when they met Thaddaeus.

When Thaddaeus saw the Mayor's face illuminated by the final rays of the red sun, a blinding light filled his mind and the pulsing of a great heart filled his ears. Joyfully he raised his voice in song. Feeling the pulsation filling the earth and everything in it, Thaddaeus grasped the Mayor and embraced him. He saw the Mayor's face close to his, suffused with the radiant light that dazzled his eyes, and he shouted aloud his affirmation of all that was good. He heard a sharp cry and released the Mayor into the glorious light.

What Captain Cummings saw was this: an old man, big and strong as a bear, striding across the Market Square. Cummings shouted an order and the Guard all raised their pistols, but then stood transfixed. The old man grabbed the Mayor by the shoulders, lifted him off his feet, and shook him, bellowing, "Beneath! Above! Behind! Before! Within! Beside! To win! Restore!" The Mayor screamed and the old man released him and strode away. The Mayor, shrieking like a skewered pig, turned and ran for City Hall where he shut himself in his private chambers, locking the doors. Stunned, Cummings and the Guard looked at each other and lowered their guns.

"We should go after him," Cummings said.

"Who? The Mayor?" one of the Guards said, shrugging. His name was Sergeant Fiddle, formerly of the city's Night Guard.

"No, you fool! The old man," Cummings spat.

Cummings and his men looked around. A thick darkness was quickly creeping into the Market Square; they could hardly see one another's faces.

"Why haven't the streetlights come on?" Cummings growled.

Then from nearby, a woman's voice called out: "Watchman what is left of the night?"

"Morning is coming, but also the night," cried a great voice that echoed over the empty market stalls. At the sound of that voice, Captain Cummings and his men ran pell-mell for City Hall. A tearing gust of wind blasted out of the sky and seemed to chase them with a hot darkness that roared at their heels. The furnace wind chased Kurt Cummings all the way to the palace where he met the General out for an evening walk.

"What news, man?" The General demanded as Cummings ran by. The next second he shrieked and tore off after the Captain. The unnatural wind blasted his backside like a blacksmith's bellows as he wailed in pain and confusion. Running like a madman, he followed Cumming out the city gates. No one saw them go; no one witnessed those two men running through that longest of nights. Not even the stars looked on, for they were falling, falling from the sky; and as they fell, a red moon rose.

* * * * * * *

When Thaddaeus returned to The Tower, he found the Great Hall crowded with those who had come to the feast of MidWinter's Eve; they were just sitting down to table. Thaddaeus took his seat with the children and the white-haired scholar sat with them. Prince Edward had been allowed downstairs and he sat on a cushioned chair, a little like a throne, between his sister and little Emmie. Winnie sat in the crowd, as well as several farmers and merchants who had come into town from the countryside. The street folk were all there; some sat and some helped to serve. Tom, Hyla, and Grissle brought out food and drink. Bill carved a great roast goose. A mood of hilarity prevailed: old jokes were brought out, old stories retold; they toasted each other and praised the food. Where had Grissle come by a goose? She wouldn't say. At the end of the meal, Thaddaeus stood up and said,

"Who will come with me to see the stars?"

Everyone wanted to come. Edward rode on Bill's back, Hyla carried Emmie, and they followed Thaddaeus to the roof. From this high point, they could see over the whole city, and in the clear air, some thought they could discern the distant line of the sea. There was a great show of shooting stars, and by midnight a red moon hung in the middle of the black sky. The air was becoming warmer, and no one wanted to go inside: Grissle passed cups of hot toddy to the jovial crowd. They began to sing as the stars fell: not boisterously, but quietly: a solemn tune of MidWinter. Only Thaddaeus remained strangely silent.

Finally, Emmie fell asleep in Hyla's arms. Hyla, Tom, and Bill took the children downstairs and put them to bed. Winnie and several other women went down to the kitchen to wash up the dishes and have a cup of tea. The street folk wrapped themselves in blankets and settled down to wait with Thaddaeus since it appeared that he had no intention of going down to bed.

"MidWinter is the longest of nights," Thaddaeus said.

"And this night will be longer," Grissle replied.

"I wish the morning would come," Thaddaeus said. He sighed and looked up at the black patches of sky devoid of stars. Since his meeting with the mayor he had felt increasingly dispirited, his mind a grey wasteland. For the first time in many months, the light of his inner vision was dimmed and he felt as if he stood on the edge of a black pit.

"I have watched and waited for a lifetime," Grissle said. "I will not give up now." She lit a fire in a metal barrel and stood warming her hands. Thaddaeus joined her. Around them, the street folk slept.

Suddenly a wild wind tore through the sky. Passing over The Tower, it whipped up the hill like a wrathful serpent. Thaddaeus looked up in time to see the University's bell tower sway and crumble as the mighty wind, roaring like a lion, battered college towers, shattered windows, and uprooted trees. Wailing cries went up and then, as suddenly as it had come, the wind and wailing ceased and there was silence. Deep darkness settled on the hilltop. What was this strange vision? Thaddaeus turned his eyes away.

The white-haired scholar appeared at his side, bringing wood to feed the fire. "Everyone downstairs is asleep now," he said.

"Then only we three keep watch this night," Thaddaeus said.

"No. We're not the only ones," Grissle replied. As if at her word, other lights sprang up along the coast and further inland. "Those are watch fires burning," she continued. "We are not alone."

Thaddaeus looked at the watch fires spread out under the red moon, but felt little consolation. He searched his mind for light, for the metrical stirring of familiar words, but he found only the edge of an abyss. He sighed aloud, but could not speak. The old scholar beside him began to sing,

I bind unto myself this night

A refuge under mighty wings

A fortress in the time of storm

A shield from terror in the dark.

It was the young soldier's verse and Thaddaeus grasped at the memory as a drowning man grasps a life preserver. Still, he could not call forth the words he needed: the words that had woken him, sustained him: the words by which he'd thought, painted, waited. Then Grissle began to sing in her strange harsh voice,

I bind unto myself this night

The flashing of the lightning free

The whirling wind's tumultuous shocks

The steadfast earth

The deep salt sea . . .

Without warning, a violent gust of wind swept down, roaring like the discharge of a canon. The blast seemed to part around The Tower so that the three watchers heard, rather than felt, its devastating power. Lightning flashed out of the whirling wind, striking the City. Flames erupted in the Market Square, City Hall, the Palace, and in every other quarter of the metropolis. The Palace exploded like a magazine of gunpowder, revealing the entrails of its dungeons and writhing torture chambers. Prisoners spilled out of its guts, pursued by soldiers brandishing swords and pistols. In the lurid light of blazing market stalls, a crowd gathered in the Square, attacking each other with clubs and knives, screaming and screeching obscenities. Fire bells clanged and shrill whistles raised the alarm, but it was no use. The wind whirled down, whipping up towering flames as lightning struck again and again. The Market Square, the center of the city, the crucible of the country's finance, was now a furnace of a different kind. Smoke and wailing rose over the clash of bells and toppling towers. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, the fires went out and there was silence and total darkness.

The red moon hung low on the horizon. Thaddaeus drew a deep breath and looked at his two companions. The old scholar stared musingly into the friendly flames of their fire. Grissle's expression was inscrutable. At their feet, the street folk slept on undisturbed. Then, in the silence, Thaddaeus heard the sound of footsteps echoing along the empty street below. Looking over the parapet, he saw a lone man coming up the hill. Was that the mayor? The man carried a lamp. He turned to The Tower, hesitated at the door, then knocked. From down below, Thaddaeus heard Tom's surprised voice, then a murmured conversation. The man went in and the door closed.

Thaddaeus went back to the fire and stood looking out to sea. Slowly the red moon slipped down beyond the distant hills and the only lights left in the velvet darkness were the watch fires spread out across the land like distant sparks. A gentle wind blew in from the sea, lifting their hair and bringing a delicious scent. The three companions were filled with longing: the scholar cried out softly and began to weep; Grissle sighed aloud and clutched at her heart. Only Thaddaeus stood like a stone, his eyes wide open, searching the dark sky for light, for sound, for anything to beat back the dark abyss that threatened to swallow his mind. He was trapped in his own wasteland; he could not get out; he would suffocate under a black sky in a grey and silent land. Where was the white light? Where were the words he needed, the words once so familiar that he could not now call to mind?

Then he heard a sound. His companions heard it too.

"What is that?" the scholar cried. "I hear marching feet!"

"It's the sound of beating wings," Grissle exclaimed.

But Thaddaeus was silent. He heard a beating heart. He felt a rhythmic pulse beneath his feet, above his head, behind his back, before his face, within his blood, beside his self, winning back his mind. With each pulsation came a word, each word drawing him back from the pit and out of the dark lands. He closed his eyes and began to sing in his tuneless way. He heard the sound of doors opening and closing below, of many footsteps on the stairs. He heard beloved voices, joyful cries, and felt small arms wrap around his leg, small hands grabbing his fingers.

"Look!" they cried, "Look!"

He felt the heat of a bright light. Opening his eyes, he saw the white light come. He flung himself forward into its embrace.
EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK OF TALES

### The Poor Man and His Treasure

Once there was a poor man who discovered a chest of gold buried in a field. He kept it secret, then went and sold everything he had, bought the field, and claimed the treasure. He became rich—the richest man in the kingdom—and for some time he was happy. Yet, he forgot what it was like to be poor and to work hard for a living.

One day an old woman came knocking on his door. He looked through the peephole and saw her simple clothes and her strangely carved staff. She carried a loaf of bread and called to him: "Come! Let me in. We will eat together." But he trusted no one; everyone wanted his gold. He would not let her in.

The next day the old woman came again, and the day after that. Each day she brought a loaf of bread and called to the rich man with the same words: "Come! Let me in. We will eat together." She would knock and call out, and then continue to knock for an hour. The rich man would not let her in. "Go away!" he would shout, but she would not and so he would cover his ears and busy himself at the opposite end of the house. She continued to knock day after day, for weeks and months, perhaps years. The man began to hear the knocking day and night, even in his dreams, but he would not open the door. He bought a heavy bolt and fixed it to the door. Now it could only be opened from the inside.

Years went by; the man grew old. His vision dimmed and the sound of the knocking faded. He had become a miser and driven all his friends and family away, even the beloved son who was meant to inherit the treasure. His door was shut and bolted against the world. No one dared approach him. Visitors stopped coming to his house.

Then, one day, when he was very old, he woke to the sound of someone knocking at the door. After all these years, he thought, who could it be? And suddenly it came to him that he had become a wretched man. His linen robes, once so grand, were now soiled and tattered, smelling of age and neglect. Mice rustled and gnawed in dusty corners and water dripped onto tiled floors. He was completely alone.

The knocking continued. A familiar voice called to him: "Come! Let me in. We will eat together."

I'll have a look at my treasure, then go to the door, he said to himself. He always looked at his treasure first thing in the morning.

But hunger spoke to him, "Old fool. You cannot eat that treasure."

Loneliness said, "Treasure is no comfort in death."

Stumbling in his sudden urgency, he felt his way down the stairs and along neglected passages, making his way to the front door. A light shone under the threshold and when he saw it, he realized that his house was very dark.

"Wait!" he called out. "I'm coming! I'm coming! Let me open the door!" And before he could stretch out his hand to slide back the bolt, the door opened and the room was flooded with light. He heard the sound of singing and the wild sweet music of pipes. Then someone touched his eyes and he saw dancers and merrymakers streaming into his house. He was dressed in clean clothing and made to sit at a table laden with food. The old woman stood before him, leaning on her staff.

"Why?" he said over and over. "Why? I have caused so much sorrow in this world."

To this the old woman made no reply, but sat and feasted with him.

He lived long enough to give all his treasure away and to see his son. He died in peace.

### EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK OF TALES

The Ungrateful Guests

Mr. and Mrs. Pillar were pleased to receive the important wedding invitation, yet were somewhat offended by the parcel that accompanied the gold embossed letter.

"Why does the Groom send wedding garments?" Mrs. Pillar said. "I have a gown much finer than this."

"We haven't seen him for some time. Perhaps he hasn't heard of our good fortune," Mr. Pillar said.

On the day of the great event, the couple donned their finest clothes, hired a cab, and rode to the heart of the city where the wedding feast was to be held.

At the entrance, they presented their invitation to the doorman who said, "Why aren't you wearing the wedding clothes provided by the Groom?"

"We don't need them," Mr. Pillar said.

"As you can see, our own clothes are much finer," Mrs. Pillar said.

"You cannot enter unless you are wearing the wedding garments. Your own clothes are far from suitable, but if you will step aside to this changing room over here, other wedding clothes have been provided for guests who overlooked the clothes that were sent to them."

"Ridiculous!" Mrs. Pillar cried.

"An insult!" Mr. Pillar said and pushed past the doorman.

Before they had gone ten steps, they were confronted by the Groom himself.

"You're not wearing the clothes I sent," he said.

"My dear boy," Mrs. Pillar began.

But the Groom was angry. "Don't you realize what I paid for those garments? You insult me by not wearing them."

"But our own clothes," Mr. Pillar said, "come from the finest tailors."

"Then you were cheated," the Groom said. "Those glad rags aren't fit for a monkey."

"How dare you!" Mrs. Pillar cried.

"You're just like all the other guests on the first list! Get out! Now! I'll get the street folk to come to my wedding! They'll be glad to have new clothes!" the Groom said. Strong hands grasped the Pillars from behind and pushed them out into the street. The door banged shut behind.

They were too outraged to speak and, supporting each other, they walked through the city streets for some time without seeing where they were going.

Suddenly Mr. Pillar stopped. All about them was quiet. His anger had cooled somewhat, and he'd been thinking.

"That gown really does make you look fat. See how your stomach bulges over your undergarments?"

The embers of Mrs. Pillar's wrath flared up. "Well look at _your_ stomach hanging over that ridiculous belt buckle. Anyone would think you're six months pregnant!"

"Now, now, dear. I was only trying to be helpful. Perhaps the Groom is right. That color is most unflattering against your skin. Did the tailors actually tell you it was suitable?"

Mrs. Pillar snatched her hand away from her husband's arm and stood trembling with anger.

He continued, "I think the tailors did well by me, but perhaps they _did_ cut corners a bit with your frock."

Mrs. Pillar finally found her tongue and it was sharp as a whetted knife. "Well! They couldn't cut corners with _you_ , could they? They had to cut those trousers for a hippo! Cripes! The color of your shirt makes me sick!"

"Then you might have said so at the time instead of letting those tailors bamboozle us!" Mr. Pillar cried, gnashing his teeth.

"It's not _my_ fault," Mrs. Pillar shrieked.

They might have come to blows right there and then if it had not been for the old lady who came walking up the street. She leaned on a strangely carved staff and hummed a tune. She stopped beside them.

"Are you lost?" she said.

"No," Mr. Pillar said gruffly.

"Yes," Mrs. Pillar said, looking around the unfamiliar street.

"Which is it?" the old woman said.

"Perhaps we _are_ a bit turned around," Mr. Pillar said, and then, because the old woman held an understanding look in her eye, he explained their predicament.

"Why don't you just go back and ask the doorman for wedding clothes? It would be simpler than going all the way home at this time of night," the old woman said.

But _our_ clothes . . ." Mrs. Pillar began.

"Are dirty," the old woman finished.

The Pillars looked down and saw that it was true. They must have, unwittingly, walked through puddles of mud as they'd wandered the streets. Mrs. Pillar had stepped in dung; her hair had come undone and straggled over her shoulders.

"Well," Mrs. Pillar said, "this gown _is_ too tight. It pinches. Perhaps the wedding clothes will be more comfortable."

"Yes," Mr. Pillar said. "If truth be told, my clothes, which the tailors insisted were made of the finest fabric, are scratchy. I am itching to death."

The old woman led the Pillars back through the dark streets. How had they passed this way without assault or attack? They wondered. Everywhere they looked there was misery and distress, although when the old woman offered to help, the wretched only stopped up their ears.

The Pillars stayed close to the old woman. She led them a long way before they reached the door of the feasting place. Lights shone in every window; the sound of merry music spilled into the street.

"Will they let us in again?" Mr. Pillar asked.

"Knock and find out," the old woman replied.

The Pillars knocked and the doorman gladly let them in. They washed and changed into the clothes provided, admitting to each other that the wedding garments were indeed superior to their own.

When they were ready, a servant led them into the feast where they were seated at the lowest table, far from the important people. But the Pillars were content. For once, they did not complain and—who knows?—perhaps they carried their contentment home and lived in peace.

### EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK OF TALES

The Girl Who Was Robbed

One morning, when the world was younger, but just as perilous, a girl set out from home to visit her cousin in the hill country. Just five miles out from the gates of the city, she was attacked by a band of robbers who delighted in waylaying innocent travelers. They jumped out of a ditch and pulled her in. Overpowering the poor girl, they did to her as they would, beat her, and stole what little money she had. Indeed, it seemed to her that they tore open her very soul. Then they threw her to the side of the road and left her for dead.

Was she dead? The first person to come down the road denied that the poor girl existed at all. Professor Edith Germaine was on her way to a conference; she was to be the keynote speaker at a world gathering of philosophers and scholars. Indeed, Professor Germaine was counted great among the sages of the time; she was a doctor of humanities; she had read all the great literature of the world and it was said of her that she could fathom all mysteries and all knowledge. She was on her way into the city and was just passing the heap of humanity that lay on the other side of the road when her driver stopped.

"What is that?" he said.

The Professor looked hard. "It's nothing," she finally declared. "It's a pile of abandoned clothing, no doubt filthy and crawling with lice. Drive on. There is nothing to stop for here and I cannot be late for my first public lecture."

The girl was nothing. Perhaps the good Professor was right.

A student on his way to the world gathering of philosophers and scholars wondered what the heap might be. But he was accustomed to seeing the dregs of humanity: he volunteered two evenings a week at a local soup kitchen. Indeed, the study of human nature was his special field of scholarship. He was scheduled to read his major thesis at four o'clock that very afternoon, and, as a rising star in the academic world, it was his chance to be heard--perhaps taken seriously--by eminent philosophers and doctors of the humanities. He could not be late.

He stopped directly across the road from the heap of girl and peered at her, adjusting his glasses. He saw the bare limbs, the torn dress, the blood.

Clearly, he thought, she is dead; she must have been out begging--or worse--by the roadside. Perhaps she got what she deserved. People of the lower orders so often do.

He walked on.

Sometime before sundown, an old woman came along the road leading an ancient donkey. She was a bread merchant, on her way home from the city market. As she walked she hummed a lively tune, but stopped when she saw the broken girl on the roadside. "Oh dear, oh dear," the woman said, picking up the girl and laying her across the donkey's back.

"Oh dear, oh my," she sighed, taking up her carven staff and leading the donkey on. Soon she began to hum again, but this time she hummed a lullaby: for the girl was alive. "But broken. Oh so very broken. Torn to shreds." The old woman sighed and took the girl to her home.

The girl healed, but it took time: the wounds were severe. Then one day, months and months later--perhaps years--when most of her hurts had healed well enough, the girl thought she might be ready to travel again.

"I never did get to the hill country to see my cousin," she said to the old woman.

"Then it's time you went. We'll go together. I can take bread to the village market."

"I'll load the donkey," the girl said.

From that day on, they traveled together, visiting villages in the hill country and towns by the sea, delivering bread wherever they went and singing as they journeyed. And always, wherever they walked, the girl kept her eyes open.

"Look Mother! Look there! We must stop." And they would stop and, together, lift up the broken and lay them gently across the back of the ancient donkey.

"He's still alive, Mother!"

"Yes dear."

"But broken. So very broken. Torn to shreds."

In this way the band of travelers grew, day by day, year by year. So many have been added to their number.

Perhaps, reader, you too will meet them on the road one day.

### EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK OF TALES

A Tale of Two Sons

Now all the world knows that few things in life are fair, but it is always brothers and sisters who find this truth most irritating. The village carpenter's sons were no different.

The village carpenter was unusual: he was rich. Not only had his business prospered over the years, but he had inherited a fortune from a distant relative. He lived well, yet he never forgot the toil of his early apprenticeship and so taught his two sons the value of honest work with their own hands.

The oldest son learned his lessons well and in time became a fine carpenter. But the youngest son's craftsmanship was superior to that of his brother, and even surpassed his father's skill. For some time they worked prosperously together until one day the youngest son said to his brother, "I am tired of sawdust and splinters. I was made for more than this. I want to try my fortunes in the city."

"What could be better that _this_ life?" the oldest son said.

"Many things," the youngest replied.

"You don't know. You don't know anything about the world," said the oldest.

"Neither do you," the youngest said, and went off to find his father.

In the end, he did go to the city, but first he convinced his father to give him his portion of the family estate.

"How can you ask for such a thing!" the older brother demanded.

"It was easy," said the youngest.

"It's an insult! Have you no respect? That money shouldn't come to you until he dies!"

"I won't be back. If you want to stay to bury him, then stay." And the younger brother packed his things and left the village.

The father was very sad and the older son was very angry. "How could he treat our father this way," he would say to himself whenever he saw his father sighing over the empty workbench.

At first, the older son was run off his feet, trying to pick up the jobs his brother had left behind. On top of this, he was often criticized by customers because his finish work was somewhat inferior to the younger brother's.

"When will your brother return?" customers would ask.

"He said he would not come back," the older brother would reply.

"Ah. Then we will have to be satisfied with your work." And the older brother would grit his teeth and finish the job.

