Punctuated Equilibrium Featuring the Proepistrephomeniad

By Bernard Saftner

Punctuated Equilibrium . . . the definitive anthology of works by one of the world’s most extraordinary contemporary authors!

Twenty literary masterpieces—one novel, two novellas, six short stories and eleven poems—in one authorized, unexpurgated edition!
Features:

The Proepistrephomeniad. In this sweeping metaphysical epic, Sir Chrysogonus Exiordines must overcome the natural and supernatural forces arrayed against him in a perilous faraway land. The cost of failure is complete apocalyptic annihilation!

‘The Louisiana Book of the Dead.’ A beautiful young woman afflicted with a deadly secret finds herself in the sights of a psychotic killer.

‘Homeward, Warrior.’ A Viking’s son discovers glory and love on the twisting path to the land of his forebears.

Plus a host of other instant classics, including ‘The Arrowhead,’ ‘Attis,’ ‘Coal for Christmas,’ and ‘The Magic Calf’—all in this one convenient, affordable volume!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 20, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462811199

Bernard Saftner

Bernard Saftner was born in southwestern Pennsylvania (USA) in the winter of 1951. He went to good schools, worked hard and did well. Serving primarily in Information Technology and Human Resources, he was employed for twenty-seven years at the Pittsburgh office of a multinational manufacturing corporation. Now retired, Bernie enjoys reading, international travel, volunteer work, and many kinds of music, especially Arabic, East Asian, and death metal styles. He is the author of Punctuated Equilibrium, a collection of fiction and poetry.

Book preview

Copyright © 2010, 2014 by Bernard Saftner

Cover photos © 2008 by Beth Newman

Illustrations © 2008 by Michael Saftner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 04/04/2019

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Contents

PUNCTUATED EQUILIBRIUM

Aftermath

The Arrowhead

My Pet Goat

The Magic Calf

Coal for Christmas

Homeward, Warrior

Man…or Machine?

The Louisiana Book of the Dead

Stillborne

Ana’s Daughter

A Paean to Paris

Paris and Me

Aren’t They All?

Five Little Poems (Cinq Petits Poèmes)

Attis

THE PROEPISTREPHOMENIAD

TO MY PARENTS

Original dedications:

Aftermath (1966) and Elegy (1972)

to my beloved late aunt Anna Rose

Homeward, Warrior (1975)

to Deborah, always

The Arrowhead (1979)

to Ann, with love

with special thanks to

Beth Newman

for her friendship, the photos, and

her insightful, invaluable critiques of the earliest drafts

my brother Mike

for the illustrations (the best part of the book!)

Preface

Author’s Note

Punctuated equilibrium is a scientific model of evolution which holds that critical developments occur in short periods of rapid change alternating with long periods of relative stability. Punctuated Equilibrium is my title for this volume because it features writings that I produced at various moments of so-called inspiration in a life that hasn’t been marked by consistent, sustained, or focused literary efforts.

The germs for these stories and poems date back to the years between 1966, when I was a sophomore in high school, and 1979, when I was finishing my Master’s Degree in Information Science. These kernels became my source material when I decided in June 2008 to self-publish, largely as a gift and tribute to my parents, a retrospective of my occasional writings, edited and expanded as needed. For instance, The Proepistrephomeniad—a special addendum to this edition of the book—grew out of a much less elaborate novelette from 1966, which I liberally augmented with new as well as old material, including some shorter texts from my high school years and shortly thereafter. As I proceeded, I wrote a few new pieces as well—notably ‘Man . . . or Machine?’ and ‘The Louisiana Book of the Dead’—and I’ve included these to round out the collection.

I had fun with this project, and I thank you for taking an interest in my work. In these pages I hope you find at least a nugget or two to your liking.

어서 오세요.

화이팅!

Acknowledgments

In addition to those mentioned in the dedication, I am very grateful to the following people for their direct or indirect support: my friends Carole Smith and Debbie Bizek for their much-appreciated help in my time of need; Melanie Drake, Shelley Bias, Toni Vokes, Sophie Debbané, Mary-Clare Reynolds, and Gaelen Foley for their encouragement and kindness; my ESL friends Kawai Yukiko, Ishihara Kimiko, Zhao Hua, Takamura Mutsuko, Sonja Dašić Berić, Chen Hong, Lubka Cipkova, Noh Eunjoo, Magdalena Lukačova, Ruta Trakumiene, Hayakawa Kazumi, Sung Chaehwan, Doha Al-Attas, Banu Öztürk Kurtaslan, and Elke Breitkopf for their graciousness and insightful perspectives; Jamie Lynn Laws for blazing the path by publishing Cameron and the Mysterious Shack; Xlibris staff for their excellent work in turning my draft into this attractive tome; Tiffany for being such an inspiring, genuine and caring person, and Gen for being expertly discerning; my musical idols Ida Seiko for her gentle spirit and beautiful melodies, and Opeth for their brilliant epics; my favorite authors—especially Aeschylus, Plato, Proclus, David Lindsay, and Elizabeth Gage—for the inspiration, insights and countless hours of enjoyment I have derived from their writings; and, of course, my sister Annette for helping to make our family home the creative place it was.

I would also like to acknowledge in a special way my beloved Uncle Bernie, who passed away in late 2008 before this volume was finalized; and Barbara, the forever-treasured thesis to my antithesis.

Finally, and most of all, I remember my beautiful, brilliant soul-mate, Carol (1951-2011), who brought such loveliness and wisdom into the world, for her never-failing love, support and inspiration . . . from the rising of the sun to the setting of the stars.

*     *     *

Any selection from or portion of the text may be reproduced

for educational and classroom use. For any other

non-commercial purpose, please reference the book and the author

and/or illustrator as your source.

*     *     *

Any income from the sale of this book will be donated to charity.

ΙΣΜΗΝΗ

[. . .] των εν τωι αιωνι τωι απεριληπτωι απειρων εικονικως μετεχει δια την του αγενητου και πρωτως γνωστικου ουσιαν· η οτιδηποτε δη. μετ’ εμου;

ΚΛΥΤΑΙΜΝΗΣΤΡΑ

οοοολως γε.

ΕΙΛΕΙΘΟΗ

ιω, κορηφιλη· μηδαμη δη. χαιρετον δη; τινα τε δειγματος ενεκα του αμερους αποτελουνται προς το αδιαχωριστον δι’ ομοιοτητος; παντα γαρ τα οπωσουν οντα πανταχου εστιν αμα και ουδαμου.

ISMENE

[. . .] partake(s) of the Infinitudes in the Uncircumscribed Eternity, after the manner of an image, through the Essence of the Unoriginate and First-Knowing [One]. Or whatever. Right?