Yet things settled down eventually. Many years passed. The oldest son had a family of his own and built a house beside his father's. The old father's sorrow became less sharp: he stopped sighing aloud over the empty workbench, and took great joy in his grandchildren. Customers forgot the younger brother and, if truth be told, the older brother became known for his excellent craftsmanship. If he thought of his younger brother at all, it was only in passing, as one might think of a distant relative who lives in a far and unknown country. His old anger was nothing more than quiet embers under a layer of cold ash.

Then one evening, after a long hard day of labor under the eye of a critical customer, the oldest son came home to find the family in an uproar.

"Uncle's come home!" his little daughter cried. She had been waiting on the porch for him, as was her habit. "Grandpa is so happy!"

Yes, the absent brother had returned because he needed help and had nowhere else to go. He was sorry now for ever leaving in the first place.

In the great city he had found a niche in politics. Yet perhaps it would be more accurate to say that politics had found him: a large purse and generous party donations can buy important friends. It had all been highly satisfying for a while, and he had learned the easy sacrifice of honor as he'd bought his way up the ladder, the only real price of belonging to the cult of significance. But three wives, several lovers, multiple party changes, and a bankruptcy later, he was no nearer to the top of his profession than the average career politician. No. Instead he'd found himself in real trouble, caught between an anvil and a hammer, so to speak. He had two choices, really: either to murder his confederate, or to pay him a substantial amount of hush money, which he didn't have. Either way, he would have to disappear when it was over. His career was finished; he blamed himself entirely.

"And this is the way you account for yourself? For Father's sorrow? For your wasted inheritance?" the older brother said. "Have you nothing more to say?"

"Only that I did not bloody my hands," the younger son said, his head bowed before his brother's wrath. "I have never been guilty of that."

The older son saw by his father's face that all would be forgiven, the hush money paid, and the past forgotten. He stormed out of the house and into the workshop where he picked up a hammer. He heard his brother's words rising from the flames of the past: "I am tired of sawdust and splinters."

"So was I!" he said, bringing the hammer down.

"I was made for more than this," he heard his brother say.

"I was too!" he brought the hammer down again, smashing, blindly smashing, until the first force of his rage was spent. Then his vision cleared.

"Oh. What have I done?" he said. He had vented his rage on a set of small chairs that he'd built for his youngest child. He had taken great pains in the carving and finishing. They were meant for the child's birthday, day after tomorrow, and he had smashed them to splinters.

"Oh, what have I done," he said again.

And he thought of his youngest child, the fat little legs and the two front teeth; he thought of each of his five children, and the middle daughter who waited on the porch for him every evening. He pictured his father who liked to sit at the supper table and feed the little one. He looked down at his hands, calloused and rough; hands big enough to smash and destroy; hands gentle enough to love one wife; hands old enough to have held years of children, years of work. Every house in the village was a witness to his labor; every chair, table, bookcase. He had worked at his father's side for years on end, and they shared everything. Yes, he realized that now. Everything.

He picked up his tools and worked far into the night, reconstructing that which could easily be reconstructed; letting go of that which could never be recovered: time.

By morning the new chairs were finished: not as fancy, not as intricately carved, but well-crafted.

By midday he had the cheque in hand and he took it to his brother. He could well afford it; he was his father's son. There was no better life and he knew it.
QUIETUS

### The Diary of Mayor Jared Hobic

May 16, --41

I met a man in the market today who has affected me strangely. He's an old man with snow-white hair and something about him makes me think he's from the University. He seems the scholarly type. He was holding a loaf of the kind of bread my grandmother used to make. I remember the smell and the taste of it when she brought it out of the oven...curse that old man! He's brought on a flood of memories I could do without _and_ now I can hear that infernal knocking again. Damn him and his bread! It is—hopefully—only a temporary affliction of my inner ear; but next time I see that old man, with or without a loaf of bread, I shall have him arrested! University scholar or not!

He did, however, ask a question that has started me thinking: "Why haven't I had my portrait painted, like every other mayor before me?" I had no answer, only that I had not thought of it before. It is a good idea. Why not? I shall mention it to Kara Mia and see what she thinks.

May 17, --41

Kara Mia is positively wild about the idea of a portrait and has already begun looking for a painter. My dear wife! Her belief in my abilities has sustained me all these years, not to mention her connections with just the right people in government. This is, perhaps, the advantage of having a wife ten years my senior.

May 18, --41

Oh that Fran Zlindric! How she does warm the cockles of my heart! She comes to me with her troubles, believing I can help her with them all. Perhaps I can! She's asked me to tackle her tax forms which should be an easy thing. She really should be making more money. I think she deserves a wage increase, or perhaps a promotion! She works well as my assistant, but she says she wants more scope. She wants a staff of her own. I think I could see to that.

Mutchmor, our Permits Officer, has been asking too many questions lately. He insinuated—in a council meeting—that someone in city government is taking bribes. Well of course! How else can government operate with speed and efficiency! People who don't mind bureaucracy can certainly use it if they like, but I like to operate in a sort of flattened system. Why should anyone have to go through all the "proper channels" when they can come directly to me? The exchange of a few well-chosen words and a little extra cash, and we all get what we want in a timely, democratic way. Why shouldn't the voice of the people speak with the crinkle of banknotes? Kara Mia has always backed me on this.

Well, if Mutchmor wants to keep his job, he'd certainly better become "Mutch-more" obliging. Otherwise, I know a pretty little secretary who, with a little vetting (perhaps I really mean petting!), will slip neatly into his position. It makes my tingle all over just to think how she might reward me!

May 19. --41

The trouble with commissioning a portrait seems to be the difficulty of finding a painter. I had no idea there is such a dearth of artists in this city! As Mayor, it is my duty to see that the pursuit of art is promoted. I will speak to the General about this matter.

May 20, --41

I have just spoken with the General, and he agrees that art and culture should certainly be promoted throughout the kingdom, though he himself is too busy at present to lend a hand in this endeavor. He did advise discretion and the necessity of vetting artists with potential. He spoke of propriety in culture and I suppose what he means is that art should promote his ideas of the state and that artists cannot be given a free hand. I've no problem with this kind of control over "optics." Indeed, putting a good face on things is one of my talents and who better to help me along than a portrait painter! Ha! Put a good face on things! Portrait painter! Kara Mia is right: I do possess a certain agility of language.

The General made the useful suggestion of checking with the University. He had a dim recollection of a famous painter among the scholars there who may have been the one commissioned by the King to paint the portraits of the royal family. I don't know why Kara Mia didn't think of this. She assumed a painter would be a derelict living on the streets. Acting on this assumption, she asked me to order my City Guard to question the street folk throughout the city, and even down in Belltown. She may be right, but I think The General's tip more likely.

However, I think it wise to take up these inquiries myself. If there is a painter who remembers the royal family . . . well, I shouldn't want him questioned by the General. One can't be too careful. I shall go to the University myself and speak to the Provost. Fran can make the appointment for me. Perhaps while I'm there I'll see that little white-haired scholar. I'd love to arrest him on some pretext! I'm still plagued at night by that dratted knocking!

June 16, --41

Eight a.m.

Four weeks of searching, and still no one has turned up a qualified portrait painter! I must be patient, but I would like to have the portrait by Mayor's Day.

Yes, my visit to the University was fruitless. The Provost knew of an artist among his collection of antiquated scholars, but he retired from painting many years ago. The Provost was even under the impression that this painter had gone blind. In fact, he didn't seem entirely sure the artist was still alive! He might be living in one of the colleges, but if so, he never comes to the dining hall. The Provost couldn't remember when he'd last seen him! Imaging running a university—or any organization—in this slipshod manner. And he had no memory of a university artist commissioned by the King. "But," he said, "I was appointed Provost just ten years ago. The artist we're speaking of evidently retired well before my time." This was hardly conclusive, but I could get no more information.

I did not see the white-haired old man on my visit, so perhaps I was wrong about him being a scholar.

Half past ten a.m.

Fran has become so quiet and morose lately. I shall have to find out what troubles her. She is hard to work with and no longer seems interested in our lunchtime rendezvous. She is an attractive, though troublesome, assistant.

Four p.m.

An informative meeting with the General: he has decided that for the economic good of the kingdom, he will be forced to suspend our side of the peace treaties with neighboring nations and prepare the country for war. He has asked _me_ to take over preparations in the capitol. We will house the largest garrison and he believes _I_ am the man to organize the entire operation. I told him I felt honored to think he would rely on me. He told me that was nonsense and that of course he considered me his RIGHT HAND MAN! Yes! Those words are better than any promotion! He was also kind enough to say that my wages would increase.

Incidentally, He believes we should drop the word 'kingdom' from official correspondence and unofficial conversation. He intends to build a 'nation-state' and these are the words we are to use. Indeed, he _has_ been building a nation-state these past ten years, since the very day of the King's death.

I'll never forget that day. It _was_ rather horrible to walk in on that bloody scene. Yet the General—even with blood on his hands—took me into his confidence, and there I have remained, and now he acknowledges that I am indispensable to him! No doubt my old grandmother would say that I have entered deep and treacherous waters, but even she could not deny the steady increase of my wealth and prestige over the past ten years.

Still, there is _one_ of the General's orders that I failed to carry out. Fortunately he does not know of it; not even Kara Mia knows. I was supposed to "take care of" the little prince and princess. I should have done as the General did, and slit their throats as they slept. I admit that I could not. I am a tenderhearted man and they were so young! The day of the King's death, I sent them to the Palace Dungeons with Captain William Standall, one of the King's Guard whom I thought was loyal to the General. It was the Captain who suggested we do the deed in the dungeon. I was under the impression that he was willing to do it himself, but by the next day, he and the royal children had disappeared.

I searched everywhere, but never found a trace. Fortunately no one asked questions. The General took my word for it that the prince and princess were dead. He had somehow fabricated evidence of a virulent epidemic in the Palace and news of the death of the entire royal family and Palace staff was proclaimed throughout the land. I told him I'd also had to kill Captain Standall who had turned traitor. Would that I had!

The Captain and the children must have fled the country or died trying because, to this day, I've never heard even the smallest whisper about them. They just vanished.

Oh! What a fool I am! As long as they _may_ be alive I will never feel safe!

This is why the very idea of finding the old royal painter makes me shiver. He might recognize the royal children if he saw them.

Oh! If only this blasted knocking in my ears would stop!

June 18, --41

10:00 a.m.

What a morning! Two members of my City Guard brought me a beautiful silk coat, just as I was dressing for the day. They say the coat was confiscated from a notorious tax evader whom they'd finally caught. The coat looks to be the work of our city's finest tailor—a man who somehow never has time to sew for _me_. My guards insist they acquired the coat fairly. Kara Mia came in and made me try it on. She says it suits me wonderfully and thinks it should become my mayoral coat. I suppose she's right. I told her it's a tight fit and that I thought it made me look fat. She assured me that I am certainly _not_ fat. I sometimes wonder if she isn't pulling my leg.

It's just two weeks until Mayor's Day and the mayoral elections. I wanted to have the portrait completed for the Mayor's Day celebrations, but I despair of finding a painter in time.

5:00 pm

What a day! Just when I'd given up hope of ever finding a portrait painter, I stumble on one in the Market! And all in one afternoon the painting is finished and sitting here in my office, leaning up against the bookcase. Tomorrow it shall be hung in the lobby of City Hall with proper lighting. Fran unearthed an art critic from the University who knows all about the correct way to display paintings. But I should begin at the beginning and record this momentous event in an orderly fashion.

At about eleven o'clock this morning, I was walking through the Market Square with members of City Council. A little boy caught my eye: a ragged street urchin holding before him a piece of paper. "What would a street boy be doing with a piece of paper?" I asked myself. "Reading? Ha!" Perhaps he's stolen a market license, I thought. I caught him by the shoulder, but he ducked and slipped away in the crowd before I could grab the paper. Yet in that moment, I had seen that it wasn't a license. It was a drawing, and what a drawing! Vivid faces seemed to leap off the page in that brief glimpse! I had to know who the artist was, but the boy had disappeared.

Never mind. I kept my eyes and ears open and little more than half an hour later, found the source of the drawing. The artist was a young girl! She was surely no more than fifteen and fresh from the country: quite delectable really, but I was not to be distracted. The young are easy to persuade, and with a few suggestive comments, I had her painting away.

She refused to leave the Market Square or her father (a dumpy little man in such an old coat!), but instead of forcing the issue, as my councilors were wont to do, I—being who I am—immediately saw the possibilities. Yes! Why not have my portrait painted in the middle of Market Square, in front of an admiring populace? And that is exactly what happened!

It is a very large and magnificent portrait and will look _very_ well in the lobby. There is not another portrait like it in the whole of City Hall.

9:00 pm

Kara Mia has just been admiring the portrait, yet she is not so admiring as I could wish. She thinks I should have the painter touch up the portrait a bit, perhaps even have her do it again! She says it's too bad that the picture should depict City Hall _before_ its scheduled improvements. Why did I not think of that? Certain renovations to the building's face are to begin next week in preparation for Mayor's Day. I suppose I could have the painter touch it up, but the trouble is...I let her go! I don't even know her name and on closer inspection, I see that she did not even sign the painting. I've no idea who she is or where she came from. Of course, I did not tell this to Kara Mia. I do not like to appear a fool.

Well, never mind. I expect I'll see the girl again in the Market.

June 19, --41

I had the strangest dreams last night and woke up with that blasted knocking sound just on the edge of my mind. What in blazes brought that on?

I dreamt about a door, though it wasn't a door I recognized. That's no surprise in a dream, I suppose. However, my grandmother was in the dream, and so was I. I was a boy again, taking money from her jar. She thought that jar a great secret. Ha! I dipped into it many a time, though I remember being uncomfortable afterward. And not because she ever caught me! No. I remember now. The dream has brought it all back. I used to hear that knocking sound whenever I did anything she thought was naughty. It must have been because of those stories she used to read to me at bedtime. That one about the rich man and his treasure was especially horrible and sometimes gave me nightmares.

I talked it over with Kara Mia once, and she said those stories were a form of brainwashing inflicted by an ignorant generation of fools, which is why their books were taken away and destroyed.

For decades, men such as the General have been working quietly behind the scenes to purge our society of that old tomfoolery. Yes, though our Kings and Queens sought to uphold those old ways of bondage, they could never subdue the undercurrent of powerful mental forces of men like the General. And now the last of the old ways has gone with the last King, which is why I must be careful not to mention my dreams to anyone, not even Kara Mia! It would never do to appear as some delusionary throwback, still suffering the nightmares of antiquated generations.

June 21, --41

I received word this afternoon that a man from the University came to view my new portrait. Councilor Jones met the man in the Lobby, but was stupid enough not to get his name.

At first I thought it might be that white-haired old man (I still believe he's a scholar), but on probing the depths of my councilor's shallow mind, it appears the University man was very large, almost bear-like, and my white-haired man is of smaller proportions. Councilor Jones did manage to remember one thing: the man mentioned that he is a retired art professor.

So, perhaps the Provost's misplaced art professor is neither blind nor dead! Could he be the painter commissioned by the royal family?

Weeks ago, when I was hunting for a portrait painter—and specifically the King's man—I searched the palace archives for the royal portraits. The General had ordered their removal from all public places nearly a year after the King's death, no doubt hoping this would help to efface memories of the King from the public mind. _I_ wanted to see the portraits because I hoped to find the painter's signature and perhaps learn his name. Unfortunately I could not find a single royal portrait, though I probed the deepest corners of the Palace basement.

I found only one clue for all my labor: a closet stacked with ornate empty frames. The canvases had been torn out; shreds were still visible along the inner edges. I understand the General's reasons for a vigorous purge, but really it is too bad! How will I ever find out the name of that royal painter without having to ask questions which might get noticed? Of course, even if he still lives he probably has no connection whatsoever with the royal children now. And, of course, it _is_ more than likely that the children are dead. Am I running after a slender thread? Yet better safe than found out by the General!

I must make sure that this retired art professor is not my man. I shall have to make my own inquiries so that I do not arouse suspicions of _any_ kind in _any_ quarter.

July 8, --41

The renovations to City Hall are nearly finished. My portrait is hung prominently in the Lobby and adds just the right patrician atmosphere. The Mayor's Day celebration is just a week away!

Today, though, I am concerned about my City Councilors. Kara Mia thinks they are the best I've had, but I sometimes wonder if they are too ambitious. They agree with all my plans and proposals, but sometimes grudgingly. Councilor Hinkup does like to go on about money and the city coffers and all that. _I_ understand budgets! _I'm_ not an infant! And, they have too many ideas of their own which must all be carefully talked down. It's such a waste of time! And I do prefer short council meetings. At least none of them have objected to the recent improvements of the city streets. I've told them again and again that the streets are no place for widows and orphans. The General built Belltown specifically for the benefit of the poor! The recent clearances and removal of the homeless to Belltown were a charitable public service that will have far reaching beneficiary effects beyond the Mayor's Day Parade.

July 9, --41

Now that all the Mayor's Day arrangements are nearly complete, I come to my favorite part of the preparations, and –dare I say?—the most publicly anticipated part of the celebrations: the Mayor's speech. The Mayor! That's _me_! There are still moments when I can hardly believe my good fortune! From the humble beginnings of a farm boy in the unimportant village of Larkness, motherless two days after birth, and raised by a stern grandmother of the old schools: compelled to learn the drudgery that is farming though my mind yearned after higher things: finally, through cleverness, luck, and the love of the right woman, I moved up in this world to prestige, wealth, and a worthy title.

Yes!

This is my history!

An abbreviated version, of course. The General says I am a model man of his new nation-state: a man who has raised himself from misfortune! A man who has risen out of obscurity and the darkness of the feeble social enterprises of past generations!

I feel it today! I feel my power and position, my importance, my invulnerability! Yes, I am in just the right frame of mind to write my speech. I will put away dreams of doors and knocking. Such folly has been banished from my life and from the times in which we are privileged to live.

On to my speech!

July 10, --41

My speech is finished, and it's a good thing. I see in my last entry that I wrote in high spirits, but when I'd finished, cruel memories settled in. They are with me even now, like too many pointing fingers, and I have spent a miserable night and day. Kara Mia was out with friends, so I had no one to distract and console me. Dear Fran is so morose these days, I thought it best not to compound my misery with her moods.

It is always a mistake to walk down memory lane. Thinking of my rise from lowly farm boy to lofty Mayor brought back—oh!—so many different recollections. It is dangerous to reflect on the possibility that I am still enslaved by all the things my grandmother said.

She constantly read those archaic stories to me, all meant to define right and wrong, and to form that idiotic thing she called "my conscience."

How grandmother harped on the idea of a conscience! But beyond saying it was a little voice inside me that told me when I was doing wrong, she could never really define it or tell me its location. "Is it near my heart? Is it in my left foot? Is it in my right earlobe, grandmother?" I used to ask, half teasing, knowing she would only huff and puff and tell me I'd asked the wrong questions. "Make up your mind, boy! Be good or be bad! Be black or be white! Don't try to stand in the middle!" she'd say.

It was my dear Kara Mia that reformed me. Her ideas gradually quelled the insistent voices of the past, until I was able to put aside those childish things and go to work for the General. I'll never forget my first job! Kara Mia's father got me a position in the Palace as a mail clerk, and then the General himself gave me a special assignment. I secretly opened and read all the King's correspondence and then reported what I'd read to the General. It was so easy and I was so young. Ah! Those were good days: receiving a paycheck from the Palace _and_ one from the General!

After two years in this double employment, I remember the General said to me, "Jared, you will never rise in the _King's_ service, but with _me_ you'll go far. Stick with me, my boy." And I did. And I _have_ risen, though plagued by dreams of doors and grandmother's voice inside my head during those early years.

So why do I feel so miserable tonight? Because the knocking has come back. Why _now_ , after all this time?

July 17, --41

Mayor's Day was a complete success. I have just been reading the reports from the General's men in the countryside, and they all say that the celebrations in the villages were fulsome and joyful. The only place where a little force was needed to encourage the festivities was my own birthplace, Larkness. It's just as the old proverb says: a great man is never really appreciated in his hometown.

I imagine the family farm has passed into other hands. Surely my father is dead. When I left, over twenty years ago, he was already on a course for drinking himself to death. He told me, on the last day I ever saw him, that he would disinherit me if I took up work in the city. I've always supposed that he did, but now I wonder. Could he have left me the house and farm? If so, it must be a wilderness by now, and the house fallen down! I shall have the General's man in Larkness check on this. Yet why should I bother? Farms are of no great value these days and hardly worth the trouble of selling.

But I do wonder why the simple country folk of Larkness should be so reluctant to celebrate Mayor's Day. Anyone would think I'd be a hometown hero! All this makes me wonder if my grandmother isn't still alive, telling tales about me.

August 16, --41

The General's Day celebration went off without a hitch this year, which shows that his popularity must be growing. It was a balmy, grey day, typical of late summer, and not a single protestor appeared to mar the festivities. Perhaps the General has finally succeeded in suppressing the last of the Royalists. It wouldn't surprise me.

September 16, --41

I've finally given Mutchmor the sack. I gave his job to Fran, and still she isn't happy! Poor thing. She may never feel right in life given her restricted upbringing. Imagine a child being forced to eat bread for every meal! She says it's the source of all the digestive problems she's had in her adult years.

She came to me earlier this evening while Kara Mia was out with friends, but she didn't want a cuddle. So I gave her a glass of wine and she talked and even cried a little. She does not like her new position as Permits Officer and finds the work boring. What she'd really like is a position in the Palace, like Kara Mia.

I told her not to be silly! Kara Mia doesn't have a job at the Palace. I'm the Mayor and a rich man; Kara Mia doesn't need to work!