CLYTÆMNESTRA

Tooootally.

EILEITHOË

Alas, girlfriend—no way! Hello? What is accomplished, for example, by means of the likening of the Indivisible to the Inseparable? For all that exists in any fashion is at the same time everywhere and nowhere.

EVAGRIOS SPARTIATES

fragment from the banned tragedy

Eurydice at Eleusis (ca. 484 BC)

Punctuated Equilibrium

Aftermath

The covered wagon covered ground slowly as it lumbered, unwieldy, along the cobblestone road. The horses’ hooves tapped a static staccato, and the wheels made a jarring chick-a-chunking sound. The wagon’s approach scared the little birds that were digging for worms in the spaces between the bricks’ cracks.

On either side of the road stretched a forbidding forest, from which issued the cries of wild beasts, whether genuine, imagined, or simulated by man. A slight wind scattered the brittle, many-hued maple leaves of autumn and carried the fresh scent of a new day. Through the dew-laden foliage, a candied tangerine sun cast an eerie glow on all it surveyed.

The driver of the wagon, a short, thickset, coarse-looking Irishman, made carefree mental notes as he attended to his duties. He listened to the music drifting from the wagon—the plaintive, lyrical strains of a gayageum¹ being played with a virtuoso’s improvisational skill. The sound was familiar and good. The driver stopped thinking to pay closer attention.

Without warning a stone whistled past his ear. The unattractive man pulled firmly on the reins, and the horses stopped. The music from the wagon stopped. All was deathly quiet for a minute or two. Then a large part of a lozenge-shaped boulder dropped to the ground, the crash echoing and re-echoing in the valley. Cautiously sniffing the air, the stocky man allowed his horses to take a few steps forward.

The high-pitched wail of a wolf fractured the silence. The wary driver heard the hissing as if of a snake; he saw the arrow quivering in the seat a mere few inches from his thigh.

Then, from out of the underbrush, the evildoers who had been lying in wait leapt forth. There were twelve ruffians in all, attired in stylish rose-beige tunics and tapered buckskin leggings. Partially visible in a clearing behind them stood a horde of horsemen, ready for action and arrayed for battle. All these people carried bows and arrows; they had swords looped in their belts or clenched between their teeth. A few had blunderbusses.

From the ranks of the twelve men on foot stepped a huge desperado wearing a holly-green greatcoat with calico trim. His pockmarked olive complexion, pink bulbous nose and dank blue-black beard were well known throughout the land. This was Arbitraguerre, the terrible leader of the Raiders.

‘You, Zorphox,’ he bellowed at the driver of the wagon. ‘I know what you have in that wagon. Your intended delivery for the Presidio shall instead go to its rightful owners—to the men and women of ability, the producers of wealth, those industrialists whom the state would shamelessly strip of their spoils!’

As Zorphox scowled into the distance, Arbitraguerre snarled threateningly. ‘I have no patience with your breed, Zorphox. We—who truly represent the powers of production, the proponents of free trade and unfettered development—shall now relieve of you your burden.’

The renegade swaggered menacingly toward the wagon and its precious cargo.

*     *     *

The covered wagon was rattling along at a breakneck pace. The jostling and pounding and swaying and shaking had strained it nearly to the point of collapse.

A tall, thin man of regal mien, crouching in the rear of the wagon, was firing a blunderbuss at their pursuers. When forced to reload, he provided cover by unleashing a fusillade of whirling shuriken,² which more often than not achieved their deadly result.

His short, ugly companion was urging the horses hoarsely on while swatting them with the ample reins. ‘Faster!’ came a forceful command from the wagon proper. Zorphox, sweating profusely and swearing profanely, screamed incomprehensibly and not entirely convincingly, ‘We have reached our maximum forward velocity. How can I accelerate? How can I be sure that we won’t capsize and be pulverized?’

With every syllable, the horsemen were gaining ground. Near the front of the pack was Arbitraguerre, whose motivational shouts were filling his Raiders with spirit.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Zorphox saw one daring rider gallop up and keep pace alongside the wagon’s horses. With astounding aptitude, the Raider leapt from his mount onto the nearest thoroughbred hitched to the wagon. The villain, with an evil grin, turned and raised his saber with the obvious objective of neutralizing the driver. Zorphox scooped up the flintlock pistol lying beside him, closed his eyes, then with an ear-piercing cry fired point-blank into the Raider’s face.

Blinking back nausea and nervous exhaustion, Zorphox urgently urged his steeds onward.

*     *     *

‘Eres como un remolino,

y yo una balsa . . .’

³

As the wandering troubadour’s warm tenor mourned in the distance, the two sentinels sat idly on the parapet. They were rogue mercenaries from far-off lands, and their names were Michio and Chimio. Their subject of conversation was Michio’s adopted daughter, Ayumi.

‘I’m very worried about her,’ Michio was saying. ‘She claims that a vengeful ghost has infested our house. Abnormal supernatural manifestations have been disrupting her routine and disturbing the neighbors. This has been going on for nearly a month.’

‘What kinds of manifestations?’ asked Chimio, suppressing a yawn in spite of himself.

‘The usual,’ Michio answered grimly. ‘Long black hair exuding from the walls. Mysterious faxes. Swiftly darting figures espied in peripheral vision. It does sound like a grudge, but this is impossible. I myself performed a banishing ritual before signing on for this tour of duty.’

Chimio rubbed his rugged jowl. ‘I personally know nothing of spirits and demons,’ he claimed. ‘All I’ll ever understand is money in my purse and a pint of cold ale! Nevertheless, our commission here is nearly at an end, and you’ll soon be able to return home. But which is better—that you should dispel Ayumi’s fears by your presence, or that she should learn to overcome them on her own?’

Michio was mulling this over when he heard Chimio shout, ‘Hey, but what’s that?’

Michio jumped up and stared over the wall. ‘There’s a flaming covered wagon bearing down on us, being pursued by Arbitraguerre and his Raiders. This must be the shipment the Presidio is expecting.’ Chimio yelled into the megaphone, ‘Open the gates!’ Michio added, ‘Open the fortress gates!’

The voice of Arbitraguerre could be heard through the murk. ‘Halt, men!’ he yelled. ‘The wagon is too near the fort. We must withdraw, swearing vengeance.’

The burning wagon entered the fortified compound. Speaking from the back of the conveyance, the tall, thin, dignified passenger addressed the crowd that had gathered around. ‘This wagon contains prototypes of experimental disruptive technologies,’ he declared. ‘Salvage these products at once and deliver them to your labs for reverse engineering. Thereafter introduce them, at your earliest convenience, into the statistically in-control and capable processes of your global supply chain.

‘Come, Zorphox,’ he said, turning to his friend and associate. ‘Let us report our success to the Presidio.’

*     *     *

59336.png

‘Sir Chrysogonus Exiordines has arrived, not to mention his assistant, S. A. Zorphox,’ cried the page, a round-headed, red-faced boy in a scarlet uniform.

The Presidio ceased drumming his fingers on the arm of the throne and eyed his visitors.

The one called Exiordines was the master detective of that same name. Well over six feet tall and rakishly thin, he had round brown eyes, pursed lips, and shoulder-length chocolate-brown hair that angled down to obscure one side of his face. Under a fashion-forward oyster-grey topcoat, he wore the black garb of a ninja goth, with various weapons and accessories accessible from the belt. On his oblong head was a fez, and a tinted monocle accentuated his visible eye. At his heels followed Zorphox.

‘Welcome!’ cried the Presidio, lurching to his feet. ‘And congratulations! I understand that our mission has met with unprecedented success, even by your own exalted standards. Well have you earned the payment I promised, with a bonus besides.’ With a magnificent sweep of his unwithered arm, he indicated the sturdy table where a pile of gold bars, in a variety of shapes, sizes and descriptions, stood tall.

Sir Chrysogonus disdainfully waved his hand, and immediately Zorphox limped to the table. With a skill that only practice can perfect, he began heaving the gold bars into a satchel he had brought for this very purpose.

As the Presidio sat back down, he took a good look at the fabled detective. Exiordines’ was the first face he had ever beheld that showed no sign of fear, or guilt, or regret. There was no trace of sin, sorrow, or pain; no hint of expectation, hope, humor, or age. His face, in short, was the face of a god, but not a god that accepted sacrifice or granted grace. He was forgiving and kind, but spared not the rod; he played for keeps, and he played to win. He could be your most dreaded opponent or your most valued ally—this man of the mind, who brooked no fool, acknowledged no equal, and owed allegiance to himself alone.

Sir Chrysogonus peeled off his eggshell-grey gloves and tossed them onto the bench. ‘Now the time has come to debrief,’ he proclaimed, turning his back on the Presidio and stalking gravely across the room. ‘The perfection of our mission has, it seems, been compromised by several quite avoidable failures, especially in the areas of opint⁴ and humint.⁵ After exhaustive analysis, I have concluded that the root cause of these failures is’—dramatically wheeling, his coattails flying, he pointed a long, thin finger at the Presidio and glared at him as though down the barrel of a gun—‘YOU!’

Startled, his interlocutor stammered, ‘Wh-wh-wh-what do you mean?’

‘Exhibit A!’ the detective cried in prosecutorial tones. He brandished above his head, where everyone could see it, a weathered scroll of inexpensive parchment. ‘This,’ he declaimed, ‘is a record of your crimes against the people. It was prepared by Arbitraguerre and his Raiders in collaboration with six other concerned citizens’ groups. I could list in detail the evils of your rule—corporate overreach, imperial pretensions, military proliferation, offenses against individual liberties and human rights, imminent total economic collapse . . .’

As his words trailed off, he awaited a response, but all he got was a perfectly blank stare.

Exasperated, Exiordines moved to the chalkboard, where he filled its surface with complex economic equations. Deftly he solved for the variables and graphed the results. ‘The national debt is compounding. Incomes are stagnant. Triple-digit inflation is rampant. Energy costs are escalating. The currency is artificially devalued.’

After pausing for effect, the famous detective continued, ‘Are you asking what this all means? The answer is: The end is near. Your administration will soon be coming to an unceremonious close. Before your very eyes, everything you know, believe in and cherish will be going’—he flippantly flipped both hands in the air—‘POOF!’

But the Presidio knew that this was no joke. ‘What did I do?’ he moaned, wringing his hands. ‘Is what you foresee inevitable?’

Sir Chrysogonus sighed with palpable disgust. ‘Yes,’ hissed he, inclining his head.

In denial and unsettled to his core, the Presidio lunged to his feet. ‘Where are my manners?’ he asked with forced gaiety. ‘I haven’t offered you a drink.’ As he stumbled to the serving cart, he noticed that Zorphox had nearly finished loading the gold into his bag.

Vigorously, the official mixed 1 oz. lemon vodka, ½ oz. triple sec or other citrus-flavored liqueur, the juice from half a lime, and ½ oz. pomegranate juice in a shaker. He strained the results into a martini glass, straight up, and flamed a coin-sized piece of fruit across the top of the cocktail.

With a slight nod, Exiordines accepted the drink. He casually held the glass for a moment and then dashed its contents onto the portrait of the Presidio on the wall to his left.

Without a word, Sir Chrysogonus picked up his gloves, turned on his heel, and strode imperiously from the room. Zorphox, lugging gold, followed behind.

‘What have I done?’ moaned the Presidio. ‘What have I done?’

*     *     *

Following the sound, Ayumi peered around the corner and into the living area. Everything was quiet now, and the room was dark and calm, but the girl remained very much on edge. Despite the evidence of her senses, she was certain that some evil power was with her in the house.

The gong at the shrine began tolling midnight.

Pink lips puckered, Ayumi tentatively turned to return to her room, but she stopped with a start as two lights leapt to life. There! Through the open door that led to the meditation garden, a pair of beady eyes was staring at her—greenish yellow in the dark, radiating a terrifying, malevolent intent. Gasping, Ayumi blanched and shrank back. But then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the eyes blinked shut.

Her heart thumping wildly, the girl dropped to the floor, then crawled diagonally to the corner of the wide open door. As she rose and inched her head cautiously around the frame, she saw, to her immense relief, that the eyes weren’t eyes at all. Two vastly oversized fireflies, now again aglow, hovered in tandem just a few short yards from where she watched.

But then she saw what lay beyond.

Insanity flooded her senses as she raised a white-knuckled fist to her mouth, to stifle her scream. In a dead faint she crumpled to the floor, a shapeless heap.

The unconscious young girl never heard the strangled voice that called from the garden: ‘Ayumi! It’s me—Michio, your foster father. Honey, I’m home. The war is over; the world is at peace.’

He took her fragile form in his twisted, wasted arms. Through the tiny slits in his thickly bandaged head, his eyes were teary. ‘Ayumi,’ he tenderly whispered, ‘I’m home. Everything is going to be all right.’

*     *     *

Sitting in his wicker chair, Exiordines observed the large, violent waves as they pounded the irregular rocks into powder. The scene was the rugged beach outside the town of Knoch Dorphian, a manufacturing port of northern England, where the storied detective had spent his formative years. He was contentedly relaxing after a difficult assignment and a job well done.