Fran said she was sure Kara Mia has a position of some sort at the Palace, and would I ask her to use her influence?

I was about to protest when Kara Mia walked in. Fran looked uncomfortable, but when I related her request, Kara Mia looked thoughtfully at Fran and said, "Well, I do have friends in the Palace. I'll see what I can do."

That's my darling wife! Always doing her utmost for the welfare of others. Needless to say, Fran left in better spirits, no doubt anticipating her future prospects.

And upon further reflection, I believe it may be in _my_ interest to help Fran get a position in the Palace. Irresistible as she may be, she _is_ a whisperer and she is ambitious. As she has moved between different departments—one rung up the ladder at a time, you might say—odd whisperings and quiet accusations and sackings have often cleared the way before her, though I cannot concretely say she was ever directly involved.

I made her my personal assistant a little over a year ago, and now I've sacked a man for her sake. She'll have to stay where she is. Permits Officer is not such a bad position.

September 30, --41

On rereading my last entry, I find I'm glad I gave Mutchmor a letter of introduction to the King of Z---. I know he thought it odd that I should sack him, and then write him a letter of introduction, but I hope the letter proved useful. Since I fired him, I've heard that he has a wife and children, and that he's packed them all up and moved away. I don't know where.

Kara Mia would tell me to forget him. I know she'd say that my present feelings are the residual effects of grandmother's "educational methods." I'm sure it's Kara Mia's method which is right: "The purpose always justifies the means," yet some things I do still trouble me.

October 5, --41

I've just come from a meeting with the General. He outlined the first stage of his plans for waging war on neighboring kingdoms.

First, we must raise the requisite revenue. I am to levy higher property taxes here in the capital, increase municipal fees, and create new bylaws attached to fines and stiff monetary penalties.

The General will appoint someone to oversee the collection of goods and taxes in all the villages throughout the countryside. Naturally I asked if this was not already being done. He said it was, but not to his satisfaction. He wants a tax overseer who will not only enforce higher tariffs on all farm production, but someone who can suppress rebels and prevent tax evasion. He seemed to have someone in mind for this position, but appeared reluctant to divulge the name. I can't say I blame him; there is so much jockeying for power in this business of government; a man like the General must be very careful of the people he places around his person.

October 25, --41

I managed to raise property taxes and pass several new bylaws with barely a whisper of protest from City Council. I even levied higher sales tariffs and raised the market license fees and no one voiced an objection. The increases are quite high, more than twenty-five percent, and the penalties for violating the new bylaws are very stiff. All this makes me wonder if perhaps the Council members were stunned into silence.

However, I think it likely that their acquiescence is due to the addendum which specifies that all upper level members of city government are exempt from these taxes. I think they realize what a fair and generous Mayor I am.

October 31, --41

The rise in taxes and city fees aroused little protest from the populace. At this time of year, most farmers are only anxious to renew their licenses as efficiently as possible so they can sell their goods as quickly as they can. It's always this way during the harvest season, which is the very reason I chose the autumn months to implement the new tax scheme. The market farmers who complained about exorbitant license fees were few and were detained for two or three days in the city jail. That quieted them.

I've been half hoping to see my little painter again. I'm sure she came in from the country; her father certainly looked a typical farmer. I haven't forgotten those touch up jobs Kara Mia suggested for the portrait, and I have one or two suggestions as well.

It really is an odd painting; it seems to change. For instance, when I'm passing through the Lobby and happen to glance at it sideways, the expression on the face alters and it's far from flattering. It's very alarming. And, the tree in the lower right hand corner sometimes looks like a man!

At first I thought I might be going mad, but Ms. Kane, the city's most able prosecutor, sees a man in the lower right corner all the time. She says the man is a farmer and is an "expression of the mayor's history, portraying the noble struggle of the common laborer's rise to power." I suppose she would agree with the General's assertion that I represent the model citizen of our new nation-state. All this only makes me feel a little better, but not much. Who wants a portrait that appears to be more of an optical illusion? And besides, whenever I catch a glimpse of my altered likeness, I hear that damnable knocking.

November 5, --41

The General has ordered construction of the army garrisons to begin. I know just the place: there are several empty warehouses and derelict factories in the southwestern quarter of the city that can be quickly converted to barracks, offices, and a training center.

The city's lead builders have agreed to begin work immediately. It should all be ready by MidWinter.

How the General plans to handle conscription, I do not yet know. I suppose he's already organized a department specifically for this task.

December 10, --41

Well, well. Not only am I in charge of building and outfitting the army garrison, but I am also to be head of conscription and recruitment here in the city. If I didn't believe that I am the General's right hand man before, I believe it now!

I have been given broad powers for defining how military recruitment is accomplished. Indeed, the General dismissed the usual protocols of forming a committee and putting procedures on paper. He suggested that I simply choose a handful of men—"tough" men is the way he put it—to enforce compliance and encourage volunteerism. In fact, he suggested the names of certain men who do special jobs for him on occasion; he thought they might "appreciate the fresh air, as a change from their work in the Palace Dungeons." He laughed when he said this. I'm not familiar with any of the men he named. This made me wonder if the General is operating a secret police force.

There are no fitness requirements in his army: as long as a man isn't stone blind or overly lame, he will do. "I want a vast army," the General said. "I plan to intimidate the enemy with sheer numbers."

He also said that a man's criminal history was irrelevant and that, in his opinion, a man with a record might be an asset. "So you may as well begin recruiting in the jail," he said. "Give them a choice: the cell or army barracks."

December 22, --41

Yesterday, Kara Mia and I spent such a satisfying day together. It was the MidWinter celebration. Usually this particular holiday sends my wife into an irritable temper. She detests anything even faintly reminiscent of the old traditions and tales. It's no use reminding her that it's always been a meaningless festival. It's just one of the three yearly government holidays when everyone eats a great deal and drinks more than they should. I rather like this particular day: the whole city is quiet: Market Square is empty; the factories are still and the horizon is fairly clear of their black smoke; even the Palace is silent and resting. Snug in our apartment on the top floor of City Hall, we can look out on peaceful streets and frost-covered roofs.

Yet Kara Mia has always loathed MidWinter and never fails to spend at least one hour of it ranting about the idiotic customs practiced by the common folk: "the ugly stick huts and clay animals! The tacky garland! The government should ban it from the marketplace! The artisans who make these things and sell them are nothing more than highway robbers taking advantage of an unsuspecting public! They are greedy charlatans whose only motive is a pocketful of cash!"

I've tried reasoning with her. What is it to us if they sell meaningless junk and the people are willing to pay for it? They have bought the market license; they make a contribution to the economy; they pay their (increased!) taxes. Why should their baubles make her any angrier than the cheap baubles sold by the glassblower?

"But it's what the MidWinter rubbish represents," she says.

"What _does it_ represent?" I ask.

"Nothing! It's completely meaningless!" she proclaims. "Whatever it once meant is lost!"

"Then if there's nothing behind it," I reply, "why lose your temper?"

This argument of mine usually takes the wind out of her bluster. Every year it's been the same: she rants until she exhausts herself, and then we take a quiet walk and eat a large dinner.

This MidWinter was so different! She was in good spirits all day, with not a hint of irritation. We took walks and ate, and walked some more. On one of our outings, we even stopped in the Lobby and she admired my portrait, saying she liked it very well and it was a wonderful likeness.

There was only one small incident. As we passed through the Market Square after breakfast, we saw two children playing in the gutter. They were building a small hut out of sticks and straw left by some untidy farmer. Kara Mia stopped and stared at the children. At first they were too busy to notice us, but after a few minutes, they stopped and looked up. I tried to urge Kara Mia forward, but she was like a stone statue, staring with cold eyes. The children looked at her for a moment, then jumped up and ran away. Without a word, Kara Mia smashed the little hut with the toe of her boot, then kicked it to pieces. Perhaps this little act relieved her feelings. All I know is that this year, I was spared her MidWinter rant!

I can't help comparing my lovely day with Kara Mia to the General's unhappy holiday. I've just come from my weekly meeting with him, and he was more than downcast. His youngest daughter is in the Palace infirmary, dangerously ill with some sort of digestive ailment. He does not expect her to live out the week. And yet, he pushes on with his duties. He is a stalwart man. Though depressed, he received my report on the progress of army enlistments with all graciousness and gratitude. I am fortunate indeed to have found favor with such a man.

December 25, --41

The garrison is finished. The regular barracks are, admittedly, a bit rough. The city building inspector had to be handsomely bribed before he would give his written approval of those buildings. However, the officers' quarters and meeting rooms are rather fine, and I think the building inspector agreed with me on this point, though I do wish he hadn't been so grudging about it. He complained that the whole project should have been done to the same standard throughout. I told him that many of the soldiers will come from the jail or the streets, so even the regular barracks would be an improvement in their lot.

In a few minutes, I'll go over to the jail to have the first batch of recruits sent to the new barracks. I enlisted them over a week ago and I expect they're anxious to leave the cells and take up their new duties.

Had another dream last night about a door, but really, I'm so busy these days I don't have time to dwell on it and I hardly hear the knocking. All that nonsense takes up only a small part of my mind now: like a small wooden sliver on the surface of the skin.

March 16, --42

The General's daughter is dead. Kara Mia just brought the news. The girl was in the Palace infirmary for three months, since MidWinter. They didn't think she'd make it this long.

Apparently the General's wife is so distraught she is blaming _him_ for the girl's death. According to Kara Mia, the General's wife insists that if the girl had been allowed to eat bread, she might never have been ill at all. Evidently the girl had been begging her father for bread, but of course he would not allow it. Then, as the girl's illness progressed, her mother began to demand bread, though the General was firm in refusing. Imagine crediting the lack of bread with ill health! Kara Mia says that this has been going on for some time. She believes the General's wife is deranged. I had no idea he was plagued by such family troubles! I'd always thought him a bit unkind for seeming to prefer work to time with his family, yet now I see that he has no consolation at home.

All this does make me appreciate my dear Kara Mia. I think I shall stop seeing the magistrate's cute little secretary on my lunch hours. I'll stop today. Instead, I shall take Kara Mia to the new chocolate café.

March 21, --42

Today is the first day of spring, though it's not evident in the air. Come to think of it, I cannot remember when I last saw a spring with blue sky, or flowers in window boxes. Why does no one plant flowers in this city anymore? And why is the sky always overcast? It's our factories, I suppose.

Damn. Now that knocking has begun again. I shall take an aspirin, then run down to the jail to see if there are any fresh recruits. No use sitting still and letting wild thoughts get me down.

April 30, --42

So many people are coming to the capitol to find work. They are mainly farm laborers from the countryside. Most are too rough and ignorant to work as servants, and there is no employment in the factories. The truth is we have a surplus of labor in this city! And with our new vagrancy fines, the jails are full of men and women, young and old

Of course all the men are conscripted and the women are employed by the army as cooks, servants, and nurses. They receive a uniform, a small stipend, and the assurance of daily meals.

The children are sent to Belltown where, I am told, they are cared for by the same agencies who are employed to look after the poor.

Yes. Between the army and Belltown, we are able to accommodate this recent influx of stragglers from the countryside, _and_ keep our streets clean and clear.

May 25, --42

Yet another day of heavy enlistments, yards of the requisite paperwork, and too much time spent with my vulgar assistants. _I_ would never have considered these men for the work of recruitment. They are dirty, rough, and cruel. I do not like their methods. However, they are the General's men; I hired them at his "suggestion."

"They'll appreciate the fresh air," he said. "It'll be a nice change for them after working the dungeons."

I'm sure it is a nice change for them, but I happen to know the only air they really appreciate is the murk inside the lowest taverns. Kara Mia says they're useful and will get the job done quick and fast, so why complain? I suppose she's right. We're more than halfway to the General's enlistment goal after just a few months.

June 10, --42

I went down to the jail today and found that my recruiting assistants had rounded up another parcel of vagrants. Two of them were young men, and I soon realized that one of them is a drunkard—the kind with the perpetual pocket flask. The other is a country boy of the old schools. I expect he has or had a grandmother like mine. He didn't say anything, but because I am acquainted with this type, his face and manner gave him away. When I saw him he looked very near despair which was the only good thing about him I could see. Despair can bring enlightenment, as Kara Mia is fond of saying.

When I sent these boys to the army barracks, the country boy actually asked for the time to post a message home! He certainly is tied to the old apron strings. I was generous and allowed him half an hour.

Well, army life will harden both those boys and cure them of their nonsense. I did them a favor and made their choice easy: enlist or stay in jail until you pay the fine for vagrancy. I'm not usually so explicit, but these boys need the army as much as it needs them.

June 15, --42

Surprising news: a reclusive and forgotten artist has come out of retirement and is exhibiting new paintings at the University Gallery. There are no other details available. Could it be the Provost's forgotten art professor? The one who may or may not be blind and who hasn't been seen in years? Perhaps is it the retired art professor who came to view my portrait last year.

The University sounds like a labyrinth of colleges and departments more confusing than the General's network of Palace dungeons! Which, by the by, are rumored to be filled with more dissidents than ever. It seems that certain segments of the populace blame the General for food shortages. They come here to the capital to rally and complain, and when they are refused an audience with the General (as they _always_ are!), they instigate all manner of trouble. The largest group, the Royalists, claim to have unearthed some distant relative of the former King whom they intend to put on the throne! Imagine going back to a monarchy!

All the talk of food shortages makes the General angry. Reports from the rural areas indicate widespread crop failure, but the General firmly believes that these reports are fabricated by rebel Royalists. Feeling for the King has historically run high among the more ignorant rural populace. He believes the farmers are actually withholding products and taxes, and he intends to collect, by force if necessary. He insists there are no food shortages, no crop failures, and every reason to believe his campaign of war will bring great prosperity to our nation-state.

He may be right about all this, but I wonder. One of the city councilors just delivered a report showing a marked decrease this year in the number of market licenses purchased by farmers. It may be a result of the increased license fees. But then, where _are_ the farmers selling their goods if not in the Market Square? The Council has formed a committee to investigate.

June 17, --42

Kara Mia does not think she will be successful in securing a Palace job for Fran Zlindric in the near future. I told her Fran would be disappointed, but Kara Mia says there is nothing more she can do at the moment.

I'm sure my Kara Mia used all her influence and did her best, but it really is too bad. Surprising too, when I think about it. Kara Mia has a considerable number of friends and acquaintances among the Palace staff. I do believe she spends nearly every day there and at least two evenings a week. I've never asked her how she occupies her time while I'm in my offices, but she busies herself somehow while still managing our household affairs. She really is the most resourceful person I know.

June 20, --42

I've just returned from the University. The General and I went to view the new art exhibition after hearing ugly rumors about the paintings. I do believe the artist—whom the Provost calls Master Thaddaeus—is the man who came to view my portrait last year. He matches the physical description given by Councilor Jones: very large like a bear.

This artist is supposed to be a master painter, but I could see nothing special in his work. The paintings show nothing but cataclysmic natural disasters falling upon the countryside, and violent scenes in cities that look a little too much like our own.

The artist's paintings and his demeanor offended the General and—dare I say it?—may have actually frightened him. I've never seen the General unnerved by another man, but he was certainly ruffled by the presence of that artist. As we left the gallery, he sent a messenger ahead to organize a press conference at City Hall. At that meeting, he told the assembled journalists that the artist is obviously insane. He declared the whole exhibition "the work of a diseased imagination." Though the artist might once have been great, he is obviously now "affected by age and senility."

The artist did not look insane or senile to me, but of course I did not contradict the General. I thought the man looked rather dangerous, and I could see the Provost was nervous and embarrassed. It's obvious he doesn't know what to make of the artist either.

June 21, --42

It troubles me that the artist I met yesterday at the exhibition may have been the royal portrait painter. He's certainly old enough. If so, he would remember the royal children. I woke in the early hours of the morning with this thought niggling at my mind.

Thank goodness the General isn't interested in pursuing the man or his history. He came to our apartments last night for dinner and only mentioned the artist once as the butt of some joke. He seems to think that his pronouncement to the press will be enough to close the exhibition and send the artist back to his reclusive hole in disgrace.

I hope the General is right, but you never know what these academic types will do. That Provost doesn't seem to have an ounce of business sense in his head.

June 23, --42

Oh! I have been a fool! I decided my best course of action would be to go back to the University and question the artist myself, but I got busy and two days slipped by. Now I find I am too late! The artist is gone! Flown the coop! And no one—least of all the Provost—can tell me where. He had a servant named Grimple or something, but she is gone too! I've made discreet inquiries, but could pick up no trail. How could a man that big disappear so completely? And with all his paintings! He left not a single picture at the University; not even an empty frame!

To make matters worse, I've just received a message from the General, asking me to have the City Guard conduct this artist to his office at the Palace! Perhaps he has suddenly decided to detain the man in the Palace Dungeons; if so, the artist has had a lucky escape.

My only consolation in this matter is that I will be able to send the General an immediate response. He will believe I have anticipated his concerns. Yet he will be far from pleased with my answer. I can only hope that he will be satisfied with the closure of the exhibition, as well as my assurances that I am already actively seeking the man.

My secret hope is that this matter will drop from the General's mind altogether. The last thing I want is for this man to be interrogated by the General before I've questioned him myself.

June 30, --42

It's been a week since the artist's disappearance and, on reflection, I believe my fears are unfounded. My last entry borders on hysteria, but the whole matter seems to have dropped from the General's mind, just as I'd hoped.

_If_ that university artist _was_ the royal portrait painter, he's apparently been a recluse for many years now, living shut up in the college. The royal children would be thirteen and fourteen years old by now, if they are still alive. How would he ever recognize them? He painted their portraits when they were mere babes! I think I have nothing to fear.

_If_ they were alive, surely those Royalist rebels would have gotten hold of them. What better way to bolster their cause than to produce the young prince, the "rightful" king. I shudder to think what would have happened to _me_ if they had! Yet they have only gotten hold of a distant relative whose royal connections are weak and who has done nothing to rally public opinion to the rebels' side.

The possibility of the King's painter, the royal children, and even their old guard Captain Standall coming together is so far-fetched! I can't believe I've let the idea keep me awake at night.

Still, it's always wise to keep my eyes open. What was it my grandmother used to say? "Shrewd as snakes, innocent as doves." Yes that shall be me.

July 15, --42

Today was Mayor's Day. I must admit that it was a very lackluster affair. There was not a juggler or a magician to be seen. Usually they come to the city in high numbers on this day, taking advantage of the crowds who fill the streets looking for entertainment. This year, even the traveling puppet show stayed away; not that it mattered. I saw very few children in the crowd.

I have to admit that the populace grows discontented. Rumors of crop failure and decreased production in the countryside cannot be ignored. Recently the word "famine" was mentioned by a certain journalist in his weekly column, and the General, who wields a usually tight control over local and national newspapers, publicly denounced the man who then disappeared. I don't believe this action served to boost the public morale, however. The people at today's festivities wore long faces. My cheerful speech seemed to have no effect and all my clever jokes and stories fell flat.

The fireworks were rather good this evening. I hope people noticed.

July 27, --42

I just found out that Mr. Machenmyer, the owner of our leading dairy processing plant, has been detained in the dungeons because he filed a complaint regarding a backed up sewer pipe. Why is that a matter for the dungeons?

I do wish the General would not be so harsh. I find his method of dealing with the malcontented somewhat barbaric. His dungeon system may be effective for quelling rioters and rebels, but using it for the average citizen who lodges a complaint is extreme. This kind of behavior does not increase his popularity or instill faith in our new nation-state.

And how is it that complaints, always filed with our department at City Hall, are reaching the ears of the Palace staff? I plan to look into this matter today. Personally.

July 28, --42

10:00 am

Complaints filed here at City Hall continue to turn up at the Palace. The secretary in charge of receiving and filing complaints is genuinely baffled. The paperwork seems to vanish somewhere between her desk and the various departmental offices. She suspects the mail clerk, and the mailroom is the obvious hub where anything might happen (I should know, having begun my career there!). Yet we both agree that the mail clerk is an unambitious fellow, and not very bright. Even if bribed, I'm not sure he could successfully carry out any kind of subterfuge, which is precisely why he was hired as mail clerk.

Yet now, at last, I do have one interesting clue: the mail clerk is so slow at his work that he is often still sorting mail after hours. I wonder if, lately, someone has decided to "help" him in the evenings. I have only to watch the mailroom door. In the meantime, I've asked the secretary to bypass the mailroom and personally deliver all complaints directly to the appropriate departments. She did complain about the extra running around this would require, but I tactfully reminded her that she could use the exercise.

The fact that the Palace does not return the complaints to City Hall is troubling. Why should they bother about blocked sewers and broken market stalls? These are citizens reporting genuine inconveniences and disturbances to the public order. There is no need to haul them off to the dungeons! I will certainly ask the General about this in my meeting today. Not directly of course. With him, the indirect approach is always wisest.

4:00 pm

Odd. The General seemed to know nothing about the misdirected city complaints. He would, however, talk on and on about his wife and daughter. His wife remains inconsolable after the death of their youngest girl. She and the surviving daughter insist on the importance of obtaining bread, but the General refuses so they have moved out of the Palace and taken other apartments somewhere in the city. "I cannot run the country alone, Jared," he said. "I work better in tandem. My wife has disappointed me." Then he told me he has been forced to find peace and consolation elsewhere, and thanked me for my understanding and support.

July 29, --42

My suspicions are confirmed. Someone is helping the mail clerk after hours. I hid myself in a dark corner near the mailroom door this evening, and saw Fran enter in what I can only call a furtive manner. Half an hour later, she came out with the mail clerk and he was apologizing and groveling about something. Fran looked rather peeved for, of course, she found no complaints in the mailroom today.

So. Fran, in her restless ambition, is colluding with someone in the Palace. I might have known.

I heard that Mr. Machenmeyer was detained in the dungeons for only a few hours. They must have realized that his complaint about a blocked sewer was reasonable and not a symptom of rebellion or discontent.

He is one of the richest men in the city. Why treat him in that bullish way? And who in the Palace is behind such tyranny?

July 30, --42

I think it best not to confront Fran directly about this little incident. It will never do to make her my enemy. I never did tell her that Kara Mia failed to find a position for her at the Palace. I thought that if she continued to hope, she would settle down and make the best of her present job while she waits. Yet she has grown restless and spiteful.

Why can't she just be happy as Permits Officer? The only solution is to find her another position that she will find important and interesting: some place where she can do no harm. The trouble is, I can think of no place in City Hall where I would wish to place her.

She told me once that if she can't get into the Palace, she wants the job of Undersecretary to the Director of City Works. This position _is_ coming up vacant soon: the current Director is retiring in a month's time and his long-time Undersecretary, Jorgins, will naturally move up to take his place. But I could never give Fran the job of Undersecretary. Imagine her working for Jorgins! I happen to know that he has no liking for Fran. She was a clerk in his department two years ago, and it was he who requested her transfer to another office. I've no doubt he wanted to be rid of her when he realized her ambition outstripped her actual capabilities. Granted, she could have gained the necessary experience in time if she had really settled down to her work, but her thoughts seem always turned to the next rung up the ladder.

If only she would behave in a straightforward way, but she is secretive and conniving. I am rather glad that she is no longer my personal assistant.

August 2, --42

Two negative reports this morning from very different quarters, and I shall mention neither in my meeting with the General this afternoon.

The first comes from the department of Internal Affairs, detailing in numbers, graphs, maps, and undeniable intelligence, the actual state of the countryside. If even a quarter of this report is true, it corroborates the worst rumors heard on the street: the land is failing: crops, cattle, poultry, all. It is not the result of laziness or poor husbandry on the part of farmers. No, the report is clear: there seems to be some sort of blight on the land which no one can explain.

Humph. Let someone else bring this report before the General. I've no wish to stoke his wrath.

The second communiqué came from a source little known to me, though I have seen him many times in the marketplace. He claims to run some sort of humanitarian operation down in Belltown. When I asked his name, he replied, "Joe," and offered no surname. I wondered why my secretary had let him into my office for a private interview. He is a shabbily dressed man with a demeanor I can only describe as odd.

At any rate, the report he brought was disturbing. It was a detailed account of the conditions in Belltown, complete with statistics, charts, and graphs. I must say it was a much finer report than anything we've ever produced here at City Hall. _If_ this report is true, the conditions and abuses—nay, atrocities!—require some sort of investigation. I shall relate our conversation:

"Look here," I said, after reading the report, "this can't be true. We've built poorhouses and orphanages down there. The General saw to it all himself."

"The buildings remain," he said.

"Then why are people living in shacks on the street, as your report indicates? I thought the General's institutions were more than adequate."

"His institutions have only tightened the yoke, and out of them other things have grown. Surely you've heard the rumors."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I said. Indeed I couldn't imagine what he meant.

"When were you last in Belltown?" he asked.

I had to think about this. Was it really the day the General opened Belltown for settlement? That grand opening day was ten years ago. Belltown then had been new, if not exactly attractive.

"I have to admit that it's been some time," I replied.

"And yet you continue to send people there, in spite of the rumors? This report corroborates all the rumors."

"I care nothing for rumors," I said, "and the data in this report will have to be confirmed."

"Perhaps you will go there to see for yourself?"

I most certainly will not, I thought, but I said, "I will take your report to the next City Council meeting."

"And you will tell them about the children and the trafficking?"

"I will show them your figures. I hope, for your sake, they are correct." I was really having a hard time believing the bar graph which reflected a breakdown of the population by age. Is the population in Belltown really ninety percent children? Then I thought of the recent Mayor's Day with so few children in the crowd. There had been the usual Clearance and Removal of the homeless from the streets before the celebration. I never ask _who_ is being transported to Belltown.

"Meanwhile," he said, "we will begin bringing the children out, and others who want to come."

"Bring them out? Hold on. What do you mean?" I said.

"We must save and heal as many as we can before the end."

"End? What end? What are you talking about, man?" And then that infernal knocking in my head began again. It has not bothered me much for some time. Now it pounded through my head, loudly and painfully, like an explosion.

I do not remember what happened after that. I must have fainted. When I woke, I was lying on the couch in my office with a cold compress on my forehead. I was alone. I could still hear the knocking, but it was quieter and the pain had gone. My secretary entered and was surprised to see me lying down.

"Are you unwell, sir?" she asked.

"No," I said, immediately getting up. "Where is the man who was here? Did he leave?"

"What man?" she said.

"The man you let in with the Belltown report."

"I haven't let anyone into your office all morning," she said.

This was odd. Her desk is next to my outer door. No one can pass without her knowledge.

"But a man was here," I said. "You must have stepped out and he let himself in."

"No," she said. "I've been at my desk all morning, working on the minutes of the last council meeting. No one called to see you."

I did not like the way she was looking at me, so I said, "Well, well. I must have fallen asleep and dreamed. Certainly I'm more tired than I thought. I'll just nip up to my apartment, take an aspirin, and rest for an hour or two."

She looked relieved, but said, "Shall I notify your wife?"

I told her not to bother, that it was nothing and I should be fine after a short nap. I signed the documents she'd brought in, and left.

When I returned to my office after lunch to record my strange experience and to prepare for my meeting with the General, I found Kara Mia sitting at my desk with the Belltown report in her hands. I kissed her and she smiled and said she'd heard I'd been unwell. I told her it was nothing.

"And what do you think of this report?" I said.

"Completely untrue," she said. "I've recently visited the poor in Belltown and I can tell you this report is spurious from beginning to end."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said.

"You weren't thinking of showing it to the General this afternoon, were you?"

"Oh no," I said. "I'd thought of taking it to the Council..."

"No need for that. These kinds of things only inspire discontent. I'd like to know where it came from."

"A man by the name of Joe brought it," I said. I certainly was not going to tell _anyone_ about my morning's experience.

"A man like that should have been detained."

"I've seen him often enough in the marketplace. He should be easy to lay hands on," I said. Why did she think she needed to tell me my job? I didn't like the look in her eye; her mood reminded me of her rants against MidWinter's Day.

"And yet he has slipped through your fingers," she said.

"Really my dear, at the time I had no idea that his report was all lies. I was suspicious and assumed it would all need to be verified. How was I to know he is a crackpot who needs locking up?"

"True," she said. "I don't suppose you've been to Belltown in a long time."

"Not since the General opened it for business."

The look in her eyes softened and she patted my arm. "Dear Jared, promise me you won't go down into Belltown. You have enough to do here in our own city. Anyway, if you remember, the General appointed a deputy mayor for Belltown and he's capable enough. It's really a separate municipality, so it's best if you don't get involved. You'd just wind up stepping on someone's toes." As she said this, she began tearing up the report.

"Besides," she continued, "the General built Belltown for the good of our nation-state. It would never do to question his priorities." The report pages were now the size of confetti. With her last sentence, she swept the pile into the waste bin.

She got up and kissed me fondly. "I'll go now. I know you must get ready for your meeting with the General." With a little wave, she swept out the door.

Though all her looks were loving, as I sit now and record our conversation, I feel a cold fear in my gut. She was warning me. Me! What does she have to do with the running of this government? And yet I realize that I don't dare contradict her or put her in her place. She has many contacts in high places. I've always known that.

Something has changed between us. I cannot put my finger on it.

August 9, --42

It is a week since my last entry. All events move toward war. I hope the General is pleased.

Since the strange visit from the man with the Belltown report, the knocking has become the permanent background noise of my mind. It's not loud; it is insistent. I find I am able to ignore it during the day while I am busy, but not in the evenings when I am alone.

I am alone most evenings now. Kara Mia comes home late, happy and flushed; the wives of the Palace officials must be a jovial bunch and difficult to part with.

At night, when I close my eyes and the knocking cannot be ignored, I often see a door; it is a small wooden door set in a dark stone wall. Who is knocking? The only way I can get to sleep is by imagining a beautiful woman on the other side. I imagine that I let her in, then I think of all that might follow. Eventually I fall asleep.

I must admit that something is wrong here. I dare not tell anyone. A man in my position should not be hearing things. Clearly it is some psychological remnant of my childhood. Perhaps I have been working too hard and a short holiday would clear it all up.

August 16, --42

I've just come from the doctor. He conducted a thorough physical examination and declared me to be the healthiest man he knows. This was encouraging, but I had hoped he would find some little malady that might explain my present mental disturbance. To be congratulated on the lack of even minor digestive complaints was hardly helpful. I could hear the knocking clearly during the entire examination: knock, knock, knock, pause, knock, knock, knock. The rhythm of the rapping often varies, but it is always there: gentle yet insistent. What can it mean?

September 5, --42

Kara Mia sent a message saying she would be out all evening and not to wait up. Curious. This is our usual evening together. I wonder what could be so important or so interesting to keep her at the Palace day after day. I hardly see her anymore. She often comes in very late, but instead of stealing softly into bed, she sits up reading or writing letters. This morning I found her asleep on the sofa.

Since I cannot have Kara Mia's company, I will take Fran to dinner. She seems very low these days; perhaps an evening out on the town will cheer her up. Also, I wish to probe her mind if I can and find out what she's up to.

Sept. 6

Half past twelve a.m.

It is late and Kara Mia has not yet returned. I cannot sleep.

Dinner with Fran was not a happy affair. At first she wouldn't talk; I spent an hour trying to draw her out over a plate of expensive, yet barely tolerable appetizers, and a bottle of mediocre wine. The Rose and Crown is Fran's favorite pub, not mine. Yet I do try to please.

By the time dinner came (such slow service!) Fran's spirits were lifting a little, enough to tell me yet again that she is tired to death of her work. I watched her pick at her food and sincerely wished I'd stayed at home. It is always a waste to buy dinner for a moody female. At last, over coffee, she began to talk and I did not like what I heard.

First she told me that she has been trying hard to get on the good side of the General's chief advisor, but she does not seem to gain any credibility with this person at all. I told her that I am the General's chief advisor. "I'm his right hand man. He told me so himself!" I said.

She looked at me in a queer way. "Come, Jared, you may be one of the General's main dependables, but we all know Kara Mia is his chief advisor now."

What?

I had not replied to this strange statement, but Fran didn't seem to notice. She talked on about a little scheme of hers that had recently gone bust. "I was sure I was scoring points with Kara Mia," she said, "but my source of information dried up."

I didn't ask her about the scheme. I knew. I'd seen her come out of the mailroom. She'd been passing city complaints directly into Kara Mia's hands. Too bad it was the wrong kind of information. Fran is certainly not astute and my Kara Mia is too smart for her. My Kara Mia...

As I watched Fran talk, a jumble of horrible thoughts flooded my mind: Kara Mia shredding the Belltown report; Kara Mia grinding the MidWinter's Day baubles of children under her boot; Mr. Machenmeyer detained in the dungeons for reporting a blocked sewer...even now I cannot bear to remember certain things.

My heart felt like a cold stone, but Fran was oblivious to _my_ mood. She actually became angry with _me_! She began blaming _me_ for her inability to curry favor with Kara Mia. If only we hadn't come together in the way we had; if only I hadn't seduced her. What had she gained from it all? Just a second rate post as the Permits Officer in City Hall. Clearly she was beside herself. The wine must have gone to her head. She seemed to realize, suddenly, that she'd put her foot in it, and resumed her earlier silence.

I'd had enough, but maintained my cheerful exterior, glossed over her insults, paid the bill, and sent her home.

As I write this I can't help but wonder if Fran was merely repeating idle gossip. Surely my Kara Mia is not the chief advisor. She cannot be involved in...but what if she is? And why hasn't she told _me_? My only consolation at this moment is that I keep this diary locked up.

I will wait and watch.

It is now past one o'clock and still she is not home.

September 25, --42

At our meeting today, the General told me that at last he has managed to provoke the government of L---. He believes their declaration of war is imminent and he is still hoping to stoke the fire of armed hostilities with our neighbors to the west and also to the south. I'm not certain why he seeks war on three fronts at once, but it has all been harder to provoke than he expected.

"Those foreign governments actually believe their own lands are in danger of famine! Their farm reports are, apparently, similar to ours, but they believe every word!" the General complained. "All they want to do is hunker down and find a solution to this perceived blight on the land that does not exist. Not even the assassination of important officials seems to move them," he said.

I tried to sympathize with him, but all I could think of was Kara Mia. Is she his new Chief Advisor? Was she in the next room? He did say that he is very pleased with the numbers of soldiers garrisoned in the city. He urged me to continue recruitment and to build new barracks if necessary. I'm sure I agreed with everything he said, but I was distracted.

Near the end of our meeting, he talked once again about his wife's removal to another house in the city.

"I miss my wife and daughter," he said to me, "but they have both become unbalanced. Yet I must have consolation, and you'll be glad to know that I have found it. Thank you for understanding."

I had no idea why he was thanking me, but assured him that, of course, his well-being was of the utmost importance to anyone seeking to advance our nation-state.

Then he said something that chilled me to the bone: "Thank you. She said you would see it that way."

She? Even now I cannot write or say what I suspect.

The knocking sounds in my brain throughout the day, like a marching drumbeat that would lead my feet away on paths where I do not wish to go.

October 25, --42

I find it difficult to sleep at night. I am always listening for the click of the latch, for her footsteps in the room. She comes home in the wee hours of the morning, falls asleep on the sofa, and does not wake until after I have gone to work. I want to go to her, to hold her, but she wears a new perfume.

I am weary and find it hard to concentrate on my duties. Perhaps I should go to the doctor for sleeping pills.

November 8, --42

I woke late this morning, after a restless night, to find Kara Mia sitting at her dressing table. She was wearing a new dress and a diamond bracelet I had never seen before. When I wished her good morning, she asked me why I had overslept. Was I feeling ill?

I told her that I had, of late, had difficulty sleeping and had arranged to take a day or two off work so that I could rest.

Oh, she said, and asked me why I hadn't tried sleeping pills?

"I see the doctor today," I told her, "to ask for a prescription." I suddenly noticed that the grey streaks were gone from her hair and that she was delicately applying face powder. I had never known her to use face powder before. In truth, she looked ten years younger.

I took a chance and asked her if she didn't feel tired these days? She seemed to be staying such long hours at the Palace and getting home so very late.

She laughed, then came over to the bed and lightly pinched my cheek. "Don't worry about me," she said, smiling broadly. I noticed her lipstick was very red. She gathered up her bag and a briefcase I hadn't seen before, and as she was leaving said, "The General has revived an old custom called the 'siesta'. Do you know what that is? I think you must. I believe you and certain members of your staff used to practice this noontime tradition? _I_ remember that you did." And she was gone.

Then Fran is right when she calls Kara Mia the Chief Advisor to the General. Does everyone know she is that and much more? No wonder the General's wife moved out of the Palace. At least Kara Mia has the decency to come home and sleep on the sofa for a few hours.

As I write this, I feel a great weight settling in my heart. I never once thought that Kara Mia really minded about me and Fran, and the others before Fran. Perhaps I should have been more discreet, but it is too late now. I am losing Kara Mia. I want to protest, but I dare not interfere in the General's private affairs. He must believe that I am willing to give up my wife for his personal consolation and in the interests of our nation-state. Indeed, I practically told him so at our last meeting. Although, at the time, I didn't know what I was agreeing to do. I distinctly remember the General saying, "she said you would see it that way." _She_ : Kara Mia. She has chosen her way apart from me.

December 6, --42

Eleven p.m.

Damn! I am so distracted I hardly know what to write! As I walked through the Palace Gardens this evening, thinking of Kara Mia, I came face to face with Captain William Standall! He was dirty and grizzled, but I recognized him instantly, even after so many years, and he recognized me. He sprinted away before I could even shout.

What to do? I cannot call on the City Guard to find him: he is supposed to be dead! The General thinks I killed him myself! No one else must know and yet how can I find him without help? For find him I must. Without delay.

December 7, --42

In the wee hours of the morning as I lay sleepless in bed, it came to me: if I want to find Standall then I will have to hire men privately. Yes. I must form a secret company of man hunters.

December 14, --42

A week has gone by and still Capt. Standall manages to elude us. The men I've secretly hired have sighted him twice, and once they came upon his freshly abandoned camp in a deserted house. So far, there is no evidence that he travels with anyone, and this at least is good news. However, I won't rest easy until he is caught.

Private Kurt Cummings leads my band of merry, secret men. He's a man with a ready eye, a quick wit, and not opposed to the kind of cloak-and-dagger work I offered. I found him in the 10th Street Garrison and remember recruiting him from the jail. Then, he was a drunkard, but army life has done wonders for him. I've no doubt he maintains a close relationship with his pocket flask, but he is now more circumspect about his plunges into drunkenness. All the other men are from one garrison or another: it was easiest to hire soldiers.

I gave Cummings and his crew just enough information so they could do their job: I told them to look for an old man wearing a uniform with the King's insignia. I did not tell them the man's name, only that he must be a soldier from the King's Guard and probably a rebel Royalist. "He may be traveling with two young people," I said. "If he is, it is imperative that you capture all three."

Kurt asked me if they were to be captured alive. All I could say was, "not necessarily."

So there it is. I am as secret as Kara Mia.

Shrewd as snakes and innocent as doves.

December 19, --42

Another week of sightings and evasions. Who would have thought a man as old as Capt. Standall could be as slippery as an eel? Yet it seems to be so. Unless...

Surely my men are not drawing out the hunt for monetary gain? Perhaps I should not have set their daily pay so high.

I will tell them tonight that there is a hefty bonus for a quick capture.

Just one thing bothers me. Why does Capt. Standall continue in the city at all? Surely it would be more prudent to disappear into the countryside, even if it is winter. Yet he stays though he knows he is closely hunted. I think it can only mean one thing: he still has knowledge of the royal children. They are somewhere in the city and he knows where.

If only this infernal knocking would quit and I could think straight! It plagues me night and day. In my nightmares it is the General or Kara Mia knocking at my bedroom door. They carry manacles because they know...they know too many things about me.

December 23, --42

Cummings has just told me something very queer. On December 20th, three nights ago, my men came very close to catching Standall and believed they were hot on his trail. Then, not long after midnight, somewhere in the old neighborhoods around The Tower Inn, they lost him. Cummings tells me they spent hours turning that neighborhood upside down, breaking into deserted houses, knocking on doors, waking people from their beds and searching every nook and cranny of every building, but toward dawn they'd realized the trail had gone cold.

Since Standall only moves at night, the men rested for several hours and took up the search again before dusk on MidWinter's Eve. They spread out east and south of Tower Road, searching the University grounds and even Belltown. They had arranged to meet up again in the Market Square at midnight and, at the appointed hour, they gathered.

When they met, one of the men, Private Angus, reported an odd thing. As he'd entered the Market Square at the bottom of Tower Road, he'd seen an old woman plying her wares at a market stall. Angus told Kurt that she was singing and giving bread away. When he asked her why she hadn't packed up and gone home, she said she never did.

Queer. I've never heard of anyone selling bread in the Market. I must check over the licenses tomorrow. She shouldn't be there at night; it's not allowed.

It is a strange report, but not the strangest thing Cummings had to tell about that night. As the men stood in the dark Market Square, arguing about where they should take up the search for Standall, they saw a light coming from the street that leads to the Palace Gardens. As the light came closer, they saw the figures of two huge men. One carried a lantern: he had wild grey hair and was as broad as a bear. He held the other man by the elbow and seemed to be pulling him along by force. Cummings thought the second man, who was wearing an old uniform, might be Standall, but as he cried "Halt!" and his fellows ran forward, the first man began swinging his lantern and chanting strange words in a loud and terrible voice. A bright light blazed out and next thing Cummings knew, he was lying on his backside in the dark. He jumped up and shouted, but his scattered troop did not answer. The two men with the lantern were gone.

Cummings did not find the other soldiers until dawn, and each one of them had a different story about what had happened in the Square. One or two saw the bright light; another heard a tremendous roar, and still another said the ground had bucked like a horse and thrown him down. Every one of them had blacked out and woke to find themselves alone in the dark.

I'm not sure I would believe this story but for one odd outcome: Private Angus, the one who told the curious tale of the midnight bread stall, is missing. He has not reported to Kurt or to his garrison. No one has seen him all this week and he has not been heard of.

Did those two strange men take him away? _Was_ one of them Standall? They obviously have explosives of some kind, though...it's odd...an explosive would have been heard by many and there were no reports. Also, though Cummings and his men were knocked senseless, none of them was hurt: not a scratch or a bruise. It's all very strange and doesn't sound like something the Royalists would do. No. _They_ would have blown up the entire Market Square.

I've warned Cummings to keep all this quiet. To cover the disappearance of Angus, I've sent word to his garrison to say that he applied directly to me for special leave. His commanding officer wasn't pleased. Angus had better return soon. I can't hush this up forever.

December 29, --42

Our third week of hunting and not a single sighting. I fear that Capt. Standall has gone underground and will never be caught. My only consolation is that he was traveling alone.

I cannot rest easy until he is found.

January 2, --43

A new year and I can only report bad news. Captain Standall is still at large, Kara Mia continues her secretive behavior, and there are dark rumors circulating about our government tax collectors.