From the audio system at the base of his chair wafted the spellbinding sonics of a shinawi ⁶ ensemble. The sky was colored autumn grey, cracked with slants of coral sun. From horizon to horizon not a cloud could be seen.

S. A. Zorphox was inspecting the brilliantly colored sand castle he had just constructed, following a blueprint of Exiordines’ design. Self-satisfied, he admired the castle, then looked proudly over in his employer’s direction.

At that moment, without explanation, an eerie sound came out of the distance, echoing over the black cliffs and crags. Keen and forlorn, could this have been the howl of a wolf—or the wail of a ghost? Zorphox shuddered audibly.

Sir Chrysogonus tilted his head to one side. Pursed lips and clouded brow revealed that he was deep in thought.

Suddenly his attention was arrested by a small sea gull winging its solitary way in to shore.

The Arrowhead

I.

It hurt her still, I could see—or, rather, feel, since I had stored her sorrows (or most of them) right next to my own within my heart. She sat, stock-still, self-absorbed, on the stone wall near the mill wheel; just under her feet the millrace coursed, polishing the rounded rocks and propelling that eternal, unthinking turning, always turning. Her dress was black, like mine; unlike mine, her hair was deep auburn brown, snaking down, swollen against her neck and shoulders in intricate curves, soft twirls that I had loved, in simpler times, to touch and unwind, caressing them between my fingers. I had decided that we would be as close as we’d been then, that she would discover happiness again. When I have decided on something, it is as good as done.

Self-absorbed, she never saw me go; never thought to ask herself where I might be going, what I might have had in mind. Her vision floated languid, like liquid sunlight drifting toward the wheel.

*     *     *

Through a cleft in the cliff I entered our canyon, tracing with my fingertips the corrugated pattern of its red stone walls. Before me stretched, unbending, broad, a trough of rough, red stones extending far ahead to a tranquil tangle of forested land. Within this canyon, it is said, a tribe of Wichita had lived many long, long years ago. Among these stones, she and I had discovered, Native American relics, hidden artifacts, might still be sought and, in time, with patience, found.

Our eyes on the stones, she would tell me stories, usually about the Wichita who once had lived here. My favorite of these concerned a maiden, tall and lovely, who daily, lonely, left her village and wandered alone the length of the canyon. The birds, at the maiden’s approach, traced blissful patterns above the trees; from the bushes cautious deer poked slender heads, saw their friend and, joyous, guileless, ran to greet her. She fed them from her hand; fed the sleek deer handfuls of corn from the Wichita fields, where the women worked. Every day it was the same—but then, unexpectedly, the maiden came no more. Perhaps hunters, white hunters from beyond the canyon’s walls, were at fault, mistakenly felling her as she walked alone through the heat-ribbed afternoon. Or perhaps it was a serpent that, rising in fear from among the stones, sank his venomous

59349.png

fangs in her heel. Anyway, all of it was so long ago; the legend came to me, echoing emptily from the red rock faces, from very, very long ago, in a voice I created as much as recalled.

Where once we had together, contented, looked, I now looked alone. Scanning the rippling stream of rocks, I was very near the woodland when, of course, I spotted it. It was of black quartz, a beauty, half-buried in a crooked mound of stones; in my hand its cracked edges glistened like diamond rings in the sunlight. With just the trace of a knowing smile, just the faintest glimmer of certain foresight (time meant little to me now), I slipped it into the pocket of my dress, underneath my lacy white apron—in that deep, stiff pocket, where I cupped it in my hand.

Through the cleft in the cliff I left our canyon and entered the field where the lilies grow. Like a silky veil, the sun’s light hung over the pink, white and yellow flowers; and I (I imaged myself a slender, gentle figure, robed in black, gracefully moving like a mysterious guardian spirit, an inevitable presence), using my upraised apron as a basket, moved about picking a small bouquet, getting the sticky liquid from the stalks all over my fingers. To amuse myself, I slowed the image, stopped and speeded it up at will—for time, garbed in yellow, pink and white, meant nothing to me now. The bouquet was complete.

*     *     *

She had not moved, as I had expected—no, known—that she would not move, during the time I was gone. For just a second I was stunned (the world silent), purposeless, melting into my vision of her. But then I heard the sloshing of the water turning over, falling, rising; felt my mind begin to move with the rhythm of the pulsing wheel. In and out, in and out—I seized the motion, caught the break, breathlessly stepped forward and, at just the right moment, said (coyness, trust, inquisitive love in equal proportions), ‘For you.’ Unfolding the apron, I showered flowers down on the wall beside her; a few lilies fell—plop! plip!—into the stream below, submerged, surfaced, rushed toward the wheel.

She turned to me slowly. Then, just as the blind veil that hooded her eyes began to shimmer with, I could see, the possibility of something other than dead pain, ingrown despair, and guilt born of unrelieved, depthless solitude; just as the veil parted, just a crack, in hesitant, tentative recognition (I felt as much as saw these things)—just then I channeled to my smile the triumphant confidence of my heart, reached into the pocket of my dress, and said (less coyness now, more trust, still—always!—love), ‘For you.’ She knew, and I knew that she knew, how much my collection of arrowheads meant to me. In the sunlight, in my hand, the triangular piece of polished black quartz spat and crackled like the head of an obsidian snake.

She looked at me now, really saw, her eyes wide, unveiled—and for just a moment I was afraid. But then she listlessly shook her head (that hair!), narrowed her eyes, and smiled. But it was his smile, not hers; and so I delicately turned my gaze, my smile, away from her.

A moment passed, punctuated by the wheel’s deliberate turning, and then she spoke. I heard her—her voice so cool and low, so long unheard, that I almost, thrilled by its melody, its beauty, started—saying, ‘How close we are’; dreamily saying, seemingly recalling, or creating, ‘How close we’ve always been.’ Immediately, deeply moved (and no less amused by seeing myself so moved, feeling my heartbeat accelerate in victorious submission), I could not help but meet her gaze. As if in response, in gratitude, she ran her fingertip along the rounded contour of my cheek.

And then, again, she spoke, reflectively now, as wistful reminiscence (how I hated to see it!—and yet my impatient heart relented, resignedly sinking), arising in her eyes, clouded them over.

‘I remember so well,’ she softly said, shaking her head, reflexively turning her gaze away, ‘as if it were only yesterday, that year the fever was everywhere. When you became sick, a different illness grew in me; when I saw the swollen redness of your face, when I felt your body’s shaking beneath the blankets, despite my embrace, then it came at once, that sense of loss—the impending and unacceptable loss of something I had never understood, perhaps would never understand. And I resolved that I would never, because I could not, suffer that loss. Sponging the sweat from your skin and moistening your lips with water from the stream, holding tight to your hand, I day and night stayed by your side, sat by your bed (the room seemed always cold somehow, dark and quiet—deathly quiet as your body heaved with sleep, its tortured dreams) night and day, resting only in unguarded moments, eating only when necessary.

‘And then, after how many days or hours had in this way elapsed? how many weeks or months had dissolved into sweat and vigilant grief?—and then, at last, suddenly, it was over: The fever broke. Utterly relieved, yet disbelieving, I steeled myself, awaiting a relapse. You sat up in bed, and I brought you tea and buttered toast, and for hours on end told you tales of the Wichita tribe, watching your smile for weakness or pain. But the relapse never came.

‘The next thing I remember is standing by the window, not long after, watching as you explored down by the stream and among the rocks. As the sunlight splashed dappled color down, through the leafy branches, onto your beautiful face and hair, I was moved almost to tears by the sight. And I saw, to my amazement, that your face showed only a detached contentment, your unspoken contention that to you, to you alone, belongs the power over your life—as though the fever had not occurred, as though it had never held the slightest claim on you . . . .’

Starting slightly, as if awakened by her own words, she looked at me with what I knew to be a mixture of helplessness, entreaty and uncontainable love. Deliberately I kept my face a blank, or nearly so, without expression, without definable emotion. ‘It’s still the same,’ she continued, struggling with, then surrendering to, the inevitable conclusion. ‘That time when I held you against my breast, sheltering you with all my body’s warmth; that time which locked us in a grip so tight I hardly dared to breathe; that time which, so vivid, so real to me even now, can still spring to life at the sight of your beauty, your health, your self-content youth—that time, for you, is lost, forgotten; that time, for you, in a sense never existed.’

She was, of course, in part, correct: I could not recall, at all or well, the events she had described. What she didn’t know was that it was precisely this, my ignorance, which formed the strongest of possible bonds between us—my ignorance and her knowledge, my indifference and her concern, my love and her sense of duty. But why cloud the moment by speaking of, or even tacitly acknowledging, these things, or others like them? Instead, turning my head, my eyes, just so in the sunlight, I smiled at her, disarmingly; smiled, not my own, but his smile, to let her know that I at least (at least?—no, it was much, much more than that, as I was sure she would understand) understood.

*     *     *

We sat together, just she and I, hand in hand, in silence upon the stone wall near the mill wheel. My hair, long, straight, pale yellow like autumn moonlight, was done up in a ring atop my head; from my neck a few loose strands, thin as cornsilk, were waving in the sleepy breeze. Beneath our feet the millrace slithered, water and light rippling on the rocks like the scales of an endless, ageless serpent. Seeds from trees upstream drifted past, quivered nearing the foam, vanished—plip! plop!—beneath the turning of the wheel. The sun was bright and hurt my eyes, and hurt back behind my eyes, back where all my pain begins and ends, where I cannot speak even to myself. The sun was hot, delicious, fierce, causing freckles in clusters to blossom on the fine white smoothness of my skin.

*     *     *

II.

On some earlier day, in simpler times, we had come together, just she and I (or perhaps it was the three of us), to feed the does and fawns in the canyon. Earlier that morning, we had filled a bucket with acorns, corn and nuts, and picked the most succulent shoots (their juice was sticky on my hands, and bitter) ripening in the fields. We seated ourselves, to wait, on large red boulders at the far end of the trough. There we waited, and waited, and waited; but nothing in that woodland stirred. Nothing at all stirred.

That night I dreamed I was back in the canyon. As songbirds soared in circles over my head, I smiled love at the inquisitive deer-faces peering at me from the bushes. Recognizing me, the does and fawns came for the food I had brought. As they ate, their tongues brushing dry and rough against my hands, I was pleased, at peace—but nevertheless listened, with a hidden caution, for the sound(s) of an unfamiliar approach. Perhaps I too would die surrounded by the dry red stones.

My Pet Goat

When I was a young boy, I had a pet goat named Barney. This is his story.

It all began one day when our vice principal held a surprise Pet Giveaway at school. The girls got to choose their pets first, which wasn’t fair to us boys. Since the giveaway was conducted in alphabetical order by the students’ last names, there weren’t many pets left when my turn came. I was trying to decide between a cuddly baby aardvark and a charming pit bull puppy when Barney caught my eye. The little goat seemed to be just like me—sad, scared sick, confused—and my heart went out to him. I had to take him home.

At first my parents were shocked at this unexpected addition to our household. We lived on the top of a hill in a crowded urban neighborhood, and there was no obvious way to accommodate a goat. As they considered what to do, my parents fed Barney and gave him some water. They tied his leash to a stake in the back yard, where he was to spend the night. After my family was asleep, I looked out my window. Barney stood shaking and softly bleating in the moonlight, tears streaming down from his deep-set little eyes. I snuck out the back door and took him up to my room.

From that day forward, Barney lived indoors. We consulted the owner’s manual to learn what kinds of food he liked to eat—shrubbery, weeds, silage, and apples as a special treat—and my mom made sure there was always a healthy supply of these items on our shelves. During family meals, Barney ate from his personal trough in a corner of the dining room. Soon he was house-broken as well. His hooves could be heard on the steps as he went upstairs to use the bathroom. At times, someone would become upset because the goat would spend too much time using the facilities. But no one could stay angry with Barney for long.

Within a few weeks, Barney was helping me with my homework. As I struggled with quotients, products and sums, he quietly stood beside my desk. His shaggy head nodded when I moved accurately toward the solution to a problem, but if I went off track he simply shook his head until I was back on course. Because of Barney, my grades in school were suddenly soaring.

In no time Barney and I were doing everything together. He accompanied me to the hospital where I did volunteer work, he went along on my Boy Scout troop’s camping trips, and he retrieved foul balls during our pick-up games at the sandlot field. He walked me to school and spent the whole day watching through the window to make sure I was all right.

He also helped my parents with household projects. When my dad couldn’t figure something out while working on a challenging task, Barney would use his hoof to sketch angles, parabolas and vectors in the dirt. If the problem was more complicated, he took one of my brother’s paintbrushes in his teeth and tried to draw diagrams on a poster-sized piece of paper. This was difficult for him, and sometimes his frustration became so great that he would bleat and stamp his hoof on the ground. But my dad usually caught on quickly, and soon they were happily back at work.