They say these men are brutal and have killed farmers and destroyed villages. They have been ordered to execute anyone who does not deliver the required tax. Never mind that the farmers may not actually have the money. It is always assumed they are holding something back. Anyone who does not or cannot pay is accused of supporting the Royalists. I have spoken with many of our market farmers and they consistently attest to the brutality of the tax men and to public hangings and violent policies in villages around the country. I can hardly believe it, but it must be true. They say this savage treatment of the country folk began about six months ago.

Six months ago. That is about the time the General spoke to me of finding a new tax overseer: someone who would enforce collection of goods by any means.

And now I think of it, it was six months ago that Kara Mia began spending so much time at the Palace.

Dare I put two and two together? Fran slips the city complaint files to Kara Mia and people end up in the dungeons. The new tax overseer's collection scheme ravages the countryside. But why? And is all this really the doing of my wife?

January 9, --43

Today my doctor congratulated me on my trim figure. He asked which reduction plan I've been using: was I trying the new Primeval Regime so talked of in the news?

How could I tell him that between sleeplessness and pining after Kara Mia I find I cannot eat? And since she is nearly always away and has stopped shopping and cooking for us, I eat only boiled eggs and cheese when I remember to eat at all. There is no longer regularity in my home life. I work longer hours simply to keep busy. My mayoral coat—the silk one—is certainly a better fit now, but not because of any discipline. I suppose I could have told the doctor that I've been following the Loss-of-Wife Regime, but instead I told him I'd been getting more exercise, which is true.

Ever since hearing the story of Private Angus, I've been determined to find the bread stall. I've checked through our market license files and I can find no record of a bread merchant. Indeed, the last time _anyone_ was registered with a bread license was more than ten years ago! Odd. Perhaps Private Angus was mistaken.

I suppose I could ask Cummings to find the bread seller and have her brought in for operating illegally, but I can't bring myself to speak of this matter. I prefer to deal with it myself and so I've begun to take daily strolls through the Market Square.

My manhunt list grows: Joe, with the spurious Belltown report, Private Angus, the girl painter, and of course, Capt. Standall who began all this business of a private guard. I have a hunch that all these people are connected somehow. Call it instinct.

January 17, --43

Now whenever I pass my portrait in the Lobby, the knocking sound in my head takes on a certain rhythmic patter: tap, tappity-tap-tap, tap-tap. It is the way my grandmother used to knock on my bedroom door when I had locked myself in to sulk.

And, the figure in the lower right corner is never a tree anymore; it is always a man in a black shabby coat: it almost looks like the man Joe. His face in the painting is serene and bright while my face looks more diseased by the day.

January 21, --43

I have never before paid much attention to the passing of seasons. When I left the farming life behind and took up government work, I found I was no longer tied to weather conditions from one year to the next. I began to mark the seasons by the routine of administrative events.

Yet now I find myself depressed by the winter; it is a foul season: heavy, grey, and interminably cold. It makes me feel alone.

January 26, --43

Three days ago, a man approached me in the Market Square and belligerently asked how he was expected to feed his family when prices had more than doubled in the past year. A crowd immediately gathered. I loudly explained that the General expects a change in the economy very soon—a marked change for the better. "Besides," I said, "we are all suffering together under the present strain," and I asked him to notice my own weight loss. "See?" I said, "I pay the same prices as you, my friend. I am a public servant, after all." This, of course, is not quite true. The merchant who supplies the garrison also supplies my pantry, and no doubt the General's. Still, it was best to get out of a potentially ugly situation in any way I could.

January 31, --43

Two months have gone by in the search for Standall. My men tell me they have completely lost his trail. Ever since MidWinter's Eve, the night Private Angus disappeared, it's as if Standall has vanished from the earth. Cummings believes he is dead; he thinks he must have starved to death since—as he puts it—food scraps are getting hard to come by in the gutters. "Then find his body," I said.

"It's probably been thrown in one of the mass graves outside the city walls," Cummings replied.

"Well, continue to keep your eyes open," I said, and gave new orders to find the man called Joe, and the girl who painted my portrait. Oh yes, I finally put them on the trail of the rumored bread stall. Maybe tying up these loose ends will ease the pressures that weigh on me.

I outlined all the particulars I knew about each case, then stressed the importance of locating their comrade, Angus.

"We can't leave him at large," I said.

"He mighta been hurt or killed. He was closest to them two men and that blast," one of the soldiers said.

"Then search the infirmaries," I told them, "and the morgue. A man in uniform wouldn't have been put in a common grave without attracting some notice."

I thought I heard someone mutter, "that's what you think," but I ignored the remark, gave them each a bonus—hush money in my mind—a bottle of beer, and let them go.

Cummings remained behind.

"Excuse me sir," he began, "but am I right in thinking that you don't want the City Guard or the Palace Police to find this old soldier? Not Angus, but the one who's the Royalist."

"That's right," I said.

"Why is that, I wonder?" The look in his eye when he asked this was a little too shrewd for my liking.

"As I've said, I believe this old soldier has connections to the Royalists and is a threat to the safety and stability of our city and since the well-being of our citizens is my highest priority, I believe it worth my while to expedite his capture in any way I'm able. I believe hiring a dedicated group of soldiers is one way."

"But still, you'd rather not tell us his name."

"I don't see that his name matters even if I knew it."

"Yes, sir. And what about the two youngsters who may or may not be traveling with this soldier?"

"What about them?"

"Well, just to be clear, are they important?"

"No," I said, thinking fast. "I only mentioned them because on the evening I sighted the soldier I spotted two youth running after him. They may not have had anything to do with him at all." This was a fiction, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

"Was it a boy and a girl, sir?"

Blast his impudence. Does the man have second sight? "I don't know, Cummings. It was dusk and I only saw their backs. Why do you ask?"

"Only because, sir, I heard that about a week after you saw this soldier, Captain Martin of the City Guard found two young people coming out of the Palace Garden gate, a boy and a girl."

"Oh?" I said with admirable control. "Why should that interest me? The city folk have free access to the gardens and many are fond of walking there."

"It was night and they were acting suspiciously, sir, and when Captain Martin asked where they lived, the girl started to cry and begged him not to take them to the Palace." Kurt stopped here, eyeing me carefully.

"So?" I said coolly. "What of it? Most people these days have a healthy fear of the Palace Dungeons. I imagine parents use the dungeons as a threat when their children misbehave."

"Yes, sir, but these two weren't dressed like beggars, according to Martin, and when he asked them where they lived, they clammed up and wouldn't say anymore, so Captain Martin had his men take them to Belltown."

"Exactly the place to take two homeless youth," I said, but I was thinking, "Cripes! I've been a fool!" However, I believe I controlled my face.

"The boy was sick and the girl a bit of an innocent. I don't expect they'll live long down there, sir."

"Nonsense, Cummings. The Belltown institutions are just the place for the destitute. They were amply designed by the General himself. They have the best reputation."

"Well, sir, they _do_ have a reputation," Cummings said and had the effrontery to smirk.

I had no wish to argue with him, so I simply said, "Well, Cummings, I don't know why you've told me all this, but I'm sure Capt. Martin did the right thing. He's a reliable fellow."

"That's as may be, sir. I just thought you'd like to know." Then he stood for a minute looking at me. What is it he suspects? Surely he's too young to remember the prince and princess.

"Well, Cummings," I said, trying to strike just the right tone of restrained impatience, "is there anything else on your mind?"

"Yes, sir," he said. "I was thinking you might make me captain of our group. Aren't we a sort of private guard?"

"Well I have been thinking of making it official..."

"But secret," he smirked.

I knew I had to go carefully here. I could see I would have to make an explanation, but not of everything. "Yes. It is a fact that much in the city has come under the control of Palace officials, even my City Guard. Forming a "private guard," as you call it, allows me to keep some parts of city government separate from the federal nature of the Palace concerns."

"Right, sir," he said.

"If you wish to be called by the title of captain," I said, "that promotion will have to be done through regular army channels since, according to the nature of our arrangement, it must appear that you are all on regular army duty."

"On account of our group needing to be secret. Naturally, sir."

"I am not opposed to this," I said, knowing _he_ thought he was twisting me around his finger. "I'll see what I can do. It may take some time."

"Thank you, sir," he said, and finally left.

I know very well that he'll be watching me. He thinks I'll go straight to Captain Martin, and then to Belltown. Well I won't. I shall do nothing. Not for a while. Instead, I shall keep my eye on Cummings. I may very well give him his promotion if it suits my ends, but I will be watchful. He's up to something.

Shrewd as snakes, innocent as doves. There's no need to hurry. _If_ those stray youngsters _are_ the royal children, it appears that they are separated from Standall. And _if_ they are the royal children and they are now in Belltown, it would be prudent to find out the true conditions of that little municipality. Kara Mia may be right about the state of Belltown, but I've reason to question her honesty. If the man, Joe, is right, then what Cummings says is more than likely: the girl and boy won't live long. I've only to wait.

February 2, --43

Fran sent me a note today, asking if I'd join her for dinner tomorrow evening, or maybe a lunch hour rendezvous: "like the old days" she said.

As if I would even be tempted now; she is the reason I lost Kara Mia. Besides, I know something of Fran's mood swings. She wants something.

I replied saying I am too busy.

February 7, --43

Upon reflection, I think it wise to separate my men from the army. In the last week it has become clear that their night duties as my private guard are interfering with their regular daytime responsibilities as soldiers. Three of the men have been repeatedly reprimanded for oversleeping, and two were called on the carpet for dereliction of duty. Cummings has managed to hold himself together, but even he is looking blood-shot and ragged.

I have quietly arranged an honourable discharge for all my men. The garrison is overcrowded, so the officers in charge seemed only too glad to release them, no questions asked. Naturally, a certain amount of money changed hands.

My Private Guard is now official—at least amongst ourselves. I've drawn up a contract which each man signed, and we held a very merry swearing in party. Cummings was appointed Captain and he did seem pleased.

My men do not, of course, wear uniforms, but I gave them money for new clothes. In addition to their regular salary, they will also receive a monthly housing allowance to set themselves up somewhere in the city—preferably close by.

I also managed to finagle an honourable discharge for Private Angus who is still absent. How can a man just disappear like that? And in uniform! Far too easily it seems, in this city.

Naturally all this would be a drain on my personal resources, so I have appropriated funds from the Public Garden and Leisure Department, which was due for a cutback anyway. It was simply a matter of swamping the Secretary of Finance with enough paperwork. When I personally presented him with the one hundred page budget amendment, he sighed and said, "Really?" then immediately signed and stamped the whole thing. He's a lazy blighter and never reads anything if he can help it, which is why I keep him on. He's the reason I don't really need a City Council for financial decisions, but the councillors don't know that!

The real reason I cannot afford to run a private guard at my own expense is the need for secrecy. If I begin to use money from our shared savings account, Kara Mia will ask questions. We have always spoken of it as our retirement nest egg. I had thought of asking her about the money: perhaps it's time to split it now? But no. She and I have an unspoken agreement never to talk of our present situation, though it is becoming intolerable. I dare not mention it. To all the world we are a happy couple.

March 1, --43

One of the city councillors greeted me cheerily in the hall today. "Spring is just around the corner!" he said.

Spring? Has anyone in this city ever noticed just how grey the sky is? Now that I think of it, I cannot remember the last time I saw the sun clearly; it always looks like as a dimmed, murky orb—when it appears at all.

The most radical and annoying of our city councillors is always nattering on about pollution and the need for factory emission controls. I've always thought him a useless crackpot, but maybe there's something in what he says.

March 3, --43

My meetings with the General have become increasingly brief. He gives me an update on the progress of his war, then asks about the mood of the people.

Today, our meeting took exactly fifteen minutes. He asked me to prepare a report on the available food resources in the city, and to be prepared to present my findings in mid-June. Perhaps the purport of talk in the market has finally penetrated his office.

Also, he's heard rumours of a new artist at the University. I am to find out what this artist is up to and report at our meeting next week.

I felt exactly like a junior clerk receiving orders.

March 4, --43

My secretary made an appointment for me with the University Provost for tomorrow afternoon. As a rule, I dislike these overeducated university types; they always seem to talk in circles. However, I am only there to glean information for the General. I did not bother to invent a pretext for this meeting, but had my secretary convey my intentions to inspect the work of the new artist. It's best to strike a note of fear into these people. The General's government could so easily dissolve their organization, but it seems that, at present, he bears the University no ill will. Yet they should remember that he will never allow them to become a hotbed of revolutionist thinking. I believe my visit will serve as a warning.

Fran came to my office today bearing wild tales about Jorgins, Director of City Works. According to her, Jorgins is carrying on with three different secretaries at once, which seems far-fetched, but not impossible. What does she expect me to do? Sack him? If I did that, I'd have to sack nearly all the staff in City Hall: everyone's got some game going. I'd wager my silk coat that Fran herself regularly takes bribes of one sort or another from those who wish to expedite the process of getting a building permit.

I know what's eating Fran: she knows Jorgins dislikes her and had her transferred out of the Works Department when he was Undersecretary. She can't stand to see him elevated to Director when she is only the Permits Officer. She wants satisfaction. Well she won't get it from me.

March 5, --43

I must admit that I approached today's meeting with the Provost in a spirit of antagonism. I fully expected the artist to be the revolutionary type, and the Provost to protect him. What a surprise to be welcomed with open arms! This new artist, Maxim Belle, obviously has his head screwed on straight. When I arrived in his studio, he was just putting the finishing touches on a portrait...of ME! It's a wonderful, flattering picture and I said so. Maxim immediately offered to give it to me; he is indeed a thoughtful and sensitive young man.

He also showed me a sculpture he has recently begun; it is made of white stone and is skilfully shaped into a likeness of the General. Maxim has begun with the face and the General's aquiline features are unmistakeable. It will be called, "Man in Flight."

The Provost took me on a tour of the colleges and then we had tea in his rooms. I have not had such a pleasant afternoon in some time. I am invited to High Table next Tuesday evening.

The University is really such a wonderful place. I had no idea! And to think I'd been avoiding it all these years because I thought it was full of intellectual and political snobs.

Oh! I shall have much good to report to the General! How nice to deliver a positive report for a change!

March 6, --43

Cummings thinks Standall is dead and I am inclined to agree, but I've asked the men to continue searching for Private Angus and the man called Joe. I had only given them a physical description of Joe: tall, dark-haired, wearing a shabby black overcoat; now I've told them of his connection with Belltown, his trumped up report, and the need to silence seditious propaganda of this sort.

One of the men asked, "Gov'nor, what did this fella's report say?"

So I told them: it claimed that Belltown had become a sewer of human degradation and abuse. This could not be true because the General had built it to be of benefit to the poor and still maintained it as such.

The men looked at each other and one of them said, "You must not a been in Belltown for a while, Gov'nor. Who told you it's a good place for the poor?"

I hesitated. "Someone close to the General. One of his chief staff." I dared not mention Kara Mia's name. I'm still not sure her position in the Palace is exactly official, or widely known.

"Well I don't know why they'd say such a thing. I reckon it's this man Joe's report that's true. Most everyone knows Belltown's a place what you wouldn't send your dog to. Leastways, not if you wanted him to keep livin'."

Of course Kara Mia lied about Belltown, but why?

Because she knew I'd stop sending people there. In my mind I see her sitting at my desk, shredding the Belltown report to confetti with a look in her eyes that is colder than ice

March 7, --43

Fran came to my private apartments last evening with a bottle of wine and a box of my favourite pastries. What could I do but let her in? I knew Kara Mia would not come home until the small hours of the morning. Yet I was immediately suspicious of Fran's motives.

"Is Kara Mia home?" she innocently asked. I noticed she carried her large mauve handbag, the one she always used when she expected our meetings to end in the bedroom.

"No," I said, "but I expect her anytime."

She smiled a knowing smile, held the wine bottle up, and said, "Shall we drink to her health?"

I decided to give half an hour to her charade, only wanting to learn what she was after. I uncorked the bottle.

For the first little while, our conversation ranged over many topics: the war, the price of food, the small gossip of City Hall. I was careful to take only small sips of wine; too much always loosens my tongue. Meanwhile, Fran, who seemed to feel entirely at ease and was in a voluble mood, made her way through three glasses and two pastries in the space of half an hour. Yet, having known her for some time, I knew she could put away four or five glasses without losing sight of her real objective. I smiled and laughed and let her ramble on. At last she said:

"I heard a strange tale recently. You granted an honourable discharge to six soldiers who, from all I hear, weren't all that honourable. I wonder why you did that?"

So. She's been nosing about. No doubt she's vamping the senior army officials. "Did I?" I said. "So much paperwork flows over my desk from so many different departments. I may have discharged some men. I seem to remember a batch of requests from soldiers with extreme family circumstances, now that you mention it."

"They requested the discharge? I heard the request originated from _your_ office." She gave me a sly, knowing look, but I met it head on.

"Well of course the request originated from my office," I said with a good show of impatience. "Any request like that from a soldier must be filed here at City Hall. I _am_ Director of Recruitment."

"Oh. Of course," she said, clearly crushed. She tried again: "but I heard all six forms bore the same handwriting. That sounds like some sort of conspiracy to me."

"Nonsense," I said. "Most of the soldiers can neither read nor write. If they need a spot of paperwork done or a letter read, it's not uncommon for them to hire a soldier who _can_ read and write. They do it all the time. I expect the soldiers you speak of all happened to get hold of the same person."

"Oh," she said crushed again. Then she rallied, "I suppose it's not many of the soldiers, then, who can read or write?" Her air of innocence was too clearly feigned. Transparent little fool: she intends to look for the soldier who filled out the forms. But why?

"That's correct. It's only a fraction who can read or write," I replied.

Then—ooh! I could have been an actor—I hastily set down my glass, jumped to my feet, and moved toward the door, exclaiming, "I think I hear my Kara Mia!" Of course I had not heard anything, but Fran was entirely taken in. I actually opened the door and looked out into the corridor, and by the time I returned to the sitting room, Fran stood white-faced, buttoning up her coat, her mauve bag slung over her shoulder. After that it was easy to get her out the door.

I will no longer be tempted by shapely knees and the promises of mauve handbags and I'll be Fran's protector no longer.

March 8, --43

I'm giving Capt. Cummings a special assignment: Fran Zlindric. I want to know where she goes and who she talks to; in short, I want to know what she's up to.

How like me to be one step ahead of her game!

March 10, --43

What an evening! I must say that dinner at the University was a complete success! The Provost and the professors welcomed me warmly and I have not spent such a pleasant evening since Kara Mia and I used to dine with the General when his daughters were very young. Really, it's too bad the way things turned out in the General's family, but I digress.

Most of the professors are ancient men. Their stories and anecdotes were all of university life, and I got the feeling that everything they told me had already been said many times before. The artist, Maxim Belle, sat at High Table with us. He is a most pleasant and witty fellow, and has recently been installed as the Durant Coates Chair of the Arts. Apparently the University recently received a generous endowment from Mr. Durant Coates, owner of the nation's largest (and only) textile manufacturing and design facility, and one of our city's leading citizens. He also has the largest private art collection in the country. Durant happens to be Maxim's uncle, and I suppose artistic ability and interest run in the family.

Maxim reminded me that I could come and take my portrait any time, generous young man! I thanked him and told him I would be very happy to donate the portrait to the University. When I said this, the Provost immediately accepted and said my portrait would be hung in the dining hall among the portraits of former Provosts and college dignitaries. This, of course, is a great complement to the young artist: to have his work hung beside the work of past masters is a testimony to his accomplishments. I was also highly flattered.

The truth is, I thought about replacing that troubling portrait in City Hall, but Max's painting is too small. It's unfortunate; that damned City Hall portrait _is_ a better and larger picture—if only I could see it as other people see it: as I saw it when it was first painted. No doubt all my personal troubles are muddling my psychology and affecting my eyesight.

At the end of the evening, the Provost invited me to dine with him again next week, and I accepted readily. New faces, new friends, a new atmosphere: the University is just what I need.

March 11, --43

The General was pleased to hear about the new artist and indicated his willingness to accompany me to the University to see his sculpture in progress. Was it a good likeness, he wanted to know? I assured him that, so far as I could tell, it was shaping up to be a most complimentary public statement.

"I shall increase my involvement at the University," I told him, "just to make sure things are going our way, and to monitor the new artist's activities."

This pleased the General greatly and he once again thanked me for my support. "I know you have made many sacrifices on behalf of our nation-state," he said.

I acknowledged his thanks and left as quickly as I could. Though I never saw her, I know Kara Mia was close at hand during our meeting; I could smell her new perfume.

April 15, --43

Fran is indeed vamping the army officers and she is trying to find out which soldiers can read and write. Surprise, surprise. Cummings and I had a laugh over her methods. She operates exclusively as a honey trap.

I can't help but speculate about her motives. Why does she want to dig up dirt on me? I've been very decent to her. The only thing I can't give her is a Palace job; it's just not in my power. Maybe she's sore about Jorgins. Maybe she's...maybe she's...oh damn. Maybe she's working for Kara Mia! Is Kara Mia spying on me?

But no. If she is, Kara Mia's too smart to hire a clumsy two-bit hustler like Fran.

But then what _is_ Fran's game?

April 20, --43

I know a bread stall is operating in the Market Square. Just yesterday I saw a man carrying half a dozen loaves up Tower Road. How is it this bread stall eludes us? It's not as if we're blind.