Occasionally my family would take the long streetcar ride to visit our relatives at my grandma’s house. Barney would always come along. As the adults talked about things that we kids didn’t know or care about, the goat would entertain us with games and tricks. He was also solicitous toward the adults, especially my grandma and my elderly uncles and aunts. Gripping the handle of the coffeepot or teapot in his teeth, he would walk around the room, offering a refill to anyone who needed one. In this way he taught us kids a valuable lesson about caring and service.

At some point Barney didn’t seem the same. He grew frustrated more easily, angered quickly, and spent all his spare time skulking in his corner of my bedroom. He ate little and slept a lot. A bad-smelling fluid came from his ears and eyes. As he hobbled around, his legs would at times give out, so that he had to drag himself around on his lowest joints rather than walk upright on his hooves. I realize now what pain and helplessness he must have felt, and I’m devastated to think I could have made these days more comfortable for my friend.

One morning I awoke to find that Barney was dead. My dad wrapped his body in a sack, and the whole family went out to the back yard. As my dad buried Barney’s remains, we all—especially my big-hearted sister—wept many wrenching, heartbroken tears.

After my family had gone back indoors, I remained standing teary-eyed at the grave. But then I heard a soft bleating sound. I heard it again, this time louder and stronger. My heart pounding, I grabbed the shovel; I used it to carefully start scraping the soil aside.

Suddenly Barney burst forth from the earth. He was strong and sturdy, his slitty eyes merrily snapping, his horns and bony head swaying with delight.

Barney was alive! He and I danced with abandon around the yard, leaping and frolicking until we thought our hearts would break for joy. Out of control, we bounced and bounded about; we danced and danced until we could dance no more.

As my family ran into the yard to welcome Barney back, the goat and I collapsed to the ground. Filled with glorious exhaustion, I hugged Barney with a far greater happiness than any other I have ever known. I was so happy I thought the world was starting over. I was so happy I thought it would never end.

*     *     *

But of course it did end. A few months later, on a dark and rainy morning, Barney was crossing Perrysville at Marshall Avenue against the light. A semi-automatic truck couldn’t stop in time. Barney was gone, this time for good. There was nothing but a smashed carcass and a slick red stretch along the wet street.

Even after all these years, I have only good memories of my pet goat. He was basically shy and insecure, but he rose above these traits to achieve heights of service and self-sacrifice that few can match. He was a glowing role model for children everywhere, and everyone who knew him loved him. Even in his death he provided an invaluable lesson in traffic safety.

This is a love story, and I cried when I wrote it. If goats go to heaven, that’s where Barney is now. If you get there before I do, and if you happen to encounter a sad, lonely goat named Barney, please feed him an apple (golden delicious is his favorite), and be sure to give him a warm hug for me.

The Magic Calf

(or, Ashley Agonistes)

‘No, darling. Mommy has no time to tell you a story right now. She has to get herself glamorous for the big bash with Daddy and his coworkers tonight.’ As if Mommy doesn’t have a big-time career and a corporate ladder of her own to climb. But, then again, Mommy doesn’t make quite as much as Daddy does, even though she works twice as hard and has three times as much responsibility; she even, unlike him, has tangible results to show for her efforts. But at least Mommy can work from home as often as she likes, and that gives her the opportunity to do the things she loves best.

She stared, Ashley Lasley, at her reflection in the window, smacking her lips in a self-indulgent faux kiss. She was clearly a keeper, she thought derisively, a real hot diva, a beauty by anyone’s estimation. Refined and fine-boned, she had an oval face, huge almond-shaped chestnut eyes, and clear rosy-white skin. Having just slipped out of the shower, Ashley had thrown on a thigh-length bathrobe of champagne-colored silk; a towel was wrapped around her freshly shampooed hair. After applying her makeup and drying her hair, she would use a small-barrel curling iron to coax her tresses into slender ringlets and curlicues, and then would separate these curls into smaller strands, to form a luxuriant raven-black mane. Just a spritz of hair spray would keep her curls in place; then she would be ready for anything. But even now, covered by only a robe, with a bath towel draped around her head, she was simply staggering, beyond stunning, with her curvy, supple body and breathtakingly long legs. And her face was to die for, like that of a catwalk waif, or a water-nymph (she was, after all, a Piscean)—or, of course, an undefiled angel from heaven above. Ha! Now there was a concept.

Girlishly giggling, Ashley pirouetted from the window; jiggling naughtily, a parody of purity, she improvised a few coyly suggestive dance-like moves. The motion was intoxicating as she sensually, giddily slithered to the unheard beat. Then, her senses still tingling, she stopped and complacently scanned the room. She reveled in what surrounded her—the nineteenth-century Victorian mahogany claw-footed table with its plinth top, column center, and scrolling acanthus leaf and lion-claw supports; the Regence-period buffet deux-corps in carved, sculpted cherry with a molded, arched cornice and paneled doors engraved with a dragonfly motif; the Chippendale-period serpentine chest of graduated drawers, a cupboard set in its central recess, with the original swan-necked handles. And suspended above it all was the deliciously authentic seventeenth-century Murano Venetian chandelier, fifteen lights on two tiers, trimmed with seed crystal buds and metallic alloy plummets.

Then her eye fell upon the neoclassical Italian bed, imposing in design, impeccably painted, parcel-gilded in intricately carved walnut, cherry, and pine—the very same bed where, just a few short hours before, she had writhed entwined in the sweaty, passionate embrace of her current lover, Joran, who incidentally also happened to be the estate’s head gardener. With a semi-delirious after-shudder of pleasure, she once again felt the dizzying weight of his steel-muscled body, soaked up the earthy smell of his skin, and succumbed to his crude, cavalier domination of her all-too-human, always-so-willing flesh. Trembling as a tingling thrill cascaded through her, she relived the feeling of his fiery touch, the firm length of his body interlocked with hers. He might not have much else to offer, but Joran was without question a highly proficient high priest of Aphrodite’s rites, so powerful, so masterful, so totally . . . uninhibited.

If only Adam could be like that . . .

With an extravagant sigh, Ashley, tensing her lips, tapped them lightly with her fingertip. But then her doe-like eyes lit up at the sight of the wall-length, mirror-paneled walk-in closet. Ah! So what shall I wear tonight? she pondered with mock gravity. What will leave my admirers reeling in the aisles? Should she affect a fresh, comfortable look, sporting her off-white linen cap-sleeve mini-dress with its keyhole neck, contrast waist panel, bias-cut skirt, and nonfunctional button placket? No, too girl-next-door. Or should she perhaps be a queen of décolleté drama in stretch charmeuse, turning every head in the place as she rocked and ruled in the vivid neon-vermilion spaghetti-strap gown that played to her deep cleavage and clung to her body’s every curve? No, insufficiently distinctive; everyone’s wearing that sort of thing these days. But wait! She’d been looking for an opportunity to show off that yummy new cream silk georgette dress embellished with shirred cap sleeves, claret velvet ribbons and raw-edged silk trim, descending in tiers to a delicate sweep . . .

‘Mommy,’ wailed a plaintive voice from somewhere down below. Her toddler, Jamie, who had been nuzzling around the room and was no doubt nursing a sore head after having collided with so many immovable objects, had wrapped pudgy arms around Ashley’s bare legs. Teeny eyes on the verge of tears stared up at her imploringly; a teeny voice was pleading, ‘Story, Mommy. Please. Story.’

Ashley looked at the child with mild distaste, and for the millionth time she wondered who Jamie’s father was. Adam, of course, was the most likely suspect. But then there was Seth from the bank, who had been her lover before Joran, with possibly a few others along the way as well. There was something about the child’s attitude that reminded her of Seth, if a thirteen-month-old can properly be said to have an attitude; and, of course, there were those unusual lavender eyes, which were a perfect match for Seth’s. And Caleb from the club couldn’t be ruled out, since Ashley had been sleeping with him at about the same time. Certainly the baby had Caleb’s greedy, grasping little hands.

‘Who are you?’ Ashley asked Jamie tauntingly, with the hint of a cruel smirk. ‘All right, Mommy will tell you a story,’ she went on irritably, giving in to a short-lived surge of guilt tinged with sympathy for the child. She melodramatically threw herself into the chair by her vanity, while Jamie warbled and drooled with infantile delight. Pouring a dab of liquid foundation onto her makeup sponge, Ashley, pouting, tried to remember a story of appropriate length and complexity for the occasion. As she daubed dots of the liquid on the central parts of her face, as she blended it all over with downward strokes of the sponge, she decided to tell the story of the magic calf. After all, she’d read the book to Jamie so many times that she practically had the damn thing memorized.

‘The name of this story,’ Ashley said in a mocking, sing-song voice, ‘is The Magic Calf, after its leading character. It’s the heartwarming tale of a heroic young fellow who finds his true path, overcomes all odds, and accomplishes his dreams—by doing whatever it takes to succeed.

‘Many years ago,’ she began, her elocution exaggeratedly, childishly inflected, ‘on a very fine farm in a far-distant land, a calf was born. His parents were an attractive brown cow and a huge, ill-tempered but—once you got to know him—friendly black bull who was so large that his shoulders were almost six feet from the ground. Both parents were proud of their baby, and justly proud they were! The calf was brown, like his mother, and sported one big splotch of white on his forehead in between his immense, watery black eyes. Like many calves, he was very thin with long, spindly legs. He seemed to be a very, very nice calf.’

To set her foundation, Ashley had finished covering her face with a dusting of loose, translucent, finely milled powder. Over her eyelids she now applied a base of lilac eye shadow with rosy flecks. She would follow this up with cotton-candy pink highlights on the brow bone and, for contour, a deep neutral brown in the creases of her eyes.

‘One day there arrived the finest moment of the calf’s young life. While he and his mother were grazing in a meadow near the farm, a twisty, repulsive snake slithered stealthily toward them. The reptile rose unexpectedly from the grass and cried, I am the Serpent. I bring a message that must be heeded.

‘Needless to say, this sort of thing doesn’t happen all the time, so the cow was immediately attentive. The calf, too, looked to the snake, although he himself had had a bit of difficulty in understanding what the snake had said.

‘The snake spoke again. It has heretofore been written, and now is declared, that the calf shall leave his family, his friends, and his home, in order to rendezvous with his peculiar, extraordinary destiny. This departure must take place today, at any cost. The Serpent has spoken. The creature then lowered himself to the ground and slid soundlessly away.

‘Realizing that a potent force was at work, the cow hastened to tell her husband about this portentous utterance. The mammoth black bull, having heard her story, said, Sad though it may be, our baby must leave home today.

‘The bull then paid a visit to the man who ran their farm, and he told him the news. The farmer, a cold-hearted businessman, stamped his foot several times and screamed, No! No! No! The calf stays here. The bull did not reply. He realized that his only son’s fate was at stake, so he did the only thing that a bull could do under the circumstances. With a dexterous move he gored the farmer in the stomach and left him to die.’

Ashley stole a sidelong glance at Jamie, who was toddling precariously about the room. Feeling somewhat outrageous, she had chosen a plum-colored mascara, but not a shade so flamboyant as to give her a noticeably outré appearance. As she concentrated on making the first of three—or maybe she’d need only two—applications, she sighed and resumed her tedious narration.

‘The bull and his wife then tearfully bade farewell to their son. The calf’s father said, Don’t worry about us. I will now run the farm justly, and I know that the crops will amply bless my beneficent care. Be cautious, my lad, for the world is not a good place for a pure-hearted, innocent calf like you. My greatest regret is that I cannot give you the knowledge that I have attained from my years of experience. But remember this: Think before you act, and then act courageously; that is all you need to know and to do. Farewell, son, and know that you will always have a home here. The cow could not say a word, but she encouragingly smiled with misty eyes at her calf. Blinking back a tear but doing what he knew must be done, the calf could only sadly nod. Without looking back, he walked down through the pasture gate, out into the world.

‘All alone, the calf strolled thoughtfully along the dirt road. Where would he go, he wondered, and what would he do?’

Appraising herself approvingly in the mirror, Ashley smiled an exaggerated smile to locate the apples of her cheeks. She then began to cover them with her dreamiest earth-tone rose blush. She intended to blend it well with her fingertips, not only to extend the flush, but also to warm the makeup into her skin.

‘After walking a while, the calf suddenly spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He stopped to investigate. The object was an oil lamp, but the unusual thing about it was that the flame within was a flickering black. This lamp belongs to the Devil! the calf cried in realization. Knowing that the Devil always claims his own, the young calf lifted the lamp with his teeth and carried it along with him.

‘Sure enough, the calf had walked no more than a mile before he saw the Devil coming toward him along the road. Aha! shouted the Devil gleefully. There is my lamp. Please give it to me, my fine, beautiful young calf. Eagerly he stretched out his hands, his claw-like fingers twitching in anticipation.

‘Not so fast, rejoined the calf craftily. This is going to cost you plenty. I demand that you grant me a wish in return for the lamp.

‘The Devil scowled evilly. He tried to bargain with the calf, but the animal would accept nothing less than a wish. Finally the Devil asked, And just what is your wish?

‘The calf slyly replied, That I be granted the ability to verbally communicate with all of creation, so that all beings understand me and I understand them.