May 15, --43

The data for the city food report is quite alarming. Warehouses of our major distributors are less than half full and very little in the way of raw materials is coming in from the farms. I knew that farm report from two years ago was accurate; there is some sort of blight on the land and it has overtaken neighbouring countries as well. It is the General who is operating under the illusion that war will bring us wealth. Yet what can be done? I doubt anyone can dissuade him from his chosen path of war, and this food report will only stoke his anger at the people.

Perhaps I should show the report to Kara Mia first. Of course, I can't just take it to her and say, "Should I alter this?" She and I still do not openly acknowledge her work relationship with the General. No, I think I shall leave the report on the coffee table in our apartment and see what happens.

May 16, --43

When I got up this morning, Kara Mia was making breakfast in the kitchen. She kissed me on the cheek and said, "I've made your favourite pastries. Just like old times. Will you pour the orange juice?"

"Is there orange juice?" I said. Things like that had not been available for months, not since the General had declared war on our southern border.

"Yes," she replied. "I brought over several containers from the Palace storerooms."

Palace storerooms. Of course. They _would_ be better stocked than the storerooms in City Hall; Kara Mia would see to that. I glanced at the coffee table in the sitting room: the food report was gone. So. I only had to play the lamb and wait.

We held a strained, yet cheerful conversation over breakfast, talking of this and that. She was interested in the University artist and said she might pop in to view my portrait and the General's sculpture.

"He asked about you," I said.

"Who?"

"Maxim Belle. He wants to paint your portrait."

"Oh no," she said. "I could never allow that. The whole of my success depends on obscurity." She smiled warmly as she said this. It was the closest we had ever come to talking about her work.

As I dressed, I could hear her tidying up in the kitchen and could almost believe things between us were as they had always been: that the past nine months were only a bad dream.

"Will I see you this evening?" I asked as I left for work.

"No," she said, simply.

In my office, two hours later, I received an envelope from the Palace labelled "Private." My secretary said it had been delivered by special courier.

"Courier?" I said. "Do we have special couriers?"

"The Palace does, apparently. They wear black uniforms," she said.

The envelope contained my food report. Many changes had been made in red ink: data and statistics had been altered, whole paragraphs concerning shortages were crossed out; in short, it had been edited for the General by someone who understands exactly what he wants to hear. At the bottom of the last page, the red ink had written two paragraphs of its own: a directive for me:

This report must be rewritten according to the marks and instructions provided, and presented to the General only in its edited form. Any deviation will be noted.

Nevertheless, because the information collected is known to be accurate, you are advised to make ready a Food Distribution Agency.

This agency is to be fully operational by, and not before, the middle of November, to provide food for citizens who apply at City Hall. The rationed food is to be paid for; barter for services will be acceptable. Nothing is to be given away. This agency is to operate at the City's expense and within its means, from mid-November until such time as Palace officials deem the present shortages to be at an end.

The red ink simply ended. There was no signature, and yet I knew who had written it. This was Kara Mia's hand, and I don't think she meant to hide the fact from me.

Since receiving this message, the knocking in my head has become a positive banging. I have returned to my apartments to rest, entrusting the rewriting of the report to my secretary. I wish she wouldn't tsk tsk so much.

I cannot tell my troubles to anyone: only this notebook. No one can be trusted. There is not a one of my acquaintance free from intrigue.

May 27, --43

Dinner at the University this evening: the banging in my head had relapsed into the old quiet knocking which I have learned to ignore, so it did not interfere with conversation at the High Table.

The Provost thinks I should plan a large scale celebration for Mayor's Day followed by a vigorous re-election campaign. He believes it is just what the city needs at this time and that I should take advantage of the large numbers of resident soldiers from around the country.

"It's a good time to increase your visibility," he said, "and we at the University will give you our full support."

I do believe he's right! Tomorrow I shall call my most trusted staff together and begin planning for a stupendous Mayor's Day. And...oh my! Here's another stellar idea! I'll put Fran in charge of organizing Kara Mia's Food Distribution Agency! This will keep her busy and out of trouble for a few months. I'll tell her it's a Palace directive which will, hopefully, distract her from the fact that it's really a dead end position. I'll give her a small staff and place Cummings as her assistant so he can keep an eye on her. Ha! Brilliant!

June 1, --43

I had a strange dream last night. A courier wearing a purple hat and coat delivered an invitation at my apartment. I answered the door wearing my pyjamas. The invitation was to a wedding and I wanted to go, but told the courier I had another engagement, though I could not remember what it was. The courier, on hearing my refusal, simply handed me a parcel and said, "In case you change your mind."

In typical dream fashion, I suddenly found myself sitting at my desk in my office downstairs. My secretary was standing nearby saying, "Open it! Open it!" It was a soft, squashy package and I felt reluctant to see the contents. I looked up to tell my secretary to be quiet, but she was gone. In her place stood the man Joe. "Open it," he said, "there's nothing to fear." In the dream I shuddered, groaned, then tore open the package: it contained a white silk suit. "Wedding garments?" I said. The man Joe stood grinning and strange bright shapes protruded from his shoulders. "Not me! Not me!" I cried. "Why not?" he said, and suddenly we were standing before the door of my usual nightmare. I cringed as the knocking began. "Open it," he said, "open it." Then the knocking grew sharp and seemed to pierce my brain. I woke and found myself twisted in my sheets. I had a splitting headache that is only just lifting.

Why should I have a nightmare like that? It was so very strange and vivid.

The wedding invitation reminds me of a story grandmother told, but I can't remember the details now. I haven't read or heard those old stories for ages. I don't even know where I would find one of those old books of tales. I wonder if...

Oh! Good Grief! ENOUGH!

June 10, --43

The planning for a grand Mayor's Day, which brought me so much delight at first, seems foolish now. Whatever the General wants to believe, food is becoming scarce. My daily walk through the Market Square has shown me that. There are so few farmers coming into the city; milk and cheese have become a precious commodity. It is depressing to see a once vibrant business center stagnate into a smattering of stalls hawking useless baubles.

Finding a marching band for Mayor's Day has been harder than I thought. When I was a boy, every village had musicians who played at dances and parties, but now that I think of it, all the musicians I ever saw were over fifty. They must have been trained by parents who went to the old schools of my great-grandmother's time. I expect they've all died off. Yet surely they passed their knowledge to their children.

Cummings thinks he can find musicians among the soldiers here in the city. He thinks that the real problem will be finding instruments.

June 17, --43

I met with the General this morning. Kara Mia's perfume lingered in the air and I noticed her second pair of reading glasses sitting on a small table near the fire. The room was warm and the General wore a spring suit of light fabric, quite in contrast to my own thick tweeds. He was dressed for the season; I was dressed for the actual weather. Though the calendar tells of mid-June, the cold grey skies and frosts of winter linger on.

He read over the food report very carefully, then said, "Well, Jared, I see that we are holding our own and doing quite well compared to the reports I've been hearing from enemy nations. Our Farm Collection Unit looks to be a great success, yes?"

"Yes," I replied. By 'Farm Collection Unit', I assume he meant the tax collection gangs.

"And the Market Square is buzzing with activity, no doubt," he said.

"I hesitated just long enough to hear a rustle in the next room and to catch a glimpse of movement behind the partially closed door.

"Oh yes," I lied, as heartily as I dared.

"Glad to hear it. Keep up the good work, Jared."

Obviously he never leaves the precincts of the Palace, never ventures into the market, or he would know this trumped up food report is a lie.

"And how is the war progressing?" I asked. "I read very little news about it in the newspaper."

"All very well," he said. "Battle lines are drawn and we shall soon engage our enemy to the north. Your recruitment work has not been in vain. Unfortunately, our adversaries are ridiculously reluctant to fight. All they want to do is talk and we have wasted many months with emissaries and diplomats going to and fro.

"How cowardly of them," I said, hoping I had struck the right tone of empathic indignation.

"Yes, cowardly is the word," he said. "And the trouble is there's not a journalist I can trust to report the war news from my expert perspective, which is why you read so little of the true tidings in the paper. If you weren't so busy with city affairs, Jared, I'd have _you_ write the war news for me. I know I can trust you."

I thanked him for his confidence in me, all the while feeling very glad I have little to do with Palace affairs. Lies and intrigue hang heavy in the air and I began to find the warm room stifling. For the first time in my long acquaintance with the General, I itched to get away from him. I was already caught in a web of lies of my own making: why should I entangle myself further in his?

June 21, --43

Fran came to me this afternoon vexed and very cross. She has just discovered that her predecessor in the Permit's Office, Mutchmor, is one of the chief administrators in the court of King Z---, our neighbours across the northern sea.

"He was only the Permits Officer, like me," she fumed, "yet now he's succeeded to a much higher position, while I am only Director of Food Distribution. Arghh! How did that happen?" she raged. "Did _you_ write him a letter of reference?"

"My dear, _I'm_ the one who sacked him," I said, laughing inwardly at her thwarted spite.

"He was such a stupid man: a stupid fricked-up breadeater."

"Well, consider that he went over to the enemy," I said.

"Oh! He got the job months before the General declared war. He's got a palace job somewhere and I'm still stuck in City Hall!"

There was nothing I could do, but let her shed her tears of spite.

The truth is, Mutchmor probably did get his job because of the letter I wrote for him, and I'm glad I did it. I remember at the time feeling a bit guilty about sacking him for no real reason except to give his job to Fran. That letter was the result of a glitch in my conscience, and I framed it in a way to imply that he'd lost his job entirely because of bureaucratic restructuring.

Now, in retrospect, I see that Mutchmor was a good, steady man. He was honest, took no bribes, and discharged his duties well without complaining. I am glad for Mutchmor's advancement and—dare I say it?—yes, I often wish I was out of the country too, far from this dirty tangled web: far from people like Fran Zlindric.

June 23, --43

Well, the Mayor's Day plans are rolling along, like a train set in motion. At least we'll have a marching band. Cummings has managed to scrounge up a dozen musicians and some instruments. Now if only the winter weather would loosen its grip on the land.

June 30, --43

Today one of the Council members asked me why I use the back entrance to come and go from City Hall. I lied and told him it is part of my reduction regime: I get more exercise using the back stairs. He understood and complemented me on my trim figure.

The real reason, of course, is that I cannot use the main stairs or enter the Lobby without seeing my portrait, and my portrait has become too horrible to look at.

The face is diseased and twisted. Why has this happened? Down in the lower right corner, the man that used to be a tree is definitely Joe, but Joe with a glowing face and wings. And the background, our beautiful City Hall, has become a dark and dreary building, overflowing with refuse. I cannot bear to see the picture. It makes my head pound with the sound of knocking.

July 12, --43

Kara Mia came home this evening at twilight. I did not expect her. I was sitting alone in our apartment, looking out the window at the darkening sky. If truth be told, I was remembering the June evenings of my boyhood when the skies were blue and the scent of roses stole into the open windows. How odd to be thinking with fondness of the old home place and then to look up and see my wife appear, like an apparition, her dress spattered with dark blotches.

I must have jumped to my feet in alarm because she said, "calm down, Jared. It's just me. Why haven't you lit the lamps? You're sitting in the dark. I thought you weren't home."

"Kara Mia, is everything alright?" I cried.

"Of course. Don't be silly." She sounded tired and impatient. I could not see the expression on her face in the evening gloom.

"But your dress!" I said, fumbling with the lamp.

"This will teach me to keep a change of clothes at the Palace," was all she said.

By the time I'd got the sitting room lamps lit, she was in the bedroom, putting on clean clothes. I followed her, but one look at her face and I knew I should leave her alone. Yet I could not help noticing that the dress she'd discarded was covered in blood. I went back out to my desk, opened a sheaf of papers, and tried to look as if I was busy. All the while, my heart was pounding. All that blood on her dress: what could it mean? She must have helped someone who'd been badly injured; that was it. My pulse began to slow, but I looked up warily as she came back into the room.

She was clothed in a skirt and blazer, but a long silk evening dress was draped over one arm and a pair of high-heeled sandals dangled from her fingers.

"Is everything alright?" I asked. I did not like the look on her face: she was smiling a little too widely, but her eyes were cold and hard.

"Oh yes," she replied. "If you're wondering about the state of my dress, my men in the dungeons needed help with a recalcitrant journalist, that's all. He would insist on blathering to the world about food shortages and conditions in Belltown, but I think he won't trouble us in that way anymore."

"Oh," was all I could say.

"I trust you can keep this to yourself, Jared. My activities at the Palace are best kept—well—quiet." Her voice was soft, yet it sent fear to my heart.

"Of course," I replied.

"Are you spending the evening alone?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, what a surprise. Don't wait up for me," she said, and was gone.

I looked out into the street a few moments later and saw her walking away toward the Palace. A group of men stepped out of the shadows and one of them saluted; they flanked Kara Mia and then they all walked away.

I cannot write what is in my heart. I have no words. I want to move away, to fly away, but I don't know where to go.

July 14, --43

Our savings account, the nest egg Kara Mia and I had been building, is half gone. I should be glad she left me half. The money was withdrawn two days ago—the day after I saw her dress covered in blood. I suppose she's decided our little charade is over. Yet why does she continue to come home for a few hours each night?

I've taken out my half of the money and closed the account. I know exactly what I shall do with it. I shall invest in the future.

Tomorrow is Mayor's Day and the plans for a grand celebration are all in place, but my heart is no longer in it. I found my personal staff and several City Councillors gathered in front of my portrait and they were all for erecting the painting in front of City Hall for the celebrations tomorrow. Obviously they don't see what I see. So I told them to organize guards and a cordoned area in the Lobby where people might step in to view it.

One thing about that blasted painting was different today. Instead of the vicious leer, the eyes were sad and the mouth set in a grim line. The face looked stricken by its own disease and by the state of its decayed setting.

July 15, --43

Mayor's Day went off very well. Even Kara Mia sent congratulations.

The crowd that came was smaller than last year, and it was mostly soldiers. I saw no children and few women. Where are the leading families? The merchants? The farmers and their wives who used to come from the country for this holiday? Did people stay at home, or have they moved away? It seems ominous to me that soldiers outnumber the civilians at a public event. Perhaps it's time for another census, though maybe not _before_ the election.

August 10, --43

I've just made a generous endowment to the University: the largest they've had for many years: even larger than the one recently made by Durant Coates. This is how I've decided to use my half of the savings. I think it a wise choice to invest in the future. The Provost was beside himself with thanks. Now I have a permanent place at High Table and plan to make use of it at every opportunity.

September 6, --43

Summer is over and yet it never arrived. Summer frosts have given way to autumn frosts: hard frosts that never melt under these iron skies. I keep saying I need to get out of the city for a holiday, but somehow I never do.

General's Day was a peremptory affair. He came out onto the Palace balcony and made a brief speech to a large crowd of soldiers and a very small crowd of civilians. There was a gun salute in the Market Square, and that was that. I think the whole Palace staff is taken up with the war effort. From what the General tells me, we are to engage the enemy in about two months' time.

Our enemies are extremely reluctant. One of the Palace staff told me, unofficially, that the General has sent out bands of mercenaries who have been harrying our enemies on all three fronts: bombing, assassinating, and trying to create as much ill will as possible. Yet our enemies are only mildly provoked and the General is becoming very short-tempered.

September 30, --43

Earlier this evening I made my first campaign speech to the soldiers as they ate supper in the mess hall. It went well enough and I was feeling cheerful, but there was a surprise waiting for me at home.

When I entered our apartment, all the lights were on.

Kara Mia was in the bedroom packing her clothes into a suitcase.

"Hello, Jared," she said, "I'm afraid I bring sad news. The General's wife is dead."

"Oh, I see," I managed to say rather stupidly. As she talked, Kara Mia continued to move about the room, gathering all her personal belongings from bureau, vanity, closet.

"Yes," she continued, "She was so tormented by fantasies these past months, poor woman. She'd gotten hold of an old book—one of the books from the old schools which I thought had all been rooted out and burned. She said an old man had given it to her daughter, you know, the one that died last year."

I nodded, and for some reason, a face appeared in my mind: the old white-haired scholar who told me to have my portrait painted. I'd forgotten about him.

"The old man died?" I said.

"No, no. The General's daughter died, remember?"

"Oh yes. Yes."

"That book filled the girl's head with nonsense, and the mother's too." Kara Mia paused and looked at me, apparently expecting a response. Her eyes had lost all their old tenderness.

"Oh. That's too bad," I said. I wanted to say, "weren't you happy living with me?" and "we might have talked about our savings account first," but I instinctively knew the conversation shouldn't go that way.

"Yes, too bad," she continued, her tone slightly mocking. "You would know all about it, having spent your childhood listening to the same silly stories."

"But you saved me from that," I said.

"Yes. You do have me to thank," she sneered, and it was at that precise moment that the sorrow which had been building in me over the past months popped like a soap bubble and was replaced by relief. I only wanted her to finish packing and leave.

"Well, the General's wife died believing in those old fables. I was with her at the end."

Were you, I thought, and wondered exactly how the General's wife had died. "And what is to become of the oldest daughter?" I asked.

"Oh, she ran off. Within an hour of her mother's death she was packed and gone. She took that old book with her, silly little fool. I intended to burn it, but she made off with it when my back was turned."

"I suppose the General will want to find her as soon as possible," I said.

"Well, of course. She can't be left running loose with a book like that in her possession." As she said this, my wife snapped shut the suitcase and opened another. She unlocked a small filing cabinet and emptied the contents into the suitcase: files full of documents that have always been a mystery to me. Once, several years ago when I asked her what she kept in those locked drawers, she had laughed and said, "Insurance. Against poverty in my old age—in case something happens to you."

"Really?" I'd said, "What kind of insurance?"

"Evidence," she'd replied. I hadn't understood then because I'd underestimated her, but now I knew. Those were her blackmail files: files she's been amassing for years. I wondered for one panicked second what information she'd collected against me. All my indiscretions are well-known, as are everyone's these days. The only real violations in society are political, and that all depends on who's in power and whether you get caught at some game. Some might say my only offence worthy of blackmail was _not_ killing the royal children, but I'm the only person alive who knows of that.

It struck me then how very inconsistent Kara Mia is. She convinced me that the old stories of my grandmother were false and that the old ways and laws did nothing but bind the human spirit. I learned to live by Kara Mia's ideas, yet now she is leaving me because of it! Why would she keep records of the so-called 'vices' when, according to her, there are none! It seems she is the one bound by the old ways while at the same time violently working to stamp them out.

All this passed quickly through my mind as I watched her fill two more suitcases and a trunk. Suddenly realizing that I must appear an idiot as I stood there watching her pack, I said, "When did all this happen? When did the General's wife die?"

She looked up at me with obvious amusement. She was taking great delight in what she thought of as my discomfiture.

"She died this evening at six o'clock, and the book and the girl went missing by seven. The General is very distressed by the whole affair. It's a sad reflection on his personal life, but none of it is his fault. Of course it will all have to be hushed up."

Six o'clock. That was just three hours ago and here was Kara Mia moving in with the General. No doubt he expressed a wish for her consoling presence in a more permanent way.

"How did she die? I knew she was unbalanced, but I did not know she'd been ill," I said.

"She wasn't ill. She cut her own throat. The coroner has reported suicide."

"Oh," I said. Then I left the bedroom and shut myself in the bathroom.

Yes, there it was on the floor: I peeked into the bag containing the bloodied blouse and skirt. Kara Mia had indeed been with the General's wife at the end.

I left the apartment without saying goodbye: it seemed pointless. I went down to the Lobby, sat on a bench, and took a good long look at my ugly portrait. Down in the corner, the bright face of Joe looked out at me steadily.

I was startled by the sound of tramping feet; a troop of men from the Palace Guard marched through the Lobby and up the stairs. Minutes later, they came tramping down again bearing Kara Mia's trunks and bags. Kara Mia came last, dressed in a low-cut silk gown, leaning on the arm of a handsome young soldier. She was smiling tenderly up into his face and I thought that she had more than one reason to move into the Palace. She has come to a position of power in which she can have anything or anyone she wants. She no longer wants me.

When they were gone I sat for a while, listening to the night sounds of City Hall: a distant door shutting as the cleaning crew made their rounds: the tick of the great clock and the occasional clank of a water pipe. I have spent many years proudly working in this place and living comfortably in its grand penthouse apartment. Now, as I sit in my office and write, I feel the vast emptiness of this magnificent building; I feel myself a hollow shell with only the sound of a gentle knocking echoing inside me.

October 1, --43

A bad night followed by a depressing day. I dreamed of that purple-suited courier again. In the dream he delivered another parcel which contained the same white, silk wedding suit. He also delivered the same invitation, but this time, in the dream, I read the date: December 21, MidWinter's Day. He asked me if I would come. I asked him how far I would have to travel to get there. "My shoes are all worn out," I told him.

"Oh, you don't have to go far at all. It's straight through the door."

"What door?" I cried loudly, because he was leaving, running along a path ahead of me and calling out, "See you there!"

I tried to follow, but my feet hurt and when I looked down, they were covered in ugly sores, just like the sores on my face in the portrait.

I woke to find that I had fallen asleep with my clothes and boots on. I remember that, after recording the events of last evening, I came upstairs and lay down on the bed, intending to get up again and undress. I was feeling so wretched; I never thought I would fall asleep at all, much less sleep until morning.

After an early breakfast, Cummings met me at the office to give his weekly report: there is still no trace of Private Angus. They found out that the girl who painted my portrait came in from the countryside with her father, a regular marketer; I suspected that, but I should be grateful to have my suspicions confirmed. Apparently the girl's father is one of the few marketers who continues to bring goods to sell and he never stays long. The men have made several unsuccessful attempts to tail him: they claim that he seems to vanish about two miles up the North Road that leads out of the city.