‘The Devil was aghast. That is a very ambitious wish, he screeched, and far more easily said than done! But the calf was firm, and the Devil needed the lamp desperately.

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‘Finally, after much ranting and raving, the Devil agreed to the calf’s bargain. Just to be sure that the Devil hadn’t deceived him, the calf conducted a few quick tests to confirm that he could speak intelligibly and that he could understand whatever he heard. Satisfied with his new powers, he turned over the lamp. The Devil, hugging it close to his body, ran away speedily down the dirt road.’

Although she had naturally lush, pillowy lips, Ashley had perversely decided to underplay this effect by applying her lip-liner just inside her lips’ natural curve. She had followed this strategy when lining her lips with pink frost lip-liner; she then filled them in to make the color last. For a lustrous sheen, she was now using a doe-foot applicator to spread a layer of creamy pink gloss. Ashley, reflected in the mirror, sparkled with excitement to see that her look was flawlessly falling into place. The trace of a giggle in her voice, she ad-libbed in a mincing cadence:

‘Laughing at having outwitted the Devil, the clever calf continued to walk along the same dirt road. It was almost nightfall when he reached the outskirts of the city. But the calf was so caught up in his own affairs that he didn’t see—’

Suddenly the room was filled by a violent crash followed by the shriek of a tiny voice. Turning instantly from the mirror, Ashley saw that Jamie’s oversized head, as the child was nosing about, apparently had smashed into a pedestal supporting a nineteenth-century cast-iron clock with gilt vignettes. The clock, upon impact, had come toppling down onto the toddler’s head. Flailing little limbs about, Jamie snuffled weakly in a supine sprawl, and Ashley detected a slick red flow trickling down from the child’s skull onto the hardwood floor.

‘Eeuuw, Jamie!’ Ashley shrieked in terror. She bolted from her chair and ran to where the stricken child lay. Her mind a blank, she had no idea of what to do now. As if overcome by shock or a coma, Jamie, who had gone motionless, showed no signs of life; there was only the nasty head wound from which blood ran down in a sickly stream.

‘What’s going on over there?’ called a concerned bass voice from the doorway. Startled, Ashley looked over to where Adam stood, dressed in a freshly starched shirt and pressed pleated pants, with a half-knotted tie tossed back over one shoulder. Ashley stared at him in rapt astonishment. He was absolutely magnificent, tall and broad, with his slicked-back black hair, lean-muscled torso, and cold yet compassionate turquoise eyes. Adam of course would step in and take charge; he would instinctively know what to do, how to handle the situation. Where have I gone wrong? Ashley wondered, in momentary confusion.

‘Jamie has had an accident,’ she said, clearing her thoughts. ‘Please, Adam, help us.’

Her husband crossed the room and dropped to one knee beside the child. He checked for a pulse; reassured, he looked up. ‘Despite a somewhat weak heartbeat, Jamie should be all right,’ he said, rising, his voice relieved and, for this reason, soothing. ‘But we really should seek professional medical attention at once.’

As if deep in thought, Ashley stripped the towel from her head; she absently flipped her citrus-essence-scented semi-damp hair. ‘But, darling,’ she purred softly, ‘what about the reception? You’ve had your heart so set on attending, and it will mean so much for your career if we make an appearance.’ Ashley gazed at her husband with starry-eyed innocence; she shifted a little, just enough to allow the front of her robe to fall slightly open.

With explosive passion, Adam seized his wife and enveloped her in a teeth-grinding kiss, his body rock-hard, her nerve endings straining with hot sensation. ‘To hell with the reception,’ he growled, roughly shoving the robe off her shoulders. He grasped Ashley’s hair and forced back her head, then rained hungry kisses up and down her throat . . . and then he went lower . . . and lower still. Oh, Adam! Ashley moaned silently, in desperation.

‘Oh, Adam,’ Ashley murmured in awe, as she gently disengaged herself from him; as her breathing returned to normal, she drew the robe back up over her shoulders. For a long moment the young couple looked searchingly into one another’s eyes.

Then Ashley leaned forward, a heartrending smile on her smudged pink lips. ‘What are we doing to ourselves, Adam?’ she softly whispered. Her gorgeous face, already flushed, brightened further as she went on in a rush: ‘It isn’t too late; darling, we can start over. Let’s do it, Adam. Let’s move away—to another state, to some other country! We can fix up a lovely new home, start our own business, make another baby, even live incognito if that’s what you’d like. Say we can do it, Adam. Just say we can!’

Adam’s smile was tender, indulgent. ‘Don’t be silly, sweetheart,’ he said fondly, gently tapping his wife’s trembling hand. ‘Nothing is wrong with the life we have now; there’s no reason to change anything. You’re an executive vice president at the largest multinational investment firm on the continent. You’ve brought the eye of a connoisseur to our home and furnished our rooms with consummate taste. And you must be the only woman in the county who doesn’t need to drive a car: Who else has her own personal driver to take her wherever—whenever she wants—she wants to go?’

As he nodded vaguely, dismissing the topic, an uncomfortable tension, settling over his face, darkened his complexion. ‘But we have something else of importance to discuss. It has to do,’ Adam said, ‘with your twin sister.’

Ashley gaped at him in horror. What could Adam possibly mean? She felt so much for this man, but it always, sooner or later, no matter how impassioned their intimate moments—it always came down to this; she could never overcome that undercurrent of contempt. The only emotion stronger, on top of it all, was the irresistible momentum that kept moving her forward, driving her mercilessly to achieve her personal best.

Ashley made an appropriate show of hesitation. ‘We’ll have time to talk about that in the limo, darling,’ she huskily murmured. ‘We really must be getting Jamie to the hospital.’

Coal for Christmas

I.

Quietly Audun lifted the latch and turned the cold knob; quietly shouldered his way past the door; quietly crossed the floor toward his room. As usual under such circumstances, he had delayed his arrival by leisurely taking the long way home, the path through the meadow and past the factory; but the fact remained that he had torn to shreds Birgitta Annchild’s silly drawing, and for this reason been beaten by Miss Olafsen, scolded severely, and sent home early. His mother need not know the specifics, this time, of the general pattern; what Mother need not know she would not learn from Audun.

But his caution was wasted. ‘Audun!’ came Mother’s voice, heavily, threateningly, from the kitchen. His sister Christina must have told her; his sister Christina would soon pay the price.

Audun crossed the floor to the kitchen; there he confronted his mother. The bright autumn light from the window behind her darkened her looming, block-like shape, blurring the outline of her figure. ‘This time you destroyed a little girl’s picture,’ she said; ‘you were paddled, again, and sent home early.’ One little hand clutching her mother’s