I reminded Cummings that there is a large tavern situated exactly two miles up the North Road.

"Oh, but he never goes into the tavern. The men have searched it several times," Cummings said.

"As I thought," I replied. "They go into the tavern and the man disappears. Naturally."

"That's not what I meant," Cummings said.

After he left my office, several City Councillors came in demanding that something be done about the dead that are found frozen in the street each morning.

"Dead in the street?" I must have looked shocked because one of the councillors said, "Don't you walk through the Market Square every mornings?"

"Not lately," I replied, "it's been too cold."

"Ah. Well. Then you've not seen the frozen bodies."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Too long. About a week. It's this unseasonable weather, and no one picks up the bodies. We want you to organize some kind of clean up."

"Clean up?" I said, stupidly.

"To collect the bodies, of course. It's becoming a problem. Fortunately the weather is too cold to allow them to thaw."

I found it hard to believe, but a short walk through the streets proved that, for once, the councillors were not exaggerating. People, citizens of the General's nation-state, were lying dead in doorways where they had been sleeping, on the steps of the great abandoned houses that are boarded up, and in the road where they had presumably dropped from hunger and exhaustion. Their faces, beautified by white frost, were thin. Why has the Palace not yet ordered the opening of the Food Distribution Agency? We can't wait until November.

In the bitter cold I counted two dozen bodies. One of them was the General's daughter.

She was always a beautiful girl, but the thick frost that covered her face and her long golden hair gave her an unearthly radiance in the grey morning light. She looked so thin and delicate, lying curled on her side, still clutching something against her bosom. Hardly thinking of what I was doing, I pried the thing gently away and, yes, it was the book. I slipped it into my coat pocket and looked around. Finding the girl's small reticule lying beside her, I pushed it into the space where the book had been. A few moments later, a member of the City Guard came around the corner and I called to him.

"It is the General's daughter," I told him. "Notify the Palace at once. I'll wait here until you return."

When the guard from the Palace arrived, he said, "Have you touched anything here?"

"No," I replied.

He pried the reticule out of her hands and searched it. Then he noticed her satchel and searched that. I asked him if he was looking for anything in particular and he said, yes, a book bound in black leather. He began to search through the debris in the gutters on both sides of the street. I left him to it.

I spent the rest of the morning organizing a Clearance Brigade, much like the one that used to move the derelicts down to Belltown. The bodies will be taken to the morgue and if they are not claimed within three days, they will be buried outside the city walls--if picks and shovels can penetrate the iron cold earth.

After a hasty lunch at home, I spoke with the Maintenance Director about changing the locks on my apartment door. It seems a wise precaution. I noticed that Kara Mia must have come back sometime this morning; there were several paintings missing, an antique lamp, an entire set of china, the silver, and the rosewood vanity I bought for her forty-fifth birthday. The lock will be changed day after tomorrow, which gives her plenty of time to retrieve whatever else she may want. As far as I'm concerned, she's welcome to everything; let her clean out the apartment if she likes.

I returned to my office and began to prepare for my afternoon meeting with the General. I'm not sure why he wants to meet with me unless it's to check the pulse of my loyalties. I had only begun to jot down a few notes when I was interrupted by a knock at the door. Even before I said, "come," the door opened and a man in a black uniform walked in followed by my secretary who was flapping her hands and saying, "you can't just walk in like that! You're supposed to give the memo to me!" Then she looked at me and cried, "I couldn't stop him, sir!"

"A courier from the Palace?" I said.

"Urgent message. Sign here," the man said.

"Sign here, _sir_!" my secretary cried.

The courier never acknowledged her presence and seemed hardly to notice mine, though he carefully examined my signature.

"Are you to wait for a reply?" I asked.

"No reply," he said as he turned and strode out the door.

"No reply, _sir_!" my secretary called after him.

She was near tears and I tried to comfort her by saying, "never mind. It doesn't bother me."

Certainly no reply was needed to the message I received:

Your meeting with the general has been cancelled.

Indeed, this was hardly surprising given the death of his wife yesterday, followed hard by the death of his daughter.

I will come to meet with you shortly.

Now this was ominous. I knew who'd sent it even without a signature. Dismissing my secretary for the rest of the day, I returned to my desk to wait, making sure to leave the office door wide open. The ever present knocking sound rapped out the minutes.

At three o'clock, Kara Mia marched in flanked by two burly members of the Palace Guard. I offered her a comfortable chair.

"Where is your secretary?" she asked.

"She is unwell. I sent her home shortly after lunch."

"I suppose you know why I am here," she said.

"Yes. To relay the General's orders since our meeting was cancelled. How is he? The two deaths, so close together, must have been a shock."

"I've come for the book." Her eyes wore the hard look I so hated, but I was prepared.

"I do not have the book," I said, looking her coolly in the eye. I was not stupid enough to say, "What book?"

"It wasn't found on the body."

"I know," I said. "I looked."

She seemed surprised by my answer. "You looked for the book? You admit that?"

"Yes. I know you want it and for good reason. A book like that is dangerous. I am one who would know the damage it can do."

The hard look shifted into a slight smile. "Yes. I suppose that, like me, you would wish to see it destroyed?"

"Of course. When I found her, I immediately called the guard. It was shocking to see that beautiful girl a frozen corpse."

Kara Mia eyed me carefully, silently. "What were you doing there this morning? You don't usually take walks in this bitter cold, do you?"

I explained about the City Councillors' complaint. "I couldn't believe it at first. I went out to see for myself."

"Yes. I don't venture far beyond the Palace, but I have heard rumours. What are you going to do about it?"

I told her about the Clearance Brigade and she congratulated me on my quick solution. "I suppose we should open the Food Distribution Agency, though it's six weeks ahead of schedule. See to it tomorrow, Jared." She said this in such an offhand way; I knew what was really on her mind, but I kept quiet.

The silence between us grew; I suppose she thought I would find this intimidating. One of the guards standing behind her chair shifted uncomfortably. I felt only quiet resignation to what she had become. At last she said, "What do you think I should do about the book?"

"Perhaps a search could be organized," I said.

"Yes. Of course. I'll start here," and the Palace Guards poured in and turned my office upside down. I was strip searched under the amused gaze of my wife, and was assured that her men were also searching my apartment. The whole thing took less than half an hour, and then they were gone.

"Of course I never thought you had the book, Jared, but I had to be sure," she said as she left the office.

I had fully expected the search. I was just zipping my trousers when, unfortunately, Fran walked in.

"What happened?" she cried, seeing the mess.

"The Palace officials are looking for something."

"What is it? Will they search everyone's office?"

"I think not."

"But why you?"

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

She had nothing to say to this, though I didn't doubt she would spread her own version of the story.

"Tomorrow you are to open the Food Distribution Agency," I said to her. "Make sure there is an announcement in the evening paper."

"But we're not ready! I thought we had six more weeks."

"Palace orders. People are dying in the streets."

She left in a huff.

Half an hour later, my secretary reappeared. News of Palace officials searching the Mayor's office had spread quickly. I was glad to see her: she is a matronly sort, about the age of Kara Mia, and though she is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, I trust her.

"Who did this? Shall I call for your wife?"

"It was my wife who did this."

She was stunned into silence. When I asked if she would finish cleaning up, she merely nodded.

I went up to my apartment, thinking to get an aspirin for my pounding head but I had forgotten that my rooms had also been searched, so I was momentarily surprised to open the door on a scene of chaos. No, call it vandalism. My desk had been ransacked, its contents spilled and trampled by heavy boots. Every cupboard and drawer in every room had been opened and the contents strewn about. Chairs and pillows and mattresses had been slashed; paintings had been thrown on the floor, their glass smashed or the canvas ripped open. As I drifted among the wreckage, I realized that much of the furniture was missing and what remained had been mostly ruined by swords and boots. Apparently Kara Mia has finished moving out.

I found an aspirin, though I had to pick it off the bathroom floor, then went to find the Maintenance Director for the second time that day. I offered him a substantial sum for taking his entire staff to my apartment to clear the mess, make repairs, and change the locks by tomorrow afternoon. I also asked him to install a sliding bolt inside the door.

When I returned to my office, I found that my secretary had enlisted the help of three junior clerks who were busy filing papers, shelving reference books, and setting the furniture to rights. She herself was replacing the contents of my desk and organizing the important paperwork.

"Go home, sir," she said. "We'll be finished here in half an hour or so."

So I left my office, but didn't go home. Instead, I walked out of City Hall into the grey afternoon.

Where I went next and who I met I hardly dare to write; I hardly dare to think of it for fear of someone finding out.

This morning, on my way back to City Hall after finding the General's daughter, I met Joe at the bottom of Tower Road. He came right up to me and said, "You've been looking for me."

"Yes," I said, though at that moment I couldn't remember why. We stood looking at each other, when some sudden inspiration, or maybe a premonition, made me say, "Will you keep something for me?"

He didn't seem at all surprised. I gave him the book and also this journal which I have taken to carrying on my person at all times.

"I would like them back by nightfall," I said.

"Meet me at the top of the Belltown Road on hour before dusk," he replied.

So I did. At four o'clock, leaving the wreckage of my office and apartment, I walked to the crossroad above Belltown where Joe returned my parcel, now wrapped in a purple woollen scarf.

"You risk much by keeping these," he said.

I only nodded. What was there to say? Why am I keeping the book?

"Now, don't linger in this place. The crossroads aren't safe after nightfall. Go, while it's still light."

"Who are you?" I said.

"My name is Joe." Then he turned and walked down the Belltown Road.

I went to the University and dined there, though I know I was not my usual self. The Provost would glance at me every now and then and say, "All well, Jared, my boy?" I was touched by this kind familiarity, and after dinner, as we sat smoking in his rooms, I told him of the Clearance Brigade and of finding the General's daughter.

"Shocking. Just shocking," he said, over and over.

Finally I told him that my private apartments at City Hall were under renovation and asked if it would be possible to spend the night in one of the colleges.

"Why of course, my boy! Nothing easier," and he called the porter, which is how I find myself, at this very moment, in front of a blazing fire, writing about this dreadful day.

I will return to City Hall in the morning, but for now I hope to enjoy a night of peace and safety.

October 2, --43

Eight a.m.

Before I return to City Hall, I must set down an odd occurrence.

I had just finished dressing and was about to leave for breakfast with the Provost, when there was a knock at the door. It was the white-haired man whom I had not seen for over two years. He looked the same.

"Good morning, Mayor," he said. "I'll be quick. I know the Provost is waiting."

Before I could reply he continued: "I have a new coat for you; it's thicker, warmer, and it has deep pockets: one of them is hidden in the lining. Don't you think it time to change that fancy silken thing for something more practical?" He held out a black overcoat made of fine wool.

Quite suddenly, I recalled the day I'd received my silk coat, confiscated from some tax evader. I had never given the circumstance much thought, but now I remembered Kara Mia's face and voice as she said, "it suits you beautifully! It doesn't make you look fat."

"Did you say it has a hidden pocket? How much do you want for it?" I said.

"Just give up your old coat in exchange."

So I did. This new coat is twice as warm and fits as if it were tailored just for me. It looks well with the purple scarf Joe gave me. The pocket in the lining suits my needs exactly. When I turned from the mirror to thank the old scholar, he was gone.

Eleven p.m.

As I write this entry it is night and a bitter sleet falls on the city. I look around my office and everything looks ordered and peaceful as it was before the search, and yet nothing is the same.

On my return from the University this morning, as I passed through the Market Square, I saw the Clearance Brigade at its work. What an awful pass this city has come to.

Fran and her staff opened the Food Distribution Agency today. From my office window I could see the line of people spilling out the side door into the street. I hope Fran will distribute food with leniency, although Kara Mia—that is, the Palace officials—insist that nothing is to be given away.

My secretary was the only one to complement me on my new coat. No one else seemed to notice, though I felt the need to wear it all day in this chilly building--but I'm not bothered. I'm only too glad that my coat exchange has gone unnoticed. The contents of the hidden pocket were a fearful weight against my chest all this long day.

After lunch, I went upstairs to inspect the progress of repairs to my apartment. With the floors cleared of debris, I saw that Kara Mia had left me with the bare essentials. I have my desk and an armchair in the living room, a small table and one chair in the kitchen along with a few dishes and half a dozen pieces of cutlery; in the bedroom she left a bureau and, oddly enough, the bed, canopy and all. The Maintenance Director was apologetic about the stripped appearance of the rooms.

"We saved as many dishes as we could," he explained, "but we could not salvage a single painting."

I gave him the agreed upon sum, plus a generous bonus, and assured him that I was satisfied with his department's work.

I left him to finish installing the new locks and he brought the keys to my office at the end of the work day.

Now I hear footsteps outside the door. It is very late and the cleaning girl has come. I'll have to go up to my apartment. The maintenance director said he left a fire burning on the hearth, but that was a few hours ago. I imagine it has dwindled to a handful of embers.

October 11, --43

Seven p.m.

I gave a campaign speech in the Market Square this afternoon because my election staff insists I keep to their campaign schedule. I should never have initiated this election in the first place. It's not as if there is an opposing candidate or even an opposing party anymore! For the past ten years I have always been the sole name on the ballot.

At any rate, the Market Square speech was a bust: there were very few people about. Yet my campaign staff were pleased and clapped like mad at the end.

At the dinner hour I delivered the same speech to the soldiers in the mess hall. They clapped and cheered and they all appear to be on my side. Not that there is another side. No. I recruited most of the soldiers, after all, and usually under duress. They joined the army to stay out of prison and now they cooperate because they are well fed. Well...they're fed well enough.

In truth, the soldiers now constitute the bulk of the city's population and, in my opinion, have the greatest potential for rebellion and violence in these dark economic times. If I can appear to them as a friend, so much the better. I certainly put on a jolly face for them tonight. Tomorrow the campaign staff plans to herd the soldiers through the Lobby to view my portrait. I hope they do not see what I see, or we may as well cancel the election.

Half past ten p.m.

Curiously enough, I find the stark appearance of my apartment pleasant when I thought it would be depressing. The rooms have been stripped of Kara Mia. I feel as if I've been given a fresh start. It's as if I'm standing at a crossroad and can take whichever way I choose. Perhaps, after the war, I will leave this city; I could be the mayor or magistrate of a smaller town far from the Palace, far from my associations here. I think this election campaign shall be my last.

I've drawn the blinds and taken out my contraband book. I intend to read it and write down my impressions. The pages of history, filled as they are with calamities and disasters of mass proportions, have become dark to us who live in this present age. Few things remain, but I see by the title page that this little book contains something of humanity's questionable past. The General's daughter thought this book worth dying for.

Its title is _The Book of Tales_ , and judging by the Table of Contents, these are the same stories my grandmother told. I recognize this title here: "The Poor Man and His Treasure." She told that story often, but I've forgotten some of the details---

Damn! There's a knock at the door! Who could it be at this hour? I cannot be caught with this book! Into the hidden pocket it goes—along with this journal...

It was only the janitor from the night shift come after some cleaning things inadvertently left in my coat closet by the Maintenance Director. He apologized for taking the liberty at this late hour, but he'd seen the light under my door. He hoped I didn't mind.

Yet how he did look about! I could almost believe he'd been sent by _someone_ to look around my apartment, were it not for the bucket and mop in the closet. It seemed to me he looked especially hard at my desk, but perhaps that was only my guilty imagination. The desk's surface was completely clear; only my coat was visible hanging over the back of the chair. He did comment on the nearly empty closet—why hadn't I hung up my coat?

I told him that I was returning to my bachelor ways and he chuckled at that as I showed him out.

If it weren't for the new sliding bolt on my door, I would not feel at all safe.

I'm going to bed. Reading can wait for tomorrow.

October 12, --43

Nine a.m.

The Provost asked to meet with me this afternoon. Perhaps he intends to ask for more money.

This morning I read, "The Poor Man and His Treasure." I had forgotten many details over the intervening years. I see how the idea of perpetual knocking could have entwined itself throughout my consciousness, especially when it was connected with ideas of wrong-doing from an older tradition. It is clear to me that I could never take the path Kara Mia has taken. She never really succeeded in silencing my grandmother.

I ought to hide this book somewhere, but I can't think where. My apartment isn't safe unless I am inside with the bolt drawn. I'll just have to carry it, along with this highly incriminating journal, within my coat's hidden pocket. I'm not sure why I'm reading this book except that it gives me a strange exhilarating thrill to possess a forbidden secret and to have tricked Kara Mia.

Eight p.m.

Well! The Provost did deliver a bombshell at our meeting today! He told me that the University's Board of Governors has decided to use my generous donation to fund a new post called "The Dr. Jared Hobic Chair of Civic Government." And he handed me a Diploma! An honorary degree!

I've been in a flutter all evening. Me! Dr. Jared Hobic!

October 30, --43

There are too few students in the University, but I have done something about that. I have dared to authorize an exemption from military conscription: full-time enrolment at the University. That was one week ago and so far there has not been a peep of disapproval from the Palace. This exemption obviously favours the minority who can read and write, and I've heard there was a quiet exodus of intelligence from the city barracks.

It was the Provost who gave me the idea in the first place, and he's been delighted to see enrolment triple in just a short time. Of course, most of them are enrolling in _my_ department, and classes are full

November 9, --43

Election Day snuck up on me! In fact, it has come and gone with barely a flutter in the city. My campaign staff tells me that I won by a landslide and attribute this colossal success to my status at the University.

My inauguration parade is scheduled for tomorrow at noon. I'll march through Market Square wearing the customary robes and chain, followed by a train of Councillors; I'll make a short speech to a crowd organized by my staff, and that will be that. Anyway, the less time spent out of doors the better; this winter is infernally cold. The frost on the windowpanes never thaws and I'm told the strongest man on the Clearance Brigade can't get a shovel into the earth. They've taken to burying the bodies under piles of stones. Fortunately, the ruins of the old city are nearby: Cummings tells me they use the stone rubble from that.

November 10, --43

I saw the bread stall today! Marching along the inaugural parade route, I saw it. An old woman, the bread merchant, held out a loaf to me! And I heard her singing an old lullaby my grandmother used to sing. For a minute, I was a little boy again, holding out my cup and plate, my stomach squeezed by hunger as only a little boy can feel. Then the entire scene vanished, we marched out among the regular market stalls, and I found myself looking at City Hall, the knocking sound louder than ever.

After the ceremony, I rushed back to the place, but it was gone! How can that be?

It's most important that I find this stall: beside the bread woman stood Private Angus.

November 11, --43

Damn. Last night I dreamed of the bread seller _and_ my grandmother.

And still I cannot find that bread stall!

November 16, --43

Yesterday the entire army marched out of the city. In one of his rare public speeches, the General informed us that, contrary to rumours, an invasion of our northern coast is not immanent. I don't see how this statement will reassure the citizens: not five minutes after the General's speech, the army marched out the North Gate and up the North Road obviously headed for the coast.

Now that the army is gone, the city is very quiet and—in my opinion—safer. Yet I do not need a census taker to tell me that the civilian population is less than half what it was three years ago. I asked my secretary where she thought everyone had gone. A hard, angry look came into her eyes and she said, "check the Palace Dungeons."

I have heard rumours, but I seriously doubt this is the entire explanation. Joe's Belltown report comes to mind, but its inferences and conclusions are too terrible to think of. Did we, with our street clearances and removals, slowly move a famine stricken people down to hell?

For our land is gripped by famine; that much is clear, even if the Palace officials won't admit it. The other day, on my way to the University, I met Mr. Duncston who was headed for the food lines. Mr. Duncston! He's the owner of the two largest food processing plants here in the capitol, and one of the richest men in the kingdom. I asked him why he, of all people, was going to the Food Distribution Agency and he said it's the only place to get food now. He grimly laughed and said he's closed his factories because he can get no raw materials anymore. His warehouses are empty. The farms have simply stopped producing. What is happening to this world?

December 3, --43

With the soldiers gone, my staff are twiddling their thumbs: few complaints are filed, there are no permit applications, lawsuits have ceased: it's as if all the remaining citizens have shut themselves up in their houses and gone to sleep. Who could blame them for deciding to hibernate like bears? The temperatures are bitter and everything is covered by thick frost day and night.

The City Guard, the Palace Guard, and my private guard are the only soldiers left in the city. Of course, no one knows about my private guard and they have cleverly spread themselves out disguised as bartenders and watchmen, no doubt hoping to catch Private Angus. I called them off the other jobs.

Two of my men are particularly clever and discreet and I have given them the task of keeping an eye on Capt. Cumming _and_ Fran. Those two I do not trust since I spied them kissing in the Palace Gardens last week. It's true that they were thrown together—my own doing—yet Fran never falls for a man without some motive of her own. And Cummings can easily play both sides of any street, though he may find he's met his match in Fran.

December 9, --43

The MidWinter celebration is two weeks away and I foresee a lonely holiday, my first without Kara Mia. I wonder if she misses me even a little? We did have good times together. I haven't seen her since the day of the search.

With Kara Mia to influence the General—in whatever way she does—this may very well be the last MidWinter Celebration in our nation-state. I suppose it hasn't happened this year because she and the General are distracted by war games.

War. I read about it in the newspaper, but it's all incomprehensible rhetoric. I hope the General knows what he's doing. I have my doubts though.

December 14, --43

MidWinter day is next week. The Provost has invited me to breakfast on MidWinter's Eve, which is kind of him; he knows I'll be alone.

Last night I dreamed of grandmother. She was baking bread, and in the dream I could smell that lovely aroma again and feel my stomach rumbling. I haven't tasted bread like that for years. She had a special recipe for MidWinter Day: in addition to honey and butter, she put in dried fruit and a certain spice—cinnamon, I think. The two of us would eat around the fireside and she would tell me stories—until my father came home, drunk and angry.

December 17, --43

The General sent for me today. I was to appear at his chambers at exactly seven o'clock. I wondered about the late hour: was I invited to dinner? I received this message mid-morning and spent the rest of the day fidgeting.

When I arrived at his chambers, I found him seated comfortably in a plush chair, dressed for dinner, his white shirt front gleaming in the light of a roaring fire. Indeed, the room was very warm and I began to regret the extra layer of woollens I always wear. City Hall and the University are, like everywhere else, on strict fuel rations.

It was a queer meeting. Never rising from his chair, he offered me his hand in greeting, looked me over for a split second, then turned his eyes to the firelight and never looked at me again. He talked though: on and on about his plans for the nation-state once the war was over: improved farmlands, efficient factories, a properly trained labour force, and a submissive media.

He talked about me, a politician _and_ a University man (so he'd heard!) as the model representative of his ideas. I should have been flattered, but I was suddenly aware that I probably owe my present status as Mayor, not to Kara Mia, but to the General and his high opinion of me. If left to her own devices and revenges, she might have put me in the dungeons long ago.

I was uncomfortably warm and I could hear the rustle of soft fabrics in the next room and smell a familiar perfume. The General's voice droned on and I allowed my mind to drift. The knocking sound, always hovering on the edge of hearing, became louder. I turned my eyes away from the open door of the adjacent room and looked out the window; these days it is unusual to see a pane of glass without patterns of thick frost on the inside. I wondered how long this meeting would last, and what the outcome would be.

Then, what I wanted and feared most suddenly happened: Kara Mia came into the room. She was dressed in a long, low-cut evening gown. Jewels at her wrists and throat sparkled in the firelight and she looked almost beautiful. She laid an elegant hand on the General's shoulder, and greeted me with barely disguised amusement. I understood then that I had been summoned to the General's chambers for this moment only: to see Kara Mia in her triumph.

"How nice to see you, Jared," she said, "or should I say Dr. Hobic."

I ignored the last mocking comment and said, "It is good to see you looking so well."

"Thank you," she said, then added, "Any sign of that missing book?" Her eyes glittered with malice: she had never looked so lovely...or so repulsive, but—was it a hallucination?—I thought I could see blood on her hands and dress.

"No, I am sorry to say," I lied. I had to keep my face steady. I could feel the forbidden book pressing against my chest.

"I've had no luck either," she said. "I suppose the book's owner," here she glanced slyly at the General, "disposed of it before she...departed."

The General looked up at Kara Mia and lightly touched the jewelled hand resting on his shoulder. "Are you still worried about that book? It's really of no importance. Shall we go to dinner?"

Kara Mia smiled at him, then said to me, "thank you for coming. The General insisted on seeing you." Her voice had lost all its warmth.

"Yes, I did," he said from the depths of his own world. "Keep up the good work, Jared."

I was dismissed. I rose. They took no further notice of me and I left quickly.

I am back in my apartment now, far from the Palace charade, yet not far enough.

Tonight I think I shall do a little reading. I have not opened a certain book for several weeks, though I doubt it will bring comfort.

December 18, --43

Noon

Damn and blast! The Furies take Fran to hell! She's as bad or worse than Kara Mia! Demanding slavery, entire savings accounts—for food! My poor secretary just came to my office, shocked and angry. She had lined up at the Food Agency in place of a sick friend and Fran actually told her that if she wanted food she would have to send her daughter to work in the City Guards' barracks! At night! It seems only too clear what this means. The girl is only fifteen!

I stormed down to the agency and demanded to know the meaning of such a sordid request. Fran just looked at me sullenly and said, "It's none of your business. I'm under Palace directives."

"And yet," I reminded her, "you're operating out of City Hall and at the city's expense. I am the mayor. I demand an explanation."

She shrugged, as if nothing I said mattered, and said, "What is there to explain?"

"Telling my secretary to send her daughter to the barracks in exchange for food!"

A member of the City Guard stepped into the room and shut the door on the inquisitive citizens lined up outside. "Is there a problem?" he said.

"The Mayor," Fran said in a mocking voice, "is upset about our proposed arrangement with his secretary's daughter."

"Interesting," the guard said, "and what's wrong with it?"

"Why ask her for such a vile service when she has money to pay?" I said.

Fran shrugged. "She was after food for a friend, not for herself. I thought I'd do her a favour, save her the money. Besides, what use is money these days? What she was asked to do is easy.

"For _you_ perhaps," I said. That wiped the smirk off her face. I heard the guard chuckling as I left.

As Mayor, I have adequate food supplies, as does the entire staff at City Hall. It's ample for myself, though I suspect it would not be for a family of three or four. I had not thought of this before. My secretary has mentioned providing for three children and her mother.

Three p.m.

I have gone to the staff food supply room, taken out my share for the next three days, and given it all to my secretary. That should get her family through the MidWinter feast comfortably, as well as provide for her sick friend. I think I still have ample stores in my apartment.

She thanked me over and over. She also said that she plans to move her family to the tower. She feels they will all be safer there. Then she thanked me again and hurried home.

What does she mean by "the tower?" I'm sure I don't know. There's an old inn called The Tower, but it's always been a low-class affair, situated on a little-used road above the Market Square. I suspect it's gone out of business by now. She couldn't have meant that place, but she left before I could ask and I won't see her until after the holiday. I gave her the next two days off in addition to MidWinter Day.

Seven p.m.

After giving my secretary my own food supplies, I find that my cupboards are emptier than I'd remembered. I shall be alright tomorrow, and fortunately I'm invited to breakfast at the University the day after, but I fear my own MidWinter's Day feast will be meagre.

I shall be alone.

How did I come to such a pass?

December 19, --43

Eight a.m.

Last night I dreamed of my grandmother. She was baking bread and saying: "Make up your mind, boy! Be good or be bad! Be white or be black! Just don't try to stand in the middle! Listen to the knocking at the door!"

So I listened to the knocking at the door, for the rest of the night.

What does it mean?

Noon

Today is Saturday and tomorrow is MidWinter's Eve. In the past, business here at City Hall slowed a bit during the week before the holiday. This year I would say that business is dead. Even the lines to the Food Agency have dwindled. I suppose it's only the most desperate who apply now.

Two p.m.

The quiet that has settled over City Hall is nothing compared to the unusual silence of the city. I took a short walk over my lunch hour—just a circuit through Market Square and around the Palace—and found our once thriving marketplace completely deserted.

It was not until I went near the Palace that I encountered signs of life. First I met the poor souls recruited to scrape the heavy frost from the footpaths: our once important and wealthy citizens forced into this bitter work in exchange for food. Then I saw the Palace itself, a bustle of activity. There was a light in every window and smoke from every chimney. I heard the laughter of ladies and saw the elegant fur-cloaked figures of officers coming and going at the gates. They all belong to that special club assembled by Kara Mia and the General: no doubt a club of bloodied hands. I hurried by, hoping I wouldn't be noticed.

Eight p.m.

I was reading my forbidden book this afternoon.

There was absolutely no business, but I was sitting in my office out of habit. With my secretary away and nearly all the staff on extended holidays, I felt little fear of discovery.

The story I read is called "The Recalcitrant Guests." It's a good story in which everything works out alright, but I don't like Mr. and Mrs. Pillar very much. If I were the doorman, I would not have let them back into the feast.

I had just finished reading this story and was looking absently out the window when I saw the very last person I expected: Private Angus was walking past!

I put on my overcoat and hurried outside. It was four o'clock and the daylight was waning, but he was easy to spot: he still wore his old army uniform.

I caught up with him in a narrow aisle of the market and saw, at last, the bread seller. She was singing a song my grandmother used to sing. Angus bowed to her and then turned in my direction. His face was all alight and when he saw me, he cried out, "Mr. Mayor! I was hoping I'd run into you!"

I didn't know what to think. "Where have you been all this time," was all I could say.

"I been down in the dungeons, as a matter of fact. I'm headed back there now."

"The _Palace_ dungeons?" I said, stupidly.

"Sure. There's many there that still want a bite of bread. Though," here his face sobered, "most have passed on now. There's only one or two under my care these days. Still," his face brightened again, "the end is pretty darn near, so it ain't no never mind."

"Jared," the old bread seller said softly. I turned to see her holding out a loaf. "Come. This is for you."

I'd been thinking about bread all afternoon: my grandmother's bread, fresh from the oven, spread with butter and strawberry jam. My own food stores are low.

I must have been gaping at her like a landed fish, because she suddenly laughed and said, "Take them, son. Don't be afraid."

So I took the bread from her. It was surprisingly heavy, not at all like the manufactured pastries I've been consuming for the past thirty years. She also gave me a flask of water which she poured from a jug. The water was scented somehow and put me in mind of summer afternoons under green trees, and fishing in sun-bright books as a small boy.

"Thank you, mother," I said. I wanted to hear her laugh again. I haven't heard real laughter like that for such a long time.

Then Angus said, "I'll walk you home, gov'nor. The light's about gone, but you'll be safe with me."

As we were leaving, a man came up to the table. She said to him, "Hello Tom. How many today?" And he replied, "Twenty, mother, if you please."

Twenty loaves? How many people in this tired city are eating from the bread stall?

All the way back through the Market Square, I never once thought of asking Angus why he'd failed to report for duty. Now that I think of it, it doesn't really matter anymore. He's better off doing whatever it is he's doing. Yet how does he explain his presence in the dungeons to the officers in charge? Does Kara Mia know he is taking bread to her prisoners? Surely not.

And why didn't I ask to see the bread lady's market license? I never once thought of it.

December 20, --43

MidWinter's Eve

Half past Eleven a.m.

Breakfast with the Provost was a jolly affair—jolly, that is for an assembly of ancient duffers and a middle-aged mayor with a constant knocking in his ears. The Provost seemed distracted too. Still, we made as merry as we could over eggs and cheese, a light wine, and dried fruit. Apparently food stores at the University are dwindling just like those at City Hall.

At eleven o'clock, when the Provost set out for the country to visit his mother, our party broke up. Before he left, I asked him about the little white-haired scholar who had given me my coat; he had not been present at our breakfast party.

"Dear me," he said, "I've no idea. I think I remember him. I hope he hasn't...you know." The Provost looked at me apologetically. "Well they sometimes do, you know, and then we find them later, sitting in a chair or something, somewhere or other."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but now, as I write this, I think he was wondering if the little white-haired scholar had died. I never even knew his name; the Provost couldn't remember.

Noon

I saved the bread for today as a sort of MidWinter's Eve feast. It's all I had. I've just devoured the entire loaf and drunk all the water from the flask; the bread was just like grandmother's. I couldn't stop eating, just as I can't seem to stop writing. Strangely, the knocking seems louder and more insistent than ever. When I close my eyes, I see a door and a bright light shining under the threshold. I cannot get the bread seller's song out of my head; it joins with the knocking in perfect rhythm.

I am going out for a walk.

One p.m.

As I walked in the deserted Square, a wind began to blow: a strong wind that swept the sooty cloud cover away! It reminds me of early spring days when I walked through fields of tulips with my grandmother. After picking as many flowers as we could carry, we'd take them home and set them in clay jugs all around the house. I have not seen flowers like that for some time. When did the flower sellers stop coming to market?

Quarter past one

Something about the clear stark sky and the wind whistling around the building has made me feel lonelier than ever, which is odd because City Hall is busy as a beehive. Yes, it's true!

When I returned from my noontime walk, I found nearly all the staff had come back to work and they are rushing around as if business is booming and their lives depended on getting it all done today. I know I sent around a memo giving everyone two extra days of holiday. They aren't due to return to work until the day after tomorrow, but here they all are, working with strange urgency like a nest of hornets stirred up with a stick.

Well, let them. I've shut myself in my office where it's quiet. My secretary was smart enough to stay at home, and I've put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on my door. Now I shall read for a while. Let's see, what story is next...oh yes: "The Girl Who Was Robbed." I don't remember this one . . . .

Quarter past two

Curious. Whenever I read this book, the knocking stops. I've only just realized.

I'm going out now to get more bread.

Quarter to three

I had just finished eating and reading another story when there was a banging on my door. I had barely enough time to hide my book when another of those blasted Palace couriers burst in and delivered this message:

DATE: December 20

TO: Mayor Jared Hobic

FROM: Chief Advisor

RE: The Tower Inn

It has come to my attention, through the good services of the Food Agency Director, Fran Zlindric, that The Tower Inn, located at 23 Tower Road, is in possession of large quantities of food and firewood without application to the Palace or the Food Agency. Furthermore, it is suspected that the proprietors may be harboring a seditious artist, as well as other dangerous criminals.

You and your "private guard" are hereby ordered to investigate and make the necessary arrests. This action is to be carried out immediately. Failure to do so will result in the immediate suspension of your duties and the detention of all members of your private guard.

Oh horrors! She knows about my private guard! What else does she know? What information has Fran weaseled out of Cummings?

There they are now, Fran and Cummings, outside, walking arm in arm! I must go and order Cummings to summon the others . . . .

Half past three

I have sent Cummings off to summon the men. How smug Fran looked; I could have strangled her. What she has wanted all along is now completely obvious: she wants to be Mayor! She wants _my_ job! I'm damned if I'll lie down and let her have her way. I'll fight first.

Four p.m.

Half an hour has passed and Cummings has not returned with our men. I'd suspect him of conspiring with Fran and dragging his feet, but I made it clear to him that if orders weren't carried out immediately, he would be detained in the dungeons along with the rest of us, by order of the Chief Advisor. That seemed to surprise him. He glanced sharply at Fran, but she never lost her self-satisfied look. Silly man. He probably thought she'd really fallen for him. Ha!

Quarter past four

Still no Cummings. The sun is rapidly disappearing; I can see it now just over the tops of the buildings. What a strange sight! I'd almost forgotten the look of a sunset.

Five p.m.

Where is Cummings? Where are the men? Surely an hour would have been sufficient to gather the guard—why is it taking so long?

My job, probably my life, is in jeopardy now. All my service to the city, my sacrifices of conscience to the General's agenda, my reputation, all could very well be snuffed out in a moment at an order from Kara Mia. What good has it been? Any of it?

Sounding above all these horrid thoughts is that blasted knocking, and now the bread seller's song.

If only my men would come.

Quarter past five

Perhaps I _don't_ care about losing my position.

The truth is I don't care whether or not the people at The Tower Inn have obtained food illegally or not. What does it matter? They are not Fran's slaves and they have not greased her palm; that's probably all they're guilty of.

Sure I've taken bribes to shorten bureaucracy, but I would never have demanded heavy prices in money or servitude for something as fundamental as food. Would I?

I begin to regret this life at City Hall. It seems, somehow, I've missed my way. If only some of my days and years could be swept away by the wind that cleared the sooty sky.

It is half past five.

At last I hear footsteps. My private guard is at the door. I must go now.

* * * * * * *

Oh what is this that has happened? I can barely catch my breath!

I must try to be calm; I must try to record this strange event, to understand its meaning. Disaster!

Only disaster can follow!

At sundown, my men and I were marching across Market Square, heading directly for Tower Road. Halfway across the square, we were met by an old man, huge and fierce as a bear! Light blazed from his eyes and from his mouth. He grabbed me by the shoulders, lifted me clean off the ground and shouted in my face: "OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"

I was so overcome, I turned tail, ran straight back here to my office, and have locked myself in.

Surely Palace guards will come for me now—is that them?

There is a pounding at the door! They will break it down!

No. The pounding is in my head—is it?

Oh, what have I done!

I must let them in.

* * * * * * *

Night

I am not in the dungeons. I have come to a refuge, that is certain, but I don't know how I got here.

Nothing is clear. I must try to remember.

In my office I heard the pounding. I opened the door. Light flashed in, but I did not understand it. There were no soldiers, only a vast silence, a strange emptiness beyond the doorway. Standing there on the threshold, I felt exposed; I wanted to hide, but I was also curious. I was not afraid. I picked up the lamp on my desk, and walked out of the room.

I remember walking past my portrait—an ugly, demented thing—out into a night with a red moon.

The darkness was cold, and it was all around me, howling as the blackest night came on. Perhaps the world was going mad. I don't know.

I thought I heard a familiar voice saying, "This way. Only a little farther," and I walked for a long time across an empty space, then up a hill. There were cries and the sounds of explosions all around me; I heard bells clanging and swords clashing, but I saw nothing and felt no fear. Finally, I came to a door and a voice said, "Knock here," so I did. A man with a face like lightning let me in.

Now I am sitting at this table, trying to make sense of where I am. I think I may be at The Tower Inn. I hear the soft murmur of voices, the clink of dishes, as if washing up is going on in a nearby kitchen.

I don't hear the knocking in my head, the pounding at the door. I have come in now, or gone out. I don't know which.

The walls of this place are lined with beautiful paintings, but I cannot make much sense of them yet. I will sit here a while.

* * * * * * *

Bright figures come and go. They have set bread before me, even cheese, and I have eaten.

* * * * * * *

Some change has come. The bright figures beckon me to another door, to a stairway. They are inviting me to go up.

There is a steady white light blazing past the doorway.

I will go up and see.
Epilogue

Before Letty laid down her brushes for the last time, she painted one final picture.

In a world restored, it is the only thing that passed through the door, into the light.

The King himself hung that painting in his throne room, a grand room where all the people of the world gather to sing and tell tales of their golden age.

Letty herself now stands before the painting, wondering. For that picture is the ugliest thing in the room. Her good friends, Michael and Thaddaeus, join her and declare that it must now be the ugliest thing in the world. Why did the King hang it so prominently?

Other people come to stand by Letty. They stand in the strong light, looking over her shoulder at the dark painting, wondering.

"Me!" Emmie says, pointing.

"Yes, and me. But it ain't my best look," Winnie says.

"You can say that again. Look at us all! We look pale and sick, like we're dying," says Tom.

"Such a cold place," Hyla says.

More people come to look at the strange painting and as they come, their faces appear in the picture.

"Lookit that ragged old building in the background. What does the sign say?" Grissle asks.

"The Tower Inn," Tom replies. "I think . . . I think I remember that place."

"Yes," Hyla says. "We used to live there, but it wasn't by the sea."

"We lived in a house on that very shore. Look there in the background. It's my old fishing boat on the water." Letty's father says this as he swings Peter up onto his shoulders so the boy can get a better view.

"Lookit that dark wing spread across the whole sky!" Peter says.

The face of the white-haired scholar appears in the picture and Thaddaeus looks around for him in the crowd, then says, "there you are. Is the mayor here? Did he come in at the end?"

"He's here," the white-haired scholar replies.

"Nothing like a last minute entrance," Thaddaeus says, grinning.

Soon the mayor's face appears in the picture and so does the face of Angus. Between them walks an old woman. "My grandmother," Jared says to everyone. In the painting his face is pockmarked and sad, but now, in person, he is his old jolly self. A small black book is tucked in his shirt pocket.

The General's oldest daughter comes to his side and he hands the little book to her. "Yours, I think."

"Oh, this belongs to my sister," she says, and hands the book to a dark-eyed girl.

"I got it from him," says the dark-eyed girl, and passes it to the white-haired scholar.

"But I don't want it anymore," laughs the scholar.

"Let _me_ have it! _I'll_ read it!" Peter cries. He takes the book, opens it, and watches in glee as the pages flutter up into the air, like birds, then burst into sparks that float away into the light. Father puts Peter down and the boy runs after Emmie who is chasing the bobbing sparks around the Great Hall. Letty's mother comes in with a crowd of children who immediately join Emmie and Peter in their game. All the children follow the living lights out into the bright courtyard; laughing and shouting, the children disappear among the trees.

"Well, Mother, what do you think of this?" Letty's father says, nodding at the odd painting. Mother looks up to see her own face amidst the crowd on the dark shore.

"Who painted _that_?" she says to Letty.

"I don't know."

"Well, Letty, I think you did," Father says gently. "I think I remember that you once painted pictures like this."

"I did too," Thaddaeus says, "on that other shore where that dark wing sheltered the whole world and we thought it was night."

"But why hang this picture here now?" Letty says. "What need have we of shadows?"

"To remind us," Thaddaeus says.

"Of what?"

"Restore, of course." And he begins to sing in a tuneless way, "Beneath, above, behind, before..."

After a while, the people gathered around the painting wander away in twos and threes until only Letty and Michael are left standing, their faces mirrored palely on the painted shore.

Suddenly Michael takes Letty's hand and swings her around to face him.

"Do you hear it?" he says.

"What?" She's been lost in her own thoughts, absorbed by the dim recollection of shadows.

"The bells! Listen."

They stand for a moment, holding hands, eyes shining, listening to the sweet summons. For the great feast is about to begin. The bread lady beckons.

Together they run out into the bright courtyard and disappear among the trees.

And now the painting is empty, the old door is closed, and the darkness is passing away.

THE END
Acknowledgements and Author Information

Thank you Tina, Jana, Matt, Zach, and Jackie for reading the early drafts and giving encouragement, feedback, and constructive criticism. A special thanks to Tina who asked for dessert and got the epilogue. Thank you Greg, Brendan, and Jackie for listening and patiently awaiting the outcome of my early morning disappearances. J., thank you for the cover painting. This book is dedicated to all of you, and mainly to the Glory of God.

E.P. Cowley lives in Vancouver B.C. Visit the author's blog:epcowley.blogspot.com. Information about the next book headed down the pipeline shall be eventually posted there.
